Varro’s eyes were heavy-lidded, and he felt heavy-limbed as he left the party. He didn’t even feel the inclination to finish off the evening in the Subura, as he was accustomed to do. He wanted to retain a clear head, to mull over Maecenas’ offer and then interview Corinna in the morning. No rest for the wicked. He also needed to make a decision about Lucilla.
Maecenas enjoyed the quietude of the garden and collected his thoughts. He was surprised that Varro’s ex-wife had proved to be his weakness. He didn’t even love his current wife, let alone previous partners. The patron believed he would be able to entice the poet to do his bidding by promising him fame and immortality. He would have offered the nobleman riches, but his wealth was already substantial. Maecenas was confident, however, that if he had not already secured Varro’s loyalty, he soon would. Agrippa’s loss will be my gain. It felt good. He had narrowed his odds in finding the dagger, which is all he could hope for at present. Maecenas’s gentle, sumptuous smile faltered however when he thought how he had lost faith in Licinius. Perhaps the woman was proving too great a distraction. His agent had failed to locate the dagger and was yet to secure any intelligence from Lucilla, about Livia or Caesar. He hadn’t prised out one secret or stolen one letter. Maecenas weighed up the benefit of ordering Licinius to end his affair with Lucilla, even if Varro could not fulfil his part of the deal. He would select another suitable wife for his agent, one which would bear more fruit.
It was likely that Varro would not be able to fulfil his part of the deal, especially as by the end of the evening he would be temporarily unable to continue his investigation. He still had time to call off the attack on Varro. But he wouldn’t. Cruelty for cruelty’s sake was still as valid a philosophy as any other, he posed. Maecenas’ offer of employment should hopefully annul any suspicions the agent might have that he was the author behind his misfortune. Perhaps if Varro had unequivocally declared his loyalty this evening. he might have spared him.
Maecenas yawned and then picked up another oyster and slid it down his throat. It felt as warm and slippery as a kiss. He imagined the young poet on his knees, looking up at him. Sooner or later Ovid would submit to him. Everybody else did.
They tramped home in silence. Rain spat down. Darkness swelled, like a bruise. Manius occasionally cast sidelong glances at Varro, who seemed buried in thought. The Briton was worried for his friend. He recognised the mournful expression. He knew he was thinking about her.
The past isn’t always the past, Ovid had argued when Varro had remarked that Lucilla was no longer a meaningful part of his life. Varro said that he did have eyes for at least one other woman in the room, by subtly pointing out Hypatia and revealing that they were conducting an affair. But the young, uncommonly wise, poet was right. Lucilla was with him, even when she wasn’t there. She was like a shade, haunting him. Judging him. His love for her was like a blessing, as well as a curse. Lucilla still inspired him. Varro wanted to be worthy of her. Noble. He sometimes found himself thinking whether she would approve of his actions or not. When he read certain poems, he thought of her. He smelled her perfume on other women and was compelled, or condemned, to recall too many fond memories. He avoided ordering her favourite foods. He dreamed of her, constantly. Of making love to her. But a legion of nightmares came too. Reliving past sins. She was a ghost at Arretium, as much as she was ever present in Rome. Varro couldn’t step out into the villa’s garden without picturing Lucilla there too. When he heard the wheels of a carriage outside, he always hoped that it was her, paying him a surprise visit. He did his best not to picture her with Licinius now. But failed. Someone was reaching into his chest and rinsing out his heart, like a mouldy sponge. He may as well try to outrun his shadow than forget about her. For good or ill, Lucilla was as much a part of Varro as himself.
He breathed out, in resignation or exhaustion, and told himself that things might look different in the morning. That is, if he made it through the night.
“Are you Rufus Varro?”
Even through the drizzle and stygian evening Varro immediately recognised the livid features of Galba, standing before him in the alleyway. His voice was rough, hoarse, from a lifetime of bellowing out orders. A brace of bodyguards flanked him, like columns, wearing similar gnarled expressions. They were doubtless ex-soldiers. Seasoned brawlers. Both carried cudgels. Both would be more than happy to use them, he thought.
