Not all things pass. Sometimes I wish I could be a lotus-eater. Sometimes the truth is not worth knowing.
Lies can leave their own form of scars. They just remain unseen, beneath the skin, Varro considered. Secrets can fester or become gangrenous. Philosophers proclaimed that life should involve the pursuit of truth. But falsehoods bind the world together, as much as truth. Lies can be virtuous. Deception can save a marriage, for the good of the children. A lie by a diplomat, regarding a minor clause in a treaty, can cement a peace or trade agreement. A lie, during a political campaign, can secure the election of the worthiest candidate. The truth is far too self-righteous and overrated, Varro half-joked to himself. Yet lies leave scars.
Occasionally, Varro could hear Milo shout out some instructions to his team of horses, and the creatures would whinny in reply, although nothing changed in relation to the uneven ride. Usually the attendant would take it slow along the stone and rut-filled track, but Varro suspected Vulso was setting a brisk pace. Often Varro would drink plenty of barely diluted wine to send him to sleep, or he would stop-off at a tavern or two. He was friendly with many of the landlords between Arretium and Rome - and had been even friendlier towards some of the serving girls before remarrying.
The soft-cushioned seats alleviated some of the jolting movements of the carriage, but they couldn’t alleviate them all. In order to distract himself, from both the uneven ride and his brooding thoughts, Varro re-read a letter, sent to him recently by Gaius Macro. Macro was a former poet and drinking companion. On more than one occasion the rumourmonger had served as an unwitting informer during an assignment. Every month or so he would write to Varro to recount the latest gossip from the capital.
“The trickle is now turning into a foaming torrent, in relation to the rumour that Caesar lies on his death bed in Tarraco. Augustus may not prove to be so divine after all. Livia is by his side as is, tellingly, Marcellus. Caesar may well choose his nephew as his heir. Tiberius is sometimes mentioned in the same breath, but he is in Rome and has not been summoned to be by Caesar’s side. A storm cloud hangs over the future. But surely Augustus will nominate Agrippa as his successor, else he may create a power vacuum. Agrippa has never seemed one to grab power, but nor will he relinquish it to an unproven boy, in the shape of Marcellus… But not even the gods know what will happen, if Caesar passes. Rome has tasted peace and prosperity. There will be no appetite for factionalism and civil war among the people. The Senate House may try to assert itself, to restore the old order, but its bark, or annoying yapping, will be worse than its bite I imagine. The Praetorian Guard – and the majority of the legions – will be loyal to Agrippa. Yet Caesar will eventually want power to pass onto his bloodline. Agrippa may be instructed to transfer his office onto Marcellus, once the time is right. Rumour has it that Caesar is arranging for his nephew to marry his daughter, to secure his dynasty and legacy. If true, Marcellus may well have more difficulty controlling his wife than keeping order across the empire. Julia is gaining quite a reputation, which she seems to be revelling in. She enjoys her wine, as much as Bacchus - and she could tire Priapus out in bed. Yet, despite or because of her love of hedonism, the people have taken to her. She is generous and witty. Crowds cheer her name, when her litter passes through the streets. She smiles and waves back with genuine delight and affection. Julia and her fellow bacchantes are often seen carousing deep into the night - or stumbling home early in the morning. Julia also throws regular parties at her own house (the vestibule hosts a mosaic, which quotes Epicurus: “Pleasure is the beginning and end of living happily”). She even invites commoners. It amuses her to watch members of the aristocracy interact with them. The girl also invites actors, artisans, courtesans and charioteers. People camp outside the house, during the gatherings. Julia sends out food and wine to them. I attended one of the parties last month. There was plenty of flesh on show. Unfortunately, my wife accompanied me. She was dressed up in her finery, but her stony, priggish expression made her resemble the Medusa. I imagine how Caesar cannot be best pleased with his daughter’s indecent, un-Roman behaviour. Perhaps that’s why she does it, to gain his attention. But who would dare censure her, aside from him? Who else can claim to be the daughter of a demi-god? Julia is still to turn sixteen years old I believe, yet she has the love of Rome. The daughter of the First Man of Rome understandably has a bumper crop of friends and suitors. She seems particularly fond of that young poet you took under your wing, Publius Ovidius. Gaius Maecenas recently tried to recruit him to his stable of writers again. Ovidius said no. Maecenas is peeved, believing that you influenced the youth’s decision.
