“To keep digging, even if I start digging a hole for myself. I will interview Lentulus tomorrow. I will also grab the bull by the horns and visit Lucilla in the morning,” Varro remarked, although he planned not to leave too early. He wanted it to be late enough for Pulcher to have departed, should he have spent the evening with her.
He can crawl into his own bed, or someone else’s. Maecenas’, if the rumours are to be believed.
“You must be patient with Lucilla. She will be innocent of any wrongdoing. You must tread carefully with Lentulus Nerva too. The advocate is a powerful man, with even more powerful friends, both amongst the Senate House and criminal fraternity in Rome. Agrippa may be able to afford to make an enemy of Lentulus, but you can’t. Choose your words wisely when speaking to him, as if you were selecting the right word for each line in a poem. Ask rather than accuse. Even if you suspect Lentulus is guilty, the advocate will have carefully covered his tracks. Your case will need to have stronger foundations than the Servian wall. I have seen Lentulus perform at trial. He puts on quite a show. I have seen him tie defendants up in Gordian knots. I will do some digging myself. I will visit your father’s old advocate, Gabinius, and see what he has to say about his counterpart.”
The cup weighed heavy in his leaden arm, but Varro nevertheless raised it in gratitude.
“Thanks. I would be lost without you.”
“Worse. You would be bankrupt without me. Which is a fate worse than death in Rome,” Fronto playfully remarked.
“Or, in the case of Lentulus, bankruptcy could be a crime more heinous than murder,” Varro replied, less playfully.
Moonlight, as gentle as a whisper, poured through the open shutters of the room. The sheets were half on the bed, half on the floor, as Manius and Camilla lay next to one another. The only thing between their warm bodies was a glistening film of sweat. His bulging arms cradled her. Her back was pressed up against his large chest. His chin rested on her shoulder, as he breathed in the scent of her hair and silken skin.
Their hearts beat in time and they breathed in unison, coming down from the high of their lovemaking. Camilla closed her eyes and wore a satisfied, dreamy smile, on her comely face as she let out a brief hum of pleasure. Although she had noticed how tired he was after coming home from the tavern she wanted him. And wanted a baby. She kissed him hungrily, after Viola had greeted him, and they made love. Passionately. Meaningfully. Breathlessly.
“How was your day?” she asked, having not given them the chance to make small talk earlier.
“It ended well, when I came home,” Manius answered, planting a kiss on his wife’s neck and caressing her sun burnished thigh.
“How was Rufus? I am beginning to worry about him.”
“That worry may last a lifetime. He was both distracted and focussed tonight. I used to think that his work for Agrippa was good for him. It gave him some purpose - and helped him to fend off boredom, and certain vices. His work added something to his life. But now I fear his work may be diminishing him. Each assignment eats away at his soul, like a bird pecking away at a piece of bread. And he has just taken on a mission for the wrong and right reason. Lucilla.”
“Should I worry about Lucilla too then?” Camilla replied, her body tensing in anxiety. Goosebumps appeared on her forearms, borne not from the draught coming through the window. She had grown to like Varro’s former wife over the past year, albeit she was initially intimidated by her beauty and intelligence. Lucilla could match Varro’s wit and seemed as accomplished as any man, when discussing politics, literature – and even financial matters!
“No, I believe she will be fine… Rufus probably loves her more now than when he was married to her. He realises what he lost.”
“It seems Rufus had quite an eventful day. But what about this evening? Did you have a quiet night?”
“Nothing happened of note,” he replied, casually, before affecting a yawn. Yet his body tensed, and Camilla could feel his pulse quicken. She said nothing, telling herself it was nothing. Manius told himself he was lying to his wife for her own good. Ignorance was bliss. She would only overly fret if she knew about the altercation this evening. It was also best she didn’t know how Agrippa was employing him to spy on Carbo. Should the demagogue and his followers uncover the truth then the agent - and his wife - could be in danger.
Manius recalled the afternoon of his wedding. He had told his friend that he “didn’t feel married”. Varro told him not to worry: “You will know soon enough when you will feel married, like other people. It will be when you start lying to your wife and keeping secrets from her.”
Had Varro been, annoyingly, right again? Manius shifted uncomfortably in his bed and slept fitfully that evening, like a loving husband who had been unfaithful to his wife for the first time.
9.
The streets dripped with a thick, sticky heat and screeching light.
Varro walked across the Palatine towards Lucilla’s home as if he were wading through glutinous mud. He was in no rush to confront his former wife. His head was bowed down in thought, or grief. He prepared his lines and the wording of his questions. He resolved to treat her politely, professionally, even if he had to do so through gritted teeth. She was a witness and interviewee, that was all. Not his first wife. Not the woman he loved.
