Varro also admired Manius for his good humour, although at present he appeared as overjoyed as someone who had found a piece of mud in a mound of shit. His stubbled jaw was as square as his shoulders, as he gritted his teeth. The agent wished he could offer up some hope to his friend, that he would return in time to be there for the birth of his child. But he felt he would just be offering up lies.
“How’s the Alban?” Varro asked, as Manius glugged down half a cup of wine.
“It’s as dry as an old drab’s –”, Manius remarked, yawning before he could finish his analogy. “Or as dry as your sense of humour.”
“Perhaps we should take some back to Arretium with us. Let’s hope it doesn’t become a vintage before that happens. Am happy to use it as an excuse to send you back too. You don’t have to stay,” Varro remarked, offering his friend a lifeline to see his wife and be there for the birth of his child.
“I know I don’t have to stay. But I will. I wouldn’t want you to get into even more trouble than you’re likely to get involved in already. Camilla understands,” Manius answered, hoping rather than expecting that his wife would forgive him. “She has Lucilla with her there too. She may get even more broody once Camilla has the baby.”
“Aye, I’ve thought about that. We’re still trying to have a child. One doctor said that it may be my fault. Another doctor argued that Lucilla may not be able to become pregnant, given the complications she suffered before,” Varro replied, thinking how the doctors employed as much science in their opinions as a soothsayer when coming to their conclusions. One of the doctors had a runnier nose than Viola, fewer teeth than a jellyfish and a more pronounced stoop than Fronto, Varro recalled. Physician, heal thyself. The doctor charged more for his time than the most expensive courtesan. He recommended all manner of absurd treatments (such as drinking bat’s urine and rubbing snail slime on her stomach) to help his wife conceive. “Lucilla says that she is happy and doesn’t mind not having children. But I know she does mind. As a husband, who lied to his wife throughout his first marriage, I can tell when she is lying to me. Or perhaps my time as an agent has helped me divine the truth. Although, as a spy, we’re encouraged to think that everyone is lying to us, all the time.”
“The gods may provide an answer. Or you can adopt,” Manius suggested, wanting to offer some hope to his friend.
“Perhaps the gods do not want another Rufus Varro out in the world.”
“But they would want another Lucilla.”
“They would indeed, if they’ve got any sense. Which is yet to be proved. But Lucilla will make a good mother. Good enough to hopefully compensate for my copious deficiencies as a father.”
Manius grinned in reply, although rather than his comment Varro thought that his friend was likely smiling at the appearance of his dog. Viola jauntily padded across the lawn. The mongrel leapt up and put her front paws on the nearby table, to check for any possible scraps of food. She then sided up to Manius and leant against his leg.
Varro filled both their cups and downed his own measure immediately.
“How are you bearing up? I imagine you want to get back to Lucilla, as much as I want to see Camilla.”
“Well nobody’s tried to assassinate me today so I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. Although I’m acutely aware that the day isn’t over yet. Agrippa is furnishing me with some of his bodyguards to escort me to the party this evening. Once you’ve finish questioning this Stolo we may have something to celebrate, in the form of knowing the name of the man - or woman - who is trying to kill me. Or if we fail to have something to celebrate, we’ll have accumulated enough sorrows to drown. Either way, we should meet later. I was thinking we could all pay a visit to Bassos at The Golden Lion. He’ll welcome our company and coin. The latter more than the former. But who could blame him for that?”
Manius nodded, and stroked Viola behind the ear. He looked forward to enjoying a drink with his friends later that evening. It would help take his mind of various things. But right now, he wanted to focus on his current assignment. The plan was to abduct and interrogate the guild leader, in order to extract the requisite information. Manius was willing to torture - and kill - Cervidius Stolo tonight, if necessary.
There will be blood.
11.
A wave of noise - the drone of conversation and tintinnabulation of laughter - hit Varro, like a blast of heat from the mouth of a volcano, when he entered the room. His eyes narrowed, wincing, from the cacophony of colour. The dressmakers and dyers of Rome were having a profitable year. There was not a plain, matronly stola in sight. Teeth and gems gleamed. Smooth, burnished flesh glowed in the candlelight. There was almost an unofficial competition taking place as to who could wear the most revealing item of clothing.