He may also be ruing you declining his offer of patronage – and be envious of your recent success. Audiences are still flocking to your plays and there are a few lines which are even coming into common parlance:
“When you’re going through Hades, keep going… Woman, that was the gods’ second mistake...”
…I desperately need you back in Rome, my friend. My wife is urging us to spend more time together. I can stomach her cooking, but not her conversation. She has also recently nagged me into joining her on shopping trips. She thinks she can compensate for losing her looks through buying a wealth of cosmetics and new clothes. The more money and time I spend on my wife, the less I am able to devote to my mistress. I dearly wish she would take a lover for herself, be someone’s mistress. I would be more than happy for another man to lavish gifts upon her, to save me from doing so. But who would want her as a lover, after they have met her?
…I should warn you that your past transgressions may come back to haunt you when you return. I attended a party the other evening and overheard someone mention your name. It was Livius Galba. He’s baying for your blood, for trying to seduce his wife. I was going to point out to him that you succeeded in seducing Hypatia. He was spitting out more curses than a drab, when damning a customer for leaving without paying. He promised that he would thrash you like a disobedient dog if he saw you though, so perhaps it’s best you remain out of his sight. His bark may well be worse than his bite, however. He is due to leave for the front again soon as well.
Galba is not the only person of note you have upset it seems. Lentulus Nerva has been cursing your name too. He is claiming he has suffered a loss of business, as an advocate, after you dragged him into the investigation, when Herennius was murdered. He also argues that, due to the suspicion surrounding his daughter in her husband’s death, she is now finding it difficult to marry again. I fear you are collecting more enemies than my wife collects shoes, or tedious after-dinner anecdotes.
I should here assert that not everyone in Rome bears a grievance against you. I encountered the actress, Sulpicia, the other evening. I bathed in some reflected glory by knowing you (I’ll accept any kind of glory nowadays). She is keen, to say the least, to perform in your next play. She is willing to audition for you. She can sing, dance and pointed out that she would be happy to show off her other talents, in private. Such was the heat in her eye that I am tempted to become a playwright myself. Although I much prefer riches to fame, so it’s best I remain a property developer.
Decimus Bibulus has released his new collection of verse. He still has the uncommon ability to use ten words, when one, or none, will suffice. His similes are as stale as the bread served in the Subura. Even the lines he plagiarises are forgettable. Women will use the book as a sleeping draught. But perhaps I am being too harsh. Or not harsh enough. His father has of course arranged to purchase a legion of copies. Every household will have a copy by their fire. Once they read the book however, every household will toss their copy into the flames.”
Varro took a break from reading Macro’s letter and glanced across at Manius, sitting opposite. As much as the former gladiator could appear brutal and fearsome when engaged in combat, his usual expression was open and good-natured. It was far more good-natured than his own, the nobleman fancied. An amused, or mocking, look was often plastered on his own countenance. Or, before he
had remarried, Varro could appear a picture of melancholy. He had been a poet, after all.
Yet the Briton’s brow was now knitted in pensiveness, or fretfulness, as he ran a sharpening stone along his blade. Varro thought how, for once, his friend looked old. He wondered how much his own experiences as an agent had aged him over the past couple of years. Thankfully Lucilla made him feel young, alive, again. Varro shared his companion’s anxiety, however. He mentioned, when they set off, how they were journeying into the unknown:
“Perhaps we should have paid a haruspex to sacrifice a bird for us and read its entrails, to divine our fate.”
“Or we should have paid a haruspex to roast us a bird, so as to have something to eat,” Manius replied, regretting the scant amount of food they had brought for the trip.
The bodyguard stopped sharpening his sword. Both men forced a smile.
“There are worse fates than travelling back to Rome. At least you will get to see Viola again,” Varro remarked, whilst failing to mention how much he had missed her too. Even the melancholiest of poets couldn’t be unhappy in the ebullient dog’s company.
