“We men are wretched things.”
She was not one to normally fall prey to superstition, but Lucilla felt compelled to play the game once more to divine her fate. She checked for Varro’s dice in the drawer. Whereas before they had remarried, he would carry his lucky dice with him at all times, Varro no longer gambled. Gambling had helped ruin his first marriage. He did not want to bet that he could do so again. Lucilla clutched the ivory dice, spotted with gold, and threw them – trying to remember the system Varro had devised (as if there was some kind of science to the game). She retrieved the correct scroll and ran her finger down the parchment to locate the right passage and words. The tired, distraught woman recoiled, like a hand quickly drawing away from a flame, when she read the requisite line.
“The difficulty is not so great to die for a friend, as to find a friend worth dying for.”
Lucilla thought of her husband - and Manius - and experienced a bleak premonition that, somehow, one of them would not come back from Rome alive. Her legs nearly buckled, as if she were a new-born lamb. The curtain suddenly billowed out from a gust of wind. Some storms don’t involve thunder or lightning. The thrum of crickets in the garden sounded more like locusts. The moon slipped behind a cloud and the sound of laughter, from when Lucilla had first played the game, seemed a world away.
5.
Varro woke, in a sweat. The blast of heat pouring through the window resembled the tongues of flames which had licked his visage in the dream, or nightmare, he had just endured. During the dream he had ridden back home, with Manius and Vulso, to his country villa, his horse snorting and streaked with perspiration. The house was wreathed in fire and belching out smoke. The marble columns and flowerbeds were charred. He heard Lucilla scream from inside and pictured her contorted semblance, melting like wax. He tried to enter the burning building, but the earth was as soft as a bog – and Vulso held him back. When Varro looked to Manius to help him he saw the once towering figure brought to his knees, sobbing like a child as he mourned the death of his wife and baby. Above the sounds of the nightmare Varro heard the shrill laughter of Gaius Maecenas, who sat upon a black mount, with white fetlocks, holding a torch aloft. Varro reached for his sword. But as he went to draw his blade, he found that it was absent and he stood impotent, with just the hilt in his palm.
It was at that point that Varro woke-up, the nightmare visions still branded upon his waking mind. The images were fantastical, but the feelings of grief, desperation and rage were real. Should Maecenas have been in the room, he would have killed him. He was more than just a suspect, he was guilty, in Varro’s mind, of ordering his assassination. The two men had crossed paths a year ago. The spymaster owned enough animus and motive to murder Varro. Crucially, unlike other figures he could suspect of wanting to kill him, Maecenas possessed the resources and intelligence network to know his location and recruit the criminal gang. The lauded patron of the arts, who had championed both Horace and Virgil, had also served as governor of Rome, whilst Octavius was absent from the city during the civil war. Maecenas was a political enforcer for Caesar, who promoted his master’s interest (through bribery or blackmail) whilst weeding out his enemies. He was charming and ruthless in equal measure. He oversaw agents and assassins across the empire, employing them to serve his own interests as much as Rome’s. Rumour had it that he even encouraged his wife to become Caesar’s mistress, in order to gather intelligence on him. As much as Rome’s establishment and elite may have hated Maecenas, they also rightly feared him.
Varro had earned the equestrian’s enmity by embarrassing him last year, through completing an assignment for Caesar, which Maecenas had originally been charged with carrying out. The incident had caused the lieutenant to further fall out of favour with the princeps - while his rival, Agrippa, was granted further honours. The poet had also refused Maecenas’ generous offer of patronage. The former governor of Rome was not accustomed to hearing the word “no”. Despite his cultured manner and veneer of civility, Varro had been a witness to - or a rather victim of - Maecenas’ animus. He possessed the vanity of a peacock, yet the venom of an asp.
We men are wretched things.
Such was the vividness and potency of his nightmare that it somehow served as proof of guilt for Varro. Were the gods presenting him with a prophesy, that Lucilla was going to die? Or were they warning him of danger, so he could prevent a catastrophe? Between saving Lucilla, or damning Maecenas, there was no choice to make, Varro judged.
Kill or be killed.
He plunged his head into a basin of cold water, that a slave had stealthily left in his room earlier. The nobleman dressed himself in a plain, white tunic and put on a pair of comfortable sandals, crafted from softened ox-hide. Varro turned his thoughts towards his imminent meeting with Agrippa. It cast a shadow over his day. He wanted to get the appointment over and done with, like a session with a surgeon to get a tooth pulled. Agrippa had placed Varro in more danger than anyone else he knew, yet there were few men that the agent trusted more. It was difficult for even the consul’s enemies to dismiss his ascent and achievements, as much as the patrician class might look down their aquiline noses at the commoner (although they were doubtless too cowardly to insult him to his face). Caesar may well wear the crown, but Agrippa helped place him on his throne. He recruited his armies, built his navy, constructed his aqueducts, rennervated his temples and defeated his enemies, on land and sea. He fed his people, through managing the grain supply, commissioned his statues and recruited his spies. Unfortunately, Varro was one of the latter.
