Their holiday will soon be over.
Vulso also looked forward to hunting down Licinius Pulcher and running his sword through his gullet.
Manius immediately appeared buoyed by the news of the suicide. He breathed out, but the last thing he felt was deflated. The word “home” seemed as sweet as wine, sex and victory. He would offer to start making the arrangements, for the journey back to Arretium. There was still a fair chance he could be present for the birth of his child.
Questions – and prayers – had been answered, Varro mused. The investigation was over. There was no need to interview Silo or Trebonius. He could avoid an awkward encounter with the father of the victim. He would be spared the onerous task of interrogating Plancus’ friends. Varro was free to travel back home. To Lucilla. The agent felt akin to Tantalus, finally being able to pluck the fruit from the bough and drink water from the pool. The gods were no longer punishing him. But his mood failed to soar. His wings still felt clipped. Perhaps the writer in him wanted Plancus to be innocent – and for there to be a greater store of intrigue and treachery involved in the crime. He thought there might be a twist in the tale, that comedy would turn into tragedy, or tragedy into comedy. But the simplest solution is often the right one. Plancus murdered Corvinus. And now Plancus was dead. Justice had been done. The investigation had been neatly tied-up. But were things too neat? Caesar would be satisfied, which of course was the most important consideration.
On hearing the news that his assignment had run its course Varro’s hangover subsided. The agent suddenly craved a drink again. To celebrate. He could soon kick the dust of Rome from his feet. The city had fed on the morsel of his soul for long enough. A burden, or curse, had been lifted. But not entirely…
Varro felt like he was a man trying to swim in two opposing directions. He had made a promise to his wife to return as soon as possible. He had made a similar promise to Manius. But he had also given his word to Agrippa to do his duty. He had made a promise to the ghost of Corvinus, that he would find his murderer. He could make a further promise to Plancus, to clear his name should he be innocent. Varro told himself that he owed more to the living than he did to the dead, but still he would visit Plancus’ hovel in the Subura.
What will be will be.
Varro and Vulso, accompanied by a couple of praetorians, made their way across the Palatine and down into the Subura. Manius remained behind, to make the provisional arrangements to journey back to Arretium. He also wanted to write a letter to his wife, to send word ahead of his imminent arrival. He was unsure whether to include in the letter the news that he was bringing Viola back with him. Camilla didn’t quite love the mongrel as much as the Briton. But no one did.
Death no longer seemed to be stalking him, Varro half-joked to himself as a noisy funeral procession which was heading towards him veered off down a side street and the caterwauling receded. He was perhaps more concerned that the mimes leading the procession might have been stalking him, when they made eye contact with Varro and gesticulated with pronounced vigour.
The heat was clammy, dirty. It felt like Varro was wearing a dusty, scratchy woollen hood over his head. Clusters of insects congregated in the air over mounds of dung and refuge. They giddily flew about, reminding him of Julia’s party guests.
Toga-wearing senators, walking towards the Forum, were a self-conscious picture of stoicism in the face of evident discomfort, as they sweated in their heavy garments. One sour-faced official lost his temper however as he lashed out at his slave, who accidentally dropped a couple of scrolls he was carrying. The grey-beard’s walking stick suddenly resembled a centurion’s vine staff, as he thrashed the Nubian several times. Varro was tempted to grab the stick from the official and use it on him, to teach the vicious bureaucrat a lesson, but it was far too humid to play the hero. The oppressive heat sapped his courage – physical and moral.
During their walk across the Palatine, Vulso further briefed Varro about Agrippa’s meeting with Maecenas the previous evening. The plan was to apprehend, or execute, Licinius Pulcher.
“Agrippa has dispatched a couple of agents to scout ahead. As well as assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the enemy’s defences, they will be able to track Pulcher should he leave his location.”
