Ron Burns has written two mystery novels set in ancient Rome, Roman Nights (1991) and Roman Shadows (1992). The first is set toward the end of the tyrannical reign of the Emperor Commodus, whilst Roman Shadows is set earlier, at the start of the Roman Empire. It is toward those earlier days that we go. Ron Burns was interested in the reason behind the banishment of the poet Publius Ovidius Naso by Augustus in the year AD 8. The public view was that it was because the Emperor Augustus had taken offence at one of Ovid’s poems. But Ovid hinted at a darker, more sinister motive. How much of the following story is true?
Little book – no, I don’t begrudge it you – you’re off to the city without me, going where your only
begetter is banned!
On your way, then – but penny-plain, as befits an exile’s sad offering, and my present life.
For you no purple slip-case (that’s a color goes ill with grief), no title-line picked out in vermilion, no cedar-oiled backing . . .
Leave luckier books to be dressed with such trimmings: never forget my sad estate.
Publius Ovidius Naso – Ovid to you – was a poet, and as everyone knows poets recollect everything. It is their curse.
So it wasn’t a matter of what could he remember. It was more along the lines of was there anything he could forget. And the shock of a macabre new crime brought it back easily enough. Brought it back in torrents:
Ovid the prodigy. Ovid the little freak. Ovid the squawking pubescent, aged twelve, being brought before the new ruler Octavian, still young himself: stern and erect, yet smiling – though somewhat snidely.
It was a time when Octavian’s image needed touching up. Actually a full-blown cover-up was more like what was required. It was back in 719* coming after a dozen or so years of joint rule with Mark Anthony, who had just taken part in a ritual double suicide with that Egyptian woman. Octavian, though victorious, had had immense problems – which was no surprise all things considered. Such as his signature at the bottom of hundreds of death warrants. Warrants for the murders of Roman citizens. Some of them illustrious, the glorious Cicero being one.
So Octavian needed help, and when word reached him of this boy who wrote beautiful poems and spouted aphorisms of pithy advice as well, he summoned him to the Imperial court.
‘You must first of all change your name,’ the child unblinkingly told the king of the world – which prompted a mixture of sniggers and gasps from the attendant ministers and hangers-on.
‘Octavian is a boy’s name; I suggest Augustus,’ little Ovid continued, ‘as a new signal of greatness for you and for all Rome.
‘And never call yourself Emperor,’ he went on. ‘Use “Princeps” – first citizen. Also, restore the rituals of the Senate. Not the power, nor the substance. Just the form.
‘And finally, needless to say, no more murders. A justice of substance must rule in Rome.’
As is widely known, Augustus adopted all these caveats, and within a year or so Octavian the bloodthirsty was known far and wide as Augustus the great and the good. And the prodigy Ovid moved into apartments of his own inside the palace, where he grew to manhood and flourished as poet and sage.
Until, thirty-eight years later, there came a time when Augustus once again was threatened by a ‘perception problem.’ It involved this new crime – a murder, and once again he was rumored to be the murderer. And this time (it was said) no trumped-up warrant nor writ lent even a semblance of legality.
Once again he called upon the poet to fix it, and Ovid quickly concluded that this time to save Augustus’ image he would have to solve the murder itself. Remarkably, he realized very soon how easy that would be.
And how impossible.
And for those very reasons he shook with a terror that only Rome could inspire.
The victim was Marcellus Gaius, a much loved young man, quite dashing in that Roman way, definitely appealing to men (though of doubtful accessibility) and women alike. And a fighting general to boot – just back from a triumph at the German front. He was also a favorite of Augustus’ and was believed more and more to be his likely successor. Thus, the rumors flew. Marcellus had grown too overtly ambitious. Augustus felt threatened. They had had a falling out. Also, he was murdered in the palace, after all, in a chamber not far from the Emperor’s own rooms.
‘The people are saying I did it,’ Augustus snarled. ‘I don’t like it, so find out who did. And be quick about it.’
Ovid, unhappy but knowing his master’s moods, backed silently, obediently, into the nearest corridor.
The murder room, still under heavy guard, had been sealed and nothing touched. In a way it was disgusting – the crime was already two days old – but Ovid was pleased. Perhaps he would find something . . . helpful. Or at least not harmful.
Marcellus’ body had been cut in three places: there was a clumsy slashing wound to the stomach, a powerful thrust to the chest, in the area of the heart, and finally a cleanly-made slit across the throat, ear (it might be said) to ear. There was blood around the body. Some, though not, he thought, as much as there might have been. There was also blood in . . . places where (one might think) it shouldn’t have been at all. He examined the spots, followed a trail that, mercifully, petered out, returned to the death scene and bent close to the corpse.