He yawned and attempted to flatten his unkempt hair as he walked into the triclinium. Varro’s weary eyes widened in surprise slightly as he was met by two lantern-jawed lictors, looking as lugubrious as Germans. Manius, Fronto, Vulso and Agrippa were also sitting on his couches. The mood was sombre, as if somebody had just died. Agrippa rose to his feet. He was wearing a toga, which was rare for the former soldier. Although his stocky figure filled out the mass of finely woven material the garment didn’t quite hang right. He constantly adjusted its folds. Varro also observed that Vulso was out of uniform.
“Either you woke early, or I woke-up late,” Varro remarked.
“Or both happened,” Agrippa replied, his voice somewhat stiffer than his host’s. He then smiled, however, conveying how pleased and relieved he was to see his friend. The smile was wide enough not to appear perfunctory, but not so wide as to seem false or misplaced, given the circumstances of his visit. Varro half-smiled in return. He was happy to see his friend, but less happy to see his employer.
“I hope I am not going to be required to change and don a toga as well. The moths may have feasted on it in my absence,” the nobleman said, as he took in his august guest. Agrippa appeared noticeably older, worn down like a blacksmith’s hammer that had been used too many times. Crow’s-feet perched around his eyes. His hairline had receded and was marbled with grey. Whereas his palms would have once been worn from holding a sword, Varro noticed blisters on his thumb and finger from where the administrator had been gripping his stylus. Yet still his jawline was firm, like the prow of a ship defiant in a storm, and one could discern his soldier’s build beneath the formal attire.
“I have no intention of depriving your moths of their breakfast. I am due to visit the Senate House later, in order to present some legislation and give a speech. I will keep the speech short. With every fourth line a Roman politician utters, he is almost obliged to insert a lie. Therefore, the briefer the oratory, the more honest it will be. If my audience falls asleep, at least I can blame things on the heat. People have labelled this heat “insufferable”. My definition of insufferable involves senators and mimes,” Agrippa drily explained, resisting the temptation to add his wife to the list. “I would ask if you had a good journey, but Vulso briefed me last night. What with you travelling all the way from Arretium, I thought I should at least do you the courtesy of travelling across Rome to see you. We will discuss the events and implications o
f your unexpected encounter soon. But I must first talk about why I have summoned you to Rome. Or rather why Caesar has summoned you to Rome. I did explain to him that you were no longer an active agent, but he insisted that you would come out of retirement. It’s not wise to say “no” to the most powerful man in the world.”
The grass felt soft and cool against his feet as Varro strolled out into the garden, along with Agrippa. Although he had not missed the array of odours that Rome had to offer, Varro found that he had missed the view from his garden. Smoke whorled up from bakeries and tanneries across the seven-hilled city, melting into the ether. The capital was a glorious mix of industry and indolence, virtue and vice. Rome wasn’t all bad. Not all of its one million souls were iniquitous. The air rippled and shimmered from the sultry heat. Rome was man’s greatest feat, which was why it deserved the world’s admiration – and opprobrium.
The irony wasn’t lost on the two men as they sat upon a bench next to a statue of Harpocrates, the Greek god of secrets, silence and confidentiality. Varro fancied that he saw a look of disapproval on the god’s usually impish face – in response to the fact that Agrippa was about to dishonour the concepts of silence, secrets and confidentiality.
“How’s Lucilla keeping? I was glad she was foolish enough to take you back.”
“So was I. She is fine, thank you. She sends her regards,” Varro replied, practising his ability to deceive again. “And how is Marcella?”
“You would do better to ask her soothsayer. She spends more time with him, than me, nowadays. He tends to instruct her on how she should be feeling. Not that I am complaining. It could be worse. She could share her time and feelings with me. I think I used up all my good fortune, in terms of married life, when I wed my first wife,” Agrippa said. At first a wistfulness shaped his features, but then he appeared pained, as he remembered Caecilia. He would have sacrificed, in a heartbeat, all his wealth and power to spend just one more day in her company. The widower told himself he would see her in the next life. Unfortunately, in this life, he had been forced into a pantomime union, by Caesar, for the good of the empire and his bloodline. Although Agrippa remained faithful to his young wife, he probably possessed more affection for his sword or horse than he did Marcella, Varro fancied.
“The gods are not known for being generous with their store of good fortune, which is why we’re encouraged to make our own luck. I fear I may be experiencing a bout of bad luck myself, however. Otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“I wish we could be sitting here just as friends, Rufus. I feel partly to blame for your misfortune. Believe it or not but I have frequently sung your praises to Caesar. You may have sometimes been a reluctant agent, but you were a proficient one. You were an honest spy, if there is such a thing. You never tried to enrich yourself during your assignments - or tell me just what I wanted to hear. Although I must confess, I had my doubts about you initially. It seems a lifetime ago when I first turned-up at your house. You were hungover. The bags under your eyes were so large, they could have carried the dregs of wine you left in your cup from the night before.”
“I’m offended. I would have downed those dregs,” Varro replied, recalling the scene of his first meeting with Agrippa. He initially thought that it was a joke, or dream, when the consul entered his bedroom and ordered him to wake and get dressed. Fear sobered him up, like a bucket of icy water.
