Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  The nobleman was handsome, as Ovid imagined (it couldn’t solely have been his wealth which captured so many hearts). The rain caused Varro’s fringe to be parted and Ovid noticed the scar on his forehead. Varro would later explain to the young man that his scar was a result of a cuckolded husband catching him with his wife - “so let my error serve as a lesson to you.”

  An enthralled Ovid had been an admirer of his guest for as long as he could remember, as he first started to compile his poetry library in his home town of Sulmo. As well as learning technical and stylistic lessons from Varro, his works also taught him that writing poetry was a way for the youth to attract women. Virgil and Horace had offered no such guidance or encouragement.

  “I hoped to meet you one day. I was even tempted just to knock on your door when I first came to Rome, to continue my education. I was scared that you would slam the door in my face, however, and my appreciation of your poetry would be somehow lessened and tainted. For me, whilst growing up, you were a star in poetry’s firmament,” Ovid remarked, with a catch in his throat before speaking. As they reached the garden, with the rain abating, Ovid wiped a chair down and offered it to his guest.

  “I suspect that I am a dying star, at best, now. I haven’t penned anything of substance for some time, that’s worth offering up to the world. Especially as the world may just chew it up and spit it out - or worse, blissfully ignore it,” Varro wryly replied, staring at his callow host with no little amount of wonder and curiosity. Did he genuinely know and admire his poetry? Or was he just flattering the investigator, in an attempt to win his favour? Varro decided, partly due to Lucilla’s comments, to give the youth - or suspect - the benefit of the doubt.

  Light began to eke through the leaden clouds. Varro fancied that a rainbow might even soon decorate the sky. Some people might interpret it as a good omen, a sign of hope.

  Let them.

  “You would have at least one book sale, if you penned another volume of verse. But I understand that you are on official business of the state,” Ovid said, looking at his guest with not a little wonder and curiosity. Why was a nobleman and poet now working as an investigator? Did he volunteer, because of his former wife’s involvement? Or had Caesar given him a direct order? Ovid had more questions than answers.

  Varro soon realised that, unlike Nerva, getting a straight answer out of the adolescent would not be like getting blood out of a stone. The poet didn’t ration his words or opinions.

  “… I arrived halfway through the evening. The atmosphere was as stale as the cheese in the Subura. To call the gathering a “party” is using more poetic licence than I am comfortable with. The host was having a good time, often at his guests’ expense. He drank, like a camel at a wadi. Wine is a gift from the gods - along with poetry, red mullet and women. Wine should make a man pleasant, not pernicious. But Herennius was the latter. He seemed particularly abusive towards Nerva and Corinna… He rudely spoke over everyone and, along with Sestius, bored his audience with stories about the campaigns he had taken part in – although, I have faith in my scepticism that Herennius didn’t take part in half the engagements he mentioned. I was even glad when he belched, at least it meant that I didn’t have to suffer his conversation. I think a few of the guests were grateful for my arrival, as my readings provided a fire break during proceedings,” Ovid explained, frequently flicking his head as he spoke or brushing his long fringe out of his eyes. Apparently, it was the fashion for Rome’s youth to wear their hair in such a style. Yet, after recently finding out that he was unwittingly following a trend, Ovid vowed to trim his hair back.

  “Did you notice a particular enmity between Herennius and his father-in-law?”

  “Well, other than I overheard Nerva threaten to kill his host, no,” the poet drily posited, arching an eyebrow. “I left shortly after that, as much as I was asked to stay. Thankfully I was able to converse with your former wife before I took my leave.”

  Ovid was about to launch into a paragraph or two of praise for Lucilla - and how attracted he was to her - but he thought wiser of it. He pictured the elegant woman in his mind’s eye again however, her slender yet strong limbs. Her figure was not dissimilar to a statue of Athena that his father had bought for his garden, back in Sulmo. He was as surprised as he was enamoured by how well-read Lucilla was. She had good taste in literature, evidenced by her admiration for his verses, he judged. Ovid had seduced several older women before, but none like Lucilla he reckoned. She was both demure and steely. Being married to a poet had doubtlessly put her off writers. And quite rightly too. It wasn’t that she was too old for him - but too wise.