‘Tragic, tragic,’ he heard himself muttering. A moment of low melodrama. Then: high alarm. Did anyone hear me? Did I sound sarcastic? When there was no reaction, he relaxed a little. Keep your mouth shut! he told himself.
Poking through the folds of Marcellus’ toga he felt something weighty around his waist. His purse! Undisturbed! Filled with gold sesterces! ‘Well, this was no robbery,’ he announced earnestly, then wondered: Why am I heralding the obvious? And again reminded himself of the virtues of silence.
There was also a potentially powerful piece of evidence beside the body: a distinctive dagger with a handle of intricately carved ivory and studded with gorgeously colored rubies and sapphires. That, it should be noted, was covered with blood. So whose is this? he wondered. Should be easy enough to find out, then actually went, ‘Hah!’ Laughing at himself out loud.
‘Bodies, I have in mind, and how they can change to assume new shapes,’ the poet had written a few years before, meaning something quite different. But it came back to him now as he circled the remains. ‘I ask the help of the gods, who know the trick: inspire me now, change me, let me glimpse the secret and sing.’
He smiled.
And looked up to see a Praetorian guardsman watching him. Scowling.
‘Harumph.’ He cleared his throat haughtily. ‘You there. Yes, and you. And you, also. Let’s get this mess cleaned up. And careful how you handle him. This was Marcellus Gaius, nobleman and patrician.’
What followed was amazing. The guardsmen carried away the body. A platoon of maids swept in, scrubbing and dusting. And after five minutes the room, a waiting area and occasional private dining room, was restored. There was no sign that trouble of any sort had taken place, let alone a brutal murder – save one old woman who scoured away for a long time after the others had gone, working with a tiny brush where the blood had seeped deeply into the cement between the tiles.
Again, his own words came back to him. ‘Nature,’ he had written
was all the same: what men imagine as ‘chaos,’ that jumble of elemental stuff, a lifeless heap, with neither Sun to shed its light, nor Moon to wax and wane, nor earth poised in its atmosphere of air.
If there was land and sea, there was no discernible shoreline.
no way to walk on the one, or swim or sail in the other.
In the gloom and murk, vague shapes appeared for a moment, loomed
and then gave way, unsaying themselves and the world as well.
It was, of course, a tricky matter in the Emperor’s palace to find the true owner of the ivory-handled dagger – the presumed murder weapon. Ovid sat in the murder room for an hour thinking of nothing but that. And finally determined that was the thing to do.
Nothing.
For the time being, at least.
He hid the knife away in his own quarters, but took the only other article he had seized – the victim’s overflowing purse – and dropped it almost too casually in front of Augustus as he sat at his work table dashing off letters to officials halfway across the world.
‘No robbery, this, my lord,’ Ovid said.
Augustus was not unimpressed as he fondled the purse. But then: ‘Chancellor’s office for safekeeping, my boy,’ he said with dismissive ingratitude (or so the suffering poet believed). ‘And I knew that much all along,’ he chided just before Ovid could safely reach the door.
He now began a different phase of his investigation. He would trace Marcellus’ every move for the final three days of his life. Everyone he spoke to, everyone who saw him. Everything he ate. Or drank. Everywhere he went. Everything he did.
All this, Ovid expected, would lead to nothing. And everything. Some would just get annoyed. Or enraged at his prodding questions. But someone somewhere along the line would get nervous. And make a mistake. Hopefully a big one.
Marcellus had been killed on Friday, so Ovid used the previous Tuesday for his starting point. The hard part was beginning at the logical place, with the grieving widow, Camilla. She was a small, dark woman – nondescript at first glance. But her intense manner, the sound of her voice, the way she moved when she spoke, unmasked a raw, compelling beauty.
‘You’re really looking for the killer?’ she said. ‘So you don’t have so far to look.’
Ovid shook his head. ‘My Lady, I assure you –’
‘So what’s a poet doing investigating a murder anyway?’ She snorted and tossed back a glass of wine with the aplomb of a teamster. ‘Ah, wait a minute. That’s right. You’re that poet. So . . . I see. You’re just . . . going through the motions, as they say.’
She downed another glass and offered Ovid a refill, but he waved her away. Actually, he hadn’t touched his first round, though not from any abstemious sentiments. He was simply afraid this widow might do . . . anything.
‘My Lady, I need your help badly. We have little enough evidence now. So I’m hoping, sincerely, that by tracing your husband’s movements in those last days we can uncover something that will solve the case.’
She studied him a long moment, then slowly finished her wine and poured another. Mercifully, she gave up offering the poet any more.
