“Tell me, was your master abusive towards his slaves and wife?” Varro asked, already knowing the answer to his question.
Fabullus nodded his head in reply, appearing pained - perhaps reliving an incident of his master punishing him or the mistress of the house. Corinna had motive too, even more motive than her father. Varro also thought how Fabullus, or another long-suffering slave, could easily be put on the suspect list. It was not uncommon in Rome for a slave to turn on a cruel master out of revenge, or to defend himself. Manius had spoken of many a fellow gladiator who had chosen to fight in the arena to avoid a death sentence, in punishment for killing his employer. Could the whey-faced slave in front of him be the murderer? Again, annoyingly, Varro had more questions than answers.
“Thank you for your time and candour Fabullus. Is there anything you would like to add?”
“Yes, my master may have been cruel, but my mistress is kind. Although she may have had reason to do him harm, she did not kill him. She is an innocent woman.”
Another potential oxymoron. Is he trying to exonerate his mistress because she is guiltless, or protect her because she’s guilty?
“I will heed your words… I would like to now look around the house. I imagine you have duties to attend to, Fabullus, so I will be fine to do so unaccompanied.”
Manius cleared away his weapons and armour - the tools of his trade - having finished sharpening and oiling them. Again, he became distracted, not quite knowing what to do with himself. He bit his nails and failed to notice Viola, nuzzling his shins. She was perhaps keen to go out in the garden or, more likely, craved a treat. The knee-high mongrel could eat like a horse. Manius smoothed down his hair and removed a couple of pieces of fluff from his tunic. He was due to meet his new client soon. The tutor needed to be presentable, even more than he needed to be skilled in swordsmanship.
Yet Manius wasn’t anxious due to his forthcoming appointment as a tutor. He was used to taking on new business. Rather he was on edge because he was about to take on his first assignment for Agrippa, as his agent. The consul summoned Manius to his house several months ago. Agrippa had greeted him in a familiar and friendly manner, which immediately made the Briton wary.
“I want to grant you an opportunity, Manius,” the consul remarked, after having a slave re-fill his guest’s cup. “I have a business proposition for you. How would you like to be employed as a tutor, in swordsmanship, by Rome’s elite? The sons of senators, plutocrats and aristocrats need instruction, whether they will be serving in the army or not. You will not run short of clients, I can assure you. Partly because many of the chinless wonders will prove so inept, your tenure of employment will likely be long-term. I would be happy to invest in you and your burgeoning brand, but the beauty of the business is that it is low-cost. I cannot imagine that you wish to work as Rufus’ bodyguard forever, although I appreciate that he may still have need of you from time to time due to his work for me… But this is Rome, Manius. One does not get something for nothing. In return for my support I would ask you to take on a client or two for my benefit, or rather for the good of Rome… You will eventually become part of the furniture in a household. One of your greatest virtues, Manius, is that people underestimate you. Your brief will just be to keep your eyes and ears open and collect information, intelligence. I will need you to report on who visits the house, be they a politician or mistress. It’s in our nature to be indiscreet and gossip after a measure of wine… The peace and prosperity of Rome must be maintained through eternal vigilance. You duly helped foil Lucius Scaurus’ attempted coup last year. As many lives were lost on that day, you helped save thousands. Because you - and Rufus - kept your ears and eyes open… Rome and Caesar will always have their enemies, who operate in the shadows. It’s why we must operate in the shadows too… I first thought that you may be too honourable, or honest, to be an effective agent. But it is because you are honourable that you will work to protect Rome from its enemies inside its gates. It’s because you have an honest and earnest face that people will trust you. But I have confidence that you will be able to play a part. You were once a performer, as a gladiator, were you not? Rome needs good men, Manius. You have a wife. You will soon have children, I warrant. Help me create a future for your children, one where they will be free from privation or civil war.”
The Briton ended the meeting by agreeing to Agrippa’s proposal. He felt he had little choice. Few people could say no to the consul. And no one could say no to Caesar. The spymaster argued that it might prove the case that he would have no need to call upon the fencing teacher. But both men knew that was a lie.
A few days ago, Agrippa had summoned his agent. The consul had arranged, through an intermediary, for Manius to take on a new student. The boy’s father had been making a name for himself. It was time for his first assignment.