  “Lucilla mentioned she chatted with you.”

  “Really. What did she say?” the youth asked, as fleetingly lusty-eyed as a sailor, fresh into port.

  “I can’t remember,” Varro answered, lying.

  “I spoke with Licinius Pulcher for a short while too, which was long enough. His manner was oily as his slicked-back hair. He showered me with compliments for my verses, but I somehow felt akin to a swan, having radishes and fruit shoved up its arse before being roasted. No, I didn’t take to him,” the poet opined, making a face when he mentioned the man’s name, as if he had swallowed a bitter olive.

  “I have changed my mind. I will join you in a measure or two of wine,” Varro remarked, as he appreciated the poet for being a source of information and amusement.

  Ovid called for one of his slaves to serve some wine. Neither man diluted their measures. They let out a satisfying “ah” - almost in unison - after savouring their first mouthful.

  “Tell me more about Nerva. How black and bloody do you think his mood was at the end of the evening? Do you believe him capable of murder?”

  “Capable, yes. Culpable, maybe. There is perhaps a volcano, waiting to erupt, beneath the veneer of his civilised temper. Or distemper. But Nerva is one for being cold, scheming. On one hand the advocate loves the sound of his own voice,” the poet remarked, without irony. “But as garrulous as Nerva can be he doesn’t give anything away. He keeps his own counsel and he has more secrets than Cupid owns arrows… During the afternoon, before the night of the party, I saw the advocate in conference with his bodyguard, Titus Sura. Now, Sura could have easily stabbed Herennius, as a farmer could wring the neck of a bird. Have you seen the man? His mirthless stare could curdle milk at a hundred paces. His hands seem permanently balled up into fists. And if you examine those hands closely enough, you’ll see them marked with numerous scars from brawling. Or, they are pitted from the ape draggling his knuckles along the ground, when he walks. Should Sura ever enter the arena, he would be billed as more beast than man, I warrant. If snorts, snarls and grunts could serve as epigrams he would be one of Rome’s foremost poets. Rumour has it that the brute used to volunteer to torture prisoners on the front, as well as discipline his fellow soldiers. Lucretia is one of the few wives in Rome I would never be tempted to touch, lest Carbo unleashed his enforcer on me.”

  If Titus Sura wasn’t already a person of interest to Varro, he was now. He could prove the missing piece of the puzzle. Alternatively, it was not beyond the realms of possibility that Ovid was pointing the finger of suspicion away from his guilty self. Herennius’ death would allow the youth to marry the potential object of his affection, as well as provide him with enough capital to have no need of a patron.

  “Yet, you are not afraid, it appears, of getting your hands on Herennius’ wife, Corinna. You understand how I must treat you as a suspect too and ask you a number of questions?”

  Varro proceeded to pose a series questions to the youth, which Ovid answered plainly and, seemingly, honestly. Was he wearing a black cloak on the night of the murder? Yes. Did he loiter outside the house after he left the party, perhaps waiting for a message from his mistress? No. Did he see anyone else loitering across the street? No. But it was dark. There could have been someone there. “I am often in a world of my own - filled with heroes from the Iliad and mistresses more interest
ed in Horace than shopping - when walking the streets of Rome.” Did he have an alibi, as to his whereabouts after the party? Yes. He visited his patron, Messalla. Did he notice the gold dagger at the house? Yes. It was a shiny yet vulgar object. “One didn’t need the eye and insight of a poet to notice how much Licinius coveted the item.”

  “And how much have you coveted the item of Herennius’ wife? Is the relationship serious between you both?” Varro asked, his eyes probing as much as his words.

  “A serious relationship? I must note that down as an oxymoron, to use in one of my poems. Corinna let me into her heart, and more importantly her bed chamber. I met her at a reading I gave one evening. It wasn’t only my words which touched her that night, if you can forgive my crudity. We exchanged a series of letters. But our affair is drawing to a close, as the smell of perfume on those letters is fading. All love is vanquished by a succeeding love.”