Varro surveyed the scene, his nostrils prickling with perfume and incense. The large, square reception room was brimming with people. Sofas lined the walls, where women sat on the laps of groping men. A couple of jugglers weaved their way through the chamber, but the glassy-eyed revellers barely noticed them. Julia’s bodyguards, who Varro had encountered earlier in the day, were now dressed in short skirts, their muscular torsos glistening with oil. They wore black eyeliner and flowers in their hair. Their jaws still jutted out and their expressions remained stony, but they looked ridiculous, emasculated. Dozens of lithe serving girls kept topping up winecups to quench the party’s thirst, like a bucket chain of people trying to extinguish a fire. Erotic paintings and statuary adorned the chamber. A bronze Priapus bared all. By the end of the evening a few guests would hang their cloaks on part of the statue. A painting of Bacchus, with supplicants laying at his feet like a mound of corpses defeated in battle, dominated the wall to Varro’s left. To the right of him the nobleman observed a procession of couples, in various states of inebriation, ascend the stairs, which led to several bedrooms. The scene reminded him of a high-class brothel. Sometimes the women led the men, sometimes the men led the women. Varro grinned when he watched a plump, flushed guest stumble down the staircase, his wig comically askew on his bald head and his breasts jiggling.
Varro didn’t quite know whether to feel amused, or ashamed, as he realised that there were several women in the room who were daughters of mistresses he had slept with over the past ten years. He recalled a few of them. Albina. She proclaimed she loved the poet, with all her heart, after just a week from beginning their affair. Varro responded by saying that he loved the way her braided hair cascaded down her back. Domitia. The wife of the wealthy shipbuilder used to lavish her lover with expensive gifts, which Varro then passed onto his other mistresses to win their favour. The daughter of Balbina was almost the mirror image of her mother. Varro cringed as he remembered their dalliance. Dread, rather than devotion, flooded his being when, lying in bed one night, Balbina announced that she wanted to have a child with Varro. He (just about) feigned enthusiasm for the idea - but spent the next couple of months carefully keeping note of the woman’s cycle, to avoid any accidents.
Varro experienced a sudden presentiment, which tore him away from his reverie - like a slave being dragged through the market with a chain around his neck. His heart stopped and he felt a catch in his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled and, despite the balmy air, a chill ran down his spine. The agent sensed someone linger just beside him. Whereas his unknown adversary had at first used the hammer of Bursa and his brigands to bludgeon him to death, he imagined that the second attempt would involve a lone, professional assassin and a thin blade between his ribs. There was indeed someone next to him. But Varro breathed out, with relief, like steam escaping from a pot, when he heard the familiar and friendly voice.
“I thought you might consider yourself too married to attend this party,” a young man remarked. “Although there are plenty of other married men here. Indeed, they’re attracted to such gatherings - and its hostess - like moths to a flame. Julia mentioned you would be here. What a Caesar wants, a Caesar gets.”
Publius
Ovidius Naso. Ovid. The wine and late nights meant that the poet no longer appeared as fresh-faced as he used to. Varro wasn’t going to criticise him for that. His frame was slender, rather than scrawny. Should wild beasts devour the youth in the arena, they would still feel peckish, Varro fancied. His voice was clear, playful - and his mind was as nimble as a Greek acrobat. His eyes twinkled with mischief - and a mercurial intelligence which could both enlighten and eviscerate. He seemed to have been born with a wry smile on his face, and he often appeared as if he were on the cusp of laughing. Ovid wore a white, laundered tunic, bordered in green, with an ostentatious belt-buckle, in the shape of a harp.
The two men had first encountered one another during Varro’s investigation into the murder of Herennius. The agent was immediately impressed by the adolescent’s coruscating talent. His poetry was witty, lyrical and insightful. Lucilla had mentioned how Ovid reminded her of Varro, when he was younger. Ovid could be scabrous and satirical at one moment, touching and tender the next. Varro championed the budding writer by introducing him to relevant patrons who arranged events, where Ovid could recite his verse. Varro also provided the poet with an open invitation to make use of his extensive library, although the pair made more frequent trips of the nobleman’s wine cellar.
“Evening Ovid. You’re a welcome sight. I was worried I might have to talk to one of my aristocratic tribe or, worse, a beautiful young woman tonight,” Varro replied, whilst deftly stealing a cup of wine off a silver tray, from a passing serving girl. “I am here for business rather than pleasure. I will need you to be discreet, far more discreet than that women over there who seems to be, by accident or design, wearing more of her bosom outside rather than inside her dress.”
