Agrippa heard his wife outside his study, admonishing a slave for not bowing to a statue of Fortuna in the hallway. The unctuous astrologist, Toranius, had advised Marcella to encourage her staff to worship the god in order to win favour with the deity. Agrippa rolled his eyes so much it appeared at one point as if he might be staring at the back of his head. He was worried that his wife might be about to check on him, to ask him to come to bed and sleep with her - out of a duty to provide a child for the glory of her family and Rome. Agrippa was just about to rest his head on his arms, on his desk, to pretend to be asleep, when he realised that her querulous voice was receding. He felt like offering up a prayer to Fortuna as a thank you.
A strong gust of wind squeezed through the shutters and extinguished one of the candles on his desk. He didn’t interpret the incident as a sign that he should retire for the night. Instead he used another candle to reignite the dormant one – and worked on. Before composing a reply, he read over the letter from Caesar again. The good news was that Caesar was recovering. Some were probably already writing their eulogies, but they were wasting their time. The vultures had no need to circle. Over the years Caesar had been accused of possessing a weak constitution (or he was adept at pretending to be ill, especially on the eve of battle), but he was hardier than they thought. Agrippa was relieved, for more than one reason. A body needs a head, a ship needs a captain and Rome needs a Caesar, even if his name was Agrippa. Out of a sense of duty, rather than ambition, Agrippa would have become the First Man of Rome if his friend passed. But he would have done so reluctantly. His gentle, internal sigh of relief could be heard from Hades and Elysium. The letter did not just concern itself with the subject of his friend’s health, however.
“…Please keep me abreast of how Rufus Varro is progressing with his investigation. By finding Plancus, he will be also be solving the crime and we can communicate the good news to Porcius Corvinus. The son of Appius Varro is more like his father than he might think. He is shrewd and tenacious. He is a keen judge of people, in that he thinks little of them. Ironically, people trust him and still unburden themselves. Our spy has an honest face it seems. Perhaps he will discover things about Julia and Tiberius that I’m unaware of, albeit I might prefer not to know. There are some secrets that I’m happy to remain so.
Julia has refused to reply to my previous two letters. By all accounts she is behaving like a dog in heat - and needs a leash. My warning shots across her bow are failing as deterrents. If she was anyone else, she would have received one warning shot, at most. I will not be ignored or defied. People may applaud her for her generosity and gregariousness, but Julia cannot continue to bring our name into disrepute. Caesar’s daughter must be beyond suspicion, or reproach. I am the First Man of Rome. She must appreciate she is part of the first family of Rome – and act as an example to Roman citizens across the empire. She must uphold the traditional Roman values of the Senate House, not the standards of a whore in the Subura.
Once I have regained my strength and returned to Rome, I will arrange for Julia to marry Marcellus. Rome will celebrate the union. We will increase the grain dole for the month and put on various spectacles in the arenas. Marcellus can be the one to put her on a leash. Pregnancy will slow her down and motherhood will temper her excesses.
You would think I would be tired of fighting a losing battle, in relation to our seemingly endless campaign in Spain. But I will subjugate my enemies in Spain, as well as my daughter. Caesar must be Caesar. Our enemy in Spain used to be Hydra-headed. You killed one man to have him replaced by two. Each hiding behind the next tree, carrying a blade. But we will burn down the forests if required, to flush them out and secure victory. Dare I say it, but the tide has already turned. Our enemies are the ones realising that they are fighting a losing battle. Thanks must go to Marcellus. He is learning his trade – and a Caesar’s trade is war. Tiberius has performed admirably too. Although I am wary of mentioning him more in dispatches, lest the praise goes to his head and he overshadows Marcellus.
