Thankfully Ovid knew the young officer - and was not devoid of gossip about him.
“He calls himself the “new Scipio,” although it’s telling that no one else grants him that title. He was keen to secure a commission in Spain in order to catch Caesar’s eye to advance his career in the army. He was understandably put out when, at the last moment, his promotion was rescinded, and Marcus was offered his prized commission. Trebonius has now been ordered to serve in some distant backwater called Tomis. He was close to putting himself on the map. Most maps don’t even include Tomis. I would prefer to be banished to Hades. It’s more populated, closer to Rome and its habitants know how to have a good time. Julia offered up a juicy titbit of gossip, which she said came from Marcus’ lips himself, during some pillow talk,” Ovid remarked. The two men leaned in towards each other, as the poet lowered his voice. “Apparently, it was Gaius Maecenas who fixed things so that Marcus secured the commission in Spain, in order to spy on Tiberius. By getting close to Tiberius, perhaps he hopes to get closer to Caesar again too. Maecenas is the kind of man to hedge his bets and ingratiate himself with both Marcellus and Tiberius - and ride two horses, in preparation for when Caesar proves himself more man than god.”
Maecenas.
12.
Aelius Vulso had spent time in less salubrious establishments, compared to The Silver Anchor, over the years. He just couldn’t remember them right now. The tavern was located close to the river, a stone’s throw away from the docks, within a warren of backstreets. The praetorian sat with Manius on a table in the corner, with some food and a jug of acetum in front of them. The bread was hard enough to hammer a nail into the wall with and the unspecified meat in the stew was tougher - and less tasty - than his leather boots. The wine was acidic enough to strip the enamel from one’s teeth. But no one complained. You get what you pay for.
A fair few of the customers had turned to scrutinise Vulso and Manius when they entered, but no more or less so than they would have done for any strangers. Fronto had provided them with a couple of old tunics, belonging to slaves at the house, so they blended in. The two men had also rehearsed a back story, of being dockers from Brundisium searching for work in the capital, should they have to engage with anyone. Unsurprisingly, no one was eager to accost the inhospitable looking soldier and ex-gladiator, however.
Manius couldn’t quite decide which was more overpowering, the smell of rancid garum or fresh shit. His eyes briefly flitted around the tavern. The beams above were cracked and the floorboards were warped. A few rusty anchors and yellowing shark jaws decorated the walls, along with an array of damp patches. The wealth of cobwebs strewn across the room seemed to be the only thing still holding the place together. Every now and then Manius heard the unedifying noise of someone sniff and/or spit. The Silver Anchor was old, weathered and piss-soaked – much like most of its custom. The patrons were mainly dockers and sailors, although the Briton also noticed a few figures with hammer-shaped tattoos on their necks, which suggested that it was a regular drinking haunt for Stolo’s stonemason’s guild too. The Briton was briefly attracted by the sight of two bleary-eyed sots playing dice in the corner. The first man was so scarred it appeared as if his face had been carved up and sewn back together again. The second had a facial tic, which increased in virulence as the stakes grew higher during their game. The dice resembled spheres more than cubes from overuse. Occasionally Manius heard snippets of ribald conversation and cackling laughter from the two men (what conversation he could hear, through their guttural accents and slurred speech).
A couple of serving women, twenty years past their prime, worked the tables in the tavern. Their feet were as worn as their expressions. When they were finished for the night, they would offer themselves, at a competitive price, to any willing patron. The owner had converted a cupboard upstairs into a small bedchamber. One of the women had been cruelly nicknamed Polyphemus, due to only having one working eye, and the other was called Venus – in a spirit of sarcasm rather than flattery. The former walked with a slight limp and the latter spoke with a slight sibilance, from missing a few front teeth. You get what you pay for. Manius fancied that they had glowered into the jug earlier, as an explanation to why the milk had curdled.
