“You say you owe a duty to Cicero, to avenge his death. Popilius, Mark Antony and Fulvia have already met their fate. Lepidus, should you consider him responsible, is famous for his obscurity, and living in exile. Herennius was only following the orders of Caesar. Should I be worried that you will one day pay him a visit in the middle of the night?”
“I made my peace with Octavius a long time ago. In some ways he avenged Cicero too, defeating Antony and his she-wolf of a wife. Shortly after my master’s death Octavius visited me. He sought my forgiveness. I said it was not my place to forgive him, but in some ways it was. Caesar confessed how he would carry the burden of Cicero’s death throughout his life, but he hoped it would make him stronger rather than weaker. When he signed other death warrants, it would give him pause. When he enacted legislation, he would ask if Cicero would approve. His library would always have a place for his books… The split between my master and Octavius was perhaps as fateful as the split between Caesar and Pompey, when Julia died. Such personal relationships can and do shape the entire world, for good or ill. Mainly ill, it seems. For once, I thought Octavius was exercising his conscience, rather than his charm, when he spoke with me in private. He seemed genuinely contrite and I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Octavius didn’t have to visit me and offer his condolences. But he did… My master was genuinely fond of the boy, as he was when he first met him. He often imagined he could serve as a mentor to Octavius, as Aristotle had tutored Alexander the Great. Cicero was not one for taking back his words, but he always regretted saying that Octavius should be praised, honoured and disposed of, once he defeated Antony… Your father told me a story of how he visited Octavius one day, and he overheard him talking to a boy in his garden. The youth was reading a book, written by my master. He went to conceal it on seeing Caesar approach, no doubt fearing the great man would disapprove of his choice of text. Caesar saw the book however and perused several pages, before remarking: “An eloquent man, my child, an eloquent man, and a patriot.” I can think of fewer finer epitaphs for my master. Your father also mentioned that there were tears in Octavius’ eyes, when he spoke. So, in answer to your question, I will not be paying Caesar a visit in the middle of the night. I imagine there may well be a queue outside his house, of those with a grievance against him, already.”
There were tears welling in Tiro’s eyes too, when he made his confession - albeit Varro couldn’t quite decide on the cause of his tears. Was he reliving the grief of his master’s passing? Was he crying from shame and the failure of getting caught? A fear of punishment and death? Guilt?
“Does anyone else know of your crime?”
“No. You are the first person I have told. I thought I owed you the truth, Rufus. I came close to telling your father once, about my duty and desire to murder my master’s executioner. It was when I eventually told him about that final, fateful day. I’ve never spoken to you about Cicero’s death. I have sufficiently replayed the scene in private, not to want to air it in public. But you should know. Through the biography I have completed, history will know too… Octavius, Antony and Lepidus formed their triumvirate, carving up the world and signing the death warrant of the Republic. The proscription lists were the first order of business. Apparently, Antony added a name to the list just because he wanted to get his hands on the man’s collection of Corinthian bronze statues. Octavius fought hard for two days to remove Cicero’s name from the list. But not hard enough. Upon hearing the news my master planned to join Brutus in Macedonia. We disembarked but then Cicero made the decision to turn back. He said he experienced a presentiment, that there would be a storm - although I had never known him to be a slave to superstition before. He also argued that if he returned to Rome, he could change Octavius’ mind. “If I could just talk to him. I need only tell him that Julius would have never given a similar order,” he explained. In truth, I believe Cicero was just reluctant to leave centre stage. “I will die in the country I have so often saved,” he pronounced. Yet he resolved to travel down the coast and leave for Macedonia once again. The night before we intended to disembark, Cicero and I enjoyed a meal together. We talked long into the night. He asserted that Rome had been cleaved in two. Its citizens were either sons of Caesar, or sons of Cicero. Or, its citizens were sons of whores or soldiers. His spirit had also been cleaved in two. “The only thing that the two opposing sides can agree on, Tiro, is that they could not cope without you,” he remarked. “My only regret is that I did not set down in writing how much I have to thank you for. You define the meaning of loyalty and friendship” The following day we were apprehended, within touching distance of our vessel. We