As Varro made his way back through the house, he attracted the attention of a number of slaves, who seemed to eye him with suspicion or disapproval - as if they had been ordered to do so by their master. Or perhaps he was just being paranoid. The agent recalled Agrippa’s words, from a year ago - advising him that one of the maladies of being a spy meant that he would trust people less. “Everyone will become a possible enemy, or asset to exploit… But just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean that people won’t be out to get you.” Certainly, since becoming a spy, Varro thought less of people, which he might not have believed he was capable of a year ago. “If trust comes naturally now, it won’t do soon. Or shouldn’t do. You must cultivate trust in others, but not yourself. If ever you start to ask, who can I trust? The answer is no one.” Yet, against the advice of Agrippa, Varro still trusted Manius, Fronto and even Lucilla. If he didn’t, then life would have been even lonelier for the spy.
He gulped down the fresh-ish air when he left the house and let what little breeze there was brush against his clammy skin. His back was stiff. He wryly smiled as he mused whether he had been sitting down too much of late, or not sitting down enough. He briefly closed his eyes and imagined opening them to a view from his country villa.
Varro trudged home, no wiser or closer to the truth. Indeed, the truth seemed even further away. He might as well try and grasp the morning mist. The investigator knew he was walking across flagstones, but he felt like he was wading through mud.
13.
Varro developed a new-found affection for the broken tiles on his roof and his unkempt trees and shrubs in his garden as he returned home.
“You seem to be going up in the world,” Fronto remarked, as he told his master about the party invitation from Gaius Maecenas.
“Or down,” Varro replied, pursing his lips and rolling his eyes.
On another day, particularly in his youth, he would have been pleased to have received such an invite. Given the quantity - and quality - of young wives on display he would have been as happy as, to borrow an expression from Manius, “a pig in shit” to rub shoulders with Rome’s gilded elite. He would attend now however out of duty, rather than for pleasure. His time - and life - were no longer his own. He knew Maecenas owned an ulterior motive for inviting him. But even if it was a trap, Varro would walk into it.
As he yawned and stretched, he felt the bones in his spine crack into, or out of, place. His shoulders slumped, as if they might fall to the floor. His eyelids felt leaden. He exhaled - or groaned. He still needed to question Corinna. He still needed to track down and interview the young poet, Publius. He still needed to visit and search Sestius’ house, just in case the dagger was hidden there. Albeit he believed he had more chance of discovering the Shield of Achilles, wrapped in the Golden Fleece.
“The messenger also mentioned you could invite a guest,” the old attendant added, after masticating, like a cow chewing cud, and running his tongue around his mouth as if counting how many teeth he had left.
A plethora of women’s name and faces appeared, like shades, in Varro’s mind’s eye. Or they were presented before him, like the scrolls mounted along the wall in Lentulus Nerva’s study. Before his dalliance with Cornelia he had courted, or been courted by, Hypatia. Hypatia was the wife of the general, Livius Galba. She possessed plenty of virtues. She was Greek - and the poet could practise his second language on her. She appreciated his dry sense of humour and never needed to explain, or defend, any barbed comments. Her thighs were as smooth and burnished as new leather. She was older than most of his lovers, but that was a blessing as much as a curse. He wasn’t her first affair. She was experienced in being discreet, as well as amorous. Hypatia, a former actress, still looked good for her age - although she had a tendency to wear too much make-up. “I’ve grown used to fending off suitors over the years, but now I need to fend off time… My husband still finds me attractive and likes fucking me, which I suppose makes me a rarity in Rome… I like you Rufus. You make me laugh, which might not be good for my make-up cracking, but laughter is good for the soul. You also don’t get jealous, or possessive. Most women like a man to be jealous. But you will learn that I am not like most women. I know certain friends who, for want of a better word, have called me a trophy wife. But I must be won and earned, instead of just merely bought - like them.”