‘They were hectic days for him,’ she began last. ‘Just back from the front. I saw little of him, actually. We had breakfast together Tuesday – he had oysters and boiled asparagus, in case you’re interested. Then he was off to the Forum. He returned so late that night and left so early Wednesday I hardly saw him. We finally had late supper Wednesday night . . .’
She trailed off, staring wistfully.
‘Did he say anything that might give some clue to . . . any trouble he was having?’
She ignored him, evidently basking in her reverie. He tried to imagine what she saw: the great times of a blazing life with a famous man. Or, more likely, some tender moment. Some gesture she loved, some little thing he did that he himself was hardly aware of. The poet waited patiently, then started, gently, to repeat the question, but she cut him off, replying at last: ‘We talked of friends and family. The private conversation of a private man – a contented man and his devoted wife. He explained, as always, what was keeping him so busy, and it was predictable. A crush of ceremonial duties and personal tributes. His triumphal march and the games in his honor were to be on Sunday. Then we were going to his father’s estate at Tivoli for time together. I didn’t mind. He’d been away three months, so I could wait a few more days. The dutiful wife, you know. Of course I didn’t expect him to be murdered . . .’
The muscles in her neck throbbed. She was plainly distraught, and Ovid waited for the tears. But her eyes stayed as cool and dry as a desert in December. He studied her: the graceful arch in her neck, the happy dimples in her cheeks, the slightly pouty lips. And those dark, unfathomable eyes: fiery but without anger, pitiless but not bitter. Cold but not cruel. Not surprisingly, he swiftly decided she was quite wonderful. And, as well the gods knew, Ovid knew women. But more about that later.
Despite protestations of being merely a compliant wife, Camilla had no trouble providing him (albeit after some prodding) a detailed guide to her late husband’s closest friends and associates. And with that Ovid was off to the Forum himself in search of one Gallius Novo, influential senator and, save the Emperor, Marcellus’ most important mentor and benefactor. After just missing him several times, he finally caught up with him in the late afternoon at one of the rowdy new taverns on the fringes of the Campus Martius. Novo was with another friend, A vitus Lollianus.
‘You’ve come to the right place, poet; to know us is to know Marcellus Gaius.’ Novo was a great, red-faced bear of a man who boomed out his reassurance with a robust invitation to join them in a glass of wine. ‘We were with him every minute of those last days,’ Novo declared.
With that Ovid was of a mind to dismiss his claims. But then with a horrible wink and uproarious laughter Novo put in, ‘Well, not every minute,’ so the poet joined them anyway. And though both men were drunk and loud and prone to digress, they seemed to grasp the details of the business in hand and managed on the whole to tell their story with reasonable clarity.
Starting on Tuesday morning, Novo had escorted Marcellus to the Senate, where they listened for hours to syrupy praise from scores of windy senators. It was quite an ordeal, for though the speeches were sincere enough, the sheer extravagance of their praise, not to mention their length and repetitive detail, were based more on politics than merit.
‘. . . the greatest triumph since the inimitable Julius . . .’ ‘. . . a victory worthy of the gods . . .’ ‘. . . your name linked forever to the greatness of Rome . . .’ ‘. . . Marcellus, savior of the empire . . .’
Of course each time Marcellus’ name was mentioned, it was in conjunction with Augustus – as if he owed his very existence, as well as all measure of success, to the Emperor himself. The trick, the hope, was that each man’s words would be repeated for the ruler’s facile ear, thus gaining favor at court. Truth be told, their hopes were futile, for it was an old game by now and a tired one – a game which Augustus, now sixty-eight, had stopped playing long ago.
There followed an award ceremony on the Campus, then a bestowal of Jupiter’s blessing at the temple that ruled his house. That evening came a formal dinner at the palace, then a ribald gathering at one of the more fashionable bath houses – ‘Not for your official report, I trust,’ Novo interjected.
On Wednesday Novo hosted a luncheon for his friend at his Palatine town house, and that evening Lollianus had Marcellus join two dozen key senators and ministers for an informal gathering at his house just across the hill.
‘He left early to join his wife,’ Lollianus said. ‘I know because I rode in the carriage with him, dropped him at home.’
Thursday came another Senate ceremony – the formal announcement of the triumphal march and games on Sunday. Then a variety of informal get-togethers, some of them involving serious discussions of affairs of state. Late that night, as Marcellus was about to go home, a summons arrived from the Imperial palace.
‘What time was this?’
‘A good six hours after dark, about midnight I’d say,’ Novo answered.
‘Who was it from, could you tell?’
‘Well, that was the oddest part. It wasn’t clear. It didn’t seem like it was from Augustus. It certainly didn’t bear his seal; I know that mark, believe me. But he can’t be ruled out, either.’
‘And . . . Marcellus went, I presume.’
Both men squinted at him as if he had to be from someplace very far away to pose such a question.
