Ovid

I'd got about three more yards when the storm broke; and as storms go it was a beaut. Rain lancing down out of the black sky hissed and bounced on the pavement like hail and swarmed into the gutters. Suddenly the street was a muddy brown river full of cabbage leaves, drowned insects and mule droppings. Everyone ran for cover, me included; only there was nowhere to run. My cloak was soaked through in seconds. My ears were full and my eyes were full, and it was sheer luck that I spotted the open doorway to a potter's shop. I shot inside like a rabbit going to ground

The shop was dim and quiet after the chaos outside. I stood for a moment cursing and trying to wipe the rainwater out of my eyes with my already sodden cloak. Then I turned round.

The big guy who had flattened the oil-seller was standing between me and the doorway. Right between me and the doorway. And that, in the Subura, meant trouble.

I looked round. The shop was empty. Great. All the potters' shops in Rome to choose from and I had to pick the lemon.

'Your name Valerius Corvinus?' You could've taken the guy's accent and hung your boots on it. A foreigner. German, maybe.

'What's that to you?' Trying not to make it too obvious I got my hand round the hilt of the little insurance policy I keep strapped to the underside of my left forearm.

He stepped forwards without answering. Like I say, he was no beauty. Now my eyes were used to the darkness I could see the deep well healed scar down the left side of his face. Part of his left ear was missing, too. I'd been right. Sword-fighter or soldier, he'd been in scraps before.

'Hey, you know what you remind me of, pal?' The dagger was free now but I didn't show it. I needed all the edge I could get. 'The gorilla they keep in Maecenas Gardens. Only he's better looking.

Subtle as a brick, sure; intentionally so. But if I thought I could goad him into doing something he'd come to regret I was mistaken. He only grinned at me revealing teeth like the broken tombstones on the Appian Way.

'You're Corvinus all right,' he said. 'I've been told to have a word with you, friend.'

I drew the dagger out all the way but he didn't move or even blink. That worried me like hell. Sure, I didn't expect the guy to run screaming out of the shop but a certain shift towards caution on his part would've helped my ego. As it was he still had the edge. I took a sharp look behind me and to either side to check the ground I had to work with. Could be better, could be worse. On the plus side the place was a poky little hole with cooking pots stacked up on shelves around the walls. No space to manoeuvre so he'd have to come at me from the front. On the other hand it was one of these closed-off street-side rooms either side of the main entrance you get in most city houses, that the house owners rent out to small retailers. So no back door, right? If I wanted to walk out of this it'd have to be over Big Fritz's dead body. Which was, as they say, a real bummer.

I held the knife out in front of me flat like I'd been taught, the point waving from side to side across the width of his belly, balanced myself on the balls of both feet and waited for him to come at me. That would show him he was messing with a professional. He gave me a look like I was something with six legs he'd just found in his salad, turned his head aside and spat.

'Put the knife away,' he said. 'You won't need it. This is just a warning.'

'Yeah? Who from?' I lowered the dagger but didn't sheathe it. I wasn't that crazy. I'd already checked out his hands. They were both in view and they were empty; but then again they were the size of shovel blades and whatever this guy did for a living it wasn't play the harp. A clout with one of these would send you straight through the other end of next year's Winter Festival.

'None of your business.' He was still completely relaxed. It takes one of two qualities to look that cool when you're unarmed and facing a cornered man with a knife: either total headbanging stupidity or absolute confidence that you can take the bastard without breaking sweat. And Big Fritz for all his beer-and-barley-bread accent was no headbanger. 'You're being warned to stop asking questions. Do what you're told or you'll get hurt.'

'So what's Tiberius got against a dead poet, then? Or is the boil on his backside just playing him up too much?' Yeah. Cocky as hell. I should've known better.

'I told you,' he said. 'You ask too many questions. Leave well alone. And just to make sure you get the point…'

I'd been watching his eyes and I swear he didn't signal the move. One minute he was standing facing me, the next instant he was a forward-leaping blur. My hand with the knife came up years too late. His fingers closed around my wrist, pulling down and twisting outwards. The dagger rang on the stone floor and what felt like half the Capitoline Hill collided with my ribs as his shoulder thudded into my chest. Then I was flying backwards against a wall that broke and gave and showered me with a tumbling hail of earthenware.

By the time I'd picked myself up battered and bruised but with nothing broken but my pride Big Fritz had left.

So we were playing for real now. I was tempted to give it up then and there. Sure I was. For about fifteen seconds, while I shook the remains of half a dinner service out of my ears. Then the old Messalla blood began to stir, the legacy of twenty generations of arrogant straight-nosed patrician bastards who'd get up from their deathbeds just to spit in an enemy's eye, and I knew that I couldn't do it. I had to see it through if it killed me.

If it killed me. Yeah, and it well might, if today was any sample. I knew that. But next time I'd be better prepared.

7

I called round at Perilla's next morning. I must've looked even worse than I felt, which is saying a lot, because when she saw me her jaw dropped like she'd been sandbagged.

'Corvinus! What on earth happened?'

I eased myself into the chair her slave Callias brought. Chairs hadn't been too high on my list of favourite furniture since yesterday's little incident. Twenty pounds of shattered Best Local Domestic make a lousy cushion.

'Nothing much,' I said. 'A meeting with the security arm of the imperial civil service. They'd like us to withdraw our application.'

Perilla didn't get it at first. Then when the penny dropped she didn't believe it. 'You mean Tiberius had you beaten up?'

'Just leaned on, lady. Beaten up comes a grade higher.'

'But this is dreadful!' She got up from her chair, walked over to the half-curtained-off sitting area and stood looking out through it into the garden beyond. When she finally turned round her eyes were bright and her mouth set in a firm line. 'Getting my stepfather's ashes back isn't worth this. Forget I asked you. Please.'

'And miss out on all the fun?' I tried to grin, but my mouth wasn't working too well because at some stage in yesterday's proceedings I'd tried to swallow a casserole.

She sat down facing me. I noticed that despite the usual cool calm and collected exterior her hands were clenched together. 'So what happened? Exactly?'

I told her the gory details. Maybe I embellished a little as far as numbers went, to save face. I wasn't too proud of myself.

'But what's worrying me most,' I finished, 'is whether with this fat lip I'll be able to play the double flute.'

She was instantly concerned. 'But I never knew! Is that so terribly important to you?'

A lovely girl, Perilla, read her Aristotle with the best of them no doubt, but she'd as much sense of humour as a tunny. I was still explaining the joke when Callias came back in with a brimming goblet of wine. He set it on the table beside me, bowed and left. I drank as easily as my cut lip would let me.