Varro was understandably relieved that Agrippa had found Pulcher so quickly. He was just wary that the intelligence had come from Maecenas. As Agrippa had once said himself, “The day you trust Gaius Maecenas is the day he puts a knife in your back.” Varro couldn’t shake the suspicion, buried deep inside of him like a gallstone, that they were all puppets in a play, directed by the spymaster. Maecenas was well-practised in the arts of ulterior motives and misdirection. He recalled a recent election, which he rigged like a chariot race in the Circus Maximus. Maecenas had declared his support for Lucius Bulla. He offered to manage Bulla’s campaign and fundraise for the merchant. By doing so Maecenas grew close to the candidate - and uncovered compromising information about the man he purported to support. Bulla withdrew from the race, a few days before the vote, and his rival won the election at a canter.
“Was Agrippa not sceptical of Maecenas’ change of heart about his former agent?”
“Agrippa argued that he would have been more suspicious of Maecenas if he didn’t betray his former agent. Maecenas wants Pulcher dead for the selfish reasons that his ex-lover may well come for him next, after he gets his revenge on you. Pulcher is also a keeper of Maecenas’ secrets – and crimes. If Pulcher dies, the information dies with him. The wily, old fox, or snake, knows what’s best for him. Deceiving Agrippa is tantamount to deceiving Caesar, which wouldn’t be the wisest career move… It’s better to be safe than sorry, though. Agrippa has forbidden Maecenas, or any of his men, to be present when we capture Pulcher… I know the property. It’ll be a tough nut to crack. But I’ll make sure we bring a big enough hammer. The walled villa is close to a back road. A river could also provide Pulcher with a means of escape. But we’ll besiege and encircle the bastard if we need to. The noose will tighten, with his neck in it. I’ll get him, I promise Rufus,” the soldier remarked, honourably and earnestly, clasping his sword.
“Not if I get to him first. I have every faith in yourself and your men that you will get the job done, Aelius. But I hope you understand that I’d like to be present too. I want to see Pulcher dead. Manius wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun too.”
Vulso nodded. He had already arranged additional horses, having second-guessed Varro’s decision.
Clumps of people parted and allowed the formidable looking praetorians through, like a plough cutting through virgin soil, as they descended into the crowded Subura. The soldiers were viewed with suspicion, or outright antagonism, once the labyrinthine streets of the district swallowed them up. The locals judged that the authorities were coming for one of their own. It would be a brave man to challenge Vulso and ask him to turnaround, however. Bleary-eyed whores stared out of windows, either having just woken up or just returned home. Cadaverous faces, studded with eyes which glinted like blades, could be glimpsed in dark alleyways. Before they vanished. Barefooted, malnourished children, with swollen bellies and hollowed out expressions, didn’t know whether to admire or fear the hulking soldiers. Praetorians could be both heroes and villains.
Varro was pleased he wore boots rather than sandals, as he traversed through streets covered with a layer of slick grime. Occasionally the pungent aromas of stale acetum, and staler garum, could be smelled over the stench of fresh ordure. Rats, more populous than drunks and beggars, darted in and out of sight.
More than one quarrel could be heard emanating from the apartment buildings lurching over them. Wives scolded husbands, and husbands berated wives – the noise carrying further than a siren song.
“You pissed your money up the wall, drinking again,” one woman screeched, either dropping, or more likely throwing, a clay cup as she made her salient point.
“Well, I wouldn’t piss on you, even if you we
re on fire,” the husband countered, slurring his words.
“I’d piss on you though, if I thought you’d drown.”
The streets were saturated with privation. Varro wondered if anyone was running a wager on which building would collapse next. The sound of rustling silk was alien to the neighbourhood. A family huddled together at the entrance to a recently burned-out apartment block – their worldly possessions contained on their laps. Other besmirched, browbeaten countenances went about their business. Teeth like cinders. Clothes patched-up or threadbare. People shuffled rather than strode. Hunched over, from life dragging them down day after day, year after year.
