“And what of Felix Plancus? Was he a friend or lover of the victim?”
“He was both. Or perhaps their relationship was more like deity and supplicant. Sometimes Felix would just stare at his idol, doe eyed. He would always be ready to fill his winecup or lend him money. He would be the first and last person to applaud Marcus when he recited one of his second or third- rate poems. I think Felix even enjoyed it somewhat when his master ridiculed him. At least it meant that his hero was then paying attention to him. Felix was unhealthily obsessed with Marcus. Obsession can be wonderfully comic to an outside observer. Yet zealots can be dangerous too. Marcus may have created a monster – and then the monster turned on its creator and slew him. I find it difficult to believe that Felix is guilty, however. He is guilty of writing some turgid verse, certainly. Felix always stressed how much pain he went through, baring his soul, when composing his poetry. If only he knew how painful it was to listen to his verse.”
The cat has claws, Varro thought to himself. He didn’t have the time to interrogate the merits of Plancus’ poetry, however.
“It seems that Corvinus had plenty of other enemies, who could serve as suspects. Are you familiar with Gnaeus Silo?”
“Yes, but thankfully not too familiar. I understand Marcus slept with his wife, Marilla, recently and Silo didn’t take kindly to his behaviour. The two rams butted heads. I’m bemused as to why people think monogamy can work - or be fun. Even the gods are unfaithful. Should we not look to imitate the gods? You will not find any fidelity in nature, either. Silo may not display the greatest endurance as a lover, but he does possess the stamina to hold a grudge. Gnaeus has an alibi for the night of the murder. He could probably purchase half a dozen more, if called upon to do so. Rumour has it that he has also employed the advocate, Lentulus Nerva, to assist him should he have to answer further questions in relation to the crime. As much as Nerva is known for taking on the guilty, his clients tend to walk free.”
“I spoke to your stepbrother and he mentioned that a Quintus Trebonius nursed a grievance against Corvinus too. Is that right?” Varro asked, noting her comments about Silo. It would be difficult to prise a confession out of the statesman, given Nerva’s potential involvement, but he would cross or fall off that bridge when he came to it.
“Marcus generated grievances, as goats churn out milk. His sins were as countless as the stars. One of Rome’s favourite sons was far from universally loved. But what did you think of one of Rome’s other favourite sons, my ebullient stepbrother? I’ve seen marble busts of Cato smile more, and one is more likely to hear the sound of a unicorn farting, as opposed to laughter, in his household. I feel sorry for Tiberius though. He can do no wrong in the eyes of a mother, who he cares little for. And yet he can never entirely satisfy my father, who he desperately desires the approval and admiration of. I must confess, I haven’t seen Tiberius since the night of the murder. From reading Plato’s Republic, he concluded that he had gold in his soul – and therefore shouldn’t react to anything. He was taciturn on the night of the party, and I can’t imagine he is garrulous now. I still can’t quite decide whether he revered or reviled Marcus,” Julia said, before yawning. “Excuse me. I had a late night. I was courted by a trio of suitors. I think I can still remember the names of two of them. They tripped over themselves to fall at my feet. They puffed themselves up and tried to deflate one another. I was their moon or muse. They flattered me but, more enjoyably, they amused me – and not in the way they intended. They showered me with gifts, which I will pass on to my slaves. Or I will shower the people with them, when I am next passing through the city in my litter. I’m all too happy to keep the dressmakers and jewellers of Rome in business, although I fear I am responsible for inspiring too much uninspiring poetry. Their words failed to warm my heart, but the parchment will help fuel the fire this winter. I’m just joking. Or am I?”
Her voice was sometimes sultry, sometimes sarcastic. Varro thought the girl was akin to a restless frog, jumping from one subject and mood to another, in the blink of an eye.
“You are developing a reputation yourself it seems, Julia. Take it from someone who knows though, it’s a lot easier to gain a reputation than to lose one,” Varro warned, hoping that he was coming across as sincere rather than sanctimonious. The girl’s soul was burning brightly, but she could also burn out.
