Ovid

'Maybe that's so,' I said, 'but the way I think it worked it would've been pretty tempting. Varus might even have squared what he was doing with the emperor in the end. In any event the guy was guilty as hell. I've seen the proof myself.'

My father sat up. 'What kind of proof?'

'His own letter to Arminius giving him the details of his march from the Weser to the Rhine, including the detour through the Teutoburg. Route, dates, disposition of forces, the lot. And one more thing. He mentions the ambush.'

'What?'

'Sure. That's the point. Varus knew Arminius was going to hit him. Not as hard as he did, but still that there would be an attack.'

'Where did Quinctilia get this letter?'

'I told you. From Vela. He sent it to Asprenas by courier just before the army set out.'

I felt him stiffen; and when he spoke again his voice was strangely quiet. 'You say Varus wrote this letter? You're sure of that?'

'Yeah, that's right, Dad. But I think Asprenas-'

'And Quinctilia herself is sure it's genuine?'

'Sure she's sure. She confirmed the handwriting herself.'

'She told you this as well? That she herself, personally, had recognised the writing as her brother's?'

I frowned. 'Look, what's all this about? Are you saying the old girl was lying?'

He shook his head. 'Oh, no. She wasn't lying. Or not intentionally so, anyway. You say you talked to her yourself? And you didn't notice?'

'Notice what?'

'Marcus,' my father said gently, 'the Lady Quinctilia is almost totally blind.'

I stared at him as the last piece of the mosaic in my head slid into place with an almost perceptible click. I remembered the pale eyes peering at me from close up when we had first met; remembered the way she'd stared past me, how she'd needed Asprenas's help to walk…

'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.

41

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 usefuclass="underline" 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?'