Varro told himself that an assassin, or death, wasn’t stalking him. He needed to concentrate on what was before him, rather than anything hidden, or non-existent, in the shadows. The agent turned his attention to the assignment at hand. Although Varro had remained largely impassive during Agrippa’s briefing, the names of Felix Plancus and Marcus Corvinus were familiar to him.
He had encountered Corvinus a couple of years ago, at a party. He was in his late adolescence then, wearing a Pompey-quiff hairstyle, which had somehow become fashionable for the summer. Corvinus had sought Varro out from across the room, impressing upon him how much he enjoyed his poetry – and boasting how he had recently seduced the daughter of their host. His poetry was the soul of mediocrity, but the youth was uncommonly handsome. His features were chiselled, his hair as golden as the gaudy pieces of jewellery he wore. Varro recalled how Corvinus plucked his eyebrows and wore more perfume than all of his mistresses combined. Rumour had it that, in order to insert himself into certain social circles and further his aspirations, Corvinus had prostituted himself out to influential senators and patrons of the arts. Varro recalled a piece of gossip that Maecenas had taken an interest in the young poet. He had even given him the nickname of “Ganymede,” as a result of Corvinus’ habit of handing Maecenas his wine-cup. Could Maecenas be involved in his ex-lover’s death?
Corvinus had a pronounced air of conceit about him. But he was a young man. That’s as it should be. The aristocrat looked down his Roman nose at most things. But that was all too depressingly normal too. Arrogance is almost the birth right of the patrician class. Women were conquests, instead of companions. The more, the merrier. Every woman was fair game, whether a wife or virgin. The philosophy student had read Plato’s The Republic and concluded that he had gold in his soul. He was destined for great things, whether he donned a toga or military breastplate. It was in his blood. Corvinus was entitled to run-up debts which he couldn’t repay, but he knew his father would. He was accustomed to staying out until the early hours of the morning and then summoning his litter bearers to rush across the city and carry him home, while he slept in a pool of vomit. He felt entitled to demand that high-priced prostitutes offer him a discount. And they would grant him one, not because of his prowess as a lover but it would encourage loyalty and repeat business. Agrippa had been right. Corvinus’ behaviour was all too familiar to Varro. It was unsurprising how Corvinus had gravitated towards Caesar’s daughter, or perhaps Julia had been attracted to Corvinus. Life was one long party for the gilded elite. Varro knew, because he had once been one of the partygoers too.
Varro was a little surprised that Plancus was part of their set though. Again, he had encountered the youth a few times over the past couple of years. Plancus was slight, studious. Although his poetry may have aimed to be confident and flamboyant, the poet was diffident and dull. His expression often appeared anguished, or apprehensive - like he was a maltreated dog, expecting to be beaten. Varro remembered another aspect of his personality. Plancus was often desperate to please. Too desperate. During their first conversation the would-be writer offered to work as a copyist for Varro - and attempted to flatter him.
“Your poetry has changed my life,” Plancus enthused, batting his eyelashes.
“Really? I wish it would help change mine,” Varro drolly replied, catching the eye of a serving girl to refill his cup. He also did his best to suppress a yawn of boredom, despite or because of Varro being the topic of conversation.
He recalled attending a dinner party a week later. Plancus was in attendance too. The youth had been asked to give a reading of a few of his poems. It was painful to watch. His hands trembled as he held up the scroll. His voice was reedy, as feeble as his scrawny body. It barely carried to the front of the room, let alone the back of it. Giggles and heckles served as a chorus to the performance. Plancus blushed so much, Varro feared he might catch fire. For once, the satirical nobleman didn’t laugh or mock his fellow poet. Rather he felt sorry for him. Plancus was trying to bare his soul to the world, through his work, and the world was laughing at him. He had some talent as a poet. But not enough. Already Felix may have seen himself as the runt of the litter in his family. He lived in the shadow of his two brothers, who were making names for themselves in the army and Senate House. Unlike the other guests around the table on the night when Corvinus died, Plancus was an awkward, sensitive soul. Who had invited him? And why?
Varro would have once thought that the diffident adolescent was incapable of such a brutal act. But working as a spy had provided him with added insight. Light had been shed on the darker aspects of Man’s make-up. Varro would have once considered that he was incapable of murder himself. Yet he had killed – and on more than one occasion. Anyone with a heartbeat can be prone to a crime of passion.