Varro proceeded to find a quiet corner and briefed Ovid about his assignment. As the agent suspected, the poet was familiar with all the guests at Corvinus’ party. Varro welcomed any intelligence he could provide him with. Ovid would be honest in his comments. Brutally honest, should the satirist have consumed more than a couple of cups of Massic.
“Rome’s loss is poetry’s gain, given the quality, or lack of quality, of Marcus’ verse. He used to hound me to read and critique his poems. I think we remained friends because I declined to do so. But be aware that it may be envy talking, when I speak about Marcus. He was as handsome as Adonis and had the ability to borrow more money than me as well. We shared a couple of mistresses - and I know they prized the more attractive and affluent suitor over me. Women are only human too, I think. But as wicked as Marcus could sometimes be, he didn’t deserve to die. If you ask me who murdered him, I would have to bet on the favourite. Felix was in love with Marcus, of course. Which is why I can believe he killed him. He felt betrayed, spurned or possessive. Felix might have thought to himself, if I can’t have him then no one can. Love can be poisonous, as well as ambrosial.”
“Has Felix contacted you, to ask for money? You are friends, no?” Varro asked, fishing without expecting to catch anything.
“I would indeed call Felix a friend. He would often write letters to me, but as such he knows better than to ask me for money. The only thing I own are my debts. Anyone who thinks they can make a profit out of poetry should be crucified, upside down – in order to get some blood rushing to their head. Do I know where your chief suspect is? Most poets live in their own little world, but I imagine that Felix has secreted himself in some dank, dark corner of the city until he can raise enough funds to escape.”
Another burst of braying laughter drowned out the noise of intricate flute-playing. Although there was plenty of room between Varro and the marble pillar he stood close to, a fellow guest brushed-up against him when she moved past. The lissom woman smiled, enticingly. Varro smiled in reply, amused. Or bemused. There was a time, even during his first marriage, when Varro would have seduced the woman, whose dimples seemed embedded in her cheeks like gems studding a sculpture. Or he would have let the temptress believe that she was seducing him. But Varro was too faithful, tired or content to conduct any more illicit affairs. Ovid had once asked him why he no longer partook of forbidden fruit, as it was the sweetest fruit after all.
“If you are careful, Lucilla need not know.”
“But I’d know,” Varro replied, knowingly.
Once the woman was out of earshot, although the scent of her moreish perfume lingered, they continued their conversation:
“It seems that Julia, as well as Felix, consider you a friend. Or at the very least she is a keen admirer of your poetry,” Varro asserted, recalling how a couple of mosaics he had seen at the house had quoted lines from the young poet.
“We are ever striving after what is forbidden, and coveting what is denied to us… Love is a kind of warfare.”
“Annoyingly, Julia views me as just a friend. It’s almost a cruel a fate as being an enemy. I would rather she seduce or dominate me – as she does with others. I must be among a select few in this room, of men she hasn’t bedded. Suffice to say I do not feel that special as a result. If you haven’t already noticed, Julia is more like her father than she might prefer to admit. She is a political animal, far more than she is Aphrodite. Many of the guests are scions of Rome’s leading families, optimates and populares. Julia is courting favour, or she is allowing them to court her. I feel like I am but a foot-soldier in love, whilst she is a general. To be chewed up and spat out by her is even an honour. Her youth is part of the prize, but it is also a mask to her wisdom and cunning. Julia is as alluring - and devious - as Cleopatra on her best, or worse, day. She is a rare creature, or some might argue beast, who can call upon the support of the common people in the Subura and the elite in the Forum.”
Varro found himself staring - intrigued rather than bewitched - at the young woman through the shimmering throng. She tossed her head back and emitted a throaty laugh, whilst her fingertips grazed against the bare forearm of the young man she was conversing with. Desire and deference oozed from the youth, like a tongue lolling out the mouth of a dog. She smiled, like Circe enslaving yet another devotee.
“Rome has worshipped far worse deities and mortals,” Varro argued, albeit he had no wish to dwell upon the likes of Sulla, Clodius and Pompey to further his point.