  “You are not intending to marry her?” Varro asked, in an attempt confirm that the poet had no desire to secure Corinna’s hand in marriage - or money. Part of the investigator was keen to exclude the likeable youth from his suspect list.

  Ovid offered up an infectious laugh in reply, nearly spitting out his wine as he did so.

  “You of all people must know that there’s no such thing as a married poet, or rather a faithful one. I love women. I adore them, even when they are being beautifully stupid. Or especially when they are being beautifully stupid. But I couldn’t ever envisage loving just one woman for the rest of my days. It would be selfish of me - and her. Look at how faithful the gods are! They are as monogamous as vermin. Fidelity is unnatural. Women know that their partners are unfaithful. But at the hint of thinking she possesses a rival a woman will raise her game. In my experience a mistress will be devoted to you more, not less, for desiring someone else. Corinna may well still be in love with me. But the affair is over. She just doesn’t know it yet… I am akin to a honeybee, trying to be fair and visit all flowers. Penelope remained faithful to Odysseus only in literature. In the real world she would have married the first attractive, or wealthy, suitor who came knocking on her door. Corinna’s complaints about her husband at first were a signal to pursue my quarry. Yet her complaints about her husband remained, even when I satisfied her… She probably tells herself that she still loves me. Women are the only creatures on earth who lie more to themselves than men do. But no love can endure more than a month’s exposure to the real world, as no sword is immune from rust once pulled from its scabbard. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but familiarity breeds contempt,” Ovid yammered, only pausing to re-fill the two cups on the table.

  Varro was slightly taken back, or even slightly in awe, of the young poet’s ebullience and energy - amorous or otherwise. Ovid spoke, breathlessly, as if he had just been saved from drowning and wanted to impart all the half-truths his soul could hold. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands too. Sometimes they sawed the air or nervously fingered the stem of his cup. What Ovid’s hands really wanted to do was write, as if they had a mind, or muse, of their own. This was one of the times of the day when the poet usually locked himself away and wrote.

  “But you know these truths only too well. You were a honeybee too! I am not quite sure which inspired me more, your poetry or your conquests. Each inspired the other. And when women read your verse - and they knew who you were and what you were after - the flowers still opened-up to you. Some probably thought that they could save you from yourself. But men do not want to be saved, they want to be satisfied, to quote a line from one of your poems. Your work served as a guidebook for me. I felt like I had a teacher, in the arts of seduction. As you instructed in your first collection of verse, I narrowed and softened my eyes to project sincerity. My eyebrows can send wordless messages across a crowded room. I gently and briefly squeezed the hands of my mistresses to convey support sympathy and devotion. The first kiss is always akin to a light breeze, but it is the prologue to a maelstrom of passion. Each gesture and word should be a musical note that, when played in the correct order, creates a harmony between two souls. I cherish each lithe body which stretches out before me, unravelling like a scroll, ready to be written upon. Surely you felt the same way too?”

  Ovid gazed at his guest with conviction, gratitude and a desire for approval. A speechless Varro downed his wine. He was understandably flattered that the young author had studied his work. Every writer wishes to be an inspiration. Yet Varro also felt that he had somehow helped create a monster. He wondered how similar or different he was to the talented, or turgid, poet. He made a half-promise that he would think about it some more at a future juncture. He had enough to investigate at the moment, after all.

  “My question is, why did you stop writing?” Ovid added.

  “I got married,” Varro replied.

  I loved her. I was faithful. For a time, I felt saved.

  “A married poet? May the gods preserve him. Rather than a source of inspiration, I fear that a wife will be a source of worry, mistrust and expenditure… No, my current contract with women benefits both parties. I use them as a source of inspiration and in return I immortalise them in verse. Rumour has it that Pompey would leave his lovers an impression of his teeth upon their buttocks. I prefer to leave an even longer-lasting legacy. Beauty is a fragile thing, but my poems frame my mistresses at their best, like a fine portrait. Whilst their husbands age them.”