A plump, bark-brown rat scurried along the alleyway and squealed in alarm - or excitement perhaps, at the potential feast of a corpse.
“Yes, providing of course you’re not a tax collector,” Varro drily replied.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, fortunately not,” he said, feeling guiltless about the lie and insult. “Would I be being impertinent if I asked how you know me?”
“Because you have been impertinent enough to come to know my wife, Hypatia, you insolent cur,” Galba asserted, his hands balled into two fists.
Maecenas had told the general about his wife’s affair with the infamous nobleman that afternoon. At first Galba refuted the accusations, arguing that his wife would not dare behave improperly. But soon after he was gnashing his teeth and vowing to disembowel the aristocrat - or castrate him. Galba viewed Varro’s seduction of his wife as an act of theft. Hypatia was his property. The general told himself that the degenerate poet led his wife astray, that he had promised her the world. Maecenas sympathised and agreed with his friend’s arguments. Varro should be punished.
“He will be attending the party this evening. You can confront him afterwards. You will not approach him during the party and cause a scene… I have no desire to see him killed however, so temper your ire… You shouldn’t also underestimate his bodyguard. There is strength in numbers… I recommend that you do not reveal to your wife that you know about the affair, lest she tries to warn him.”
Galba said he would comply with his instructions. Such was the soldier’s anger and anguish at his wife’s infidelity that he little concerned himself with Maecenas’ motivation, behind him revealing the affair. Knowing Maecenas, it had nothing to do with friendship or honour. After leaving the meeting Galba resolved to confront his wife the following morning. He would put on an act for the party this evening. He would give her a chance to explain herself and then punish her accordingly. She was a woman. Weak. His wife, like the soldiers under his charge, needed to be loyal. The general would ensure his wife wouldn’t stray again while he was on campaign, by having a slave accompany her at all times when she left the house. It would be a form of guard duty. He would not risk her impinging upon his dignity again. Should word get out about the affair, which Maecenas assured him it wouldn’t, then he would be a laughing stock. He would lose his authority with his soldiers. Should Hypatia not give him a son within the next two years, or should her beauty begin to fade, then Galba vowed that he would divorce her. Aye, he would deal with his wife in good time. But first he would deal with the vice-ridden poet.
Manius glanced behind him to witness two more of the general’s men, carrying cudgels, positioning themselves to attack. Rather than Varro’s past catching up with him, his present had, the Briton thought. It was unlikely Varro could talk his way out his predicament. Galba was baying for blood.
“Can I ask who my accuser is? It seems that somebody is wronging both myself and your wife. You must allow me to defend myself.”
Galba’s grimace, or rictus, widened as he snorted.
“You can defend yourself. But it won’t do much good.”
The snarling general - cuckolded husband - launched himself forward to attack, his sandals scraping along the ground. Manius swiftly stepped across in front of his friend and kicked out a long leg, striking Galba’s kneecap. The general stumbled back and fell to the ground, in shock and pain. The cudgel he was carrying dropped out of his hand and Manius quickly retrieved it. Violence had become second nature to the ex-gladiator. Although he sometimes thought about his nature after a fight, he always surrendered to
his instincts during one.
Varro turned to the two men behind him. He didn’t want Manius, or himself, to be assaulted from the rear. A stocky, craggy-faced bodyguard closed in on him. Varro instinctively remembered one of the first lessons Manius had taught him, when defending himself. His foot buried itself in his opponent’s groin. The air rushed out from his lungs and he doubled-over in pain.
Manius raised his arm and the cudgel struck him on his bicep. He had suffered far worse hits in the arena. The sheets of bulging muscle, like layers of leather, tempered the blow. In reply the Briton punched the tip of his own cudgel into his attacker’s throat. He retreated, half-choking.
The second opponent, behind Varro, ran forward, spitting out a curse, and slammed the nobleman up against a wall. Varro reached up in time however to grab the bodyguard’s wrist, before he could bring the thick, wooden cudgel down on his head. They grappled, equal in strength and determination. Varro could smell the garum and wine on the ex-soldier’s breath. The stalemate was ended by Varro unsheathing the knife, which hung from his attacker’s belt. He stabbed him in the stomach. He spat out another curse, as blood was added to other stains on his tunic. He soon spat out blood too. Instead of punching his opponent - and run the risk of injuring his hand - Varro whipped his elbow around and struck him square in the face. The bodyguard dropped to the ground, like a bleary-eyed drunk in the early hours of the morning.