A splash of colour in the corner of his eye caught his attention. The smell of perfume also sliced through the odorous air to prickle his nostrils. A mother and daughter, dressed in their finest garments and jewellery, were about to enter a temple. A brace of slaves trailed behind them, carrying the offering they were about to make. Both mother and daughter were tantalisingly attractive, sparkling. Varro feared that some onlookers might suffer a crick in their neck, as they quickly turned their heads to catch a better view. Varro also wryly smiled as he remembered a similar looking mother and daughter, who he had courted and seduced - at the same time - several years ago. He even dedicated the same love poem to them both, but just changed the name in the first line. When they discovered his infidelity, which he knew they would eventually, their outrage was succeeded by declarations of devotion. Did they love him, or did they just want to win him like a prize and defeat their rival? The mother and daughter ended up despising one another, more than they did him. Amusement was succeeded by shame. The wry smile fell from his face, like an axeman felling an old, diseased tree.
Varro wondered what each woman might pray for in the temple. The mother might pray to Venus, for a young lover to cross her path. Or she may make an offering to Nemesis, for her husband’s mistress to catch a pox. The daughter would doubtless be praying for a suitor. A rich, faithful, virile and virtuous husband. But not even the gods could provide such a man who possessed all those traits, Varro conjectured. Sunlight glinted off their necklaces, brooches and colourfully dyed silk dresses. They were hopeful perhaps of attracting the gods’ attention, as they were the men in the marketplace. Yet, Varro mused, they were surely more likely to provoke pity from the gods if they dressed humbly.
And what would I pray for, if I entered a temple again?
Varro certainly wouldn’t offer up a prayer for Caesar, as if he were a god himself. Caesar possessed half the world. He didn’t need anyone wishing him well. Yet it seemed he needed Herennius’ dagger - and may even be willing to give up half the world to secure it. Should he pray for the world as a whole? But Varro knew too well how the world - or Man – didn’t deserve his blessing. Prayers were but empty words, as meaningful as a politician’s promise or harlot’s wedding vow. The mother and daughter would light some incense and their sense of the sacred and virtuous would last no longer than it took for the incense to burn away. The gods wouldn’t answer their prayers. But at least they could be considered fair and just, as they would turn a deaf ear to all.
Varro let out a strong yawn, or feeble roar, as he came to Lucilla’s house and knocked on the oak door. He flinched, twice, with each knock - from the sound and his hangover. Varro flinched slightly again
upon being greeted by the grim expression he received from Diana, Lucilla’s knuckle-hard maid. As usual Diana didn’t pretend to be pleased to see her mistress’ former husband. The maid had served under Lucilla whilst she was married to the dissolute nobleman. Diana had been the one to try and comfort her mistress late at night, when her husband hadn’t come home again. Or when he came home drunk, smelling of perfume. Diana would never be able to forgive Varro for his hurtful behaviour, during his marriage, towards Lucilla. But should she have known how Varro couldn’t forgive himself either, she may have forgiven him a little.
Her face was wrinkled, like a prune. Her hair was as dry as straw, her tunic as grey as her complexion. Her shins were as veiny as marble and her spindly hands resembled talons. Varro sometimes pictured the maid spitting in his food, before she brought it out to him in the garden. Or clawing at his portrait when Lucilla came to visit him.
“Good morning Diana. You are looking well,” Varro remarked, greeting her like a dear friend, amusing himself rather than her.
The sniff cum grunt which the old woman issued in reply expressed a thousand words. Few, if any out of the thousand, were cordial, however. She still thought him as frivolous as he was selfish. A spoiled aristocrat, who was nowhere near as charming as he thought he was.
The maid led Varro through the house, as though she were a drill master marching an errant legionary out towards a punishment square. He noticed, as he came to the garden, how Lucilla had planted the same flowers around her lawn as could be found at his villa in Arretium. Lucilla put down the book she was reading and rose to her feet, to greet her guest.
Out of interest, rather than due to his brief as a spy, he caught a glimpse of what she was reading. On the Nature of the Gods. He recalled the moment, many years ago, when the poet realised that she could quote more of Cicero than him. It was another one of those moments when Varro was compelled to conclude that he loved the vibrant young woman lying in bed next to him. She was different, special. They would often ask each other what they were reading, back when they were courting. Lucilla devoured books, even more than him - and she fed his mind and soul. He became a better poet, inspired by her fine feelings and recommended reading. Varro remembered how, when they were first married, he would write couplets of love poetry on her stomach and kiss her naval when finished. Lucilla would crane her head to read the lines and laugh or beam, joyously. He thought such joy might last forever. Unlike when he had courted other women, Varro always cited the quote if he borrowed one from other poets. Not only would Lucilla be familiar with the work but, more so, he didn’t want to deceive her. But that was all in the past. He had more chance of bottling his own shadow than re-capturing those days again now.
Lucilla was still achingly beautiful, however. That much hadn’t changed. Her glossy black hair hung down her shoulders. A dusting of make-up coloured her smooth, porcelain cheeks. She always possessed the right expression for the right moment - but, unlike several of his former lovers, Lucilla was no actress. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch her - or articulate his feelings. But he knew if he tried, he might, like Icarus, fly too close to the sun and damn himself. For better, or worse, marriage had taught Varro that it was best to leave some things unsaid.