How is Marcella? As much as I must reprimand my daughter for her flightiness, you have earned your infidelities. A mistress would do you the world of good. Adulterous affairs have certainly saved my marriage. Do as I do, not as I say in official proclamations. I can of course recommend a number of women who know how to be discreet and indiscreet in the right measure. Some of their husbands might even be honoured that you would choose to take their wife as a mistress. By keeping their spouses occupied, they will also have greater freedom to conduct their own affairs. Surely the most tempting dish to sample will be Terentia? You can screw both her and Maecenas at the same time. I dare say he might be willing to pimp out his wife to you though, as he did for me. You can, like me, feed Terentia false information to take back to Maecenas and let him sweat and squirm over nothing.
…I almost long for a time when all we needed to worry about was civil war, famine and insolvency…”
Agrippa was just about to compose his response to the letter when one of his attendants entered, announcing that he had a visitor.
“Who is it?” Agrippa asked, vexed a little that someone was calling at such a late hour.
“Gaius Maecenas.”
Manius had sent word to Varro that they were drinking in The Golden Lion. The message provided the agent with the perfect excuse to extricate himself from the party. Half a dozen praetorians accompanied Varro as he descended into the Subura to rub shoulders with a different class of thieves and debauchees.
Bassos greeted Varro warmly when he entered, his chuckles chiming like a purse clinking together, and showed the nobleman to his party. Varro was pleasantly surprised by how busy the tavern was – and that the landlord was so hale and hearty.
“You are looking well and are in good spirits, Bassos.”
“I had a stroke of good fortune, since we last met. My wife died. She clutched her chest one evening and her heart stopped beating. I always thought that she would die through choking on her own bile. At least it proved that she had a heart, which some people doubted. She was queen of the harpies, sourer than the cheap acetum she forced me to sell. Every morning I woke up next to a nightmare. As you know, she disapproved of me drinking. She also banned me from sampling my girls. But I am my own man again. I’ve made changes to the business, which have worked. I may even open another tavern. Or a brothel. I now wake up to a dream. I can vouch for the charms of my girls. My patrons have even nicknamed me the “Merry Widower”. I told myself when I got married, that it was the happiest day of my life. But I know better now, that the happiest day of my life was when the harridan died,” the roseate landlord exclaimed, like a man whose prayers had been answered. He noted a couple of well-dressed, middle-aged customers enter – and ogle his girls. Bassos politely excused himself and greeted his new patrons. He would be able to negotiate up his prices, he thought, licking his lips as much as his guests. Fools and their money are easily parted.
“We found Stolo,” Vulso remarked to Varro, as the latter took a seat around the table and poured himself a large measure of wine. “If someone wants to find him now, they’ll have to take a deep breath and search at the bottom of the Tiber.”
“Stolo gave us a name,” Manius said, his features puckered, as if the Briton wished he hadn’t uncovered the truth. “Licinius Pulcher.”
Varro reacted to the name like it was a bad smell. Pulcher. The rival agent had worked under the aegis of Gaius Maecenas. The handsome aristocrat had served as his lover, as well as his spy and assassin. Like Varro, Pulcher was often employed to seduce women and gather intelligence on Rome’s enemies. It was a coin toss as to whether the initial rivalry between the agents was borne from them being too similar or too different to one another. Pulcher first made a name for himself through seducing a Vestal Virgin, and gaining access to Mark Antony’s will, which was used against him by Caesar in the propaganda war. A veneer of civility and charm masked a vicious heart. Pulcher was one of Maecenas’ most effective assassins,
Agrippa reported. “He’s adept at using poison or a blade. Maecenas directs his man like a ballista bolt, and then unleashes him.” But Maecenas had cut ties with Pulcher last year. The agent failed in his assignment to locate Herennius’ dagger, after his murder. Pulcher had also failed to seduce and marry Lucilla, in order to intercept her correspondence with Livia. Spurned and resentful, Pulcher abandoned Rome, to lick his wounds. He had cause to blame Varro for ruining both his professional and personal life. Varro had embarrassed Pulcher by locating Herennius’ dagger. Maecenas’ agent had also developed genuine feelings for Lucilla, during his assignment to seduce her. Yet she had returned to her first husband, who had wronged her during their first marriage. Did Pulcher still carry a torch for Lucilla? Had Bursa been given orders to spare her, as well as kill him? Varro used to joke that he had a lot to thank his rival for. If it wasn’t for Pulcher then Varro might not have been prompted to re-declare his love for Lucilla. “The man who nearly married my wife unwittingly played Cupid.”