‘And do you know, did he go home at all that night?’ He somehow hadn’t gotten a clear answer from Camilla, and now both men claimed they simply didn’t know.
By their accounts of the festivities and fun one could easily believe that Rome was an idyllic place of ambitious but fair-minded men who craved wealth and power but nonetheless lived primarily by a code of mutual trust and honor. It was hardly the truth, of course. Double-dealing and betrayal were often as not the order of the day. Even the admirable and popular Marcellus Gaius had known men he distrusted and who in turn conspired against him. It was, it seemed, the way of the world, especially in public life. Even poets knew that. Ovid surely did.
Thus as dusk fell and Gallius Novo in particular became very drunk, he decided to stay with these men, to laugh at their jokes, even to tell a few himself (if he could remember any). And with gentle urging to take them through it all again – through the formal bombast of those three days and the (arguably unmentionable) vulgarities of the nights. To pry loose something that would point to someone that would lead somewhere which would begin somehow to identify . . . who again? Oh, you know who, Ovid told himself with an inner smirk. And then he drank more wine.
I’m an exile’s book. He sent me. I’m tired. I feel trepidation approaching his city – kind reader, lend a hand!
Have no fear, I won’t turn out an embarrassment to you: no instructions on love, not one page, not a syllable . . .
See what I bring: you’ll find nothing here but lamentation . . .
Ovid was vulnerable. Which is to say a case could be made against him. If one wanted to because one was his enemy. Or as a threat because one wanted something from him.
‘When she saw the mark of a body on the flattened grass,’ he had written just the other month,
her leaping heart beat within her fearful bosom. And now midday had drawn short the unsubstantial shadows, and evening and morning were equally removed. Lo, he returns from the woods and scatters spring water on his glowing cheeks. Anxiously, she lies hid; he rests on the wonted grass and cries, ‘Come breeze, come tender Zephyrs!’ When the name’s pleasing error was manifest to the hapless woman, her reason returned and the true color to her face. She rises, and speeding to her lover’s embrace stirred with her hurrying frame the leaves that were in her way.
So went but a tiny portion of a book the poet called The Art of Love, and there were blushing faces and some outraged lips as it began to circulate in the weeks before the murder. It was one thing, some said, to write that earthy tome of years ago. What was it again? Oh, yes, the . . . Metamorphoses. But this . . . This was different. This was so . . . blatant. So . . . well, filthy, they said.
Besides, it wasn’t just what he wrote. It was how he lived – that man and all those . . . women. By the dozens, so the rumors proclaimed. Thus his reputation was unsavory, to say the least – though only among those who didn’t know him. Those who did found him a gentle man – bright, pleasant, interesting. Clear of mind and fair of heart.
All those women (and over the years there had indeed been more than a few) adored him, evidently, because he was that rarity: a man who truly liked them, truly enjoyed their company. Loved having them around, loved listening to them talk. About some kitchen mishap. Or a dazzling new outfit. Or some entrancing new shade of lip rouge or style of silk just off an elephant train from India. All the things that most men found so silly, even loathsome, kept our poet amused by the hour.
Ovid of course had been a favorite of the Emperor’s for many years, and partly because of that he was acquainted with a host of distinguished Roman men. But he frankly found it something of a chore to be in their company for long. Whiling away the hours talking and drinking with them held little appeal. He simply didn’t see the point, unlike the majority of men who apart from sex cannot wait to escape their wives or mistresses in search of masculine companionship.
Thus, Ovid was in the truest sense a ladies’ man. He was also, sad to say, a scandal of what might be called the chronically nascent sort: which is to say, a scandal-in-waiting. It was a lingering sore that had been lanced at long last a few weeks before – and at the worst possible time: just days after the first copies of his ‘love book’ (as everybody was calling it) had gone into circulation.
A woman of especially noble birth and connection had been seen leaving his rooms in the black predawn hours. ‘Relax. Stay awhile. Wait till after breakfast, no one will notice you then,’ he had implored her. But feeling sudden pangs of remorse she felt compelled to return at once to her twit of a husband.
The shock waves were mighty indeed from that transgression. The sniping took an ugly turn, with vicious new remarks reaching his ears daily. He was accosted and threatened by a friend of the cuckold in the highly public confines of a bath house, and, horror of horrors, someone even offered a thinly-veiled innuendo on the Senate floor.
‘Are Rome’s morals not in shambles enough without our most scholarly denizens, ostensibly dedicated to the beautification of the world, sinking to the low behavior of some freedman or ponce?’ inquired one Decius Curio, scion of one of Rome’s most ancient families and another friend of the aggrieved husband.
It was then that Ovid, becoming seriously alarmed, sought the personal protection of Augustus.
