Vulso was quick to attack too. He shouted out a command to his horse and Mars reared up, letting out his own species of a war cry. The mount’s front legs flailed out at the enemies closest to him, knocking them to the ground. The praetorian then kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks. Whilst mowing down one enemy Vulso also whipped his sword upwards, slashing an opponent’s face from chin to forehead. The sound of a blood-curdling scream sliced through the valley.
Bursa’s men initially froze, but they didn’t remain slack-jawed for long. Two spearmen rushed Manius. Thankfully they were untrained in throwing the weapon. The Briton took out the closest by throwing a dagger, which hung down from his belt, into the bandit’s breast. The blade scythed through his top ribs. The second assailant was Aulus Strabo. The brawny enforcer jabbed his spear forward. The triangular blade drew blood from the bodyguard’s upper arm, but he dodged inside and buried half his gladius into Strabo’s stomach. The big bastard was dead. But there were still plenty of other bastards to kill.
As much as he had focussed his attention towards his conversation with Bursa, Varro was quick to draw his sword and become a man of action, rather than just words. He deflected a spear thrust from an assailant and then wounded his opponent in the arm, causing him to drop his weapon and retreat, like a scolded dog. Varro picked up the spear and used it to fend off the next attacker, whilst moving closer to the carriage. He realised that Vulso and Macer would win them the fight, if winning the fight was possible. He tasked himself with standing by Macer’s side of the carriage and protecting the archer, as he continued to rain arrows down upon the enemy. He also tasked himself with staying alive.
Bursa’s blood was up. He could no longer consider that his plan was working perfectly. All that mattered now was killing nobleman and getting paid. He had no desire to challenge the praetorian or bodyguard. Whilst Varro was occupied with keeping two men at bay in front of him, Bursa would take the opportunity to outflank the aristocrat. Varro was blindsided. Manius saw the danger but he had his own combatants to deal with. All he could do was call out to his friend. But it would be too late.
Bursa held his sword aloft, ready to bring it down upon Varro, like an executioner’s axe. But it was the stonemason who was cut down. Macer’s arrow entered the top of his brow - and the tip protruded out the back of his neck. Once you cut off the head, the body will fall. Their paymaster was dead. A retreat turned into a rout and a few of the gang were able to disappear back into the woods. Vulso continued to butcher anyone within range. His blade was streaked with blood and gore - and flecked with tiny pieces of bone.
The fight was over. Manius plunged the tip of his spear into the throats of those who were on the ground wounded, as if he were plunging a spade into virgin soil. Either he was being merciful, by putting the injured out of their misery, or vengeful. He noticed a hammer-shaped tattoo on a number of the fallen, suggesting membership of a gang of guild. He flagged the mark up to Vulso, who dismounted from his snorting horse.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult to track down the gang and its leader,” the praetorian argued.
“Will he talk?” Manius asked, his face freckled with spots of blood.
“I’ll cut off his cock before his tongue. He’ll talk.”
Varro, whilst trying to catch his breath, turned to Macer, who had climbed down from the carriage, with the intention of retrieving his arrows.
“You fought well, Titus. I owe you my life. Thank you. How about I start paying you back with a jug of Massic, when we return to Rome?”
The young bowman nodded, enthusiastically, with a wide grin on his perspiring face. Varro couldn’t be sure if the smile was due to the pride he felt at shooting well, or the relief at surviving the bloody encounter.
“You’re as popular as ever it seems,” Manius remarked to his friend. “Who do you suspect wants to kill you?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. It could be anyone who has ever met me - or has had the misfortune to read one of my poems,” Varro replied, trying to make light of the situation. The graver the situation, the glibber he sometimes became. But his hands still trembled, and his breathing was still laboured. The lines from his play poured into his thoughts again, like a poison. He was worried for Manius, as much as himself.
We two must set out on our goodly path,
Even if only one of us returns.
For the prize will be worth the sacrifice.
Should one of us die, then let it be me
My brother.
His natural glibness couldn’t entirely mask his unease. Varro envisioned the scenario of the gang entering his home. He could have been murdered in his sleep, along with Lucilla. Perhaps he could argue that Agrippa’s summons was fortuitous.
