David Wishart: Ovid

'Hey, Crispus!' I shouted.

He saw me. Sure he saw me. His eyes widened and then with a piece of ham acting that wouldn't've deceived a five-year-old he looked away, waved to a non-existent friend on the steps of the Temple of Saturn and took off like a rabbit in the direction of Spain. Now that I wasn't having. No one — but no one — cuts a Valerius Messalla with impunity, not when he's calling in a favour. I piled in after the guy, stamping on a few august senatorial corns and outraging a dignity or two in the process, and ran him down with a hand on his shoulder just short of the Speakers' Platform.

'Corvinus.' he batted his eyelashes at me as if I'd sprung from nowhere. 'What a pleasant surprise.'

'Yeah, sure.' I wiped my hand on my tunic. 'Where's the fire, Crispus?'

His eyes shifted. 'What fire?'

'You were running, you bastard. So why don't you want to talk to me?'

'I was in a hurry. Am in a hurry. Someone at the Treasury. I have to talk to him urgently.'

He was frightened. I could smell his fear even above the scent, and the muscles at the sides of his mouth were twitching.

'He can wait.' I tucked his arm firmly under mine and tried not to breathe too deeply as I led him back towards Augustus Arch. 'He can wait because I'm going to buy you a drink at Gorgo's, right? And then I'll tell you what you can do for me in exchange.'

By the time I'd got Crispus to the wineshop off the Sacred Way the guy had all the vitality and colour of two-day-old lettuce. This, mark you, before I'd so much as nibbled at him, let alone put the bite on properly. That could mean only one thing. He knew what I was after already. And that, given the bastard's reaction, was interesting.

Crispus was a trader, specialising in dirty gossip, the murkier the better. Political secrets, social scandals. Who was screwing who, or preferably what, and how and why they were doing it. He'd no scruples, no conscience and (which was the point) no nerves. What Crispus knew may have kept him eating and surely kept him safe — because Crispus knew a hell of a lot of things about a hell of a lot of people — but it wasn't the kind of life that was good for the digestion; like walking a tightrope with your second-worst enemy throwing rocks at you and your first busy with a hacksaw. So if Crispus was scared of giving me the information I wanted (which he obviously was) then I'd give a lot to know why.

It was a cold day, but I needed privacy so we sat down at an outside table. I ordered up a flask of Alban and a plate of cheese and dried figs, and as soon as the waiter left I got straight down to business.

'You're still attached to the imperial branch of the civil service, right?'

He nodded warily. We both knew what that ‘attached’ stood for.

'Good.' I took a cautious sip of my wine and swallowed carefully. Gorgo's best was still liable to go down like a handful of gravel. 'I've been having some trouble with them lately. Maybe you've heard?'

Crispus said nothing. I'd seen more expression on the face of a boiled sturgeon.

'Okay,' I played it straight faced. 'So maybe you haven't. I want to bring the poet Ovid's ashes back to Rome and I need help to do it. You've just drawn the lucky number.'

The bastard was shaking so hard the table was moving, but I pretended not to notice.

'I'd like to, Corvinus,' he said. 'Believe me. But-'

I cut him short. 'The poor sod's dead, okay? It's not like I was asking for an imperial pardon. I just want his ashes in a plain clay urn. Now come on, be a pal. Have a discreet word in someone's ear or whatever you diplomatic bastards do and save us all a load of trouble.'

'It's not the sort of thing my…department handles. And I'd hate to tread on anyone's toes.'

'Look, don't give me that, right?' I pushed the plate of cheese and figs across the table towards him. He shook his head. He hadn't touched his wine, either, but maybe that was just good taste. 'It's garbage and you know it. If your friend doesn't deal with that sort of thing himself then you know someone else who does, and you're probably good enough mates to share a scraper in the baths.'

He gave me a sharp look, and I knew I'd unwittingly touched a nerve. However, the complications of Crispus's private life were no concern of mine.

'I'm not saying I wouldn't know who to talk to,' he said. 'Of course I would. But it wouldn't do any good.'

'Why not?'

His forehead was beginning to shine with sweat. He wiped it with the back of his hand. 'Don't push me,’ he said ‘It just wouldn't. Believe me.'

'I don't. Persuade me some more.' I popped a fig into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. 'Listen, pal. You owe me a favour. If it hadn't been for me you'd be singing soprano in the civil service glee club. I'm not asking for much and I won't take no for an answer. So fix it for me, okay?'

'You don't understand.' His face was grey now, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth was getting worse. 'The decision's already been made, and it's final.'

I lost my temper. 'Then have it unmade! Sweet gods alive, I've had about enough of this! Since when has the imperial displeasure extended to an urnful of fucking bones? That's all Ovid is now, whatever he did ten years ago. And speaking of which if you can't help me get him back then at least you can tell me what that was.'

As I said the words I saw the fear leap into his eyes just before the shutters slammed down. This was getting monotonous. First the secretary, then my father. Now Crispus. Seemingly everybody I talked to knew what Ovid's crime had been. It looked as if I was the only guy in Rome who didn't.

There was no point in shouting. I backed off a little; sat back, emptied my winecup and poured a second. Smiled, or tried to.

'Come on,' I said. 'You can tell me that, eh? A mine of information like you? Just what crime did Ovid commit? Why's the Wart so against having the poor bastard's ashes buried in Roman soil? Just tell me that, and if the reason's a good one I swear I'll give up and go home. Debt cancelled. Deal?' He was watching me with the horrified, fascinated gaze of a rabbit watching a stoat. 'Come on, now. What did Ovid do that was so terrible?'

Crispus glanced quickly to either side of us like he expected the emperor himself to spring up from under one of the neighbouring tables and slap a treason writ on him.

'Leave it alone, Corvinus,' he muttered. 'Don't dig, don't ask questions, don't do anything. Just give this thing up right now before you live to regret it.'

And before I could stop him he was up and running: slipping from behind the table and out of the courtyard into the street fast as an Olympic sprinter. I flung a few coins in the direction of the waiter and tried to follow. But he must've wanted to get away very badly indeed, because when I looked for him he was already gone.

Round Two to the bureaucrats, I thought sourly as I went back to finish the wine. If they expected me to give up that easily then they were whistling through their collective rectums.

So where were we? I knew two things so far. First of all whatever Ovid had been guilty of was common knowledge, at least among the top brass and their ‘attachments’. Secondly it was so bad, or so politically sensitive, that even after ten years everyone was still shit-scared to talk about it. And that was interesting.

So how could I find out?

The answer was so ludicrously obvious that when I thought of it I could've kicked myself all the way back to the Palatine.

Perilla was Ovid's stepdaughter. She'd know what he'd done. Or her mother would. All I had to do was ask.

Easy, right?

Suillius Rufus's place was on the slopes of the Esquiline not far from the Maecenas Gardens. It was good sound sycophant's property, flashy enough to impress but not sufficiently grand to attract dangerous envy in these luxury-sensitive times. The slave who opened the door for me wore red. Given the look of the place that could've only been for one of two reasons, first the chichi visual pun on Rufus's name, second because the Red team at the racecourse was Tiberius's favourite. Or at least everybody thought it was Tiberius's favourite. Personally I had my doubts. The Wart was quite capable of spreading a rumour like that just for the fun of watching guys like Rufus fall over themselves trying to lick his arse.