David Wishart: Ovid

‘Hey, that’s great!’ I said, and I meant it. Perilla would be grateful the thing had been settled so quickly; and a grateful Perilla, given Uncle Cotta’s PS, might be interesting.

‘Now, if I may just have a few details?’ The secretary held his pen poised. ‘Your client’s name?’

‘Rufia Perilla.’

The tip of the pen moved over the wax. ‘And the deceased is presumably one Rufius?’

‘Actually, no. He was the lady’s stepfather. His name was Naso. Publius Ovidius Naso.’

The guy stopped writing like he’d been stung.

‘Ovid the poet?’ he said sharply. ‘The…gentleman who was exiled to Tomi?’ The smarmy look was gone like it’d been wiped off his face with a sponge. I felt the first little prickle of unease.

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said. ‘He died last winter.’

The secretary laid the tablet down carefully. ‘Excuse me a moment, sir.’

‘Sure.’ I was speaking to his back. He’d already disappeared through the curtained archway behind the desk.

I turned round and tried to look more at ease than I felt. The room wasn’t exactly full, but there were several people waiting behind me; two or three antediluvian senators and a clutch of fat businessmen sitting on benches or chatting in groups.

Or rather they had been chatting. Not any longer. It was so quiet now you could’ve heard a mouse fart, and the way no one was looking in my direction was positively miraculous. The prickle of unease became a full-blown itch. I leaned backwards against the secretary’s desk and began to whistle through my teeth. One of the senators — he must’ve been eighty, at least, with the physique of a rat-chewed Egyptian mummy — suddenly swallowed his spittle the wrong way and choked. I watched with interest as his friends — mummies all, and only slightly less decrepit — pounded him senseless. I was laying private bets with myself which bit of him would fall off first when someone else coughed behind me, and the secretary was back.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but it is felt that your client’s request cannot be at present acceded to.’

‘You mean you won’t do it?’

‘Precisely, sir.’

There was something not right here. The guy was sweating. And imperial secretaries never sweat.

‘Hey what is this?’ I said. ‘You said there’d be no problem.’ When in doubt go for the jugular.

Not a muscle of his face moved. ‘I was mistaken, sir. I’m sorry, but it simply isn’t possible.’

‘Look.’ I was beginning to get annoyed. ‘The guy’s dead and burned. All I want is his ashes.’

‘I know that, sir, but my instructions are — ’

‘Screw your instructions. I demand to see the emperor.’

I expected that to produce a result, if anything did. I had the right to a personal interview, of course: Tiberius might be a morose antisocial bugger, but he knew the power of the aristocracy. You don’t mess with the cream unless you’re really anxious for trouble. You can find yourself standing alone in a corner at parties, for starters.

‘I don’t think an interview with the First Citizen would be very productive, sir,’ the secretary said smoothly. ‘I assure you that — ’

‘Listen, sunshine.’ I’d had enough of this. I wound my fingers into the neck of the man’s tunic and pulled him gently towards me. ‘I’m not asking your advice or your opinion. I’m telling you. My name’s Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, I’m a full-blown twenty-one-carat noble with a pedigree four times the length of your dick, and if you don’t make the appointment forthwith I’ll lop your balls off and watch you juggle them.’

He went very pale and his eyes made frantic signalling motions over my shoulder. I turned round. The two Praetorians on the door were up and running towards us as slow as they could make it without being too obvious. Shit. I let the guy go, and his sandals went thunk on the marble floor behind the desk.

He was sweating like a pig now and the small muscle at the side of his mouth had gone into spasm. ‘Believe me, sir,’ he said. ‘I really don’t think that an interview would be either possible or advisable. Your request has already, regrettably, been turned down at the highest possible level. Please regard this decision as final.’ Taking a deep breath, he brushed at the nap of his tunic where my fingers had crushed it. ‘Now unless you agree to leave quietly…’

The rest was left hanging, but what my old grammar teacher would’ve called the minatory apodosis was pretty obvious. I glanced over my shoulder to confirm it. Sure enough, the guards were hovering just within lunging distance, two six-foot three-hundred-pound musclebound gorillas in gleaming armour trying their hardest to blend in with the furniture. Sure, they probably wouldn’t’ve dared to throw me out physically, but you don’t mess with these guys.

‘Okay.’ I held my hands up, palm out. I don’t think I’d ever been so angry, or so calm. ‘Okay, I’m going, sunshine. But don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.’

I turned and walked between the two frozen-faced guards. Beyond them the senators and businessmen formed an embarrassed, grisly tableau, like a Greek chorus waiting for their cue. Even the coughing senator had shut up. He looked dead to me, but then he always had.

A thought struck me. I stopped and turned back.

‘What did he do, anyway?’ I said.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ The secretary looked blank.

‘Ovid. What did he do to deserve exile in the first place?’

The guy’s face did a good impression of cement setting. ‘I really couldn’t say, sir.’

‘Whatever it was, it must’ve been something pretty big, right? When they won’t even allow the bastard home in a box.’

The concrete lips never stirred. The concrete eyes remained unfocused.

I wasn’t taking crap like that. Not from anybody.

‘Don’t you worry, sunshine,’ I said. ‘I’ll get him. I’ll bring him back, one way or another. You tell your bosses that from me.’

And so saying I left, with my patrician nose held high. The family — well, some of them, anyway — would’ve been proud of me. It’s times like this that good breeding tells.

It took me an hour to find the exit.

Later that afternoon, I was having a pre-going-out-to-dinner nap in my study when Bathyllus put his head round the door. If ever human face showed terror, Bathyllus's did.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir,' he said, 'but the Lady Rufia Perilla is here.'

The effect that woman had on him was frightening. I reckoned if we could bottle it and feed it to the troops we could add Britain to the empire inside a month. Maybe Parthia as well.

'Shit!' I rolled off the couch, knocking over the statuette of Venus Braiding her Hair which stood on the side table. Bathyllus, tactful as ever, said nothing as he tidied up my rumpled tunic while I stood and scowled. Sure, if I'd been given official permission for the ashes to be returned I'd've been delighted to see the lady back so soon. As it was she was as welcome as a dose of fleas, and I didn't fancy having to explain what'd happened under the scalpel-like gaze of those beautiful golden eyes of hers. Not that I'd failed permanently, of course not. Perish the thought. The Valerii Messallae don't give in that easy. However, I wasn't looking forward to the next step, which was pulling a few strings in the Old Boy network. That meant trading favour for favour, naturally, and some of the things you get asked to do would turn your hair grey.

At least this time I was meeting her sober. Or fairly sober. Well, not exactly drunk. Well,…

I stepped into the atrium like it was the arena and I was top of the menu. Rufia Perilla was standing in the open sitting-area admiring the fresco I'd had done recently of Orpheus and the Maenads, and the early evening sun glinting through the portico from the garden beyond kissed her hair with red gold. She must've heard me coming because she turned round and — unbelievably — smiled. My heart gave a lurch. Or maybe it was indigestion.