“Just note who he meets with and, if possible, find out what is being said. I have heard rumours of a planned political rally, which means there could be a riot. People may get injured or killed. Unless we prevent it, by priming the Praetorian Guard to dispel the mob before it can cause harm… He is a danger to Rome. You may not think it now, but if he remains unchecked then he could become another Catiline. Anyone who exclaims, “Power to the people,” is usually pursuing power for his own ends… If you gain his son’s trust, you may gain the trust of his father. Keep note of who he meets. I need to know his prospective allies, in and out of the Senate House. He may have a weakness for women or wine, or something else. Any intelligence which could provide a chink in his armour may prove invaluable… I must ask you to keep your assignment secret, from your wife and Rufus… Secrecy often equates to survival in your new trade.”
Manius sighed, as though he had the weight the world on his shoulders. For once he didn’t quite know whether he was acting honourably or dishonourably. He couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable lying to Camilla, although that could prove the least of his problems. After the thick, rich sigh, however, Manius smiled, as he noticed Viola at his feet. Wagging her tail, without a care in the world. She jumped up and placed her front paws on his knees and licked his left hand as his right stroked her behind the ear. The Briton had found the dog on the streets and taken her in. Saving her. Had Agrippa taken him in, with an eye to saving him? Manius wasn’t so sure. He recalled a conversation he recently had with Varro, as the two men shared a jug of wine and sat in his garden, taking shelter beneath an awning during a heavy storm. The rain stung like needles. Forked lightning stabbed repeatedly upon the horizon, like a trident. The thunder claps reverberated through the air, as if Jupiter himself was stamping upon the drear clouds above. Viola scampered inside and took sanctuary beneath his bed.
“My career as a spy may not even last as long, or be as unsuccessful, as that of a poet, my friend. I’m losing myself or becoming bored. The lines are blurring between who I am and the roles I play. Even the greatest actors need to spend time offstage… I tell myself that I am being honourable, working to protect Rome, but it’s all such a grubby business. I feel like a whore - and Agrippa is my bawd. I spend half my time lying and exploiting people. I have little doubt that the intelligence I’ve passed on has caused women to be widowed and children to be orphaned. I all but hammered the nails into the crosses, for the so-called enemies of the state who have been crucified. I have told myself that the means justify the ends. But what justifies the ends? A small nod of gratitude from Caesar, a man who pretends he is a demi-god? I have to laugh, otherwise I’d cry… And what of my fellow agents? Some are zealots for a cause, whilst others are as mercenary as politicians. Some will cannily just tell their paymasters what they want to hear, or pedal lies instead of truth - if lies pay more. Agents will bribe, blackmail and extort like common criminals. Yet because they are somehow working for a great cause they are exonerated - and venerated… Any relationship I now have will be founded on a lie, because I will be unable to tell them what I do. Who I am. Deception becomes second nature, to the point where you n
o longer realise you are fooling yourself. Though perhaps that is the lot of everyone, not just spies… Although I informed Lucilla about my work. I told her enough lies whilst we were married. I didn’t want to tell her another one. I do not want her thinking less of me, even if I think less of myself…”
Varro also mentioned periods when he found it difficult to sleep, since he had become an agent. Manius had seldom slept himself over the past few days. When he woke, he would remain dead still however, since he did not want to wake his wife. He had welcomed the task of keeping watch over his friend, during his seduction of Cornelia. It had helped take his mind off his own imminent assignment.
Camilla walked in the room. Manius smiled, not knowing how forced or genuine his expression was. Somehow, he felt that his “honest face” wasn’t so honest anymore. Yet he loved his wife. That much, which was almost everything, was true.
Camilla wore an apron, dusted with various ingredients from baking a fresh batch of honey cakes. The pendant around her neck glistened. Her eyes gleamed too, with intelligence and fondness. He never tired of kissing her tender lips. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, nestle her head in his chest, but she didn’t want to stain his tunic. She wanted to make love to him, both as a thing in itself and because she desperately wanted a child. But there was no time.
“Are you feeling better? You seemed distracted earlier,” Camilla remarked, trying to fend Violet off from licking the hem of her apron. The well-read young woman thought earlier how her husband possessed the build of Ajax, the courage of Hector and the faithfulness of Odysseus. He would never cheat on her. He would never lie.