The garden was awash with a festival of colour, textures and floral fragrances. Clouds marked the blue sky above, like wisps of foam floating across a vast ocean. A couple of pink finches chirped in a wicker cage. Varro couldn’t quite tell if they were serenading one another or bickering.
The nobleman offered up not the best half-smile he had ever presented to the world, but it wasn’t his worst either. It seemed to take all his strength however to raise one corner of his mouth. He willed himself to try and breathe normally, as much as Lucilla nearly took his breath away. She was wearing one of his favourite dresses. She had a glow about her. Varro told himself it was due to the mellow sunshine and her inner spark, rather than Pulcher.
Her bright, kind eyes probed his aspect, as if searching his soul. Varro averted his gaze. Her smile was fuller than his, exuding beauty and concern. She noted the rings around his eyes due to sleepless, or drunken, nights. He could still affect a boyish twinkle, but it was just an affectation. His heart was old, weary. There had been too many women. Too many jugs of wine. Too many unfinished poems. No man was an island, as much as her former husband sometimes attempted to dispel the theory. The picture he presented to the world was an attractive façade. He revered and reviled his father. Only she knew how lonely, cut-off he could be when pretending to be the life and soul of a party. When she first met Varro, she mentioned how different he was to the rest of his set.
“By different, do you mean better?” Varro asked, as he gestured to a slave to fill Lucilla’s cup.
“No, by different I mean sadder.”
Perhaps, in an attempt to make himself feel less lonely, Varro eventually caused Lucilla to be sad. He was walking proof of his own philosophical outlook, that Man is a selfish and faithless creature. They were happily married, for a while. Life - and the deaths of their unborn children - got in the way of marital bliss. Where he once believed that marriage had delivered him, from a solitary and depraved existence, Varro determined that divorce would save him - and more so her.
A long winter eventually thawed. Friendship blossomed between them. They were now older - and perhaps even wiser. Lucilla still knew and cared for Varro like no one else. When she had agreed to accompany him to Arretium a year ago Lucilla thought that something, other than friendship, might flourish between them. On more than one occasion she woke in the night, walked along the hallway and stood by his door, ready to knock. But she knew he would, sooner or later, hurt her again. He would prove as constant as Cressida. It was preferable that they remained good friends. Or perhaps they were even best friends, Lucilla considered. Divorce hadn’t quite wholly dissolved their bond.
Had he called upon her as Marcus Agrippa’s agent, rather than as a friend? It was likely that Varro knew about Licinius - and she had been the cause of sleepless, drunken nights.
“I thought you might cross my threshold today,” she remarked.
Varro had wondered, since yesterday, how much she knew. And how much she thought he knew.
“There are times when people have little need of an augur to predict what will occur.”
“I can predict that I will not allow any augur to cross my threshold in the near future, given that one spilled bird entrails over my Persian rug last year. Would you like some refreshments? Water or wine?”
“Some wine, please.”
“Wonders will never cease,” Diana murmured, albeit loud enough for Varro to hear, as she rolled her eyes and left, to fetch a jug. She would further dilute the vintage, just to vex her mistress’ guest.
“Are you visiting at the request of Marcus Agrippa? Or have you come for yourself?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
Tension entwined itself, like briars, around their playful tone. Lucilla’s smile tightened, like a garotte. Varro’s nostrils subtly flared. They were akin to two warriors, each waiting for the other to draw his sword. Or two gamblers, each waiting for their moment to roll the dice. Not knowing the outcome.
“I am not here for myself,” Varro replied, lying. “Agrippa asked me to come. I have a letter from Caesar himself, granting me the authority to investigate Herennius’ murder. I can show you the document, should you wish.”
“No, I believe you Rufus. I will also be honest with you and answer any questions - and not just because Caesar is asking me to cooperate.”
As much as Lucilla’s tone was placating, Varro didn’t feel placated.
“An honest woman in Rome. Wonders will never cease.”
“I would prefer it if we did not argue as much as Herennius and Lentulus, on the night of the murder. I would like us to remain friends,” Lucilla said, her voice pleading as much as placating now.
“You have another friend to call upon
now, do you not?”
Varro briefly creased his face in resentment and sneered. He noticed the new earrings Lucilla was wearing and suspected they were a gift from Pulcher. His stomach knotted. Although unmarried, Varro felt as cuckolded as Flavius Hispo.
“Is this Agrippa, or you, asking?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. I am grateful for your concern, but as I told Marcus I am confident I will be safe from any killer.”
“It’s not the killer I’m worried about, but rather the man who invited you to the party as his guest.”
“Even an augur could have predicted you would say that.”
Varro seldom raised his voice or lost his composure, partly due to his ability not to care enough about anything, but his innards struggled to keep his temper in check, as if he were a man attempting to grasp an eel, swimming in a barrel of oil.
“I have never thought to offer you any advice as to who you should court before, Lucilla, which is why I hope that you will take note of me now and think me sincere. Licinius is wrong for you,” Varro exclaimed, trying to imbue his words with reason rather than emotion. Finally saying his name to her, out loud, made things more real. Worse. Bitterer.
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