  Ovid raised his cup in a toast to Varro again and grinned, seemingly without a care in the world. But was he somehow too carefree? He lacked a sense of despair, grief. The last thing a poet should be is happy. Romans often grew their beards long to mark a period of mourning. Ovid would be lucky to grow a convincing stubble. Yet sooner or later his host would suffer from melancholy, experience a sense of exile from the world. It is how one reacts to misfortune, rather than happiness, which shapes a man’s character. Varro recalled one of the few times when Agrippa quoted a piece of verse. And it was one of the few times when Varro wanted to turn words into deeds.

  “Easy is the descent into Hell; night and day, the gates of Hades stand wide open; but to climb back again, to re-trace one’s steps to the upper air – there’s the task and there’s the labour.”

  “You have a promising future ahead of you as a poet, if age - or a number of husbands - do not catch up with you first. There are far worse patrons in Rome then Messalla too.”

  “And one of them has invited me to a party tonight. Maecenas recently lured Propertius away from Messalla. But as much as I am willing to eat from Maecenas’ table - and be introduced to the desserts of the wives and daughters of his inner circle - I will remain loyal. He is a good patron and a good friend. My ambition is to one day attract the attention of Caesar however,” the young man remarked. The gleam in his eye suggested he was imagining his own immortal fame, spreading out across the empire like a forest fire.

  “Just make sure that, when you attract the Caesar’s attention, it’s for the right reasons,” Varro warned, although he was unsure whether Ovid was listening.

  16.

  Varro and Ovid spoke for a little longer, enjoying the clement weather and conversation.

  “While I am trying to figure out whether I have had too much or too little wine, let’s fetch another jug,” Ovid half-joked. “Every day I permit myself one or two solemn statements, just to ensure that irony and sarcasm do not completely rule my being. You should be careful in your dealings with Lentulus Nerva. Be as certain as death, or taxes, should you accuse him of any wrongdoing. He will not think twice in ruining your reputation in court - and starting a whispering campaign outside of it too. Titus Sura is not to be underestimated either. He will break your bones, rather than your spirit, without batting an eyelid should Nerva instruct him to do so.”

  “And should I take care in my dealings with his daughter? If she was involved in her husband’s death, she will not be beyond killing again to escape prosecution,” Varro remarked.

  “I sincere
ly hope Corinna isn’t capable of revenge and murder, as I am about to end our affair… But she is innocent. I wish her well. Hopefully Corinna will find a portion of happiness, now she is free of her despicable husband.”

  Varro took his leave. As much as he wanted to fit in a nap before Maecenas’ party that evening, he decided to take a slight detour and visit Novius, to pick-up and pay for his books.

  The bruise coloured skies had lightened. The smell of damp in the air receded, like a sluggish tide. Rome bustled and bellowed once more. Litters criss-crossed one another, containing finely dressed women who would shop until exhausted. Some of them walked together too, their entourages following like the train of a gown.

  Varro found himself walking alongside a couple of women, who appeared to be the wives of politicians. He had encountered their kind before. Pinched expressions. Clipped, haughty tones. Plucked eyebrows. Coiffured hair. Their stolas barely granted them room to breathe. They would be members of various salons, literary or otherwise, in Rome’s more fashionable neighbourhoods. They would be married to husbands, who would be devoted to infidelity. Their shrill voices cut through the air like shards of glass, as they gossiped to the point of becoming breathless. Varro couldn’t help but catch snatches of their conversation as he strolled along the crowded, narrow street. His ears pricked up upon hearing Nerva mentioned too.

  “Flavia is as brazen as a courtesan. She considers herself a new Servilia. She is working her way through the Senate House, like a pox working its way through a tavern in the Subura… I hear she has her eye on Lentulus Nerva, or Flavia has her eye on him. If he thought it expensive to keep his wife happy and buy a new house on the Palatine, then he will be in for an unpleasant surprise when he finds out how much it will cost him to keep Flavia in the style she’s grown accustomed to. Money makes money, but loans breed loans. And lust breeds lust.”

  Varro had thought how love, or lust, could have driven Corinna to murder Herennius. But could Nerva have been motivated by passion to secure this Flavia as a mistress? Love can drive a man to do many a foolish, or vicious, thing.