were tantalisingly close to our freedom. Popilius Laenas led the wolf pack, sent to hunt Cicero down. He was far from the bravest military tribune to ever serve Rome, but he may have been the most sycophantic. His soldiers ambushed us along the shore, as we appeared out of the treeline. Cicero was being carried in his litter. He was reading Medea, by Euripides, at the time. I read the play every year, on the anniversary of his death. I dare say I know the entire text by heart. “Hate is a bottomless cup; I will pour and pour… I understand too much the dreadful act I’m going to commit, but my judgement can’t check my anger… Who can stop grief’s avalanche once it begins to roll?... Death is the only water to wash away this dirt.” Myself and others in our retinue were willing to take up arms against Popilius’ men but Cicero was resigned to his fate. “It’s fine, Tiro,” he calmly stated. “This is one situation where I cannot call upon your service. No one pays his secretary that much. I have witnessed enough bloodshed to last me four lifetimes. Keep your weapons sheathed. At the end, at least, I would like to find some peace.” I will never forget how, after he here spoke, Cicero nodded at me - as if to say that he was ready for death. Or the nod could have been a prompt to remind me to record his last words, for posterity. Perhaps, in the next life, I will be able to ask him and find out. Herennius did not hesitate in carrying out Popilius’ command to execute my master. Indeed, he grinned, almost lasciviously, in response to the task. Cicero extended his head, out of the litter. His face was wrinkled and strewn with sweat and dust. Wisps of grey hair blew in the wind. The sea hissed in the background. Tiredness hung over his expression, like a veil. Yet there was still nobility in his countenance - and soul. “Come here, soldier. There is nothing proper about what you are doing, but at least make sure you cut off my head properly,” he remarked to Herennius, checking and chiding the brute. I imagine Herennius had never encountered someone who met his end with such dignity and humour. He slit his throat. Blood soaked the sand. The image is still branded in my mind’s eye. As per Antony and Fulvia’s instruction, the soldier commenced to hack off my master’s head, so it could be presented to the triumvir as a trophy. I am not quite sure what else to say. I hope you can understand why I thought Herennius deserved to die. Should someone kill Manius, would you not want to avenge his death? I will equally accept any punishment. I fear my walking stick may snap, should I attempt to flee.”
Tiro raised the corner of his mouth in a wan smile. He seemed uncommonly brittle. His skin was like parchment or Varro imagined that, if he touched his old friend, he might turn to ash.
Epilogue.
“Sometimes justice equates to mercy,” Varro argued, as he explained to Tiro how he would not be apprehending his friend. The authorities would remain none the wiser about his crime.
“Your father would have obeyed the law and reported me to the authorities.”
“I am not my father, for good or ill. Rome’s loss can remain Puteoli’s gain,” Varro remarked, thinking how Tiro’s conscience may haunt him now in a different way. Any time spent incarcerated would be tantamount to a death sentence for the old man. He may well be executed, as a punishment to fit the crime. But Varro did not want his friend’s death on his hands.
“How will you explain that you have retrieved the dagger, but not apprehended the murderer?”
“As with one of my poems, I will
make it up as I go along.”
Varro held the golden, bejewelled knife in his hands. It was heavier than he expected. He found himself agreeing with Ovid. It was a shiny yet vulgar object. As spotless as the glowing blade was, the agent looked at the dagger with an expression of distaste or disdain, as though blood was dripping from its tip.
Varro walked the streets of Rome again, trying to provide a semblance of order to his chaotic thoughts. His mind flailed, like a half-severed limb. The idea of virtue seemed even more of a confidence trick than normal. Part of him wanted to descend into the Subura, have the earth swallow him up. Each laboured breath he took resembled a world-weary sigh. Muscles ached in his body, which he didn’t know he had. He craved a cup, or jug, of wine - even if it made his headache worse.
One issue which buzzed around in his headache, like a gadfly, was the mystery concerning the murder of Sestius. There was still a missing piece of the puzzle out there. Tiro had professed to having nothing to do with it. “Ironically, Sestius may have been the victim of a common robbery, the kind that I had intended Herennius’ murder to look like.” Varro was confident there was more to it than that, however. Nerva could well have been behind the killing. Or even Cornelia. Sestius was as much assassinated as murdered too, which meant that Pulcher would remain a key suspect. But Varro judged that Caesar would allow the mystery to remain unsolved, as he would soon possess his coveted trophy.