Little sunlight, hope or prosperity shone through. The nobleman seldom frequented the Subura during the day. He had always visited its taverns and brothels at night. He had always been accompanied by Manius too. Varro would have probably been robbed and died a thousand deaths, without his protection. Plancus was right come to the Subura to disappear. No one would want to linger and search here. People kept themselves to themselves. Even tax officials gave the district a wide berth. It was difficult to tax the destitute, as a percentage of nothing is nothing.
Yet Varro was wary of tarring everyone with the same brush. There were plenty of inhabitants of the Subura who tried their best to live as honestly and honourably as possible, in a city not renowned for its honesty or honour. They just wanted some food – and wine – in their bellies. To celebrate a win at a chariot race and to see their children healthy and happy. The aristocrat had drunk with plenty of rogues and characters in the local taverns. Their sense of humour was as developed and robust as any Roman satirist. It was important, if not essential, to laugh in the face of a rancorous world.
As they came to the dilapidated apartment block they were greeted by the equally dilapidated landlady, Marta. She had managed the lodgings, for decades, with her husband, who had recently passed. The widow had a squashed, shrewd, distrustful expression. Grey, wiry hairs, like baby snakes, sprouted out of the black shawl which covered her head. Her face resembled a scrotum. Beneath her widow’s weeds Marta must have been the size of a child, Vulso thought. Her chin was covered with more hair than Macer’s. Despite her frail frame her voice was strong and forthright.
“You’re late. You should have been here earlier. I don’t see why my day should revolve around you, or a corpse.”
“I am sorry for our tardiness and any inconvenience caused. We will duly compensate you for your time,” Varro cordially remarked, offering up his best, conciliatory smile.
Marta grunted in assent.
“Come with me. He’s up on the second floor,” the landlady exclaimed, before masticating like a cow.
The stairs groaned, perhaps in sympathy with their owner. Vulso dared not grasp the bannister, lest it came off in his hand. The smell of bread and fish stew emanated from the kitchen at the rear of the property. There was an extra charge for food at the dwelling.
Due to Marta travelling at a snail’s pace, if the snail was lame and blind, Varro had a chance to glance inside some of the rooms in the house. They were small, spartan, dingy. Most were festooned with dust and cobwebs. The landlady provided a cleaning service, for an additional charge. Candles and a washbasin were extra too. The floorboards were warped, the curtains threadbare. The only attractive thing about the room was the price.
It had been some time since Varro had encountered a dead body. He didn’t want to embarrass himself or Vulso and retch. The scowl he would receive from the old crone might also burn a hole in him too. The aristocrat could stomach a lot more since becoming an agent, for good or ill. Varro recalled other corpses he had witnessed over the years. Some people died with a shocked expression on their face, as though the inevitable still took them by surprise. Skin could be like cheap leather, or ashen or translucent. A mouth could be comically contorted, in agony or in a silent, primal scream. Raging against death, or life. Some corpses appeared at peace, however, as if they were sleeping rather than deceased. People died in different ways. But people died.
How will I die?
Before Varro had a chance to answer the question, Marta turned around and addressed him.
“He was a good boy. He paid his rent promptly and was always polite. I thought he was just hiding from his creditors. I didn’t know he was a fugitive. If I did, I would have called you here earlier. The law is the law. It’s such a shame though. He kept himself to himself. He often just stayed in his room and read. I should have guessed something was awry. The boy was always fidgeting. He chewed his nails so much I thought he might gnaw off his arm. He lost weight. It fell off him. You need fattening up, I said. You should get a woman to cook for you. He had everything to live for. I told him, you need God in your life. I wept and prayed for the poor child when I found him this morning. Is there some sort of reward? A good deed is its own reward of course. But coin is coin. I can’t eat virtue or spend kind words.”
They finally reached the second floor. Plancus’ room was at the top of the house. The slanting roof almost cut the space in half, although Varro doubted the lodger received a discount on his rent. He felt a wave of pity, rather than nausea, as he saw the dead youth splayed out on the bed. The knife still protruded from his bloody throat.
“Thank you for your assistance. We can take things from here. If you would like to wait downstairs. I promise that you will be amply compensated for your troubles,” Varro remarked. He no longer wanted her voice needling his ear. The agent needed some quiet and scope to think.