No sooner had Varro felt an inkling to see Hypatia, however, than he remembered he would be unable to do so. Her husband had recently returned to Rome. Like most Roman men he considered it fine for a husband to conduct an affair, but a wife should be forbidden from doing so. “I have no wish to have you both fight over me like stags, when Livius comes back. Partly because he would probably beat you half to death should he find out about the affair. I wouldn’t want him disfiguring your boyish looks, would I?” Hypatia remarked, before promising that she would send a message once her husband left the city again. “At the same time as the gates of Rome close behind him I’ll open my door to you once more.”
Varro easily shrugged off any disappointment he might have felt however. He knew who he had to invite instead. It was the same person who had accompanied him to more parties than any mistress before. Manius.
“How was your day?” Fronto asked, hoping that his meeting with Lucilla had gone well.
“Long.”
“Would you like me to arrange dinner for you?”
“No, I’ll just have some kitchen scraps later. I have been feeding off scraps of information all day, so it seems fitting. I feel more tired than hungry anyway,” Varro said, as he noticed Aspasia walk across the room. The comely slave girl wore an inviting, enticing, expression on her face. But for once the nobleman desired an empty bed. As much as it may have been worth it, he didn’t want to put his back out any more. He didn’t want to just wrap a blanket around his body. He wanted to wrap sleep itself around him. Cocoon himself.
“I also received a message from Manius and Camilla. They have invited you over to their home for drinks this evening.”
Ever since their wedding they had invited Varro over to their house once a week. More often than not he accepted the invitation. Perhaps they did so out of pity, he considered, as much as they enjoyed each other’s company. For as many mistresses as Varro courted, the nobleman had few true friends. He also enjoyed seeing Viola too. She would loyally and lovingly sit by his side - although hopefully not just because he would covertly feed her treats.
“If you send a messenger to convey, I will be free to join them. Thank you. But please forgive me now Fronto, bed beckons, as if Venus herself was waiting in my chamber for me.”
Varro retreated to his room, his eyes already half-closed. The shutters were open, but the light was becoming weak. Honey has turned into piss - he thought, quoting from one of his own poems, composed over a decade ago. Clouds hung over his head too. He regretted not closely checking Nerva’s cloak on the back of the chair, in his study, to see if it had been torn. He regretted not asserting his authority and right question the advocate’s wife. He regretted not confronting his suspect more on the issue of him threatening to his son-in-law, during their exchange in the garden. He regretted being unable to warn Lucilla off seeing Pulcher. But everyone has regrets.
I’ve more regrets than unfinished poems.
Ultimately Varro knew he would be able to brush away the clouds hanging over his head. Only two regrets mattered. Shadowed him. One was not being able to save Cassandra, from Lucius Scaurus murdering her.
Evening.
Clouds smothered the sky, like too much mould-ridden honey spread across a slice of bread. A few drunks could be heard on the street outside, slurring their words and scuffing their feet across the ground.
An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, as bright and mellow as a sunset. The smell of oatcakes and freshly cut flowers filled the rooms. The walls were adorned with bucolic scenes, painted by the mistress of the house. The furniture and furnishings were well put together and attractive, but not g
audy. It was a home, replete with laughter. The only thing which was missing was the sound of children. But that might soon be remedied, Varro thought. Rather than being envious of his friend for the home he had created, he was happy for him. Thankfully he didn’t need to pretend to like Camilla too, for the sake of his friendship. She was sweet-natured, smart and would never knowingly hurt Manius. Camilla was also the one woman in Rome who he would never attempt to have an affair with, which was a goodly minority to be in, Varro considered. Perhaps he wasn’t so immoral or amoral after all.
For most of the evening the trio enjoyed some good conversation, over some ruby-red wine which warmed their stomachs and the atmosphere. They sat around a cedarwood table, which Varro had given the couple as a wedding present (among other things), in a small dining room. Braziers hummed in the background. Varro and Manius shared some old stories about each other, ones which they considered fit for their hostess’ ears. Laughter is good for the soul. For the most part the two men forgot their present troubles by reminiscing about the past. But Varro could not altogether escape his present as eventually the conversation turned towards his ill-fated investigation.