‘Fix it all up for you; nothing to worry about. Don’t give it another thought,’ the Emperor had told him in his most reassuring manner (a manner, it should be pointed out, that was known to have sent defeated and trembling generals out of his presence and back into battle aglow with renewed fervor and confidence).
Well, he’d fixed it, all right. The sniping stopped, well enough. But the next thing he knew he was neck-deep in this murder thing. As the ‘detective,’ no less, and with all the pitfalls inevitable to the case. And he honestly didn’t know where it might lead. Or end. As he had recently written (though in another context):
What a fire was in thy maddened heart! Soon, she would come, that Aura, whoe’er she might be, and thine own eyes would see the shame. Now dost thou regret thy coming (for thou could’st not wish to find him guilty). To commend belief there is the name and the place and the informer, and because the mind ever thinks its fears are true.
Indeed, Ovid’s fears – and his belief in them – grew by the hour.
A starless, moonless night. Ovid in his unlit rooms. Alone. He has listened to the stories of the drunken men, the senator Gallius Novo and his friend Avitus Lollianus. They have laughed about the bombast and boredom of the days, and cried over a touching night-time episode or two.
‘No one had any reason to take his life, I’m sure of that much,’ said Gallius Novo, and his friend nodded in solemn agreement.
But as poor Ovid, sitting in the pitch blackness, thought it all through he realized that without even knowing it they had implicated someone. Not once but again and again this man’s name had come up. Not in any terribly dramatic way. But in his glum, standoffish, even scowling manner, the man in question seemingly posed a stark contrast to everyone else who had seen Marcellus Gaius in the final hours of his life.
Unluckily, the man was a formidable figure in his own right, so the question of the moment was what would the poet do about that. He continued to sit and think.
‘Platter and loincloth’ was the ancient rule for searching a man’s home. That is to say, if a man stood under a cloud and you wished to search his quarters, you could enter wearing only a loincloth and carrying only a tray – to ensure that you couldn’t plant evidence in an attempt to impeach him falsely.
It is a harsh rule, Ovid thought glumly, glancing at himself in the mirror. At twenty, possessing a kind of sylphic comeliness, he wouldn’t have minded. Now, at fifty, he cringed a little at his own reflection. He would do it, nonetheless. He had decided: he would search the palace apartments of no less than Tiberius Drusus, son of the Emperor’s wife by a previous marriage. And, by the way, the other heir apparent.
And even though the ancient law technically required Tiberius to admit him, once he agreed to abide by the platter-and-loincloth rule, he felt it best to seek more palpable authority for an action that many would consider thoroughly outlandish.
‘Tiberius!’ Augustus exploded when Ovid saw him shortly past daybreak. ‘You suspect Tiberius?’
‘Well . . .’
‘It makes sense, of course. They were rivals, always have been. Never liked each other. Oil and water, they were. Together, but never mixing. Always disagreeing.’ The king of the world paced off the room, shaking his head, muttering. ‘But . . . murder?’
‘It’s horrible, I know, My Lord. But there are indications . . .’
Augustus whirled on him, his face dangerously set. ‘Indications? For a search? But what about evidence?’ At least that was what Ovid expected him to say – and by rights those should have been just the words he chose. Instead, as if abruptly remembering something important, he eased the look on his face and said: ‘Well, fine, then. I’ll swear you in as delator, investigator, loan you a few guardsmen and you’ll search the place in your skimpies, eh?’
Augustus laughed and Ovid smiled thinly.
‘Oh come now, it’s not that bad, my boy.’
‘Oh no, sir, not at all. I was just . . . admiring your –’
‘Ah, I see. You thought I would have forgotten the ancient rank. But no, it was drilled into me as a boy, that one and all those long-ago titles and forms.’
Augustus stared off a moment, seemingly deep in thought. Quickly enough he was misty-eyed, which was not unusual for him. He cried more easily than most men, often for no apparent reason.
‘You and I seem to have grown old together, my friend,’ he began somewhat suddenly. ‘I mean, I’m facing imminent decrepitude, I know that. But I called you “my boy” a minute ago, and it suddenly dawns on me that you’re no spring chicken yourself anymore, and that it’s been a very long time indeed that we’ve been friends. Which is why I chose you for this nasty little job. Because I know you, know I can trust you. Know you’ll handle it . . . properly.’
Augustus put his hand on Ovid’s not-so-young shoulder and stared into his eyes – and as always the poet found himself enveloped within the magical folds of his mentor’s overpowering charisma. Small comfort though it was, he knew he was hardly alone in his inability to overcome it. For throughout his long life, Augustus had been virtually irresistible to nearly everyone he’d met.