The Briton hadn’t turned up in order to sample the food or company at the tavern, however. He ground his teeth in determination and gripped his winecup firmly, in preparation for clasping his cudgel later. Although he wouldn’t enjoy torturing Stolo, he had no qualms about doing so. Manius needed the name of the man who had tried to kill his friend - and he would be willing to prise it out of him, as if he were cutting out an arrowhead lodged in a wounded soldier’s chest.
Caesar may have been the First Man of Rome but Cervidius Stolo considered himself the First Man of The Silver Anchor. The stonemason sat at a table on the mezzanine floor of the establishment, looking down upon the rest of the tavern. It appeared that he didn’t have to suffer the same menu as other patrons. Despite his advancing years, Stolo had retained a brawny figure, through the physical exertion of his profession. His leathery countenance was shiny with grease from where he had recently devoured a plate of sausages. His large, shovel-like hands dripped with gold rings, studded with tiny rubies and amethysts. They were worn as weapons, as well as for decoration and status, having shredded the faces of his adversaries over the years. A few friends, or attendants, sat next to him on the sole table on the floor. Stolo dominated the conversation and often barked out orders. His rasping voice was as rough as the bare brick wall behind the table. A puffy-eyed young prostitute leaned into him and occasionally nibbled on his ear or placed a hand between his legs. In reply Stolo would squeeze the girl’s breasts and enthusiastically slap her rump. When he offered an opinion on any and everything his companions would nod sagely in agreement – and when he cracked a joke it was to a regimental refrain of laughter. Clearly, he was in good spirits. Clearly, he hadn’t heard word back that the assassination attempt on their latest target had failed - and that Bursa would no longer be able to pay his guild membership fees.
Before setting out for the evening one of Agrippa’s agents had briefed Manius and Vulso on Stolo’s life - and crimes. It was during the turbulent time of Clodius and his period of mob rule when the apprentice stonemason first got a taste for violence and power. Rumour has it that he liked to torture and kill people using his stonemason’s hammer and chisel, Agrippa’s agent reported. Stolo worked his way up through the guild, through force and bribery, to lead the organisation. The guild recruited from other professions. There was strength in numbers, he believed. “The workers of the world should unite,” was one of his recruitment slogans. As well as looking after the interest of his guild members, Stolo was diligent in looking after his own interests. A taste for violence and power was accompanied by a taste for some of the finer things in life. But they needed paying for. And crime paid. Stonemasonry was just one of the concerns of Stolo’s guild. Politicians would employ the gang to support them at rallies or have them break-up the rallies of their opponents (the guild had strong ties to the demagogue Publius Carbo, and its members were part of the force which planned to raid and destroy the Jewish quarter in the city). The gang was responsible for an ongoing scheme of larceny – as they pilfered from docks, ships and warehouses and then sold on the stolen goods. Stolo was also brazen in using his army of enforcers to intimidate and extort protection money from small businesses in the territory he operated in. If shop owners or tradesmen failed to pay, they would suffer a beating - or their place of work would be burned down. The guild leader had also been known to fulfil unwritten contracts to rough-up, or kill, designated persons. “Business is business,” he would argue, matter-of-factly. “If I don’t do the things I do, somebody else will. And they’re unlikely to give me a share of their profits.”
Manius and Vulso had met with another of Agrippa’s agents, Vindex, a couple of streets away from the The Silver Anchor. Vindex described what Stolo looked like. Nobody
wanted to abduct and torture the wrong man. Vindex grinned wolfishly whilst saying, “Not again.” They went through the plan once more. It wasn’t fool proof. But it would suffice, hopefully.
Stolo stretched, belched and, half-drunk, made his way downstairs, slapping the arse of the young whore once more. The gang leader yawned cum roared as he headed out to the courtyard to relieve himself in the iron trough outside. There was no reason to think there was anything suspicious or untoward when the two strangers made their way outside too, if indeed any of Stolo’s companions noticed. Their weapons were concealed beneath their cloaks.