And what of the crime? Varro re-apprised himself of the events of the fateful night, as reported by Agrippa, before questioning Tiberius. He had no desire to unwittingly offend Caesar’s stepson. Or come across as being ill-informed or unprofessional.
The guests - Julia, Tiberius and Plancus - arrived separately, just after sundown. Julia and Tiberius were accompanied by their bodyguards (former lictors, who had served under Caesar). The bodyguards were instructed to remain in the house whilst the party took place in Corvinus’ garden, which contained a small swimming pool. The group worked its way through several plates of food and more than one jug of wine. The atmosphere was cordial. Laughter, rather than raised or discordant words, could be heard from inside. It was noted that that Corvinus often teased Plancus (by ridiculing his poetry), but apparently the victim of his jokes took things in good humour. Tiberius left first, shortly followed by Plancus. In order to cool off, during the balmy evening, Julia joined Corvinus for a dip in the swimming pool at the end of the night. Julia eventually departed too and Corvinus dismissed his slaves. At some point after that the murderer entered the garden, through the back entrance (which had been left unlocked). Varro asked Agrippa if someone could have slipped through the entrance noiselessly. Agrippa replied that they could. There was no sound or evidence of a struggle between Corvinus and his killer. The body was found face down in the swimming pool at sun-up, by a slave. The water was cloudy red. Corvinus had been murdered by a single blow, from a wide-bladed weapon, in the back of his head. Nothing had been stolen. Was the murder a crime of passion? Or had Corvinus been the victim of a professional assassin?
Varro was now only a couple of streets away from the address Agrippa had given him, for Tiberius. He was conscious of recalling what he knew about Caesar’s stepson, before crossing his threshold. His first memory of Tiberius had to be mined from several years ago. Varro had been part of the crowd, which had witnessed Caesar’s triumph, celebrating his victory at Actium. Rome was, finally, at peace. Sunlight poured through the jubilant streets. Caesar and his entourage showered the adoring mob with coins and foodstuffs. Caesar rode in his chariot, albeit Varro couldn’t remember if there was a figure whispering in his ear, “Remember you are mortal,” like participants in previous triumphs. A serious looking boy was positioned to the left of Caesar, clad in a gold-hemmed tunic. He wore his hair long at the back. The style was synonymous with his Claudian ancestry. Voices from the crowd chanted the boy’s name and encouraged him to wave back but his expression remained imperious. Impervious. Either he was too shy or overwhelmed. Or more likely the haughty boy had no intention of debasing himself and pandering to the mob. In contrast, posted to the right of Caesar (a position considered more prestigious), was Marcellus. Caesar’s nephew didn’t harbour any reservations in relation to responding to the crowd and duly waved his sword in the air. Octavius beamed with paternal pride and affectionately rubbed the boy’s head.
Although Varro had never met Tiberius, Lucilla had. He tried to remember some of her comments:
“Despite meeting him several times I can’t say I know him that well. Like a book of verse by Decimus Bibulus, I thought he was unreadable. Like most aristocrats, he
keeps his emotions under lock and key. He was always polite, but seldom warm… Although Caesar took him in, I imagine that Tiberius still considers himself to be more Claudian than Julian, which of course doesn’t diminish his pride and sense of superiority… Caesar brought Tiberius into his household, after his father died when he was aged nine. I believe Octavius is fond of his stepson, without ever wholly wanting to favour him. Tiberius has always been keen to honour Caesar. But as much as he wants to impress his stepfather, he may be fighting a losing battle… Livia dotes upon him, although Tiberius doesn’t always reciprocate his mother’s adoration. She is always eager to promote his interests, regardless of whether Tiberius sees them as his interests too… He is well-versed in Greek and Roman literature. I know he is a keen patron of public libraries too, donating books and capital… You will not be surprised to hear that Tiberius has tried his hand at writing poetry. He once showed me a couple of his verses. They were traditional, formal in tone, but he is not without some talent… Dare I say it, but I think he was sweet on me at one point. Livia has been conscious of protecting her son from the fairer sex over the years. Perhaps she does not want a rival for his affections, frustrating her ambitions for him.”
Aelius Vulso, who had hung back from the rest of the group to spot any potential assailants or agents following them, quickened his pace and caught up with Varro.
