Licinius would also aim to fulfil his brief to Maecenas today and enter Lucilla’s study. As well as reading Livia’s correspondence, for any valuable intelligence, he looked forward to reading Lucilla’s reply - to see if she mentioned him.
Yes, today would be the day. The suitor was determined to make Lucilla happy. Varro would be a memory - a bad memory. Licinius had been slightly irritated by her determination to speak to Varro’s bodyguard the night before. But she had duly come back to him and not made any attempt to seek out her former husband.
He is her past. I am her future. She will accept my proposal. I want to make up for all his lies - and mine - by being true to her… The only codicil to my offer will be that she never sees him again.
Lucilla sat in her study and stared up at the painting above her desk. The landscape depicted a contoured, fertile valley. A soothing blue sky crowned a tapestry of rich greens and warm brown hues, speckled with figures, flowers and animals populating the scene. The colours had barely faded over the years. The painting had been a gift from Caecilia, Agrippa’s wife. Over the course of one summer Lucilla had accompanied her mother and visited the esteemed woman several times. Agrippa was away, on campaign. Although Lucilla sensed that she enjoyed her own company, the wife of the soldier still welcomed visitors.
Lucilla considered that Caecilia was unlike any other woman she had known. She was witty, opinionated and, despite her power, always kind and courteous, whether dealing with patricians or paupers. She was effortlessly elegant and wise, without ever wanting to show-off her learning - like some women like to flaunt a new outfit. Grace abounded in her aspect and actions. More than even the heroines in the books she read, Lucilla wanted to be like Caecilia. The daughter of Atticus sparked an interest in painting and sculpture in the young woman.
One afternoon, whilst waiting for her mother to arrive, Lucilla sat alone with Caecilia and expressed an admiration for the landscape on the wall, which still glistened with fresh paint. Not only did Caecilia reveal that she was the artist, but she also spoke about the inspiration behind the work.
“I have painted this scene more than once, I must confess, whether when present or in my mind’s eye. The valley is close to Puteoli. It’s where I first met my husband… Marcus is faithful, decent and doesn’t just expect me to follow all his orders, like one of his soldiers… He makes me laugh, which may be a sovereign quality above all others… Marcus is my best friend. I think of him every day - and miss him every day. As lonely as I may sometimes feel, I do not feel alone in the world. Apologies if I am making about as much sense as one of our devoutly hypocritical politicians… Lucretius wrote, “We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly when embracing one another.” I only really understood that line after falling in love… Love is good for the soul. It may be the only proof that we possess a soul. A divine spark. You will hopefully fall in love one day too, Lucilla. One’s first love is perhaps one’s only true love, for if you find a second then the first might not have been true after all.”
Lucilla remembered Caecilia’s words once more and thought about Rufus and Licinius. Two letters sat in front of her on the desk. One was in her hand, the other in another’s, signed - “Livia”. Lucilla read the letters once more. Satisfied. Resolved.
21.
The air was heavy with heat - strength sapping - and littered with flies. Rats were legion. A smell of rotting flesh pervaded the packed streets. It felt like Rome might soon suffer an Egyptian-like plague. Perhaps it deserved to, Varro judged. His throat was parched, his skin strewn with sweat and dust, as he entered Herennius’ house once more. The agent had sent a messenger the day before, to arrange for the widow to be home when he called. She needed to answer some questions, by order of Caesar.
Varro requested for the slave, who answered the door, to bring him some wine, water and a plate of grapes and figs. When he asked after Fabullus the slave replied that he was attending to their mistress. She was unwell, yet she would still honour the appointment. Varro was led into a chamber which Herennius had called his “trophy room”.
Several animal skins and pelts hung on the walls - or served as rugs. A shelf laden with strange-shaped, polished bones and pieces of ivory sat over a shelf filled with phallic-shaped ornaments. Various pieces of weaponry and armour, both Roman and foreign, also decorated the chamber: swords, spears, knives, clubs, shields, breastplates. A couple of coiled whips, side by side, hung on the wall, opposite the doorway. They looked out like two empty, sinister eyes. Varro couldn’t help but notice the pieces of dried blood caked upon the whips and on the wall behind them. He wondered if the blood belonged to Herennius’ slaves, or his wife. Most likely it was both.
Books were conspicuous by their absence in the chamber - and throughout the property. Varro recalled a quote from Cicero. “A room without books is like a body without a soul.” When the slave brought his wine and refreshments Varro also requested a towel. He wiped his perspiring face and hands. He didn’t want to somehow appear desperate or nervous in front of his interviewee. Suspect. Varro sat on a couch and waited patiently. When he heard voices outside the room, he altered his expression. The agent flared his nostrils and compressed his jaw to make his countenance seem squarer, more determined. He narrowed his eyes and creased his forehead, creating an inverted V-shape along his brow. He wouldn’t enjoy the process, but the agent knew that he might have to intimidate the woman in order to extract information. Varro just wanted the truth. Was it so much to ask?
