Ovid

'You don't like!' he snapped. 'That's all I ever get from you, isn't it, Marcus? Perhaps if you stopped thinking of yourself for a change, of being so damned fastidious over what you will and won't allow, you'd be a better and pleasanter person and a more useful member of society. Now I have work to do, and I've spent more time on you this morning than your egotism merits. Let me know what you decide about Cyprus by the end of the festival. If you can spare a few moments of your valuable time to reach so minor a decision, naturally.'

And before I could reply he had stormed out, pulling the front door to out of the door slave's hands and slamming it behind him.

After he'd gone I did a great deal of serious thinking. Dad was right about Cyprus, of course; he always was, when it came to practical politics. If I turned this job down there'd be a black mark against my name which would take a long, long time to sponge out. Crete-and-Cyrene wasn't one of the most prestigious senatorial provinces going, let alone one with the social clout of an imperial giant like Egypt; but nonetheless to be offered the post of finance officer there was way beyond what I could reasonably expect at my age, and to spurn the offer would be to kick the senate's teeth down its communal throat. You just didn't do that and expect to live afterwards politically speaking. If I had any hopes of a future career in politics (and what other career was there for someone like me?), I'd have to accept. At least if it was a bribe, as it had to be, I couldn't complain that I was being undervalued.

Then there was what my father had said about me. About my egotism. That was true, too. I was honest enough with myself to admit it. And it had hurt, much more than I'd thought any comment of my father's would. Not that I could do much to change myself. We're all selfish egotistical bastards at heart, we upper-class Roman gentlemen. We always have been and we always will be. It's our weakness and our strength, it's what made Rome great and made her dirty. Even when we play the democrat it's only a questionable means to a selfish end. Selfishness is bred into us from infancy: the need to have the world as we want, to mould it to our requirements.

The trouble is the world has changed and we've had to change with it, whether we like it or not. A hundred years ago there was no problem. We were the state, and so serving the state came naturally because we were serving ourselves. Now the state, or at least what matters of it, has been taken from us. We're like thoroughbred horses forced to work a corn mill, trudging round and round in the same never-ending circle. Yeah, sure. Sure, I know. What good's a thoroughbred except to race against other thoroughbreds and impress the yokels? Corn's a necessity, and it doesn't grind itself. So the modern state puts us to useful work. Only it expects us to behave like mules or plough-oxen, and not chafe at the traces. That's what sticks in my throat.

Sure, I was an egotist. I was selfish. I was self-opinionated. I was everything else my father thought I was. But these qualities were bred into my bones and they had their good sides as well. Determination, for a start. I'd never not seen something through in my life and I didn't mean to begin now. Whether it hurt me or not.

That was the problem. This time it wasn't just me. Perilla was involved too. If I turned down the Cyprus posting it'd be tantamount to a declaration of war. Total commitment. And knowing what I was up against did I have the right to put Perilla at risk as well?

That was something I had to think about.

And I was still thinking, with very little result, when Bathyllus brought me a message from Perilla. It was in two parts, the first asking me if I was free for dinner the following evening (was I! I'd've cancelled a dice lesson from Hermes himself for that!), the second to say that Harpale had arranged a meeting with Davus, Julia's ex-door slave. He'd be waiting for me at Paquius's warehouse in the Velabrum at noon on the last day of the festival.

I'd read the message and was about to dismiss Bathyllus when I remembered something.

'Bathyllus, you were with my father in Illyricum, weren't you?'

'Yes, sir. I was the general's body-servant, sir.' Bathyllus was proud of what he calls his military experience. 'Myself and Nicanor, who is still with him.'

'Do you remember if Tiberius went back to Rome at all at any stage?'

He didn't even stop to think; which with Bathyllus puts any pronouncement he makes into the Delphic Oracle league.

'No, sir. Not until the winter before the last campaign when he left Aemilius Lepidus in charge at Siscia.'

That would be when Ovid had already left for Tomi, or even after he'd got there. Far too late, in any event.

'You're sure? Absolutely one-hundred-percent cast-iron swear-on-your-grandmother's-grave certain?' Best not to leave any room for doubts.

'Yes, sir.'

'Fuck.'

'Quite, sir.' Bathyllus's expression didn't change. 'Will that be all, sir?'

Ah well. As I said, I wasn't too unhappy to see it go. But the theory had been a peach while it lasted.

'Yeah. No — bring me a jug of Setinian. A large one, the best we've got. I may as well go down happy. And after that I want you to take a message round to my father's.'

I'd decided. Ovid was my problem and I couldn't just walk away from him. Perilla would understand: she was thoroughgoing Upper-Class Bastard too, in her own sweet way. And I knew that if I'd chosen Cyprus I'd never have had the guts to see her again.

When Bathyllus brought the wine I poured out the first cup to the war goddess Bellona. I have a soft spot for the bloodthirsty old bitch. She's Roman through and through, she's an outsider with no priest and no festival of her own, and there's no better god to call on when you're declaring a war to the knife.

I might be a selfish egotistical bastard but I'm a determined one. I don't give up. And I don't desert my friends.

Varus to Himself

The scouts I had Vela send to reconnoitre returned this morning, together with a captured Cheruscan dissident able and eager to furnish us with 'proof' of Arminius's intentions. The staff meeting which followed their return, however, was far from straightforward. Although since our interview I had anticipated — feared — resistance from Vela, his opposition verged upon outright mutiny; a fact which must give me pause.

There were four of us round the table: myself, Vela, Eggius and Ceionius; two of whom, of course — myself and Ceionius, if you have forgotten — knew the truth of the matter.

I hoped and prayed that the number had not risen to three.

'Well, gentlemen,' I began. 'We have our confirmation. The Cherusci are arming. What is our response?'

'Hardly confirmation, General,' Vela murmured. 'The word of a single deserter is not confirmation.'

'It's enough for me,' Ceionius growled.

'And me.' That, on cue, from the fiery Eggius.

'What would you have me do, Vela?' I spread my hands in a gesture of helpless reasonableness. 'Ignore Arminius? March past with eyes averted like a shy virgin and leave him a whole winter to gather strength?'

'Foolishness,' Ceionius nodded. So did Eggius, who was thinking already, no doubt, of the feats of valour he would perform.

'Smash him, General,' he said, so far as the clenching of his manly jaw would allow him. 'Smash him now, and when you've smashed him then smash him again. That's all barbarians understand.'

Vela was looking from one to the other. His porridge face was stubborn.

'With respect, sir,' he said to me (but there was no respect in his voice) 'we were warned that this might happen before we left the Weser. Segestes…'

'Segestes be damned.' That was Ceionius. 'Anything that two-faced German bastard chooses to tell us isn't worth a wet fart.'

Oho! The crudity was quite deliberate: Ceionius is clever and knows how to steer an argument onto safer ground. Vela, who for a professional soldier is prudish beyond belief, coloured up immediately.