The courtyard was ill-lit, due to the parsimonious owner of the tavern wanting to save on lamp oil. More than half the establishment’s patrons missed the trough at some point when relieving themselves. The thick, pungent odour of urine filled the air, like a morning mist. The smell would have made customers retch, if they were not so inured to it.
Vulso wiped the perspiration from his palms and glanced upwards, to witness the silhouette of Macer on the adjacent rooftop, ready to nock an arrow should any of Stolo’s confederates enter the fray. The praetorian proceeded to walk towards the latrine at the rear of the courtyard, where his target was standing.
Stolo turned to the stranger, who approached him on his right.
“Wine goes through you quicker than you think, eh?” the stonemason posited.
“Aye, but it’s a blessing. Better out than in, given the swill I’ve drunk tonight,” Vulso replied.
Stolo’s grin quickly turned into a stricken grimace, as Manius came up behind the guild leader in his blind spot and punched him in the right kidney, knocking the wind out of him. Confusion flooded Stolo’s being, before terror overwhelmed him. The Briton wrapped a powerful arm around Stolo’s neck and placed a hand over his greasy mouth. During his training as a gladiator, a Greek wrestler had taught Manius a special way with which to choke and immobilise an opponent. Stolo initially struggled and flailed, attempting to kick the trough over, but soon lost consciousness and his body grew limp as a rain-drenched leaf.
Manius grabbed Stolo and dragged him along the courtyard towards the exit in the corner. Vulso drew his sword and walked backwards, keeping an eye out for anyone who might come through the door of the tavern. Thankfully the alleyway at the back of The Silver Anchor was dark and deserted. Vindex was waiting for them on at the end of the alleyway, along with a litter and several praetorians, dressed as litter bearers. Stolo was bundled inside. His hands and feet were tied up and mouth gagged, as if he were a bound suckling pig, ready to be feasted upon.
Once Stolo was secure inside the litter Vulso and Manius shared a look and puffed out their cheeks in relief. There was no sign of a struggle back at the courtyard. Even if they suspected that their leader had been abducted there was nothing they could do about it. Back at The Silver Anchor his companions were surprised by his absence, but not alarmed. They were more concerned with instructing the owner that Stolo would be paying for their drinks for the night. The buxom prostitute was content too, as Stolo had paid for her time up front.
13.
Varro welcomed the cool breeze brush against his flushed skin. Crickets chirruped in the bushes below, seemingly enjoying their own party or complaining about the raucous noise from the revellers inside. The moon slipped in and out of view, behind dappled clouds, like a trickster palming a glinting coin.
The nobleman decided to take some air and stood on the balcony. Ovid had slinked away, like the rear of a Gaulish army. Varro suspected that the priapic poet had spotted an ex-lover and wanted to avoid them. Or he had observed a prospective new mistress and was preparing to launch a fresh campaign. Varro wryly smiled as he remembered something the poet said, when pointing out one of the female guests:
“That’s Galla over there. She’s renowned for experimenting with various cosmetics to help her keep looking young. She led the craze for the noblewomen of Rome to smother their brows in axle grease, to help prevent wrinkles. Her latest treatment involves smearing her cheeks with crocodile excrement to lighten her complexion. She gets, quite literally, shit-faced every night.”
Silo and Trebonius had both absconded too, but Varro was determined to catch-up with them over the next couple of days. As much as they would want to bar their doors to the agent, they would not want to refuse to cooperate with someone acting for Caesar. Questions needed to be answered.
Varro barely gave Silo and Trebonius a second thought, however, since Ovid had mentioned Maecenas’ name. The searing image of the political agent, from his nightmare, plagued his inner eye again. A theory began to take shape in the agent’s mind, like a potter moulding clay. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that Maecenas was behind Corvinus’ death. Corvinus could have become a liability, as opposed to an asset. If Corvinus had been indiscreet with Julia, it was likely that he had been indiscreet with others. The spymaster could not afford for Caesar to find out that Corvinus was intending to spy on him, through his stepson or otherwise. Corvinus’ secrets, and ability to compromise Maecenas, would have perished with him. Dead men can’t testify. It wouldn’t have been the first time Maecenas had employed a professional assassin to carry out a murder too, Varro considered.