A fretful looking Fabullus entered first and nodded to the investigator. Corinna followed, shuffling her feet, her eyes downcast. Even more fretful, seemingly as delicate as the most fragile of ornaments. She was petite and woebegone. Her eyes were puffy, from lack of sleep and from recently crying. The widow was perhaps grieving for having lost Ovid, rather than her husband, however.
The widow wore a matronly black stola, yet her semblance was youthful. Her jewellery was new and expensive. Corinna was no great beauty - but far from plain. Her cheeks were freckled, and dimples appeared when she forced even the slightest of smiles. There was a softness and vulnerability sown into her countenance, in stark contrast to her parents’ faces. Few would have guessed that she was the advocate’s daughter, from their contrasting demeanours. Varro recalled how Ovid said he was attracted to her vulnerability - perhaps because it made it easier for him to take advantage of the mistreated girl.
Corinna dismissed Fabullus - but asked him to wait outside the door. She politely but diffidently greeted Varro, before offering up a snivel and a cough - to prove our ill she was. But the agent wasn’t convinced. Varro suspected Corinna would recover enough to go shopping come the afternoon. He reminded himself that women were not altogether wedded to telling the truth, when dealing with themselves or others. In that sense, women had achieved a certain parity with men.
She sat down and stared intently into her lap, as if the answers to life’s most profound questions might be there. Varro was intending to offer his condolences and say how sorry he was for the woman losing her husband. He was going to remark how much of a trying and terrible time it must be. But he didn’t. He needed to be as hard as obsidian. Intimidate. Bully and threaten if required.
“Before you address any questions today, you need to consider that, rather than me, you are answering to Caesar. A report will be sent to him. Caesar will expect you to tell the truth - and there will be consequences, that not even your father will be able to protect you from, should he discover that you are attempting to deceive him. Do you understand?” Varro asked, or demanded, as he retrieved a wax tablet and stylus from his bag.
“Yes.”
Corinna nodded her head. Her features tightened. Her skin grew paler, her expression more stricken. “As an agent, a sense of distrust and determination must overrule any feelings of pity,” Agrippa had advised his agent.
“On the evening of the party, was there an altercation between your father and husband out in the garden?
Did you hear raised voices?”
“No,” the woman - or girl - replied, quietly.
“Can you speak up.”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I have received testimonies from others which contradict you.”
“No. I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
Varro pretended to write something down on his tablet.
“I would remind you that this report will be read by Caesar.”
Each time he said the name a ball of fear inflated in the young woman’s innards. She was fearful - of Caesar and her father - of saying the wrong thing. She felt flustered and forgot some of the advice her father gave her, to help answer the investigator’s questions. Varro regretted not inviting Manius, to further intimidate his suspect.
“Yes, I think my father did raise his voice against my husband that night. But that doesn’t mean that he wanted to kill him. My husband was a difficult man.”
Her hands and voice trembled a little as she spoke. Perhaps she was reliving a moment from her past, with her difficult husband. She was clearly distressed. Varro thought he might be getting somewhere. A chink of light was showing, through the dense forest he had been stumbling through. He felt uncomfortable interrogating the distraught woman. But needs must.
“Did your father ever ask you about the contents of your husband’s will?”Corinna gulped and then reached for a glass of water. Her breathing became irregular.
“No, not to my recollection,” she said, remembering the response her father had provided her with. That the advocate had prepared the witness told him everything and nothing.
“Are you aware of your father’s debts?”
“No. He does not talk to me about his business affairs.”
“And how about his love affairs? Are you aware that he keeps a mistress? An expensive one, by all accounts.”
“No, please. I do not want to know,” Corinna tremulously said, shaking her head - as if she were being physically tortured. She suffered a genuine coughing fit - and snivelled.
“But I need to know everything. On the night of your husband’s murder did you see Titus Sura, your father’s bodyguard, at any point?”
Corinna swallowed, again. Clearly neither she, nor her father, had been expecting the question. She fanned herself and sipped her watered-down wine. The girl was unsure of what to say. Varro’s stylus hung over the wax tablet, like the Sword of Damocles.
“I do not remember,” she replied, half-defeated. The young widow was akin to a quivering leaf, about to be blown from a tree.
Varro didn’t need any advice from Agrippa to know the woman was lying. He decided to keep pressing home any advantage. The agent needed her wholly defeated. His features and voice remained as flat and hard as the head of a hammer.
“You can understand how things may appear to Caesar and others. My worry is that, should you be innocent of any crime, you will still be implicated and found guilty, because you concealed the truth. Caesar will ask himself, who benefitted from your husband’s murder? Similarly, he will ask, who benefitted from the murder of Sestius?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with my husband’s murder.”
She initially looked Varro in the eye as she spoke, but then tucked her chin into her chest and stared into her lap again. Tears wended their way down her flushed cheeks. The agent couldn’t quite divine whether the tears sprung from anger, guilt, fear or pretence.
“But did your father? You should not have to answer for crimes you didn’t commit.”