“I like you Rufus Varro. You are one of the few men I know who I would prefer to laugh with, rather than at. I would love to get you into bed for the quality of the pillow talk, as well as to assess your prowess as a lover. I have a confession to make. I became a little fascinated with you, around a year ago, when I first started to read your poetry. I saw you as a kindred spirit. We are all alone in the world. But I felt less alone in the world when I read your satires. You know that a desire fulfilled is a desire negated. But that shouldn’t dissuade us from pursuing further desires. As dull as Horace has become, I agree with him when he says that we should seize the day and suck the marrow out of life. I adored that you never cared about what anyone thought of you. You rebelled against your father and your class, like Prometheus against the gods,” Julia said, impassioned. She had now swivelled her legs around, off the sofa, and was leaning forward intently.
“You shouldn’t believe everything a poet writes. Myself, or Horace too. I think I even once wrote that I was “a truth-teller”. I am surprised that an advocate didn’t sue me for fraud. As much as you may have been fascinated with Rufus Varro the poet, I am just Rufus Varro the man now. Or Rufus Varro the husband,” he replied, thinking how much he would soon like to become Rufus Varro the father. For Lucilla’s sake, as much as his.
“I always thought Lucilla to be a lucky woman, although she was clever enough to make her own luck. When she used to visit my stepmother, I thought her beautiful, so much so that I should have envied and despised her. But she made me laugh, and sometimes brought me books to read. I also remember a piece of advice she gave me. When people tell you to be cautious, be bold. And when people tell you to be bold, be cautious.”
Varro smiled, appreciatively. The agent pictured his wife. The image was bittersweet.
“That sounds like Lucilla.”
“Please pass on my regards to her, when you next see her.”
“I will.”
“If you also pass on my regards to Marcus. My father’s closest friend is one of the only men who I could ever marry, because I know that he would never wholly love me back. His heart belongs to another – and not his wife. Well, not his current wife. I might have praised infidelity earlier, but I admire Marcus for staying faithful to Caecilia. He stands in stark contrast to my father, who may well preach the virtues of being a good husband and father. But he does not practise what he preaches. The only thing he remains faithful to is inconstancy. Yet given who he is married to, I cannot altogether condemn him. If you were married to Livia, would you not seek solace in the arms of another woman? Livia is more likely to whisper poison, than sweet nothings, into a man’s ear. Or whisper incessant words of praise for her precious son, Tiberius. She is more likely to bore you to sleep, faster than any sleeping drug can work its magic.”
In the same way that Tiberius had looked like he was chewing a wasp, when he mentioned his stepsister or Marcellus, Varro noticed how a sour expression came over Julia when she mentioned her stepmother.
“I will pass on your regards to Marcus too.”
“Thank you,” the girl replied, warmly rather than flirtatiously, and then yawned. “I won’t have any need of a sleeping draught myself, it seems. I need to get some beauty sleep, not least because I am hosting a party this evening. I must insist that you attend. You will be welcome to bring your companions. Particularly Manius, of course. I may try and seduce you too. I will instruct Herminia to keep filling your winecup, so I can take advantage of you. Unless you would like to take advantage of me. Some of Rome’s finest families will be attending, but do not let that put you off. I will even send out invites to Gnaeus Si
lo and Quintus Trebonius, to further tempt you. What do you say?” the girl asked, her eyes bulging and gleaming. Ripe or overripe. Amused and dictatorial at the same time. There were queens who were less used to getting their own way, Varro fancied.
“Be bold, Julia. Be bold.”
10.
Varro asked Caesar’s daughter a few more questions, before he took his leave. Her perfume was making him a little nauseous and he craved the “fresh” air of Rome. Julia mentioned she had no idea where Felix could be hiding, although even if she did, she might be hesitant in revealing his location.
