David Wishart: Ovid

'How long?' I said.

My father understood the question, and its implications. 'I don't know. Her sight has been failing for years. Perhaps ten years ago it would have been good enough to read a letter and recognise the handwriting, although personally I doubt it.'

Not this handwriting. I remembered how cramped it had been and how close together the lines were. Still, that was something I could check for sure. Agron would be able to tell me; he'd been connected with the family for years. I yelled for Bathyllus, and he came out of the house at a run.

'You know where Agron hangs out, Bathyllus? The big Illyrian?'

'Not exactly, sir. But I can always ask at the Lady Quinctilia's. They'll-'

'No. No. Don't do that. He's got a blacksmith's shop in the Subura. Metalsmiths' Row, near the Shrine of Libera. You know it?'

Bathyllus sniffed. 'Not intimately, sir, no.'

Jupiter! The little guy was as big a snob as Callias! 'Find it. Find Agron. I don't care if you have to comb the whole of the Subura for him, just find him, okay? And don't go near the Lady Quinctilia's place for any reason. You understand?'

'Yes, sir,' Bathyllus said stiffly. 'Of course. Is there a message?'

'No message. Just a question. Get the answer and bring it back to me. Ask him when the Lady Quinctilia began to lose her sight.'

'Couldn't I send someone else, sir? After all, the Subura isn't exactly-'

'Beat it!'

He beat it. I turned to face my father.

'You're right, Dad,' I said. 'Quinctilia just said the handwriting was genuine. She never said she'd authenticated it personally. Which means that someone else did, someone she trusted absolutely.'

'Asprenas,' Perilla said.

I nodded. 'Asprenas. We've only his word for it that he got the letter from Vela. And if no one else but Quinctilia has seen it then it could easily be a forgery.'

My father cleared his throat.

'Quite possibly,' he said. 'It would not, at any rate, be the first that Nonius Asprenas was guilty of.'

Got the bastard!

'Tell us,' I said.

My father didn't look at me. Instead, he picked up an olive from the plate in front of him and began carefully to cut the stone out with the point of a knife. I understood very clearly what was happening. Asprenas was one of the inner circle: good family, well-connected. Guys like him were immune to criticism, to outsiders at least, and here I was an outsider. Marcus Valerius Messalla Messalinus was about to do the unthinkable: break the unwritten code that demanded that the circle protect its own.

'The rumours began just after he got back from Germany,' he said. 'Oh, they had no connection with his conduct during the campaign. In that sense he was a hero. He'd done all they say he did, brought his legions back in time to stop the Germans crossing the river and breaking the frontier. No-one ever accused him of not being brave, or resourceful, or a good soldier.' The stone came free. My father set down the gutted olive, picked up another and repeated the same slow, careful process. 'That was when Asprenas began to produce certain documents. Bequests in the form of cash and property that he claimed had been made by colleagues who had died in the massacre. Nothing very big, taken individually. Taken together they represented quite a tidy sum.'

I remembered Agron's blacksmith's shop; the one that hadn't cost Asprenas anything because he'd inherited it from a dead friend. 'And these documents were forged?' I said.

'It was…suggested.' My father was the perfect lawyer. 'Strongly suggested, in some cases. But in no case did the next-of-kin know anything about the bequests previous to Asprenas's lodging of his claim.'

That made sense. How the bastard had expected to get away with it altogether I couldn't imagine. Or maybe he'd just gambled — rightly, as it turned out — that his military reputation would protect him.

'I should say, of course, that no formal charges were made,' my father went on. 'If the documents were forgeries they were virtually perfect, and as a result although there were several informal challenges in the event they came to nothing.'

'But the rumours persisted?'

'The rumours persisted. Have persisted.'

'And the only guys who know the truth are lying unburied on the wrong side of the Rhine.'

'Indeed.'

'So what kind of money are we talking about?'

'Taken together, the bequests must have totalled two or three million.' I whistled. That sort of fraud was major league stuff. I knew a dozen young rakes who'd sell their grandmothers to a waterfront whoremaster for half the amount. 'Mind you, Marcus,' my father set the knife down on the table, 'I'm not saying that proceedings should have been initiated. But the connections with your incriminating letter are, shall we say, significant.'

'In other words everyone knows Asprenas is a crook and a forger but no one can prove it. Or wants to prove it.'

Dad didn't answer; which was an answer in itself.

'He may be a crook,' Perilla said. 'But is he a traitor?'

'Yes. He has to be.'

'Oh, come on, Marcus! You'll have to do better than that!'

'Especially if you want to take this to the emperor,' my father added. 'Asprenas is Tiberius's man. More than that, he's useful: an established figure, a proven administrator, a military success. Tiberius wouldn't want to lose him and he certainly wouldn't condemn him without very firm proof. Yes, Tiberius will give you a fair hearing, Marcus, I guarantee that; but I tell you now that he'll ask for more than your opinion and a mishmash of unsupported theory. He'll need a properly presented legal case. Have you got one?' Then, when I hesitated: 'Well, son? Have you?'

Put up or shut up, his voice said. I temporised.

'Dad, we talked about keeping back information once. When I asked you about Julia. You remember?'

'Yes, of course. I told you that responsibility meant knowing when not to pass on information where it would cause more harm than good.'

'Yeah, Right. Well, I'm really going to make your day. I'm going to apologise a third time. You were right. I can't take this to the Wart, not unless I have to. It'd cause more trouble than it's worth.'

'Marcus, if you know that Asprenas was responsible for the German disaster then it's your duty to tell the emperor.'

'That's the problem. It wasn't just Asprenas who was responsible. There was someone else involved. Someone more important.'

'If you're talking about Varus I don't suppose that after all this time Tiberius would-'

'I'm not talking about Varus. I mean the empress. I'm talking about Livia.'

That shut him up, as I knew it would; but if I'd expected him to look shocked I was forgetting that Valerius Messalinus was first and last a politician. He leaned back and regarded me steadily.

'That would certainly make a difference,' he said.

'Yeah. I thought it might.'

'Although the emperor and the empress tend to go their separate ways these days I doubt if Tiberius would take kindly to being told his mother is a traitor.' He allowed himself a wintry smile. 'Not as far as any unexpected imputations of treachery are concerned anyway. Besides, the information would cause grave complications. Political complications. If it is susceptible of proof.'

'I can make a good case, yeah,' I said. 'A circumstantial case, sure, although maybe the letter would help. There must be examples of Varus's handwriting on file we can compare it with. But I don't want to stir shit just for the sake of it.'

'Good, Marcus. Very good. You'll make a politician yet, my boy.' I grinned. I couldn't help it. 'So what do you want? What would you settle for?'

'How do you mean?'

'Polititians make deals. It's our purpose in life. So what exactly would the price of your silence be?'