“I’m fine,” Manius replied, lying.
Varro went through the house, from top to bottom, in more than just a cursory manner. The agent searched through every potential hiding place in hope of finding the dagger. It would save Varro an uncommon amount of time and energy if the knife was still in the house. He could be in Arretium by the following evening. Free. At peace. Or as much as at peace as he could be, knowing that Lucilla had fallen under the spell of Pulcher.
Varro was decidedly unimpressed by the garish décor of the property. He could hear the waspish voice of Lucilla inside his head, commenting on some of the modern pieces of art scattered throughout the house:
He has more money than sense, or taste… The resale values would have bankrupted him, as Herennius would have had to pay people to take the vulgar pieces away.
Varro was dogged in his search, to the point of picking open the lock on Corinna’s large jewellery box with a hairpin he found in her room. Unfortunately, he did not find the dagger, but the spy did finally discover a something of interest. Love letters. The notes heaved with affection, passion and eroticism. Varro had composed similar missives in his youth, either to get into the heart or bedchamber of his mistresses. It seemed that Corinna was conducting an affair. The letters made no mention of her husband however - or a plot to do away with him. Varro couldn’t help but admire certain turns of phrase in the notes. The author was witty, well-read and lusty. And anonymous, as he hadn’t inserted his name in the correspondence. Although at the bottom of the first note he had signed off with the letter “O”. It suddenly struck Varro that Licinius Omerus Pulcher could be the mysterious author and lover. The spy certainly owned the motive and skills to seduce the young wife. Perhaps his goal was to encourage her to steal the dagger for him. Or had Pulcher manipulated Corinna to such an extent that she had murdered Herennius, in order to be with her lover? There was a part of Varro which craved for the rival agent to be responsible for the crime. And he craved to provide evidence of the fact to duly condemn him. But just because Varro wanted something to be true, it didn’t infer that it was true.
He continued his search. When Varro came to the wine cellar, he again found something which piqued his interest. At the far wall he noticed a design of wine rack which he owned too. The spy licked his lips and raised his hopes once more as he approached the custom-made piece of furniture. Instead of reaching for one of the vintages however Varro reached around the wine rack, unhooked a couple of catches and carefully swung open the item like a door. Behind the rack in his own cellar Varro kept a number of vintages which he didn’t wish guests to see and sample. Could Herennius have kept valuables or private papers in the alcove behind this piece of furniture? Sweat glazed his palms and the back of his neck tingled. Varro suddenly experienced a premonition that he was about to find the dagger. Were the gods being kind to him, for once? He pictured the gold blade in his mind’s eye, gleaming in the darkness. But in reality, there was nothing to be found, except an empty wooden shelf. Varro emitted a small sigh and muttered an obscenity beneath his breath for being so optimistic. Foolish.
Varro was tempted to wait for the lady of the house to confront her about her affair. Uncovering one secret could lead him to uncover another. But Varro was tired, weary - as though the strigil of life had scraped away at him too much. He wanted to process things and discuss the day’s events with Manius. He resolved to meet his friend later that night, for a drink in the Subura. As much as Varro wanted to collect his thoughts, he also wanted to forget his troubles, wash the image of Lucilla and Pulcher out of his mind with a jug of wine. Or two.
7.
Such was his absorption in Varro’s account of the day’s events that Manius barely touched his drink. The two men sat at their usual table in the tavern, The Golden Lion. Varro did his best not to miss anything of importance out:
“Agrippa is keen to succeed, where Maecenas failed, and retrieve the dagger for Caesar. Perhaps, like Herennius, he wants to hang the trophy on his wall. If I had to place a wager on who the culprit was the smart money would be on Lentulus Nerva at present. He all but vowed to kill him on the night of the party. His wife would of course supply him with an alibi, as he went back to the house after everyone else departed. Herennius would have invited him in and would have poured out a cup of wine and ate an olive, as the advocate drew a knife and stabbed him in the chest. Lentulus then stole the dagger and a few other valuables to make it look like a robbery. And when he discovered that Sestius would inherit Herennius’ wealth he murdered him also, so the estate would pass to his daughter. Or, more realistically, he could have paid an assassin to kill Sestius. Nerva certainly possesses the necessary contacts with the criminal underworld. One of the first things an investigator should ask himself is, who benefits? The answer is Lentulus… But has not Corinna benefited too? Women break hearts every day. They are surely not beyond skewering them with a blade too, if suitably provoked… Or could “Omerus” be our “O” - and have seduced Corinna into murdering her husband and giving him the dagger? But then that doesn’t explain Sestius’ death… Lucilla has also provided Maecenas’ attack dog, or lap-dog, with an alibi… In conclusion, I do not know what to think. If the height of intelligence is Socratic ignorance, then I feel like the wisest man in the empire… I will talk to Lucilla tomorrow. She doesn’t seem to be acting like the wisest woman in the empire at the moment, given her involvement with Pulcher.”