“I could be condemning an innocent man to death, and my family already has enough blood on its hands… You said that my father asked you to investigate who murdered Marcus, in order to honour his friendship with Porcius Corvinus? You should know that my father does little out of the goodness of his heart. He’s a political animal. He possesses ulterior motives, as you and I possess vintage wines in our cellars. I have been told that Porcius promised my father a significant donation and use of his gladiators, to help Marcellus stage some games to boost his popularity with the people. But now Porcius will only agree do so if his son’s murderer is brought to justice.”
A blast of dirty, vermilion heat hit Varro as he entered the street. The heavy, bracketed door slammed loudly behind him. He wasn’t sure if the imposing entrance was meant to keep people out or trap them inside. The paving stones were worn smooth, perhaps from the constant traffic of party guests and would-be suitors calling at the house.
“So, what did she reveal? That wasn’t already on show,” Manius half-joked to his friend, before letting out a burp. His belt, fastened around his tunic, began to cut into hips a little from the food and wine he had consumed, along with his other companions.
“Not much, at most.”
Varro sighed, like a man who had lost his sword but found a rusty dagger. He still didn’t know if Corvinus was murdered by Felix, a professional assassin or another one of the victim’s numerous enemies. He still couldn’t confirm Silo’s alibi. He was no closer to finding Plancus. No closer to going home.
Motes of dust hung in the air, like insects, as Varro sat in his study. Slashes of light cut through the slats in the shutters on the windows. He gulped down another cup of water. The cool liquid ran down his parched throat, like a stream running through a desert. Although Fronto had placed freshly cut flowers in the room the musty smell of parchment still pervaded the air. Varro flexed his hand and read over the contents of his letter to Lucilla.
“Rome is much as I remember it, I’m sorry to say. I’m missing you and the quiet life even more than I expected. I doubt if even Odysseus missed Penelope this much. The definition of Hades is other people. And Rome is full of people. A small consolation has been seeing Fronto again. He is much as I remember him, I’m pleased to say. His body may be drying out, like a date in the sun, but he still has a knowing glint in his eye. The house is in good order, as is the garden. The roses you planted are in bloom.
So, why was I summoned to the capital? I have been asked (if asked means ordered), by Caesar no less, to investigate the murder of one Marcus Corvinus. Unfortunately, Corvinus had more enemies than Decimus Bibulus has lines of poetry which don’t rhyme properly. The one bright spot is that there is a chief suspect, Felix Plancus, whose fleeing of the scene would suggest he is guilty. I am hoping that the gods will smile on me and we will find Plancus quickly - and he will confess to the crime. I do not wish to bore you with the details of the murder here (you can look forward to me doing so when I get back) but should you somehow know of Corvinus or Plancus then I would welcome your thoughts, concerning their characters.
Our journey to Rome was eventful, but again I will tell you more about it when I return.
Being an agent has reminded me why I no longer wish to be an agent. My heart isn’t in it. But a heart is one of the last things an agent should possess in this game. Aye, it often feels like a game – a game that you can only lose, in one way or another. I feel like I’m scrabbling around in a mudheap, searching for a piece of shit. My investigation so far has only taken me to the heights of the Palatine, as opposed to the bowels of the Subura. Today I encountered both Caesar’s stepson and daughter. I’m moving up in the world, unfortunately.
I first met Tiberius. He’s half boy, half military tribune – and all Claudian. I can’t quite decide whether to consider him more or less than the sum of his parts. He seems keen to follow Caesar’s orders, but he’s only human – and far keener to give out orders. Tiberius mentioned how he was fond of you, but take it from someone who knows, it’s not always a blessing to have a Caesar hold you in high esteem.
I next met Julia. I remember you saying how she was a shy, intelligent girl, that her friends and tutors were vetted by her father. Livia also ensured that certain Roman virtues (whatever they are) were instilled in her. But you argued that sooner or later Julia would realise she was a Caesar. A law unto herself. Suffice to say, shy would be one of the last words to describe the girl now. She is mercurially intelligent, however. I couldn’t quite decide whether she was being genuine or glib at times. Perhaps I deserve to get a taste of my own medicine. But Julia has broken free of her cage – and she is now a man-eater. I worry that her licentious behaviour is a way for her to attract her father’s attention. She may regret it when she finally does.