“As much as it vexes me to say so, I am tempted to take Nerva’s advice and report that it was likely that Herennius was murdered by a common robber. And that our best hope in recovering the knife will be to purchase it when it comes onto the market,” Varro explained, after recounting his day and the progress, or lack of, of his enquiries.
“Caesar won’t be happy,” Manius warned.
“Caesar is master over half the known world. It would be churlish of him to be unhappy, for want of a garish dagger,” Varro replied, as he bent down and stroked Viola behind the ear. The black and white mongrel rested against his leg. Every now and then she would yawn or pad over to her water bowl. On her return she would jump-up, so her paws were perched on Varro’s knees - in order to encourage him to stroke her, or survey if there were any leftovers on the dinner table. “I would also like to think I am still in credit with Caesar, having, according to Agrippa last year, “potentially saved the empire”. Granted he had worked his way through half a jug of Falernian, before making the claim.”
“Well, before I have as much to drink as Agrippa, I should take myself off to bed. I will leave you both to reminisce over the stories which were not fit for my ears. Thank you again for the book, Rufus,” Camilla remarked, as she got to her feet and picked up the scroll Varro had bought her, containing the latest verses by Propertius.
“I look forward to you heavily criticising them and casting them in an unfavourable light, next to my works,” the poet joked, before thanking his sister-in-law for a wonderful evening. Varro was truly grateful for the distraction, more than she knew.
Camilla then gently kissed her husband on the top of his head and covertly whispered in his ear:
“I’ll be waiting up for you. Don’t drink too much.”
Manius nodded his head to affirm he would duly perform his husbandly duties this evening. As soon as Camilla disappeared down the hall however the Briton filled both the cups left on the table. Varro had observed how, once or twice, his friend had been distracted. He wasn’t quite his good-humoured self. Manius clasped his cup, as if it might break in his hand, and took a couple of deep breaths. He was briefly torn between his loyalty towards his employer and his friend. The latter soon won out and Manius filled Varro in on his mission and meeting with Agrippa. Although a problem shared is never a problem halved Manius did feel better for unburdening himself to his friend.
“And there I was thinking that Caesar was only making my life miserable,” Varro commented, after the bodyguard, now spy, finished speaking. His features remained largely impassive, as usual, but disquiet filled his heart, like a gathering storm, in reaction to the news that Agrippa had recruited his friend as an agent. Varro felt like Agrippa had somehow taken advantage of Manius’ good nature and honourable character. He was too honest to be a spy. Sooner or later Manius’ life would be in danger. Varro knew all too well how an assignment could suddenly go from bad to worse. The life of an agent had already taken bites out of his soul. It could well swallow Manius up whole. “You will need to be careful in front of Carbo and Labeo. Politicians are even less trusting than spies. As much as you need to keep eyes on your quarry, do so from a distance if possible. His retinue doesn’t consist of just pox-ridden students and oafish guild members. He also employs a group of bodyguards to keep him company, who would be happy to tear you limb from limb, like a pack of bacchants, if he gave the order… Agrippa may play the plain-speaking Roman, but he can be as sly as a Persian when the fancy takes him. He’ll be recruiting Fronto next, or Viola… Can I help in any way?”
“It’s doubtful. Carbo is not a great lover of noblemen, especially ones allied to Caesar. You won’t be able to get close to him. And I haven’t the heart to ask you to seduce his wife. She’s frostier than the Alps - and with craggier features. I am hoping for some good luck and that someone will be indiscreet and let slip the details of the plan.”
“Well if you are blessed with some good fortune then bottle up a measure of it for me. I’m going nowhere, fast, in my enquiries.”
“How was your meeting with Lucilla this morning?”
“Awkward, at best, at first. But it could have gone worse. I drew back from the edge, and didn’t throw myself off the Tarpeian Rock, to completely damn myself. I would rather she had killed Herennius, than see her courted by Pulcher. He has worked her well, I warrant. Played the gentleman. I would have hoped she would be able to see through such acts by now, having been married to me. Something is amiss though. Maecenas introduced them for a reason. Perhaps it’s not about warning Lucilla off Pulcher, but convincing Maecenas to warn his agent off Lucilla. I formed an idea on my walk over here. It would prove fruitless to try and pay off Maecenas or threaten him. But he may be open to bribery. If I can find Caesar’s dagger - and promise it to him, instead of Agrippa - then I may possess the leverage to have him order Pulcher to end the affair.”