She’s as irritating as leprosy.
Vulso pointed out Plancus’ note on the desk but then decided to wait outside. Varro sensed some foul play at work immediately, without even scrutinising the scene. Something didn’t smell right – and it wasn’t just the landlady’s fish stew. The agent approached the narrow, coffin-like bed as dispassionately as possible. Plancus had been wearing a bark-brown short-sleeved tunic when he died. He had certainly not been at peace when he perished. A rictus of terror was still plastered on his bloodless countenance. Varro noticed how his scrawny arms lay by his side. They were also bloodless. Surely the hand that he used, to hold the knife, should have been covered in blood. Vulso had assured him that the body remained untouched. He would check with the landlady to see if she or anyone else had placed Plancus’ arms by his side, or had washed his hands, but he was confident of the answer. The faint but discernible fingertip-sized marks on the youth’s biceps, from where someone had grabbed him and potentially pinned him down, added further credence to Varro’s suspicions. That Plancus had been killed by someone else’s hand.
The corpse’s face was dusted with salt. Plancus had been heavily perspiring before he expired, Varro judged. He also glanced down at the dusty floorboards. There was an array of large boot prints, especially around the bed.
The agent peered over the small balcony at the far side of the room and surmised that it would have been possible for a couple of assailants to scale the walls of the apartment building, although there was no evidence anyone had done so.
Finally, Varro went over to the desk and examined the note Plancus left. He recognised that it was the same handwriting to that of the poems he had been sent by the youth previously. Yet the script was more spidery, jittery, than usual. The agent pictured Plancus composing the letter, his hand trembling as someone held a knife to his throat.
“I killed Marcus Corvinus. He died by my hand alone. I entered the garden, late at night, and murdered my friend while he was in his pool. He was my lover. Jealousy compelled me to kill Marcus. It overtook me, like a poison. Guilt and shame have compelled me to end my life. It is only just that the same hand which murdered Marcus will murder me, using the same knife. A light has gone out in the world, since his passing. I despise myself and my wicked crime. I have brought shame to my family. They should no longer have a murderer and fugitive as a son. I am sorry.”
Varro arched an eyebrow. He leaned over the bed and scrutinised the knife again, half lodged in Pl
ancus’ throat. Although the agent hadn’t seen the weapon or wound, in relation to the murder of Corvinus, he had been told that the knife was large. The dagger used to kill Plancus was not.
The discrepancy between the weapons was one of many pieces of evidence which suggested he was standing at the scene of a murder rather than suicide. But even if he could prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Plancus had been killed, what then? Who could he accuse of the crime? There were no witnesses. Advocates were not necessarily known for their dedication to justice and truth. Lies came as easily to lawyers as swimming did to sharks.
Maecenas. Again, the agent’s thoughts turned to his old adversary. Did Corvinus confess a telling secret to Plancus, which could compromise the political fixer? Although it seemed - seemed - that Maecenas was guiltless of being behind the assassination attempt on his life, that did not mean that the spymaster was guiltless of being behind the murders of Corvinus and Plancus.
But he had no proof at present of Maecenas’ involvement. The death of Plancus was still as much of a mystery as the death of Corvinus.
Viola chases her tail less.
Varro’s heart went out to Plancus, as he gazed at his bloody corpse. He spared a thought for his parent’s too, who would soon be bewailing their son for different reasons. Yet, as an act of will, the agent hardened his heart. It was perfectly possible that he was staring at Corvinus’ killer. Should he not just take the win? He need only report to Agrippa that the suicide appeared genuine – and he could go home. It would be a lie, of sorts. But he was a spy. His job, or vocation, was to deceive. As a former philosophy student Varro was well-rehearsed in being able to argue for two, opposing points of view. He could make a convincing argument for Plancus murdering Corvinus - and then committing suicide. Even if Varro voiced his doubts, he imagined that Caesar would be willing to let sleeping dogs lie.
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