David Wishart: Ovid

'What he told you, and quite correctly, was that your request had already been turned down at the highest level.'

'Meaning by the emperor himself.'

'Meaning presumably just that.'

'Without doing me the courtesy of talking to me first? Without the grace at least to explain his reasons?'

'The emperor doesn't have to give a reason, Marcus. If he says a request is refused, then it's refused, and there's an end of it.'

'Oh, yeah! Sure!' I stood up and turned my back on my father. If I hadn't I think I would've hit him. 'That's your credo, isn't it? The emperor's always right, long live the emperor. If Tiberius passed a decree praising dog turds you'd have half a dozen of them in aspic on your dinner table the next day.'

'That's not fair, son.' My father's voice was calm. 'Tiberius is the First Citizen, the head of state. When he makes an executive decision…'

I turned round. 'Look, let's get this clear, right? I'm not complaining about the decision. I'm not a child. I can take no for an answer. What sticks in my throat is how the Wart's judgement — if it was his judgement — was delivered, and that I was barred from exercising my right…' I stopped, then repeated the words slowly, 'my right , Father, to a personal interview. And if you think I'm going to let the matter rest there then you can go and screw yourself.'

'Oh, yes, you will, Marcus, unless you're a complete fool!' my father snapped. 'That's why I'm here. That's what I've come to tell you, and you'd better listen or you're in real trouble. Leave it alone. You've asked and you've had your answer. Now tell that Rufia Perilla woman there's nothing you can do, and forget about her.'

I walked back over to the desk, picked up my winecup and emptied it at a gulp. 'How did you know about Perilla, Dad?'

'I told you. This is official.'

'Okay,' I said, turning the cup slowly in my hands. 'So just tell me one thing. What did he do? What did Ovid do, to make the Wart hate him so much?'

Now the next bit is interesting. I was looking squarely at my father when I spoke, so I saw exactly what happened to his face. It was like a door slamming shut. One moment his expression was as open as my father's ever can be, the next his eyes were blank as marble. That was interesting enough; but as I said I was looking directly at him and saw something more. It was no more than a flash, like the glimpse of lamplight behind a closing door, but there was no mistaking it. None.

What I saw was fear.

Varus to Himself

I am mad to write this. A traitor's first and cardinal rule is to commit nothing to writing, and thus far I have obeyed it scrupulously. To produce written evidence of one's treason is to raise up a witness against oneself who will shout louder than a hundred calumnies. And that is the last thing I wish to do.

So why write at all, you ask me (I ask myself?) Certainly not for the edification of posterity. Posterity can go and hang itself: my eyes will be the only ones to read this, and I will burn it as soon as it is complete. Nor is it in any way a confession, a private mortification of a spirit tortured by guilt. To hell with that. If I ever had a conscience I lost it long before puberty, and besides, in common with most traitors I am, if not exactly proud of my treason, at least content in its company. So not that either.

Perhaps it would be best to call what I am about a justification; an appeal for understanding, by myself to myself. Oh dear, oh dear! That sounds terribly precious, but I am very much afraid that it is the truth. In extenuation, I suspect that I am not alone among traitors in wishing to justify my treason. The disease is endemic to us. Paullus was the exception, fortunately for me and for others: he died silent. Although in fairness, of course, Paullus was not a true traitor.

So call this a justification, then, of treason undertaken for the best of motives. Or wait, that is unfair and untrue. I would not have you think me a filthy altruist. No, what I am doing is, frankly, profitable and will provide materially for what I hope will be a long, comfortable and very self-indulgent retirement. The fact that it will benefit Rome is to me, alas, a comparatively minor issue, although satisfying to contemplate. Had Arminius appealed to my gentlemanly instincts (assuming, for the sake of argument, their existence!), or had he been niggardly with his rewards, I doubt very much whether venal old Varus would have co-operated. Ah me. Sad, is it not? Sad but true.

You see? I am being completely honest. But then by their own lights most traitors are.

So, then. We are agreed in calling this a justification. Now let me set the scene for you. Who are we, and where?

We are three legions. Fifteen thousand men, plus cavalry, auxiliary troops, baggage carts and mules. The pride and power of Rome and of her first citizen Augustus, with its impedimenta, returning south for the winter to the not-quite-province of Germany of which I am the emperor's governor and viceroy. The campaigning season being successfully completed, we are en route from our summer camp on the Weser to Vetera on the Rhine, where (the gods help us!) my headquarters are located: a distance, as the crow flies, of some hundred and fifty miles, although as the Roman marches it is further and, alas, entails considerably greater effort.

So much is public knowledge. What follows is for your eyes only. Soon, perhaps somewhere between the Ems and the Lippe, news will reach us of trouble to the east among the large and warlike Cheruscan tribe.

And then?

And then, my gentle and imaginary confidant, the final act of my treason will begin.

I was down to the Market Square next morning as early as my hangover would let me with a mental list of promising contacts. The list was pretty short. Like I say, I didn't use the Old Boy network much and just the thought of being indebted to any of my father's cronies made me sick to my stomach. Nevertheless there were a few strings I could tug, several favours I could call in and if the worst came to the worst even one or two arms I could twist with a little judicious blackmail. It shouldn't be too difficult. After all, what's a handful of ashes and burnt bone between friends?

Market Square was crawling like an ants' nest, and like it always does in the mornings when most of the business is done it smelt of shaving talc and raw power. Before I'd pushed my way ten yards through the crowd I'd overheard two under-the-counter trading scams discussed, one fat senator putting the bite on another for some fancy political footwork and a mid-ranking civil servant being bribed over a government marble tender. Obviously a quiet day. Not that your average plain-mantled punter would've noticed anything, of course. These deals aren't made in straightforward Latin. To understand what's going on you have to know the special language. We patricians speak it fluently from birth, which is why so many of us are still alive even after bastards like Caesar and Augustus were through with us.

I struck lucky straight off. I'd just drawn level with the Temple of Castor when I spotted Caelius Crispus ooze down the steps of the Julian Basilica and come through the crowd towards me. I swear I could smell the guy's scent even at that distance; violets, mostly, with overtones of musk. His boyfriend at the palace must've bought him a gallon of the stuff. Crispus was perfect. His grandfather had been a pork-butcher, he'd never held any public office, and he wasn't likely to even in these democratic, degenerate days; all of which meant that my father wouldn't've touched him with his third best gloves on. Even so for reasons it was best not to go into too deeply he was one of the most influential men in Rome. Better still, he owed me one, and a pretty big one at that. I won't go into details. Suffice it to say that it involved a very young boy, a very strait-laced Gallic daddy just in from the sticks, and a very sharp dagger; and that it'd been Crispus's sheer good luck that I happened to be passing in a covered litter at the time.