Are the gods on my side after all? If they are, then why didn’t they strike down my enemies before they even reached me?
Whether sent by the gods or not, a sheep farmer, who Varro knew, approached the carriage. Acilius Pollio, riding his cart, puffed out his cheeks on witnessing the bloody scene before him. Many a rictus and grimace were fixed on the faces of the contorted corpses. Flies already started to buzz around and land on lips and glistening wounds. Pollio had little time for bandits though. They plagued the lands, like vermin. At least in death they might do some good, by acting as fertilizer, the sanguine farmer considered.
Vulso gave instructions to Pollio to visit the nearby barracks and pass on a wax tablet to its senior officer. The message contained information about their encounter. The corpses needed to be collected and disposed of. Vulso also issued orders, under the authority of Agrippa, to seek out any fugitives, who had escaped through the woods. They would be wearing besmirched tunics, probably carrying weapons and some would have hammer-shaped tattoos on their necks.
Varro asked Pollio to pass on an additional message to the commanding officer at the barracks. He wanted the centurion to provide him with a handful of men, to help guard his house while he was in Rome. In order not to alarm his wife, the soldiers should explain that Varro was paying them to help with building works. During the evenings they should stand sentry, at the front of the house. The nobleman would pay the officer and his men handsomely for their assistance.
“Are you going to Rome then?” Pollio asked, masticating like a cow, with wiry grey hairs sticking out of his ears, nose and chin.
“Yes. Have you ever been yourself, Acilius?” Varro asked.
“No. I’d rather pull out what few teeth I’ve got left in my head than go there. I wouldn’t want to be around all those priests and politicians in the capital. I already have enough manure to deal with as a farmer.”
Varro let out a burst of much-welcomed laughter, before setting-off again on his journey.
4.
Night was drawing in, like a grey-faced widow wrapping a black shawl around her. But the lights of Rome glimmered in the distance, and Milo lit the oil lamp next to him. The faint odours of ordure and sulphur increased as they closed in on the capital.
Varro shifted in his seat uncomfortably and downed another cup of wine. Part of him was still tempted to turn back. He wouldn’t sleep easily until he was with Lucilla again. But he needed to move forward. The real enemy was in Rome, not decomposing just outside Arretium. To protect Lucilla, he had to uncover who hired the gang and, most likely, end them. Vulso had once told him that the rule of the battlefield was kill or be killed. Perhaps the same rule applied to the world of espionage. Although he would have to wait for the answer, the agent kept asking himself whether the assassination attempt on his life was linked to Agrippa’s summons.
In order to distract himself from his needling thoughts, Varro stared out the window - as the carriage creeped slowly forward in the traffic. Despite the fading light he could still make out some of the words engraved on the tombs, which lined the road into the capital.
Ornate scrollwork and quotations from Hesiod and Ennius decorated the marble edifice of one Fulvius Sertorius. The small monument also boldly decla
red, in raised golden lettering,
To a devoted husband and loving father. A good Roman.
Some may have been moved to tears by the simple, touching dedication but Varro was nearly moved to laughter. Sertorius had been a colleague of his father’s, having served as a Roman diplomat. The haughty patrician was certainly devoted to his various mistresses, Varro recalled. His love didn’t extend to all his children too. He expelled one of his sons from his household for wanting to marry a low-born Greek woman. The diplomat also arranged for his youngest daughter to marry a known pederast, in exchange for the husband- to-be granting Sertorius the use of his villa in Pompeii. If being “a good Roman” meant being unfaithful, corrupt and vain then Sertorius could have been called an exemplary Roman, Varro judged.
A more modest tomb, housing both a husband and wife, attracted Varro’s attention, mainly because of the verse inscribed upon it.
One kiss can lead to many more
One day can lead to forever
Two ships can seek out the same shore
In death, as in life, together.