‘I’ll take care of everything, My Lord,’ Ovid heard himself saying. He looked back at Augustus, struggling to meet his gaze on equal terms. But it was no use.
‘I know,’ the king of the world replied in his sweetest voice. And when Ovid finally left him he was both amazed and angry to find his own eyes wet with tears.
‘Tiberius Drusus, I have been empowered as Delator of Rome to search your quarters, and I inform you in the presence of these men’ – he gestured at the five Praetorian guardsmen beside and behind him – ‘that I will do so now and that, in accordance with Roman law, I will carry out the search wearing only a loincloth and carrying only a simple wooden platter.’
Tiberius, a not-widely-liked, frequently grimacing man, often joked about as Rome’s ‘town grouch,’ scowled in his usual sourpuss way. ‘What? You can’t! By what right . . .?!’
Ovid displayed the scroll with Augustus’ seal, and Tiberius shut up at once – didn’t even bother to open it, let alone read it.
His apartments were large and lavish, with their own entrance and atrium, seven bedrooms, a moderate-sized banquet hall and a small private kitchen. Ovid suddenly felt exhausted at just the thought of the hours of work ahead. But, having stripped to the required minimum, he plunged right in, starting logically enough, he thought, with Tiberius’ private rooms – a study and connecting bedroom. They were sizeable and well-furnished, and after nearly two hours of going through several large desks, cabinets and closets, he was about to give up when he noticed a few loose tiles in the bedroom floor.
The tiles formed a mosaic of some idyllic country scene, and the loose fit was in the foot of a sheep farmer guiding his flock. Ovid bent down, and picked at it till it came out. With a little pressure, several more fell away, then several dozen, exposing a hole about a foot in diameter. He called for the guards to come up and to bring Tiberius. When they arrived, he pushed aside the jumble of tiles and pulled out what lay beneath: a tunic, a purple sash and a pair of sandals. Blood, now dried and flaking in some places, covered large parts of all the garments.
‘Step forward please,’ Ovid told Tiberius, who did so at once, his mouth and eyes wide open with surprise.
‘Do these articles of clothing belong to you?’ Ovid inquired, though of course he knew they did. The sash in particular was unmistakably his.
Tiberius looked at them closely, held them in his hands and nodded slowly. ‘But . . . what does this mean?’
‘And this?’ Ovid demanded, holding out his hand to the nearby sergeant of the guard, who in turn pulled out the ornate dagger which Ovid had found beside Marcellus’ body. His energetic inquiries around the palace had already given him the answer to that question as well.
‘Yes, of course,’ Tiberius said. ‘But that was stolen . . .’
‘Oh, that’s bloody likely,’ Ovid said, though his tone lacked the sarcastic bite to make his point convincingly.
‘But it was, I tell you. Stolen over a week ago. Look here, this is outrageous. I know Marcellus and I were hardly the best of friends. Everyone knew that. But if anyone thinks I murdered him . . . Well, that’s nonsense. As for these clothes, I don’t know how they got here. And as for that argument we had, well it was nothing, I can assure you.’
‘What argument?’ Ovid blurted out. Or almost did. Luckily, he kept his head and instead said, ‘Nothing, eh. That’s not the way I heard it.’ And, recalling Novo and Lollianus, thought, Those drunken fools! ‘I heard you almost came to blows,’ Ovid plunged on. ‘And that you had damn good motive for killing him!’
Tiberius paced a small, nervous circle. ‘All right! So we almost did. So I told him to stay the hell away from my wife or I’d . . .’
Ovid struggled to keep too much astonishment from showing on his face. Astonishment that his ploy had worked so well. Astonishment that Tiberius would blather out so much that was so incriminating. (Even though he’d trailed off at the end it was probably enough.) Most of all, astonishment that he thought it was Marcellus that his wife was seeing – Tiberius was known for being remarkably out of touch!
And now came the oddest moment yet in this case. Ovid, though managing to look determined, nonetheless just stood there. The guards were waiting. Tiberius was waiting. His next words were supposed to be: ‘Tiberius Drusus, in the name of the Emperor and on behalf of the people of Rome I hereby place you under arrest for the murder of Marcellus Gaius.’
But for whatever reason the words did not come. Instead, he said: ‘I don’t have to tell you, Tiberius Drusus, that you appear to be incriminated in a serious crime. The investigation is continuing, and I strongly advise you not to leave the palace and to remain available for later questioning.’
With that he scooped up the clothing and motioned for the guards to follow. A twit indeed is what you are, Tiberius, he thought, as he dressed and left those apartments with all possible speed.
Dark nights. Darker days.
Ovid drunk and in hiding. Ovid confused. Giddy with laughter one minute. Weeping miserably the next. Alternately outraged and acquiescent. Determined and defeated. Contumacious and cowardly.