Corinna drew in a breath, as if she were on the cusp of making a confession or preventing one from spilling out. Varro imagined receiving a name and retrieving the dagger. He thought how, when he succeeded in his assignment in thwarting Scaurus’ coup, Agrippa drew him into his orbit even more. Should Varro serve Caesar well again, he may never win his life back. The agent would become too valuable an asset, a victim of his own success. His assignments - duties - would increase rather than diminish. Perhaps, if he did find the dagger, he should give it to Maecenas. As much as he may owe a duty to Agrippa, Varro owed a greater and longer-lasting one to Lucilla. He made a solemn promise to his wife to love and protect her all those years ago. Neither the gods, nor himself, could absolve him of such a vow, because they were now divorced. And how much of a duty did he owe towards Agrippa, after recruiting Manius and meeting with Lucilla behind his back? Agrippa would probably not even be beyond recruiting his former wife, Varro considered, if Maecenas didn’t get his claws into her first.
“No. No. He had nothing to do with my husband’s murder.”
Corinna buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Varro felt like burying his head in his hands too, albeit he was seldom one for tears. He found that he had drawn in a large breath - but he suddenly exhaled. Sighed. He never felt proud of himself, after making a woman cry. He had broken too many hearts. That his own heart had been broken was no justification.
He still felt no wiser as to whether Nerva was guilty or not. Varro allowed Corinna to dry her eyes and recover her composure. He continued to question her, but less sternly. As much as it may have made her feel uncomfortable again, Varro asked about her relationship with Ovid. She said she had invited him to the party to give a reading - but she no longer wanted anything to do with the poet. “He used me,” she dolefully remarked, hoping the three words would explain the entirety of the affair. Varro didn’t think highly of Ovid, or himself, at that moment.
By the end of their interview pity wormed its way into the agent’s heart, ousting out some, but not all, distrust. The young woman had been a victim. Her father, husband and lover had all mistreated her. He was tempted to offer her some advice and encouragement. She now had an opportunity - and the funds - to start over. She might feel alone and helpless now, but she would attract plenty of friends and suitors soon. The people of Rome were drawn to money, like flies are drawn to shit. She should choose someone decent, even if it meant someone dull. “Just try not to marry a poet,” he would have counselled.
Perhaps something inside of the widow thawed in relation to the investigator by the end of their interview too. Corinna offered up at least one half-smile, which was not altogether forced. She thought the nobleman handsome and she had heard about his reputation. But she hoped she would never see him again.
Varro was mindful to leave the door open, however.
“Please do get in touch should you remember anything else. Also, if you come into possession of the dagger, or know who may be able to retrieve it, I can arrange for immunity from prosecution. The person who took the dagger will remain anonymous. I can even arrange a reward, a finder’s fee if you like, for its return. You will earn Caesar’s favour, as opposed to displeasure.”
The agent probed for a telling reaction in the woman’s expression on hearing his tempting offer. But she was either an accomplished actress, or genuinely ignorant - innocent - as to where the knife might be.
Corinna coughed and snivelled once more, before instructing Fabullus to show their guest out. Lentulus Nerva had asked his daughter to report back to him immediately, once her meeting with the investigator was over. The advocate would perhaps interrogate her more than the agent. Corinna felt drained, however. She decided to take to her bed again, before visiting her dressmaker and then calling on her father.
Varro puffed out his cheeks. The agent was almost as relieved as the young widow that their interview was over. There was little point in continuing the investigation, he judged. His race was run - and Varro didn’t much care if he had come first or last. He resolved to write-up his report that afternoon. Caesar would have to console himself with being the richest and most powerful man in the world, to offset the disappointment of not possessing the dagger. Again, Varro briefly closed his eyes and pictured Arretium. But the image didn’t hold, it slipped out of his mind like water running through his fingers. Agrippa could choose to investigate Nerva further, or anyone else, without him.
“I am not sure if it’s of any
importance, but I just thought I would correct something I said before, or rather what one of the staff said. The scrap of material we found on the morning of our master’s murder was not black, but dark brown. Here, please, take it,” Fabullus remarked, handing over the frayed square of cloth, as they stood on the street, just outside the house.
The missing piece.
“Rufus Varro?”
The voice was a blend of formality and breathlessness. The stern-faced praetorian, Aelius Vulso, stood to attention and addressed the nobleman. The soldier was awash with sweat and quivering from exhaustion. Stubble dusted his strong jaw. His hair was matted to his brow. Vulso had first raced across Rome, to Varro’s property on the Palatine Hill. The aged estate manager had informed the soldier that his master was absent, but it was likely he could be found at the address which Vulso stood outside now.
“Yes,” Varro answered, not knowing whether to be confused or curious.
“I must ask you to accompany me, by order of our most venerable Consul, Marcus Agrippa. I regret to inform you that your bodyguard, Manius, is in peril. Indeed, he may already be dead.”
22.
Carbo winced, as the vine stick slapped against the Briton’s bare back once more. The prisoner’s skin was criss-crossed with lacerations and welts. The former senator would have preferred to keep his hands clean, but he had no inclination to call-off torturing the man. The aristocrat may have been squeamish, but he wasn’t weak. Carbo needed to know what the spy knew - and who he was working for. Nothing could prevent his progress, ascendency. Not a man’s death. Not a thousand deaths.
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