“You were over-privileged, over-indulged, over-fed and over-sexed back then.”
“That’s unfair. I wasn’t over-fed.”
“You said that you had risen late due to staying up, to finish composing a poem. Thankfully you became a more accomplished liar, as an agent. Your profession demanded it. You didn’t care about much during those days, including your own welfare.”
“I cared about my apathy. I was passionate about my indifference.”
“Indeed. I had every confidence that you would be able to seduce Cassandra. I had less confidence in your ability to do your duty and succeed on other fronts. But you proved me wrong, Rufus, and maybe you even surprised yourself. Caesar was grateful and impressed. As was I.”
“I am starting to wish that you would revile me and denigrate my talents and achievements,” Varro commented, with little or no irony. His eyes had briefly narrowed – and his features became taut, in a twinge of discomfort – as he heard her name again. He felt guilty that he had seldom thought about Cassandra, since remarrying Lucilla. But the image of her gory corpse haunted his inner eye once more.
“You were warned that you could become a victim of your own success. Caesar has cause to call on you. Last month a young nobleman, Marcus Corvinus, was found murdered in his swimming pool. He had just finished hosting a small party for a circle of friends. The body was found, floating in the bloodstained water, in the morning, by slaves, with a knife wound in the top of the skull. Corvinus had recently returned from studying philosophy at the academy, in Athens. He was a promising poet, apparently. I will let you be the judge of that. Corvinus wasn’t just academically gifted though. He was famously handsome, an accomplished horseman and was planning to serve as an officer in the army. Greatness beckoned, by all accounts. Corvinus was popular, perhaps too popular. He was a victim of his own success too. The would-be Mark Antony was, to put it mildly, amorous. If we start from the supposition that he was murdered by an ex-lover, then we could list half the inhabitants of the Palatine Hill as potential suspects. He could have also been murdered by a cuckolded husband. Such crimes have happened before and will happen again. Corvinus was a nobleman, poet and seducer. Sound familiar? Perhaps he thought he was the heir to your throne, after your abdication.”
Varro raised the corner of his mouth, but barely smiled, and rolled his eyes in response to Agrippa’s joke. He had never been proud of his reputation, which preceded him – or followed him around like a shadow.
“I’m intending to die in my bed, rather than in a pool of blood. My days as a priapic poet are behind me. My future is as a prosaic husband,” Varro replied, thinking how those words would have never passed his lips when he had first met Agrippa.
“The daughters – and mothers – of our patricians were not the only ones to adore Corvinus. His father, Porcius, also doted on him. Porcius was an ally of Julius Caesar and, even before the Battle of Mutina, supported Octavius. He pledged financial and political capital to our side, in periods of both war and peace. Critics of Caesar are quick to highlight instances of him punishing treachery, but they conveniently forget his virtue of rewarding loyalty. Porcius recently wrote to Caesar, imploring him to track down his son’s murderer and bring him to justice. Porcius is a good man. Rome owes him a debt of gratitude, regardless of his relationship with the Octavius. I visited the old man a few days ago. He used to be politically active, host dinner parties for writers and give lectures on philosophy. Now he barely leaves the house. He sits in his wine cellar, tearing out what little hair he has left and mourns his son. He’s the sum of his rage and grief. Even if you are able to identify his son’s killer, I fear Porcius will still be a slither of the man he was.”
“I’m pleased you said if, rather than when, I identify the murderer. I could have more chance of finding an honest Egyptian than apprehending the culprit. Do we have any lines of inquiry? Are there any witnesses or suspects?”
“The good news is that we have a prime suspect. The bad news is that we do not know his whereabouts. A young poet, Felix Plancus, attended the party, but he vanished the next day, after stealing his father’s purse and a few, portable valuables from his home. Innocent people do not usually flee the scene of a crime and then go into hiding.”
“How do we know if he is still in the city?”
“Because he made another appearance at his family home on the Capitoline Hill a few days ago. His mother caught him in her bedroom, liberating the contents of her jewellery box. She reported that he didn’t say a word to her, and quickly retreated out of the window. But she believes her son is innocent and
wants us to find him.”
“Are you absolutely sure of his guilt?”
“Nothing is certain, aside from death and Roman taxes. And you may uncover other suspects. But the sooner you locate Plancus the sooner you will be able to return to Arretium, I warrant. I have posted watchers across the gates of the city, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to escape. If he is able to leave Rome, however, the chances of us apprehending him will be significantly reduced. He will be desperate for money, I imagine. I have a list of a few of his friends, who he may reach out to. Shake the tree. See if any fruit falls. The fate of Rome doesn’t depend on your assignment. But Caesar does want to honour his promise to Porcius. He believes that, having tracked down Herennius’ dagger a year ago, you will be able find Corvinus’ murderer. He also believes you will be duly discreet, during your investigation.”
“Why do I need to be so discreet?”
“Because Caesar’s daughter and stepson were also present on the night of the murder.”
Spies of Rome Omnibus Page 49