“We’re nearly at the address, are we not?” the soldier asked. “Have you ever met Tiberius before?”
“No. I’m afraid not. Have you?”
“No. I have heard a few reports about him though. He has gained some deserved plaudits as a military tribune. Some noblemen and tribunes hide themselves away, closer to Rome than to the frontline, when they secure their commissions. But Tiberius had been a man of action, apparently, rather than just an administrator, in Spain. He led by example and bloodied his sword. Caesar’s stepson has also gained a reputation for being a hard drinker. Tiberius Claudius Nero earned the title of “Biberius Caldius Mero”. Drinker of hot wine with no water added.”
“There are worse - and catchier - nicknames,” Varro replied, thinking how the gods of irony might strike him down should he start criticising another nobleman for drinking too much.
8.
Varro stood in the tastefully decorated triclinium. The floor was an expansive mosaic – of a Greek, geometric design flecked with gold. Expensively crafted rugs from Persia also covered the floor. A copy, or the original of a painting by Iaia of Cyzicus, dominated one of the walls. The image depicted Achilles mutilating the body of Hector. Varro had always admired the latter over the former, for his heroism in the face of defeat. Hector soldiered on, even though the gods conspired against him. Bookshelves lined all other walls. A bronze bust, of Gaius Claudius (the consul turned dictator), sat proudly on a plinth of Numidian marble in the centre of the room. Gleaming silver plates - filled with oysters and thinly sliced radishes and pears - sat on a glass-topped table. Varro noticed both military maps and astrological charts on the table too, which Tiberius had been studying when he entered. It seems he took an interest in both the heavens and earth. Varro also observed a letter on the table. He recognised the handwriting as Livia’s, from the correspondence Lucilla had received over the years. The agent was unable to read the letter, however, as Livia and her son shared a special cypher.
The two aristocrats sat down on plump-cushioned couches, across from one another. Varro was furnished with a gem-encrusted goblet of wine, by a slave boy. He noticed that the slave did not bother to ask his master if he wanted his wine diluted with water.
“Agrippa trusts you. And I trust Agrippa,” Tiberius said, without ceremony. “Far more than I trust others, who surround my stepfather like piglets suckling upon a teat.”
“Thank you,” Varro replied, uncertain of what he should be grateful for. Despite his tender years, there was a forcefulness to the youth’s tone. He was eager to project his authority and dignity.
“I already know something of you, Rufus Varro. You are a nobleman and poet. You are married to one of the most esteemed women I know. Caesar speaks highly of you too. In a way, such has been the advanced praise of your character, I can only now be disappointed by you,” Tiberius stated, hiding his expression through burying it in his wine cup.
Varro was unsure whether his young host was joking. Military life had bulked-up his figure. His features were lean, hard (in contrast to the rounded cheeks he displayed in the portraits Varro had seen of him; Livia had also commissioned paintings and statues which made her son resemble Caesar). A set of straight, clean teeth were housed in rosebud lips. Tiberius still wore his hair long, in a Claudian style. His toga was as pristine as his teeth, like a freshly wiped wax tablet. His eyes were large, seemingly sucking everything in and dismissing everything simultaneously. There were few things which Tiberius didn’t seem contemptuous of, given the haughty superciliousness in his expression and tone. But Varro considered how the gods of irony might have a fresh excuse to condemn him, should he criticise his fellow aristocrat too much for such an outlook on life. His nose was as long and straight as the Appian Way, the poet mused, the famed road that his Claudian antecedents had built for the glory of Rome (and to provide a major artery for troops to move across the country and quell any uprisings). The pimples on his face gave the impression that Tiberius was a boy trapped in a man’s body. Whether due to his military training or not, Tiberius moved with a stiff gait, as if the toga he wore was wrapped too tight. Tiberius desired to project manliness and authority, but his voice was still somewhat comically that of an adolescent. His chest was as broad as an axe, but his lungs were as narrow as a dagger.
Varro and Tiberius were alone in the triclinium. Agrippa warned his agent beforehand how Tiberius might not want to share the room with commoners, when being interviewed. Manius, Vulso and Macer were asked to wait in a small reception area at the front of the house.
“I dare say I disappoint everyone, sooner or later. I understand that you have been briefed in relation to my visit. Thank you for sparing some time to answer my questions.”