The poetry was not the most accomplished he had ever encountered, although it was far from the worst, given that he owned books by Decimus Bibulus. But the sentiment was sweet and sincere. Varro couldn’t read the names on the tombstone, due to the inky darkness, but he pictured a doting, devoted couple. Their hair was grey, but there was still a glint in their eyes. The husband was politely filling his wife’s winecup before his own. They laughed at their own, private jokes. They could barely remember last week, but scenes from their courtship were vivid. Varro thought that should he die a day after Lucilla, he would die a happy man.
Once inside the walls of the city Vulso veered off towards Agrippa’s residence. Varro promised that he would visit Caesar’s lieutenant in the morning. He was tired and of little use to anyone right now, the spy argued. If Agrippa could not wait to see his agent then he should send a messenger, though he warned Vulso that it might be easier to wake the dead this evening.
Varro and Manius made their way through the half-lit city streets. The smell of garum and wine wafted through windows. Some citizens were making their way home, after making an offering in a temple, before they closed their doors for the night. Some made their way to the taverns, carrying their lucky dice or hoping that their favourite whore would be available. A fair few litters crossed their path as they grew closer to the Palatine Hill. In days gone by the smell of perfume emanating from the litters might intrigue Varro, as to who was inside. As they ascended the Palatine Hill the smell of garum turned to that of red mullet. Besmirched concrete turned to polished marble. Tunics turned into togas, some patterned or embroidered. People didn’t have to watch their step so carefully, for fear of stepping into dung. Instead of the sound of commoners throwing piss out of their windows, one could hear the far more welcome noise of trickling fountains.
Varro surprised himself by how much relief and comfort he felt at being back home, when he walked through the door and entered the triclinium. When Fronto rose to his feet, Varro could hear the old man’s bones click. Perhaps because he had not seen him for six months, where previously he had seen his estate manager every day, Fronto appeared significantly older. His stoop was more pronounced, his skin seemed increasingly liver-spotted. Fronto’s wrinkled, hoary countenance lit-up at seeing his master, however. The estate manager had been a surrogate father to Varro over the years. He had overseen the boy’s education, when Appius Varro had been a distant or largely absent figure in his life. Perhaps Varro would not have been a poet, or now playwright, if not for Fronto helping to instil a love of literature in the youth. The nobleman had also inherited his estate manager’s dry sense of humour. Fronto had missed his master over the past six months. It had proved the longest period of time the two men had spent away from each other. But Fronto had been overjoyed when Varro remarried the love of his life. Living in the countryside had been good for Varro’s soul, and he had found some purpose and success as a writer.
“I see that you are still waiting up for me,” Varro remarked, beaming fondly at his friend, before embracing him.
“Agrippa sent a message to say you were due. Is Lucilla well?”
“She’s fine - and sends her best wishes. I did of course say to her to save her best wishes for someone far more highborn, but she insisted, Varro joked.”
Manius beamed too, observing the food on the table, before embracing the estate manager, who had warmly welcomed the young, foreign gladiator into the household many years ago and made him feel at home. Fronto noticed the bandage on the bodyguard’s arm, covering the wound from earlier, and raised a quizzical, bushy eyebrow.
“It’s nothing. I’m certainly in far better condition than the man who caused the injury. I’ll explain later. I’ll go through what happened, as I go through the feast on the table over there,” the Briton said, licking his lips, as his stomach yearned to be introduced to the plates of squid and lamprey on display.
They heard her first, her claws sounding on the tiled floor as she scampered through the house after hearing the longed-for voices. Viola appeared. Her tail wagged so furiously, it seemed to shift her entire body back and forth. The sweet-natured, adorable mongrel barked and howled in elation (although some of the barks and howls may have been emitted out of a sense of castigation, for Manius having been absent for so long). She leapt up and licked the tip of his stubbled chin. Manius soon got to his knees and then just lay on the floor, whilst she trod over him and licked his hands, arms and face, as if he were made from sausage meat.
“I think she may have missed you,” Varro said, thinking that, even if they had drunk several cups of wine, there was not a soul in Rome happier than Viola this evening.
The three men sat down to eat and caught-up with various pieces of news. What with Varro saving money by not drinking and gambling so much – and not having to pay his divorce settlement anymore – the estate manager reported a sea change in his master’s finances.