The temptation was but fleeting, to deliver the knife up to Maecenas. But he could not commit such a dishonourable act. Even if it was a conceit, it was a good conceit. A good lie.
I owe a duty to Agrippa.
Varro was wary of selling what little he had left of his soul to Maecenas. He heeded Tiro’s words, that once one starts down a certain path it is difficult, if not impossible, to find your way back. Varro had scant desire to be in Maecenas’ debt, or have Maecenas be in his. Manius’ advice chimed in his ears too. He needed to trust Lucilla, that she would see through Licinius’ act.
She’s a keen theatre attendee. She can recognise a second-rate performer when she sees one.
He did not want anyone’s help, least of all Maecenas’, in winning Lucilla back. Varro resolved to tell his former wife how he felt. If he lost her, so be it. But the past wasn’t dead. It wasn’t even past.
Agrippa flexed his hand from the strain of replying to various correspondence and looked up to greet his agent. The consul appeared to be his usual sedate, equitable self, as though he hadn’t drawn sweat all afternoon. As though he hadn’t mobilised the Praetorian Guard and ordered an assault on a warehouse or prevented a riot from destroying part of the city. As though his agents hadn’t murdered a tribune and former senator. It was business as usual.
Varro first asked after Manius. Agrippa’s surgeon had tended to his injuries. Manius was back home in bed. The consul had visited him and explained to Camilla that her husband was a hero, having assisted his force of praetorians in quelling an attack on the Jewish quarter.
Agrippa permitted himself a smile when Varro revealed that he had the dagger in his possession. The consul pursed his lips and ruefully shook his head when holding the item in his hand, however.
“All this, for this?”
The agent recounted how, as much as he could have reason to suspect a veritable legion of people, his investigation was leading nowhere. Varro judged that Herennius was the kind of man who would want to keep his riches close. And he was surprised by the lack of valuables he had found during his principle search of the house. His conclusion was that the dagger could still be at the property, hidden away with other valuables.
“When I ventured down to the cellar again, I noticed something strange yet familiar about one of the wine racks. The piece of furniture, similar to something in my own cellar, had a false back. The wine rack was on a hinge. When I pulled it open, I saw an alcove containing the knife. Herennius must have put it back there at some point in the night, before he was murdered. I couldn’t quite believe it.”
“I cannot quite believe it too,” Agrippa replied, arching an eyebrow in scepticism. “If I ask you no questions, you can tell me no lies. You are a spy, after all, Rufus. I must allow you to keep some secrets. The main thing is that Caesar will be pleased. You have completed your assignment. You are beginning to make a name for yourself.”
“I know.”
That’s what I am afraid of.
Varro headed home, ignoring the drizzle peppering his face. The rain freshened and fuelled the acrid stench, which covered the city like a second skin. Despite various issues resting on his mind Varro’s body needed to rest even more, and he quickly fell asleep.
He woke, washed and dressed, whilst fending off some subtle, and not so subtle, advances from Aspasia. Varro then accompanied Fronto in paying a visit to their friend.
Camilla was understandably mired in a state of worry, although she was also visibly proud when recounting how the consul had called at the house and praised Manius as a hero of Rome. “I was tempted to say that next time Rome should find someone else to play the hero,” Camilla remarked. She also expressed relief when the surgeon reported that Manius would not suffer any long-term injuries.
Varro entered the room alone. Viola lay on the bed, her head resting on her master’s shin (which was one of the only parts of his body which wasn’t in pain). The dog hadn’t left his side since he came home, even when Camilla had called out that her dinner was ready.
“I’ve looked better, I imagine,” Manius said, good-humouredly, to his friend. His face was bloody, bruised and swollen. Lumpy. Ironically, he looked like a gladiator after a hard-fought contest.
“I’ve seen you after a hangover. You’ve looked worse,” Varro replied, offering up a smile whilst writhing with sadness and anger on the inside, at witnessing his tortured friend.