Varro recalled a throwaway piece of gossip in a letter from Gaius Macro, a couple of months ago. His friend reported that Pulcher had returned to Rome, after inheriting his wealthy uncle’s estate. The aristocrat was now a plutocrat as well - and was on the hunt for a wife and an entrance into politics. He clearly possessed the means and motive to hunt down Varro.
Manius couldn’t help but observe the anxiety etched in his companion’s expression. Varro briefly raised his head to the heavens, as if offering up a prayer – or checking to see if the Sword of Damocles was hanging over him. He tried to put on a brave face, but the mask slipped. Both men knew Pulcher would strike again, if unchecked. The bodyguard wanted to reassure his friend that all would be well. That they now knew their adversary was to their advantage.
“Don’t worry Rufus, we’ll find him. Pulcher doesn’t know it yet, but he’s a dead man.”
Agrippa placed a blank piece of parchment over Caesar’s letter to him before Maecenas entered. His guest had the morals of a snake and eyes of a hawk. In an instant he seemed to take in the positions of Rome and its enemies, displayed on the map across the wall to his left. Maecenas also took in his rival, wearing a plain tunic. For a plain man. The two men had known each other for so long, Maecenas could never quite remember the initial grievance he had against him. Yet certain differences seemed irreconcilable. They would always be chalk and cheese. Maecenas was urbane, cultured. The equestrian preferred the company of poets. Power was an end in itself. Agrippa had been brought up in the countryside, a rural backwater. He had just been lucky enough that the young Octavius had lived in the backwater too, as a child. His life would have come to nothing, if not for his friendship with Caesar. Although Maecenas could have made the argument, that Caesar would not be Caesar if not for his friendship with Agrippa. But Maecenas was reluctant to grant him any such praise in public. Agrippa preferred the company of soldiers, to poets and politicians. Power was a consequence of doing his duty. Although the two men were aware that Caesar played them off each other - employing the stratagem of divide and conquer - they still willingly played along. When the three men were together Maecenas would deliberately engage Caesar in conversations about poetry and philosophy, in an attempt to belittle Agrippa and exclude him. Yet often, out of sympathy for his friend or to amuse himself, Caesar would reminisce with Agrippa about past military campaigns, ousting Maecenas from the discussion.
The silver thread lining Maecenas’ tunic - which was bordered in a colour close to but distinct from imperial purple - glinted in the candlelight. A few hairs were out of place on his oiled scalp, which could well presage that the world was about to end, Agrippa thought to himself. Maecenas strode into the room with purpose, a little breathless for once. Perspiring, for once. Fraught, for once.
“Thank you for seeing me, Marcus. Although after I have spoken you may wish that your attendant would have barred my entry,” he half-joked, unconvincingly. Sheepish rather than waspish.
Maecenas proceeded to explain how his former agent, Licinius Pulcher, had returned to Rome, with the intention of murdering Rufus Varro.
“Licinius is no longer himself. His wits have been addled, like some tragic hero being punished by the gods. We had dinner a month ago. I initially thought he might want to meet, in order to ask that I recruit him again. But he spent most of the evening railing against Varro. Licinius declared his love for Varro’s wife, Lucilla - arguing that Varro had poisoned her mind against him… Licinius asked me if I wanted to see Varro dead. I was firm in expressing my opposition to the idea. Unfortunately, I underestimated his passion and determination to punish Varro. After I had any opportunity to stop Licinius, he arranged to have Varro assassinated, hiring a criminal gang to travel to his villa in Arretium. I have a letter in my possession, which will provide evidence to both condemn Licinius and exonerate me from any wrongdoing. Thankfully the assassination attempt failed. But I imagine Licinius’ blood is still as hot as the pyre which consumed Dido. He still poses a threat to Varro’s life,” Maecenas remarked, feigning concern for the welfare of Agrippa’s agent.
