Ovid

When all this is over, Vela, as my deputy, will inevitably be asked for a deposition regarding my conduct in the affair. I am therefore suitably cautious.

'You discount the rumour, then?'

'Yes, General. I do.' Just that, no more. Again I play safe, and grunt my firm agreement.

'Indeed,' I say. 'We have the army to consider, and the season. Intervention would entail a march through difficult and dangerous country.' I stiffen my jaw and look grave. 'Before I give that particular order, Vela, I will require far better evidence than unsubstantiated rumours.'

He is already nodding unqualified approval. 'Exactly, sir. My feelings entirely.'

'However.' I let the word hang. I have flung my sop to Cerberus. Now I must of necessity slip past him. 'Should that evidence be forthcoming then that would be another matter, would it not?' Vela says nothing, but his lips tighten. 'Or do you disagree?'

He hems and haws. Finally he falls down on the side of the fence he has chosen all along.

'Yes, sir. Even then, I would distrust the reliability of even the strongest evidence. Especially in the light of what Segestes told us before we left.'

The words chill me: it is not like Vela to be so dogmatic. Or so perceptive. Segestes is the father of Arminius's wife Thrusnelda, and a Romanophile of frightening proportions. Worse, he knows what he is talking about. Or thinks he knows. I turn my face away from the lamp, into the shadows, and keep my voice level.

'You think it's a trick? A German stratagem to draw us from our line of march?'

'Perhaps, sir.'

His voice is noncommittal; which should reassure me but does not. Can Vela suspect? Worse, can he know? If so then I am finished. As is Arminius.

'We send scouts,' I say abruptly. 'We find out the truth and take action accordingly. You agree?' Silence. 'Vela, do you agree?'

A pause; too long a pause.

'Yes, General. I agree.' A muscle in his cheek twitches. Suspicion? Distaste? Nerves?

'Good. Make the arrangements, would you?' I look down at the papers on my desk as if they are of vital interest (they deal with a complaint from the head muleteer concerning poor quality bridle leather). When he still does not go I look up again, impatiently. 'That is all, Vela. For the moment.'

Vela throws me his pudding-soft salute and leaves me to my deliberations, which are not pleasant ones by any means.

Does he know? Can he know? Or is there some other reason for his behaviour?

The 'proof' will be forthcoming, of course. Arminius has managed this well; but then his heart is Roman, and so he has a natural flair for organisation…

It is late. I am tired, I cannot think any more, and my old bones are cold. I shall tell my orderly to warm me up some wine and then, like a man of virtue, wrap myself up in my general's cloak for sleep.

12

When I finally got back home more dead than alive my father was waiting for me. It put the cap on a perfect day. Bathyllus had strict standing instructions whenever I arrived and wherever I'd come from to have a full wine jug ready and waiting for me on the table by the door. I picked this up, filled the winecup next to it and emptied it at a swallow.

'So what is it now, Dad?' I said. 'You on another message from the palace? Don't tell me. The Wart needs a clean lavatory sponge.'

My father was staring at the stains on my tunic, the crusted blood in my hair, and especially at the bloody gash on my left shoulder.

'What happened, Marcus?' he said.

'I had a run-in with a few roughs.' I eased myself onto the master couch, filled the cup again and set the jug down on the table beside me. 'Nothing to worry about. If you are worried.'

He turned to Bathyllus, who was hovering in the doorway.

'Send for Sarpedon,' he snapped. Sarpedon was one of the best doctors in Rome; he'd cost Dad a small fortune when he'd bought him. 'And make sure the baths are hot.'

'Look, Dad, I'm okay, right?' I stretched out carefully and sipped my wine, more slowly this time. 'Just leave it, will you?'

'Sarpedon will be the judge of that, boy. Certainly the cut in your shoulder needs attention.'

I was too tired and too sore to argue. When Bathyllus had left my father turned back to me.

'Now what's this all about?' he said.

I shrugged, or tried to. 'I was over the other side of the river. I got jumped. They cut me and took my purse. End of story.'

'You're lying.'

I noticed with surprise that his hands and the muscles of his face were trembling. My father isn't the emotional type. At banquets he gets mistaken for the fish course. And he doesn't use straight crude words like ‘lying’ either. The nearest he ever comes is something like ‘I don't believe that's strictly accurate’ or just ‘I think you're mistaken’. The flat accusation came as such a shock that I didn't even think of denying it.

'Yeah, okay. So I'm lying,’ I said. ‘So you caught me. Now what?'

He was trembling; with anger, I assumed.

'Marcus, give it up,’ he said. ‘Believe me, you don't know how dangerous what you're doing is.'

'So tell me,' I was getting pretty angry myself now. I'd had a long hard day and I wasn't taking this crap from anyone. 'You just tell me, Dad. Tell me why the emperor hates a dead poet so much he won't allow his ashes back to Rome. Tell me why when I ask questions about a scandal so old that you can't even smell it any more everyone keeps his mouth shut closer than a Vestal's kneecaps. Tell me why I nearly end up in the Tiber with my throat cut just because I go to see someone who Augustus didn't exile for not screwing his granddaughter. And if you can work out what that last little gem means, then you can explain it to me because I haven't got a fucking clue.'

My father's face was ashen.

'I can't do that, Marcus,' he said. 'I can't trust you enough.'

That stopped me. Not, ‘I don't know what you're talking about’ but ‘I can't trust you enough.’

'What the hell does that mean?'

'Just what it says.'

'Trust me to do what?'

'To keep the information to yourself.'

I laughed. 'Jupiter fucking Best and Greatest! Half of Rome is in on this, Dad!'

'Don't blaspheme. Not quite half of Rome. Only the responsible element. And the reason they don't tell is that they know it doesn't matter.'

I couldn't believe this. 'Run that one past me again. If it doesn't matter then surely there's no reason why I shouldn't be told.'

'Listen to me!' My father's fist suddenly thudded onto the table top. 'I'm trying to save your life here! Of course you're being stonewalled! Of course there's a secret! Of course there's a conspiracy of silence! Do you expect me to deny any of that? What I'm telling you is that there's a point to it, that if the details leaked out they would do far more harm than good. And that before they let that happen the powers-that-be would see you or me or any other individual, no matter how well-born or powerful, go to the wall. Not because the information is important to the survival of the state but because it isn't. Now have I made myself clear?'

We stared at each other in silence. Finally, my father sat back. He was still shaking, and a droplet of sweat gleamed on his forehead. In spite of myself I was impressed: the guy really meant it. Or sounded like he did.

'Okay,' I said. 'Trust me. I swear I won't tell another living soul. Not even Perilla. And if it's as innocent as you say it is — '

My father closed his eyes and pressed his palms to them as if forcing the eyeballs back into their sockets.

'You still haven't understood, have you, son?' he said. 'There're no if's or but's. It isn't a question of personal judgement, either yours or mine. And I never said the secret was innocent. I said it didn't matter.'

'I don't give a toss if it's innocent or not. I have to know. One way or the other, for my own satisfaction. You may as well tell me and save us both a lot of grief. I'll swear that it won't go any further, if that's what you want.'