“You should be aware that it might not be Rome’s love Julia yearns for tonight. Rather she may have set her sights on you, as if she were Cupid wielding a bow. I witnessed a telling look in her eye when she mentioned your name earlier,” Ovid remarked, with traces of caution, playfulness and even jealousy in his tone.
“She will be wasting an arrow.”
“By refusing her you may increase her desire even more. We always want what we’re not allowed. Set constraints on a person all you like, but the mind remains adulterous. You cannot regulate desire,” Ovid argued, quoting lines from his own poetry. “Julia will view you as a challenge, or trophy. Did you not lick your lips and gird your lions even more for those women who were difficult to ensnare? Julia may see you as a fortress, that she must besiege. She could starve you out, over time, or capture you by force. You probably do not know about Lucius Melito. Rumour has it - and I have found that there is often a grain a truth in salacious gossip - that Lucius, a happily married man, spurned Julia’s advances. In reply she blackmailed him, threatening to tell her father that he had raped her, if he refused to submit to her. Suffice to say, Lucius is now less happily married.”
Varro heeded Ovid’s warning, but explained how he was not attending the party to further his relationship with Caesar’s daughter. Instead, he wanted to get to know his two possible suspects, Gnaeus Silo and Quintus Trebonius. Ovid picked out Silo. The blustering statesman was standing close to a Nubian sword swallower, who was wearing a couple of phallus-shaped daggers in his belt.
“That’s him. Balding. Beak-nosed. An expression of distaste set, like cement, on his face,” Ovid said, turning his attention away from Silo and towards the delectable morsel to his left. The girl’s dress was so sheer and tight against her figure, the garment see
med like it was painted on. Although his hostess may have only be interested in him for his poetry, that did not mean that Ovid wouldn’t lower his sights and seduce one of Julia’s guests.
Varro took in his suspect. He reminded the agent of a statue on the Capitoline Hill of the general, Gaius Marius, Caesar’s uncle, a bull of a man with a large forehead and short temper. Silo’s ears were uncommonly large - and would crimson when enraged. Certainly, the powerful ex-soldier possessed the strength (as well as the motive and temper) to plunge a knife into the top of Corvinus’ skull. Even if feeling inebriated, or lusty, Varro would have thought twice about seducing Silo’s wife. He was not a man to rile or ridicule. His nostrils seemed perpetually flared in ire, his lips pursed in displeasure. Varro recalled Ovid’s words: “He once flogged a slave half to death for serving him green, instead of black, olives. His hands are reportedly calloused, from overusing his vine stick… Silo can fall into a rage quicker than I can fall into a drunken stupor. I was there at the party when he attacked Marcus. He gnashed his teeth so fiercely that I thought they might drop out. His eyes bulged, like the swell of a pregnant woman’s stomach. Silo wanted to kill Marcus that night, as much as too plus too equals four. The question is, does it all add up that he murdered Marcus on the night of his party?” As tempted as Varro was to introduce himself to Silo, he reined himself in. It would be wiser to question his suspect in a more sedate setting. Given his erratic temperament, he would prefer it if Manius or Vulso were present too. Varro also needed to investigate his alibi first, before he could challenge the senior statesman about it.
Julia made good on her promise, luring Trebonius to the gathering. It was likely Varro could have picked out the self-aggrandising soldier even without Ovid’s assistance. Trebonius had a stiff military bearing, allied to haughty, aristocratic expression. A sharp, hard jaw tapered into a non-existent chin. An upturned nose hung above a thin, humourless mouth. At one point he dipped his finger into a bowl of water and smoothed down his arched, sculptured eyebrows. Trebonius wore a large, silver brooch in the shape of a hawk, or eagle, on his breast. An ornate dagger hung off his hip and the agent couldn’t help but wonder if it was the right size to serve as a candidate for the murder weapon. The nobleman could trace his ancestry back to Tarquin the Proud. But his family had fallen from grace in recent times. A large portion of its wealth had been appropriated. The clan had been on the losing side, during two civil wars, having supported Pompey and Mark Antony. Varro thought the young man had reason to look gaunt and glum. He probably would have expected that, having been invited to the party by Caesar’s daughter, she would have attended to him more. He may have believed that her father had asked Julia to invite him, or he may have hoped to convince her to put in a good word for him to Caesar.
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