Ovid

'And that you won't use it as the basis for action? That if I tell you you'll drop this whole stupid Ovid business right now?'

I was silent. My father nodded. 'You see? We're both trapped by our principles. I can't tell you what you want to know unless you promise not to use it, you can't make that promise until you know what the secret is. And I can't be responsible for telling you unless you do promise. That would only get both of us killed. And much though I love you, son, in spite of everything, I'm not prepared to take that risk.'

'Risk?'

'Certainty, then. It would be a certainty, Marcus. Give it up. Please. The knowledge isn't important, not now especially, I promise you that. And if you persist you won't live long enough to regret it.'

The emotional appeal impressed me. I hadn't thought my father was capable of making one. If it was genuine, of course, and not some rhetorical trick. As an experienced orator Dad was perfectly capable of counterfeiting any emotion he pleased. Even granted that the emotion was real, however, if he had his beliefs he must allow me mine.

'I'm sorry, Dad,' I said. 'I told you. I've got to know. And if you won't tell me I'll just have to find out for myself.'

He looked at me for a long time, rather sadly I thought but with a touch of something that could possibly have been pride. 'You're like your Uncle Cotta, son,’ he said. ‘You know that? You both think with your heart, not with your head. Other people grow out of it. He never did, and you won't either.'

'Is that so bad?'

His tone of voice didn't change. He wasn't arguing, he was just…talking.

'Of course it's bad. This is the modern world, Marcus, and it belongs to the grey bureaucrats. If you'd been born five centuries ago you'd be in the school books along with Horatius and Scaevola and all the other heroes. You're the kind that stands alone on bridges facing impossible odds or holding your hand in the fire until it withers just to prove a point. Then you'd've been called a hero. Nothing would've been too good for you. Now you're only an embarrassment.'

I said nothing. I'd never heard my father talk before. Not like this.

'Have you ever thought why Cotta's never made the consulship? Never even held one of the senior magistracies? He's from a good family. He's clever, popular, politically aware, a good speaker. A better man in every way than I am. Yet I had my consul's chair before I was thirty-five, while at forty-one he's never made it past junior finance officer. Why do you think that is?'

'Because he isn't an arse-licker.' I was intentionally brutal.

My father didn't even blink.

'Just because someone is for established government,' he said quietly, 'doesn't mean to say he need automatically be labelled a sycophant. Tiberius isn't perfect, the imperial system isn't perfect, but it could be worse. Might be yet for all I know. Tiberius may not be charismatic, but he's steady, and that's what we need in an emperor. Steadiness, not heroics. Flashy isn't always best, Marcus, there's too much at stake. Look at Germanicus's histrionics in Germany. What good did they do except lose us men and reputation?'

I had to agree. Tiberius's adopted son's campaign — which Germanicus himself had trumpeted as a glorious revenge for the Varian massacre — had bombed pretty spectacularly.

'You know the story of the two bulls?' my father said suddenly.

Startled, I shook my head.

'Well, then.' He smiled: a curious, enigmatic smile I'd never seen before. 'There were two bulls, an old one and a young one, looking down into a valley at a herd of cows. The young bull says to the old one, "Look at all those cows down there, Dad! Let's run down and cover a couple." And the old bull turns to him and says, "No, son. Let's walk down and cover them all."'

It took me a moment to realise that my father had made a joke; and then another moment (because he didn't smile) to realise that it wasn't a joke at all.

'I can't help what I am,' I said. 'No more than you can. We're different people and we don't mix.'

He nodded, sadly. 'Yes, son, I know. We're different people. That is the pity of it.'

And then Sarpedon arrived with his salves and bandages, and there was no more time for talking.

13

Next day before I went round to Perilla's to report developments I dropped by the gymnasium I own near the racetrack for a word with one of my clients, an ex-trainer of gladiators called Scylax. The name (it's a nickname meaning Puppy-Dog in Greek) fits the guy perfectly. He's got the build, the facial features and the temperament of one of these muscle-hard unkillable little brutes you see in country bullrings taking on something two or three hundred times their size and winning. That's Scylax. Once he gets his teeth into someone he won't let go, and when that happens the bastard's dead meat.

We'd met three years before at Aquilo's gym where I went regularly to train. My usual sparring partner had broken his wrist and old Aquilo led this guy out. He may've looked like something you'd drag off with a hook at the end of the Games but Aquilo introduced him like he was less than one step down from Jupiter himself. I should've taken note of that. I didn't. Mistake number one.

We sized each other up. The top of the little runt's bald head was just about level with my chin. Shit, I remember thinking, am I supposed to fight this thing or feed it nuts?

'You ready?' I said.

He didn't answer, so I assumed he was. I feinted to the left then brought the tip of the wooden sword round hard across the top of his belly in the sweetest little sideways slash you've ever seen: a stroke that if we'd been doing this for real should've left him staring at his own tripes. Even with a practice foil it would've hurt like hell; but then (mistake number two) I wanted to show off.

The sword never connected. Instead it was suddenly out of my hand and the little guy was lunging straight at my eyes. I jumped backwards with a scream like a fifty-year-old virgin threatened with gang-rape.

Scylax lowered his sword and scowled down at me as I lay in the sand at his feet.

'Yeah, that's you upper-class bumboys all over,' he growled. 'Shit-scared your mascara gets smudged.'

I was furious. I scrambled to my feet and gave him the works.

'What the hell do you mean by going for my eyes? You could've blinded me, you little fucker!'

'Listen, boy.' His voice was barely a whisper, but I shut up as if my tongue had been nailed to the top of my mouth. 'Sword-fighting's not a game, understand? You're out to kill someone, just like he's out to kill you. There're no rules beyond that. Okay?'

'Yeah, sure, but — '

'No buts. Remember how Caesar won Thapsus, or Munda, or whatever else sodding battle it was? He told his men to cut at the enemy's faces. The patrician bumboys on the other side didn't mind dying but they couldn't stomach the thought of losing their pretty looks, so they ran. End of battle, end of story. Point taken?'

Gods! 'Point taken.'

'Another thing.' Without warning, he aimed a vicious kick at my groin. Instinctively my hands came down to cover my balls and I moved backwards. The kick never happened. Instead the guy's sword swung up to touch my chest. 'You can use a man's worst fear as a feint. And it may not be a feint at all. Right?'

'Right.' By this time I was staring at him like Plato must've stared at Socrates the first time they met. If there'd been any incense around I'd've had it lit and smoking.

'Okay.' He stepped back. 'Now let's start again. And pay attention this time.'

I did; and I'd been paying attention ever since.

Yeah. Scylax was worth his weight in gold; which was only slightly less than I'd paid to set him up in his own training gym behind the racetrack. I didn't regret it. He was the prime reason why I was still walking around that morning with my throat in one piece and nothing worse than a cut shoulder to beef about.