“Aye, they’ll be some sunshine pouring through the clouds,” Manius said, his smile becoming genuine as he thought of the black and white mongrel, who was being looked after by his friend’s estate manager, Fronto. The dog had been a stray, rescued from the streets. But somehow, equally, the dog had saved the Briton, who sometimes felt like a stray in the capital. “I also need to re-engage with my business and pupils.”
“Without you, I fear that some of your students may accidentally slice their feet off or poke their eyes out. Of course, what you should be teaching the scions of our senatorial class, should they wish to become statesmen too, is how to stab a rival in the back.”
“You could be in Rome again already, given your cynicism. Politicians can’t be all bad.”
“I am sure that there are some good eggs, amongst the rotten ones. I have just never encountered any. Self-interest and dishonour seem to be as much a part of them as skin and bone. But perhaps I am being too unfair. One should never discuss politics when sober. Agrippa has the safety of Rome and its best interests at heart. Or the safety of Caesar and his best interests at heart. Doubtless, Agrippa would dutifully argue that they were one in the same thing. Thankfully, we’re used to riding towards the unknown. It wouldn’t quite be the same, if we knew what was going on,” Varro said, philosophically.
Manius raised a corner of his mouth and nodded, whilst sheathing his sharpened sword.
He would have cause to draw it again soon, however.
3.
Vulso suspected something was amiss, as soon as he spotted the sideways pointing wagon, blocking the road. The wagoner waved to the soldier, beckoning him to approach and assist him. He pointed to the far side of the vehicle and exclaimed that his wheel was broken.
Milo slowed the carriage to a halt.
The praetorian gripped his sword. He was about to instruct Milo to ride on, around the obstruction – but it was too late. Over a dozen men swarmed out from the treeline, which flanked the right side of the track. They carried an array of weaponry (spears, knives and cudgels) and let out a garbled war-cry. At the same time a brace of archers appeared from behind the wagon and immediately aimed their bows at the mounted soldier. Vulso turned to the skittish Macer and, holding up the palm of his hand, ordered him to stand down.
The soldier took in the group of bandits, as they formed a horseshoe around him and the carriage. Tough, leathery visages were fixed upon him. Some offered up toothless smirks, and some snarled. They wore faded tunics, marked with all manner of stains (wine, oil, blood) and their weapons were mottled with rust. They were a vicious, but ill-disciplined, rabble, Vulso surmised. Violence was a way of life, as valid (or more valid) as any other. A number of them darted glances towards the figure, sitting on the wagon, who propagated the ruse. Vulso surmised that he was the leader of the brigands.
Syrus Bursa stepped down from the wagon. His nose was flat, broken and red, from a lifetime spent drinking and brawling in taverns. His hair and beard were slick and shiny with grease. His build was stocky and muscular, like a fighting dog’s. Unlike the others, his shoes and tunic were of a good quality – and he also carried a sword. Bursa had worn a friendly expression on his face when calling for the soldier’s assistance a moment ago, but he now scowled like a jilted lover. When he saw the nobleman, along with his bodyguard, step down from the carriage he pointed his sword at his target.
“Are you Rufus Varro?” he exclaimed; his voice as rough as cheap parchment. The sentence was as much a statement as a question. Bursa served as an enforcer for a stonemason’s guild in Rome. His instructions, given to him by Cervidius Stolo, the leader of the guild, had been to recruit a group of trusted men – and rob and murder the nobleman, at his villa in Arretium. The money he was being paid was good. Bursa had additional motivation. The client, who had approached Stolo, mentioned that Varro had been involved in the murder of Publius Carbo. The enforcer had been an ardent follower of the demagogue, sharing his hatred towards Jews. Upon witnessing the expensive carriage from a distance, which he had been told about during a briefing for the assignment, Bursa decided to arrange an ambush. The surprise attack had worked perfectly. The mounted praetorian was at the mercy of his archers. The old man and boyish soldier, sitting on the carriage, posed little or no threat. The same could not be said for the nobleman’s bodyguard. He had been briefed about the former gladiator beforehand. “He is not to be underestimated. Others have underestimated him in the past, and have the scars to prove it,” Stolo had warned, passing on the client’s advice.