“Unfortunately, I may have found a job that’s even more perilous than being your bodyguard,” the agent said, whilst wincing slightly in pain as he shifted his body position on the bed. The hurt he was suffering meant little to the Briton, compared to the hurt he felt at having to deceive his wife. He realised now how much of a double-life he would have to lead. Manius told himself that what Camilla didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. He felt his reasoning was logical, yet somehow rang false. The Briton desisted from cursing his fate - and new profession - entirely though. The lives of Benjamin and countless others had been saved due to his actions. He had paid in blood - and no one could know about his sacrifice - but the price had been worth paying, Manius judged. Publius Carbo’s new kind of politics would not take root, at least until some other vile demagogue picked up his baton.
Varro told his friend about Tiro.
“I have known the man almost all my life. But it seems I may not have known him at all. Some of the things he said, or rather the way he said them, chilled me to the bone. Vengeance, rather than virtue, sustained him. I thought him the best of men. He still could be the best of men… We must keep the truth from Fronto. I do not want him thinking less of his friend… Am I doing the right thing, in letting his crime remain unpunished? I still believe him to be a good man. Perhaps, in a life filled with so many acts of kindness, Tiro is owed some kindness back. Who knows? Duty and truth. I fear I still own more questions than answers. Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is opinion.”
Manius puffed out his cheeks in astonishment, whilst Varro gave his report of the afternoon’s events. The world was as broken as his ribs. If any other man would have accused Tiro of murder, he may not have believed them. At times the Briton looked pained - but it had nothing to do with his physical injuries.
“I’m not sure I have any answers for you either. All I know is that the more I get to know people, the more I love my dog,” Manius half-joked, as he lovingly stroked Viola behind the ear and fed her a treat.
The lamp flickered. The consul yawned. He felt like he could fall asleep on a stone slab, or bed of nails. But he would wait up some more until he reti
red. Not only did Agrippa want to reply to one last letter, but he wanted his wife to fall asleep before he entered the bedchamber. Her augur had decreed it to be one of their nights when they should couple. She liked to keep to his schedule. Even more than for herself, she wanted a child in order to please her uncle. But tonight, as with other nights, Agrippa was not in the mood. If need be, he would explain to his wife that he was suffering from a headache.
Yet the consul was in a good mood. It was far from the noblest sentiment he had ever experienced but Agrippa revelled in Maecenas’ failure, more than even his own success. He grinned, mischievously, as he recalled the message he had sent to his ally earlier in the evening. He pictured Maecenas’ crestfallen expression, indeed he raised the corners of his mouth in correlation to the lowering of his rival’s. He had bested Maecenas, on various fronts. Varro had told Agrippa of Maecenas’ attempt to recruit him as an agent, as well as a poet. All is fair in love and espionage. Varro declared that he wanted to be “honest” with his employer. Honesty was not the most valued trait in his profession. Agrippa had a niggling suspicion that Varro was being honest about his dealings with Maecenas in order to make him more inclined, susceptible, into believing his story about recovering the dagger.
The object lay on his desk. It had seemingly been Herennius’ most prized possession, even over his wife. His greatest trophy. Agrippa remembered how Popilius Laenas commissioned a statue of himself, wearing a wreath, seated beside Cicero’s severed head, after Antony had lauded him and paid a bonus. The act - and work of art - were both monstrosities. Agrippa could no longer smile, thinking about the shameful death of one of Rome’s greatest citizens. Although the politic statesman had been an opponent, Agrippa had always been fond of Cicero. His wit was as sharp as any soldier’s blade. Caecilia had been fond of him too. She was the daughter of Atticus, Cicero’s confidante and friend. “When he dies, a light will go out across the entire empire,” she once remarked. Octavius remembered Cicero with affection as well. Agrippa often noticed his companion reading Cicero’s works. He regularly endowed libraries with his books - or sent copies out to friends as gifts. Agrippa considered it more likely that the garish dagger in front of him would remind Caesar of the guilt he felt at his death, rather than the affection he felt for his old mentor. But perhaps that was the point.
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