A further thought started to form in the playwright’s mind, as if the two strands of a plot were joining together. If Maecenas had gained advanced knowledge that Caesar was commissioning him to investigate the murder, it was feasible the spymaster could have had the opportunity to employ Stolo to eliminate the agent, before he could uncover the truth.
Varro heard footsteps behind him on the balcony. As softly as they sounded, he didn’t experience any premonition that an assassin was about to strike. Rather he smelled Julia’s musky perfume. Caesar’s daughter had watched Varro stroll out onto the balcony, unaccompanied. She asked an attendant to fetch her favourite silk gown. Before she walked outside Julia also instructed her bodyguards to stand sentry at the door and prevent any other guests from disturbing her.
“Great minds think alike. I often come to this spot to think, or empty my mind,” Julia breezily remarked, unable and unwilling to suppress her delight at seeing the nobleman. It wasn’t just the wine in her stomach which stirred her desire. She wanted him - and wanted him to want her. She wanted him to see her as a woman, an experienced lover, rather than a capricious girl. Julia had checked her appearance in a mirror, before venturing outside. She moistened her ruby lips, adjusted her fringe and untwisted the necklace, made of gold and pearls, which hung down, just above the swell of her breasts. “Did you have an opportunity to meet Gnaeus and Quintus?”
Varro turned, making sure he only half-smiled. He didn’t want to over encourage the girl, to lead her on – or have her think that she could lead him on.
“Unfortunately not. Or fortunately not.”
“I saw them arrive. Thankfully I saw them leave, before I could play the hostess and engage with them. I am sure that if either of them are guilty, you will get your man. My father speaks highly of you, which is rare. My father also says that you are in credit with him in terms of favours, which is even rarer. Usually it’s the case that people are indebted to him. He once asked my advice in relation to sending you - and Lucilla - a gift. You could of course consider me a gift and unwrap me right now. You would just need to tug on this, and all will be revealed,” Julia suggested, as she clasped one end of the belt fastened around her gown, dyed imperial purple.
It wasn’t the first time that a wine-fuelled young woman had stood before Varro and offered to disrobe. Irritation, rather than temptation, shaped his mood though. Whether Caesar’s daughter was game-playing or offering herself in earnest, he didn’t want to pull upon any cord and see things unravel. Nor did he wish to offend Julia by beating a hasty retreat. He just needed to change the course of the conversation.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“If the question is the one I’m hoping for, the answer is yes.”
Again, Varro thought it best to
gently ignore Julia’s coquetry and advances. He pictured Lucilla, like reciting a prayer to ward off an evil spirit.
“Did Marcus Corvinus reveal that he was working for Gaius Maecenas? And that Maecenas organised his commission in Spain, on condition that he spy on Tiberius and your father?”
Julia removed her hand from her belt and let out a short sigh of frustration, or tedium, before replying:
“He did. Marcus mentioned it as a boast, but I think it was to his shame that he was willing to act like a lapdog for Maecenas and exploit his friendship with Tiberius. He made me promise that I wouldn’t inform my father or Tiberius – and, as much as some people may sneer behind my back that I am without honour, I like to keep my promises. But I didn’t promise Marcus that I wouldn’t tell Ovid, or you. Ovid is a very fond of you, as you may already be aware. He made me even curiouser about meeting you. He once said that you were one of only a few people in Rome he wouldn’t satirise, because you were too self-deprecating already. I think he wants to be you - but with the readership of Horace and Virgil,” Julia half-joked, as she sat down on a bench facing Varro and crossed her legs, revealing her bare thigh. “Please, come sit down next to me Rufus. I promise not to bite, unless you want me to.”
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