Vulso realised the group surrounding them were assassins, as opposed to brigands. They were surrounded, like his father had been, serving under Julius Caesar at Alesia. It was either fight - or die. While their leader directed his attention towards Varro, Vulso caught Macer’s eye. With the subtlest shift of his head and eyes he indicated to the archer that he should take out the enemy bowmen first. But not yet. Now was not the time to strike. Macer nodded in reply, acknowledging the order, as he wiped his perspiring palms against his tunic.
“Speaking,” Varro replied, equitably, his tone unashamedly aristocratic. “Who am I addressing?”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re a dead man walking,” Bursa said, smirking. The enforcer was already envisioning getting paid - and spending the money on women and settling his gambling debts.
“Aren’t we all? Can I ask who paid you to come here?” Varro asked, trying to solve the mystery of the confrontation, whilst surveying the men and weaponry around him. Vulso and Manius wouldn’t surrender without a fight.
“You can ask, but I don’t have an answer for you. I never met the man who ordered your death. He did say that he was happy for you to suffer, before we killed you, though.”
A few of the men, who heard Bursa’s comment, sniggered. One of which was a hulking thug, with a lazy eye and pock-marked skin, who glowered at Manius. Challenging him. Goading him. Aulus Strabo had a face that you wouldn’t want to encounter on a dark night, or during the day either. Even if you punched him several times, he couldn’t get any uglier. He was a big bastard. But he would soon be a dead bastard, the Briton thought. The key to victory would be Macer, Manius calculated. If the young bowmen could take out the opposing archers, before they could cut down Vulso, then they had a chance. He hoped the youth had been bloodied, and he had shot more than just training targets before.
“I am not sure how much you’re getting paid, but I would be willing to pay double your fee, if you would do me the courtesy of not brutally murdering us,” the aristocratic posed, the soul of civility - albeit Varro kept a hand clasped around his sword as he spoke. He wondered, could the attack be linked to his impending assignment in Rome? Thoughts swirled around in his mind, like fireflies slipping through his fingers. But he couldn’t be distracted too much by the issue of who was pulling the strings behind the scenes. He could fi
gure that out afterwards. If there was an afterwards.
“I would kill you for nothing, to avenge the death of Publius Carbo. He would have created a new, better Rome for the people. Jews would have been banished and the workers would have united under one banner. A new order would have been established, built on the ashes of the old. But rumour has it you took that future away, by executing Carbo. Did you kill him?” Bursa asked, his face balled up like a fist, his heart thumping with malice.
“Yes. And my only regret is that I only got to kill him once,” Varro replied, calmly and drily, his eyes flitting to the side, in order to measure who might attack him first from the group.
“You think you’re funny. But I intend to cut the smile from your face. If you submit to your fate without a fight, however, I will allow your companions to go free.”
“Let’s hope that you are an even worse assassin, that you are a liar.”
The tension in the air congealed. Both sides awaited an order, like a crowd waiting for a chariot race or boxing bout to start.
A couple of the thugs near Vulso closed in. But the soldier welcomed the encroachment. They were now in range. He also noted how the two archers, who had had been assigned to train their weapons on him, had lowered their bows. One had even un-nocked his arrow. Now was the time to strike.
“Macer. Engage!” Vulso bellowed, his stentorian voice carrying through the valley.
The archer reacted immediately. He grabbed his bow - whilst springing to his feet – and nocked an arrow in one fluid movement. His arm bulged. His chest expanded. The string bit into his fingers for a second, before Macer unleashed the arrow and it thudded into his enemy’s sternum. If he hadn’t been bloodied before, he was now. The second archer in Bursa’s gang hesitated and fumbled, trying to re-position the shaft on his weapon. There’s the quick and the dead. The stonemason was the latter. Macer aimed for the brigand’s heart, but the arrow buried itself in his bearded throat. Blood spat out and splattered upon the ground.
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