But I have devoted enough of my attention to the Caesars for one day. How are you? And how is Camilla? I hope that the baby will wait for his father to return before he, or she, makes their entrance. Given the drear state of the world, I’m not sure how eager I would be to come into it.”
Varro suffered a rare bout of writer’s block, as he deliberated what to write, or what not to write, in relation to the issue of when he would be travelling back to Arretium. He pictured Camilla asking Lucilla about their due date, as soon as the letter arrived. Varro shifted in his chair, uncomfortably, as he re-read the line about telling his wife that his journey to Rome had been eventful. He told himself that he wasn’t lying. But he felt as dishonest as a priest.
Each breath was akin to a sigh. The agent craved something stronger than water as he started to tally-up how much additional time he would require, to complete the investigation. He would arrange to pay a visit to Silo and Trebonius. He wanted to visit the scene of the crime too, in order to paint a clearer picture of events. As awkward as it would doubtless be, he would interview the parents of the victim and possible culprit.
Varro was about to bury his head in his hands, when he was distracted by an attendant entering. Agrippa and his agent had been trading messages throughout the afternoon. There was a chink of light and some potential good news. Agrippa had obtained some intelligence on the location of Cervidius Stolo, the guild leader of the men, branded with hammer-shaped tattoos, who had attempted to murder Varro. They also revealed the name of his lieutenant, Bursa, who had led the band of brigands. Frustratingly, Agrippa ordered that Manius and Vulso should take charge of apprehending Stolo. While they were doing so his agent would accept the invitation to attend Julia’s party this evening. Hopefully Silo and Trebonius would be present too. Wine might lubricate one of their tongues, Agrippa argued, although Varro was more interested in wine lubricating his own tongue first.
Varro initially heard the sound of the blade scraping across the sharpening stone, before he saw the silhouette of Manius, sitting on a chair in the garden. The Briton had a habit of ritually sharpening his sword whenever he was anxious. He had always done so before a gladiatorial bout. Varro recalled how he often did so too when he first courted Camilla, fearful as he was that her father would find out about their relationship and forbid his daughter from seeing the lowly, foreign bodyguard.
Manius stared out across the city. Smoke melted into the Stygian night. A breeze hissed through the nearby cypress tree. People looked like shades, lemures - as though the tombs of the necropolis, the city of the dead outside Rome’s walls, had opened its gates.
> Varro sat down in silence next to his friend. The only sounds that could be heard were that of wine sloshing into a cup, and a blade being sharpened. The two men had spent many an afternoon and evening in the garden, sharing a joke and a jug of Massic. Varro took a sidelong glance at his companion. The Briton’s expression reminded Varro of when Manius had first entered the household, after his father had bought the gladiator’s freedom. The youth was suspicious of the aristocrat’s generosity and kindness. His freedom and new life were surely too good to be true. Apprehension was etched into his features, like tiny scars. His eyes regularly darted around the rooms he entered, perhaps searching for potential weapons or exits. The habit would prove useful, for being a bodyguard and spy.
Manius had initially been wary of the young nobleman in the house, and rightly so. Varro treated the foreigner with thinly veiled disdain or pronounced indifference. He didn’t want to give the impression that the feral Briton was his equal, or a rival. The aristocrat would speak to his father’s pet as if he were a slave. Yet, with time and Fronto’s encouragement, Varro got to know and like the ex-gladiator. His affection understandably increased for the Briton after Manius prevented all manner of drunks and aggrieved gamblers from beating him to a pulp. If not for his friend, he may well have shared the same fate as Marcus Corvinus – and been murdered by a cuckold or spurned lover. Varro now considered his bodyguard the bravest and most honourable man he knew.
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