He stayed in the home – the hovel, really – of a prostitute named Livilla whom he’d known for about ten years and who was madly in love with him.
‘Why leave? Stay as long as you like. They’ll never look here.’
Each night, as he cradled her face softly in his hands, she would tell him such things. He never argued the point; it was no use. But he knew how untrue it was, knew they were looking for him even now. Knew that eventually they would dig enough, question enough to learn his whereabouts. And all that would do would add her death to the carnage that was so surely on its way.
Each morning he would try to summon his courage and leave, but instead would reach for the wine and by noon be too drunk to go anywhere. Eventually he would pass out, then awaken at dusk in her arms.
‘You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?’ he said one evening in a wide-eyed, wistful tone.
‘You know that’s true,’ she said, and he replied with a solemn nod. ‘Then why ask?’ she asked him.
‘I don’t know. I’m . . . sorry. A stupid question. A . . . man’s question.’
She laughed. ‘That’s true enough,’ she said, but even then couldn’t help adding: ‘But please . . . there’s no need to apologize.’
On the evening of the third day, after darkness had fallen, when she had stepped out for a few minutes to fetch water, he simply got up and left. Without a word. Without even a note left behind. In his favor, it was an act that was entirely out of character for him, but in this case he simply lacked the energy for the inevitable goodbye scene; he was even afraid if she saw a note that she might chase after him. And he knew that by now he had already stayed too long and that every extra minute she spent in his company increased her danger exponentially.
He made his way through the streets to the palace and bribed a porter at a side gate to let him slip in unseen. He reached his apartments and went straight to bed. He slept the restless, shallow sleep of the doomed.
It came much more softly than he’d supposed it would, and not even all that early. Just a lone secretary knocking gently around breakfast time, wondering if he might join the Emperor for a few minutes.
Ovid shambled the thousand feet or so of hallways that separated his own quarters from Augustus’ lavish domain, still not sure what to expect.
‘Where’ve you been!’ the Emperor growled the instant Ovid walked in, and he knew his trouble was every bit as serious as he’d figured in the first place.
‘Investigating, My Lord,’ he said. His tone was unflinching, even a bit needling, as was his manner. He helped himself to eggs and oysters and stretched out on a sofa.
The Emperor looked up slowly at his favorite poet, his eyes fiery with the ancient anger. With a quick, violent motion he sent his plate crashing across the room in Ovid’s general direction. A guard rushed in but Augustus waved him off.
‘You being smart with me! Hmm, Ooovid.’ He stretched out the first syllable of his name as if he’d just as soon be stretching him out instead. The poet’s jaunty demeanor deserted him outright, and it was all he could do to keep from trembling.
‘Investigating what, may I ask? You have all the evidence. Hell, I hear you practically have his goddamn confession. Enough to boil the son of a bitch in broccoli. And that was three days ago! So what’s going on! Why haven’t you arrested him? Would you mind too terribly explaining that to your decrepit old Emperor. Eh, Ooovid?’
Ovid gulped. ‘My investigation is . . . continuing, Your Majesty. There are certain . . . questions I feel remain unresolved. And frankly, sir, I would have thought you might have appreciated my caution when it came to arresting one so highly-placed and so closely connected to the Imperial house.’
Augustus slowly swung his legs over the side of his own sofa. Then he stood and casually walked – ambled, really – to the food table and made himself a new plate. The one he’d thrown to the floor had long since been cleaned up. Then he eased his way back to the couch, stretched out and resumed eating. All the while Ovid watched him as one might watch a wild cat – a jaguar, say – that seemed ready to spring, either in direct assault or to set some deadly trap.
‘Like what?’ Augustus said over a mouthful of food.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Like what? What questions? What questions, um, “remain unresolved”?’
Though he tried hard not to, Ovid gulped again. ‘Well . . . uh, for one thing I felt Tiberius’ surprise at the discovery of the bloody clothes in his bedroom might be sincere. And notice, please, I said might. For another, I was able to check in a roundabout way, admittedly not a hundred per cent reliable – but it appears his claim that the dagger was stolen several days before the murder might be valid.’
Augustus, still eating, nodded with seeming interest at these disclosures. ‘Anything else?’
Ovid shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, what did you . . .?’
Augustus pointed at his mouth and shook his head apologetically. Then he swallowed, cleared his throat and said, ‘Anything else?’
‘Uh, no. No, My Lord. That’s all for now.’
The Emperor smiled, put his plate aside, stood, walked over to where Ovid was stretched out and sat down beside him. The poet who had just spooned a heaping bite of eggs into his mouth swallowed as best he could and stared at Augustus in rapt attention.