“You can afford to be a wastrel again, or invest in modern art,” Fronto drily remarked. “I have placed a set of accounts in your room, should you be interested in perusing them. I have also left a mound of correspondence in your study. As well as receiving written plaudits from your devoted public, I’ve received an ongoing string of visitors daring to knock on our door, intent on seeing you. Mainly actresses. You would think that I wouldn’t grow tired of meeting a host of doe-eyed young women, wearing sheer dresses and offering to sit on a casting couch. But you would be wrong. I’m an old goat rather than a young ram. Would-be poets are also making a pilgrimage to our door. I think I preferred it when people ignored or criticised your writing. Anonymity is like making a tax payment. Once it’s gone you can’t get it back.”
“There’s no need to worry too much. I’ve every confidence that I’ll write a spate of second-rate plays soon and my fame will dissipate, far swifter than it came to fruition.” Varro replied, before popping another stuffed olive in his mouth. “But you must excuse me. I fear I might dissipate, if I do not get some rest. To quote Homer, rather than a second-rate playwright, “There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.” I will leave Manius to fill you in on events.”
Diana prepared some warm milk for her mistress, but Lucilla’s stomach remained unsettled. The late-night arrival of several soldiers confused her. She sensed something was amiss, that she wasn’t being told everything. The officer in charge just reiterated that his men had been ordered to assist with some building work at the house, and that they should billet at the villa too and guard the property, as there were reports of bandits operating in the area.
Despite the balmy evening air, a shiver still ran down Lucilla’s spine. She couldn’t sleep. Instead of goose feathers, she felt as if she was resting on a bed of hot coals. She already desperately missed Varro. The house seemed empty. Lucilla had spent the evening comforting Camilla, as much as she needed comforting herself.
�
��I always pictured Manius being with me, when the baby was born. He can be surprisingly tender and gentle,” Camilla remarked, her eyes red-rimmed from tears.
Lucilla didn’t doubt it. She offered up a prayer for the Briton to be safe, as well as her husband. Without Manius, she probably would have been a widow rather than wife, from during the time when they were first married. She couldn’t ask for a better bodyguard or friend for Varro.
“Manius will return in time for the baby being born, I am sure of it,” Lucilla asserted. For the first time since knowing her, she felt that she was knowingly deceiving her friend. Giving her false hope.
Lucilla buried her head in her pillow and prayed to Hypnos, to deliver her. But her skin prickled, and her imagination continued to torment her as she dwelled upon the demands Agrippa could make of Varro. Caesar’s lieutenant could order her husband to travel to some far-flung land, rife with enemies or disease, in order to assassinate a head of state. He could be told to seduce the wife of a diplomat or senator and to extract intelligence. Both propositions caused Lucilla to shudder, as if she were experiencing physical pain. She couldn’t quite decide which scenario was worse.
Lucilla lit the bronze oil lamp next to her bed. Wishing to spend the dead time of the night more productively, she decided to read. She walked across to the bookcase, on Varro’s side of the room, containing a host of scrolls. She scrunched her toes on the Persian rug that Livia had bought her, as a wedding present. Caesar’s wife still occasionally wrote to her friend. Lucilla had often provided Livia with advice, on financial matters or buying paintings, when the pair of them lived in Rome.
Lucilla perused the tags on the scrolls, which identified the wide selection of books. Literature had been her guide and comfort when she was growing up. Books, rather than sophists or her parents, had educated her – which was probably the cause of why the independent-minded woman was wiser than most. Lucilla wondered whether she should read something engaging, which might help her take her mind off her troubles - or read something dull which might usher her off to sleep. A flicker of a smile briefly animated her elegant features as she took in the row of scrolls containing the works of Homer. Lucilla remembered when Varro first courted her. He introduced the poetry lover to a game he played. Homeric Lots. Varro would roll the dice he carried with him three times, to select the book, passage and line from The Iliad or The Odyssey. The line was then supposed to indicate or predict the roller’s fate. A further flicker of a smile animated her tired features as Lucilla recalled the first time she played the game with Varro, over a jug of wine. She couldn’t help but laugh, along with Varro, as he rolled the dice and read out the all too true line from Homer:
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