“I am just doing my duty, as any Roman should. Marcus was a dear friend. He had even requested to serve alongside me in Spain. Rome is poorer for his light being prematurely extinguished. Marcus would have added to the glory of the empire, whether serving in the army or Senate House,” Tiberius posited. For once his voice broke a little with grief. Or maybe his throat became dry. Which he remedied with a large mouthful of wine.
“Can you tell me a little bit about the night of the murder?”
“There is not much to tell. Marcus was his charming self, as he hosted a drinks party for a few friends. He certainly didn’t exhibit any signs that someone was intending to kill him.”
“I was told Corvinus exercised his wit and ridiculed Plancus throughout the evening.”
“No more than usual,” Tiberius replied, shrugging.
“And who invited Felix Plancus?”
“Marcus did. I think he liked to keep Felix at hand, like a pet. Or acolyte. Marcus would often mock him and his poetry, but he did so out of affection, not malice. If Felix did murder Marcus – and I have my doubts that he did – I do not believe that the motive was borne from any resentment over a harmless slight or joke.”
“If you do not believe that Plancus is responsible for the crime, why do you think he has gone into hiding?”
“You would have to ask him to find the right answer. But maybe he witnessed the murder and is in fear for his life. Felix possesses a weak, meek character. For him to assault Marcus would be akin to a dove growing talons and attacking a hawk. He is frightened of his own shadow. Felix also adored Marcus, like a dog adores its master. Yet if the trail of evidence points towards him, I appreciate that you must apprehend him. If Felix did kill Marcus, he must be brought to justice. No one should be above the law.”
“Could Plancus and Corvinus have been lovers, rather than just friends?”
“It’s possible. Anyt
hing is possible, where Marcus is concerned. In more than one poem Felix declared his love for Marcus.”
“Sometimes we hurt the ones we love,” Varro argued. “Do you know of anyone else who might have exercised a grudge against Marcus - and have wanted to kill him?”
“Should you have to interview everyone in Rome who would wish injury on Marcus then you will be interviewing suspects till you are in your dotage. Unfortunately, for every lover Marcus collected, he would have collected an enemy too. Or more than one enemy, in the form of a cuckolded husband and spurned mistress. Marcus had more lovers than Zeus. To add insult to injury he would compose satirical verses about his conquests. I understand you were not dissimilar to him, not too long ago,” Tiberius remarked, arching an eyebrow. Although under half his age, the youth acted like he was a father, chastising a son. Varro was tempted to laugh at the boy’s attempt to censure him, but he thought better of it. He suspected Caesar’s stepson was not used to people laughing at him.
An awkward silence hung in the air, like harpist waiting for a fellow musician to play a refrain. Eventually Varro replied:
“Long enough ago, I hope. Any enemies I have nowadays are probably more worried about their hair and teeth falling out, from old age. Or they have lost their wits and forgotten about any offence I caused.”
“Unfortunately, Marcus did have several enemies. Some had a genuine grievance. Some were just envious of him. Should you ask me who you should be investigating, you should not discount Gnaeus Silo as a suspect. They had a public disagreement recently, and Silo vowed to kill Marcus. Apparently, Silo has an alibi, but I will leave it to you to investigate the veracity of that claim. In terms of another suspect, I believe that Quintus Trebonius swore he would take his revenge against Marcus, in recompense for him stealing his army commission. Marcus could win and lose friends on a daily basis. He could charm or condemn in equal measure. He frequently borrowed money, with no intention of paying it back. He could be callous towards his mistresses. He would grow bored - and discard them like a child will throwaway a toy, that no longer amuses him. Marcus was seductive, as well as selfish. But great men should be forgiven for their minor indiscretions. He could captivate an entire room, when he spoke about philosophy or recited a poem. He borrowed so much money, because he was generous towards his friends. Despite his own faithlessness, Marcus engendered loyalty in his close companions. He was brave. Talented. His divine spark burned brightly. He was devoted to his father and wished to honour his family name. Marcus should be mourned, for the hero of Rome he would have been. We should honour him. I am still in a state of solemn grief. But I am angry too. Should his murderer walk into this chamber right now, I would grab my sword and run him through,” Tiberius stated, losing a little of his self-possession. His hand trembled as he reached for his cup again. His eyes moistened with tears as he remembered his friend.
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