‘Listen, I understand now. You’re intimidated by my family, afraid of being caught in the middle of some Imperial row. But don’t worry about that. I’m the only one in my family that counts. The only one that matters. It’s been that way nearly forty years now, and will be a good while longer, I suspect. So I want you to grab a few of those guards outside, go over to Tiberius’ apartments and arrest him.
‘No, no,’ he said, gently pulling Ovid’s plate away as he tried to spoon another nervous bite. ‘Eat later. Arrest him now.’
Ovid smiled obligingly as he always did when Augustus asked him for something, then got to his feet and made his way to the door. He was halfway through it and almost out when, as if literally stuck, he could go no farther. In a way he wanted to. Very much. And he made another halfhearted try. But it was no use. It was the same trouble he’d had the other day with Tiberius when the words of arrest just wouldn’t come.
Slowly, poor Ovid turned around and walked a few reluctant steps back into the private quarters of the king of the world.
‘My Lord –’ He wanted to say so many things now, wanted to pay tribute, really. Tell him what a great friend he’d been and what a great man he was. The greatest in all history. He wanted to say this because he believed it – he’d feared him, yes, but loved him too. And understood the debt he owed him. It was the reason he’d pursued the charade, gone on with his ‘investigation’ as if it were real, despite everything that had happened. Despite everything else he had to tell him; the words that even now were stuck in his throat. And in his heart.
‘My Lord, I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ Ovid said. ‘I can’t arrest Tiberius. Because I know he didn’t do it. Because I know who did.’
Augustus stood and walked toward him and their eyes met. And for once Ovid felt on equal terms. Or even as if he might have a slight advantage. Should he tell the truth, or bluff? Ovid did not avert his eyes as he spoke:
‘My Lord, I was . . . in the next room. I heard everything. And saw . . . enough. More than enough. You’re . . . not used to not getting your own way, Your Majesty. You wanted Marcellus as a lover, but he wouldn’t have it. And after a long, terrible argument, your rage –’
Ovid stopped and shook his head. He was crying now at the thought of what had happened.
‘I’ve never seen anyone so . . . angry. You . . . were like a mad dog, sir, and I think your rage overcame you. And you pulled out a knife and started slashing with it. And then you stabbed him. And then you killed him.’
For one brief moment, Augustus’ kingly mask deserted him and his old friend could glimpse the confused and tormented man who had committed a senseless murder. And then just like that it was over, the mask was back and Ovid once again was facing the man who ruled the world.
‘I’ll have to send you away, of course,’ Augustus said with stunning matter-of-factness.
Ovid flinched. He hadn’t expected that. To be executed, yes. Or even murdered on the spot. But exile? He wasn’t sure that was better. In fact, after a minute or so he was certain it wasn’t.
Augustus ordered him placed in house arrest pending his departure. As the guards escorted him back to his rooms he had a realization that nearly knocked him down:
He’d been ready to overlook that Augustus was the murderer! And why not? He’d known of his murders in the past. But only now did he understand what had finally turned him against his mentor – what had really horrified him at last: that Augustus would actually plant the evidence – the dagger, the bloody clothes – to convict an innocent man. Had Ovid been willing to go along with the ruse? Or had he expected some miracle to come along and save Tiberius from the executioner – and himself from a looming fate of doom and dishonor? A lightheadedness almost overcame him as the guards helped him to his rooms. He had no answers. He never would, save in the end he had done the right thing. For the sake of justice – and himself.
The homicide investigation was quietly dropped, and the murder of Marcellus Gaius remained unsolved. Ovid left Rome ten days later for his assigned destination, a desolate place called Tomis at the mouth of the River Danube on the Black Sea, where he would spend the final eleven years of his life. The official reason for his banishment was the supposed pornographic nature of his poems.
Though his subject matter changed, he never stopped writing poetry, never stopped bombarding official Rome with anguished pleadings to come home. When Augustus died seven years later, he briefly had hopes. But his successor, Tiberius, also refused to bring him back. Evidently, he’d found out who his wife had really been romancing in those long-ago glory days: when a sophisticate named Publius Ovidius Naso ruled Roman society with a gentle wit and his beautiful way with words.
If it’s seemly to say so, my talent was distinguished, and among all that competition I was fit to be read. So, Malice, sheathe your bloody claws, spare this poor exile, don’t scatter my ashes after death!
I have lost all: only bare life remains to quicken the awareness and substance of my pain.
What pleasure do you get from stabbing this dead body?
There is no space in me now for another wound.
[Author’s Note: This story was inspired by Augustus’ true-life exile of Ovid in AD 8. The real reason for the banishment has been lost to history.]
* 31 BC by our calendar, 719 according to the old Romans (counting from the founding of ancient Rome).