Varro scarcely had time to feel triumphant, however. His first assailant was about to recover and attack again. Varro reasoned what worked perfectly well once could work again - and so he took two quick steps and buried his foot in his opponent’s groin once more. The man writhed on the floor, dry heaving.
Manius grunted, twice, as he suffered two blows to his ribs in quick succession. His blood-lust dulled the pain however and he turned to confront the last bodyguard left standing. Manius grabbed the man’s lose fitting tunic and pulled his opponent towards him. At the same time the Briton thrust his head forward and butted the bodyguard, squashing and splitting open his nose like an overripe piece of fruit.
Groans reverberated throughout the alleyway. Manius and Varro easily disarmed their prostrate attackers. Varro seethed, as he also tried to catch his breath, whilst crouching down and holding a knife to Galba’s leathery throat. He demanded to know who had “wrongfully” accused him of having an affair with his wife.
“One of my slaves told me,” he replied, through gritted teeth, on the instructions of Maecenas. “If somehow Varro gets the upper hand and presses for the truth, lie and tell him a slave was responsible,” Maecenas advised. Varro was unsure whether to believe Galba or not. He sensed there were other powers at play. But he was too tired to torture his enemy for further information.
“You have the wrong Rufus Varro,” he asserted, half-convincingly. Right then he wished he could be someone else. He told himself it was best not to see Hypatia again, for her sake as much as his. He also vowed to himself that he would never seduce a married woman again. But he had made and broken such a promise, more than once, before.
The two men continued to venture homewards, even more wearily than before. Manius walked a little gingerly. Unfortunately, he had all too much experience at knowing what cracked ribs felt like. He sat on the horns of a dilemma too, of whether to tell his wife that he had been involved in another fight. Could he grin and bear the pain of his injuries until the pain receded and bruising faded? He didn’t want Camilla to think less of him, or his friend. One more secret, lie, couldn’t hurt.
Varro desired his bed - more than even for a woman to be in it, waiting for him when he reached home. He didn’t know, or even much care, who was behind Livius Galba being unleashed. The wronged husband had every right to be angry. Perhaps Varro deserved to be punished too. He felt like the very air of Rome was poisoning him. Arretium seemed further away than ever. But he would interview Herennius’ wife in the morning and write up his report for Agrippa. The evidence may point towards Nerva, but he had more chance of proving the existence of the gods than finding the lawyer guilty. Or he would argue that Herennius was murdered by an unknown intruder. Or he could point the finger at the aggrieved soldier, who Fabullus mentioned. Agrippa - and Caesar - could believe what they wanted to believe and act accordingly.
I feel like a step, leading-up to a cheap brothel, worn out from the sun and constant traffic.
20.
Morning.
Manius crept into bed the night before, feeding Viola a number of treats to keep her quiet. He didn’t want to wake Camilla. He was in no fit condition to make love or explain himself. The injured bodyguard lay on his side, facing the wall rather than his wife. When she woke at dawn, he pretended to be asleep. When he was sure Camilla was busy in the kitchen Manius tended to himself. Cold water didn’t quite numb the pain. Two star-shaped bruises, mottled in purple and black, coloured his ribs like birthmarks.
Manius explained that he might be out for most of the day and night again as he grabbed his sword. He stole a kiss from Camilla whilst, for once, avoiding her embrace. He tried to behave as normally as possible, whilst incessant stabbing pains plagued his torso every time he moved. He doubted his ability to keep up the act over the next few days. He was minded to pretend to his wife that he needed to work for Varro full-time, until his ribs sufficiently healed. If not, sooner or later, Camilla would find out that he was trying to deceive her. He would lose her trust. But still Manius thought it best to keep the truth from his wife.
“When will you be back?” Camilla asked, as he readied to leave.