“Agrippa will not be happy.”
“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. At least Caesar will be happy, which is all that matters of course,” Varro drolly remarked. Any guilt he felt would be assuaged by his grievance towards Agrippa, for recruiting Manius as an agent behind his back. “My plan is predicated on finding the knife however, which at present seems like no plan at all. If I knew what the dagger looked like, I would commission Benjamin to make a copy. I will still present my offer to Maecenas tomorrow evening. If he agrees to the arrangement, then at least I will be spurred on to find the dagger.”
“What are your plans during the day, before the party?”
“To continue my lacklustre investigation. I will visit Sestius’ house in the morning and search the property for the knife, as well as conduct an interview with his estate manager. I will then pay my respects to the ungrieving widow and question her, although I suspect that her father has already provided Corinna with all the answers she needs. Should there be time I will track down the poet, Publius. Lucilla mentioned that he reminded her of me, when I was younger,” the agent remarked, raising a sceptical eyebrow. The vain poet still inside of Varro thought that he was one of a kind.
“If that’s the case then you will need more than just a measure of good luck for Publius to cooperate and provide you with some sage responses,” Manius joked.
Varro grinned and raised his cup, before downing its contents. As he glanced up, he noticed a new painting on the wall, slightly different from the others around the house. The scene was of a village, populated by mud huts with thatched roofs. The sky was leaden. A few campfires, like clusters of wildflowers in a field, furnished the picture with some colour. The painting depicted the Briton’s old home. Varro imagined how there was an alternative image Camilla could have produced. That of Manius’ village in flames, with the villagers being slaughtered by Roman soldiers. A father dead at his son’s feet, a mother beaten and nearly r
aped. Varro briefly thought about what his friend had endured. Had Manius become the man he was because, or despite of, his traumatic experiences. Whilst the orphaned slave was fighting for his life in the arena, as a young gladiator, Varro was merely suffering from melancholy and fighting off boredom (as well as recovering from the odd dose of the pox). There had been a couple of occasions when Varro had suggested to his friend that they travel to his homeland. But perhaps the Briton had little appetite to visit his past. Rather than re-live the past, he wished to bury it.
“The wine will be as sour as most of the women. Your spirits will be as damp as the climate. You won’t enjoy yourself. It’s a long way to travel to be underwhelmed,” Manius had argued, to dissuade his friend from making good on his proposal.
Varro, using the example of his friend, considered that a man could overcome his past. It doesn’t have to cling to you, like your shadow. One should not make a shrine to one’s past, presenting it with offerings each day. For too long Varro had felt guilty, thinking about his father - trying to live up to his expectations, or defy them. For too long he had looked back to Catullus and his era, in attempt to re-live the past. Yet at the same time Varro considered it fitting that the past could, or did, define you. Regrets can be beneficial, if they prevent you making the same mistakes again. He needed to remember Cassandra, to honour her.
“Sweet is the memory of past troubles,” Cicero once stated. But Varro wasn’t so sure.
A blend of sweat and perfume filled the chamber, like threads woven into a tapestry. The whites of eyes, teeth and glistening flesh could be glimpsed in the darkness.
The couple finally began to catch their breath. Lucilla still held his hand, as she had done so throughout their lovemaking. Licinius brushed his shin against her leg. Her entire body still tingled.
Lucilla finished off her cup of water, resting on the bedside table. Beside the cup and jug was an ivory figurine, of Pomona. A present from Varro, when they were first married. She thirsted for more but was too exhausted to get up. The woman felt her legs might give way, should she stand. Her body was singing, elated, but part of her heart was still mired in thinking about him. Rufus. The name was tantamount to a sigh. He was part of her life, like grain running through timber. But she was with Licinius now. And she wanted to be honest with him.
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