Agrippa wanted to roll his eyes at his guest’s use of another literary allusion. He could be as garrulous as Nestor at times. As much as Maecenas pretended to worry about Varro’s fate, Agrippa suspected that his rival had come to him because he was worried about his own safety. After Pulcher had finished with Varro, he might come for the man who had ended his career and forced him out of Rome. Maecenas could also implicate him in the plot to murder Varro. And the spy had become a potential liability to the spymaster. He was a keeper of secrets, which could compromise Maecenas. Pulcher knew, quite literally, where the bodies were buried. There were times when Maecenas had operated outside of Caesar’s interests. Family and friends could also avenge his victims, should Pulcher expose Maecenas’ involvement in their demise.
“We need to find and kill him immediately,” Maecenas argued, hoping that he could convince Agrippa to deploy the Praetorian Guard. “If we merely apprehend him, he could still arrange to murder Varro. We both know that the law does not always deliver justice. Given his new-found wealth, Pulcher will be able to hire the best advocates, or bribe a jury, to evade punishment. We should forego any trial – and execute Pulcher before he can do any more damage. I know I should have come to you earlier, Marcus, but hopefully I have not come to you before it’s too late.”
Agrippa remained impassive whilst listening to Maecenas explaining himself. Occasionally he acted surprised or disappointed. At one point, Maecenas even wrung his hands in apology. He told himself he would gift Agrippa a temporary sense of superiority, in order to secure his assistance in neutralising Pulcher. Maecenas was accustomed to manipulating people because they were indebted to him, but he would now act as if he would be in Agrippa’s debt.
“I am grateful for you coming to me, Gaius. As you know, honesty is the best policy. I agree that we need to find and eliminate Pulcher,” Agrippa said, magnanimously, after sitting in silence for an extended amount of time. Waiting to pass judgement. Agrippa wasn’t surprised that Maecenas was willing to sacrifice his former agent, as if Pulcher were making an offering to the gods - a bull about to have its throat slit. His guest, sitting on a low chair on the opposite side of the desk, forced an amiable expression and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Maecenas had a history of switching some allegiances, as if he were merely changing a tunic. Pulcher had become dead to him.
“I have just received some intelligence, in relation to Licinius’ location. He is currently residing in a villa just outside of Rome. The property is far from impregnable, but you will need to mobilise a significant force of praetorians to crack the egg. Licinius has recently employed over twenty bodyguards. A cornered animal is a dangerous animal.”
Agrippa promised that he would muster the Praetorian Guard. But that he, rather than Maecenas, would oversee any operation. The former general feared he would lose a few men during the mission. He scrutinised his colleague/rival, briefly fl
aring his nostrils and wearing thunder on his brow. Agrippa wanted to tell him that, should Maecenas be deceiving him, he would personally thrash him half death. If not kill him entirely and rid Rome of its serpent. He wanted to disclose how Caesar often ridiculed Maecenas behind his back – and how much Terentia had mocked him too. And he wanted to reveal how the equestrian wasn’t the only Roman who could play a part. Shortly before Maecenas arrived, Agrippa had received a message from Vulso, making him aware that Licinius Pulcher was behind the assassination attempt on Varro.
As tempted as Agrippa was to lambast and chastise his rival, he did something far more galling. He patronised him.
“You are right that you should have come to me earlier, Gaius. I have the authority and experience to resolve such issues… You shouldn’t ever allow your pride or fear to prevent you from approaching myself or Caesar…”
Maecenas nodded as Agrippa spoke - lectured him. His bloodless lips remained pursed, although occasionally the corner of his mouth twitched in frustration or malice. When he thanked Agrippa - and apologised to him once - the words felt like hot coals on his tongue. But the cultured Roman would not give his rival the satisfaction of displaying too much emotion. Emotion was a form of puss, Maecenas considered. He would play the chastened inferior - and take his medicine. As much as it tasted like poison.
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