“I’m not sure,” Manius replied, with the hint of an apology in his tone, before he closed the door behind him. The Briton expected another uneventful day, spent following Publius Carbo.
Fronto ordered his master to sit down and eat the breakfast he prepared. Steam wafted up from the eggs and bacon on his plate.
“You need to put some food inside you, to help soak up all the wine. You don’t just want your troubles weighing you down. You can afford to put on some weight in the more traditional way,” Fronto argued, as he placed some cold ham and fruit in front of Varro too.
“I have of late encouraged you to marry. You have need of a wife. But maybe you have more need of a husband, so as to nag him like a wife.”
For once Varro was not hungover. But he felt hungover. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt like a slab of old leather. His brain pounded against the front of his skull, like a blacksmith’s hammer pounding on an anvil. As much as he experienced a good night’s rest, sleep had not acquitted him of all his exhaustion, melancholy and troubles.
After finishing his breakfast, Fronto spoke about his meeting with Aulus Gabinus, his father’s advocate. Although retired, Gabinus still kept abreast of the gossip and careers of his fellow lawyers.
“It seems that Lentulus Nerva may be a more unpleasant and unscrupulous character than we first thought. And we didn’t think much of him initially. Gabinus disclosed that Nerva had arranged for witnesses to be bought or intimidated, in order to win trials, over the years… A poor fellow named Sertorius was also conveniently murdered, just before he was due to give testimony against the head of a smuggling ring. Gabinus said Nerva was not only complicit in his murder - but suggested the idea in the first place… The advocate is still burdened with considerable debts but apparently assured his creditors recently that he is in a position to pay the money back. Now of course he could be lying - lawyers have been found guilty of not telling the entire truth before - or Nerva has taken control of his daughter’s estate and is using it for his own needs. Or he has come into new capital through selling off the possible valuables he stole from his son-in-law, after killing him.”
Again, fuel was being added to the fire that Nerva was behind Herennius’ murder. Again, Varro constructed a case against the advocate. He had motive, or motives. He had killed his son-in-law to save his daughter from an abusive husband. And/or he had killed the slave trader for financial gain. If one followe
d the money then, it stood to reason, Nerva was behind Sestius’ murder too. Sura could have been involved in both deaths. After the party, Herennius could have let in both Nerva and his bodyguard, innocent of their intentions. Yet, Varro still only possessed a suspect, not evidence. His sole hope now, to convict Nerva, seemed to be Corinna’s testimony. If his daughter was involved in the murder - and if she could be tricked or pressured into implicating her father - then Varro could secure the dagger and deliver it to Agrippa. Or Maecenas.
Today would be the day, Licinius Pulcher told himself. He would ask Lucilla to marry him. Once married he could defy Maecenas, should he instruct him to change assignment. It would be too late, appear too suspicious. Maecenas feared very little in the world, but he did fear death and Caesar. If it came to a choice between Maecenas and Lucilla, he vowed to choose the latter. Maecenas could not risk him confessing his sin to Caesar, that he had been ordered to spy on Lucilla to gain intelligence about Livia.
Today will be the day.
Licinius had just finished washing and grooming himself. He stood before the mirror, in his intended’s bedroom. Lucilla had woken early to catch up on some correspondence. She mentioned she had received a letter from Livia, among others.
The agent felt a little giddy, nervous. Strange. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he realised that he was happy. Or that happiness was on the horizon. Lucilla would make him a fine wife, in the domestic as well as public sphere. He smiled mercurially, considering how she had unwittingly seduced him, as much as he had consciously seduced her.
Light oozed through the window, like massage oil. The garden was in bloom. Bees hopped from flower to flower. It was a beautiful day. It would be a memorable day. He looked handsome. She would look beautiful. He ran through his lines, again. She would say yes. Licinius didn’t care where they made their home. He would wait until lunch, after she had come out of her study. The agent had picked out a bench and bower in the garden. Perhaps he would commission Horace to compose a poem for their wedding. If he was unable to do so Licinius would contact Propertius. Failing that, he would approach the youth Publius Ovidius. Lucilla seemed fond of the poet, although the agent was not so approving of his overly satirical character.
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