“Do not look to judge her too harshly, partly because that may be what Pulcher wants. Let him be the one to fall on his sword, not you,” Manius advised his friend, imagining the slight Varro was suffering. Lucilla was breaking his heart, again - and seemingly stabbing him in the back by courting the rival agent. “Remember that you are her friend now, rather than her husband. You will be unable to lay down the law. Hear what she has to say. It may be the case that Pulcher is using Lucilla to get to you, or someone else. You need to keep the door open with Lucilla. If nothing else, you may need to use her to spy on Pulcher… There’s no need to despair.”
“As ever, you are right. Annoyingly. There are worse fates I could be enduring, than getting drunk with an old friend. I have reasons to be cheerful, do I not? There are fewer maggots in the bread than usual. I actually found a sizeable piece of meat in the stew tonight and I’m not wincing or retching from the wine,” Varro drily remarked, as he
cast an eye around the tavern.
It was late, but early in the evening for The Golden Lion. Old and fresh cobwebs hung down from the lamps on the creaking ceiling. An ashen-faced sot coughed-up blood in one corner, before amorously staring at a whore on the first floor. She returned his gaze. Varro fancied that her make-up had been slapped on by a heavy-handed house painter rather than a fine portrait artist. The prostitute was past her prime. But aren’t we all? The drunk wiped the blood away from his mouth with a phlegm-stained rag. The pair gave each other a nod and the old man shuffled upstairs, his bones creaking more than the bannister. Words and coins were exchanged, and they disappeared into a backroom. Lust, rather than love, was in the air as a virginal student, his eyes blood-shot with desire and wine, was led away by Nefertari, a beguiling Egyptian beauty the landlord, Bassos, had imported into the tavern a year ago.
A few patrons began to rest their weary, heady heads in their arms and fell asleep on the tables, whilst others laughed and talked animatedly, putting the world to rights. People were drinking their troubles away, with their love of drink perhaps being the chief cause of their troubles.
A blanket of damp sawdust covered the uneven floor. A sword hung on the wall, which the landlord boasted - lied - had once belonged to Julius Caesar. Smoke poured out of the kitchen. The smell of watery stew, body odour and pungent acetum filled his nostrils. Motes of dusts - and flies - swirled about in the air.
Varro pricked his ears up on hearing dice rattling across a table. A trio of customers sat in the corner. It was a familiar sight. One chewed his nails and glanced at his dwindling pile of coins in front of him. Another tapped his foot and mouthed a prayer. And another kissed his dice and threw. Varro used to find the sound even more welcoming than the pouring of wine, sizzling meat and the rustling of silk. There was a time when the poet was more addicted to gambling than he was women. Gambling was a remedy for the malady of boredom. He loved winning and equally, or more so, Varro loved defeating his opponents. Gambling made him feel alive, whether it was dice, wagering on a chariot race or even betting on the toss of the coin. The nobleman could be more stoical about his losses than most. Thankfully the bets Fronto made, in terms of investments, compensated for any losing streaks. If fortune was indifferent to him, he could afford to be indifferent to it. Everything was meat to place a wager on. Perhaps his life as a spy had helped replace the rush and risk he gleaned from gambling, to wean him off his addiction. Gambling had certainly proved as dangerous as espionage at times. He had lost more friends than he had made over games of dice. Not everyone took to losing with good grace and, on more than one occasion, Manius had needed to escort Varro from the table.
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