“History won’t remember your name. No one will. You don’t even have a wife to mourn you. But who’s to blame for that?” Varro exclaimed, before plunging the ritual blade into the senator’s chest and letting him fall to the ground. The reign of Lucius Scaurus - and Caesarion - was over before it began.
Agrippa sighed, as he watched Varro stab the enemy of the state. He would have liked to question Scaurus, extract from him all the information and names linked to the conspiracy. He believed he had worked out the nub of his plot though. When Manius asked who he thought the senator would put forward as a candidate to challenge Caesar, Agrippa replied that “only a Caesar could challenge Caesar”. At the same time, he recalled the map, in Scaurus’ study, which Varro had flagged up to him. The only other map he had come across, tracing the same wayward route from Egypt to Rome, had been found in Alexandria, amongst the possessions of Caesarion. Octavius had tasked Agrippa personally to carry out the murder of the boy who could one day grow-up to oppose him. For once however Agrippa could not bring himself to carry out his duty - and he paid a loyal centurion to kill the child. When he returned to Rome Caecilia asked her husband if he had any knowledge of or involvement in the dreadful crime to murder the innocent boy. “No,” he steadfastly remarked. Lying. Again.
Perhaps Octavius was now being punished for his sins. Caesarion was coming back to haunt him. Rome might be split in two, should Scaurus be able to convince enough of the empire that the son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra lived. Both old and new wounds would open-up. After confronting such a scenario Agrippa kicked his heels into the flanks of his chestnut mare and drove his men on to reach the theatre in time.
Agrippa sighed in relief more than sorrow. The battle, if it called be as such, was over. Corpses littered the stage, like the final act of a Greek tragedy. Thankfully only a few of his own men appeared injured or slain. But a few was still too many.
Agrippa managed a semblance of a smile however as he noticed Varro and his bodyguard greet one another. He couldn’t quite be sure if they had embraced, or if Varro had collapsed into his friend.
Tears welled in Varro’s eyes, but tears of gratitude rather than trauma. He was still in shock. Despite the oppressive heat, a chill hung around his shoulders like a shroud. But Varro hadn’t been completely broken. When Manius asked him if he needed anything, he replied:
“I could use a drink.”
Manius couldn’t quite tell if his friend’s eye had closed because of the swelling, or because he winked.
29. Epilogue
Agrippa was still able to meet his co-consul for dinner that evening, albeit slightly later than scheduled. Supper was at Caesar’s residence. It was a modest sized house as opposed to palace, which sometimes surprised people. Agrippa thought to himself how he could have been having dinner at a farmer’s cottage, such was the lack of ostentatiousness and simple cuisine (grilled sea bass with fresh vegetables) on show. Caesar was comfortably the richest man in Rome. So he felt no need to prove it.
Agrippa couldn’t be quite sure if the First Man of Rome was “happy” or led “the good life” (perhaps he had too much blood on his hands as well for that), but Octavius seemed content of late. The civil war was over. Work was rewarding rather than irksome. Caesar was devoted to the glory of Rome – or the cynics might say, the glory of Caesar. But to his mind the two things were indistinguishable. Octavius also enjoyed family life, as much as he could with the family he’d been given. “I have the love of a good woman,” he had remarked to Agrippa the other month. “Thankfully I have the love of several mistresses too.”
The two friends sat around the dinner table. A small fire hummed in the background and half a dozen candles further illuminated the scene.
Agrippa noticed how Octavius’ hair had grown a little fairer during the summer but was still darker to that of when he had first encountered him as a clever but slightly diffident youth. Caesar’s complexion was smooth and paler than most, as he was still in the habit of wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat when out during the afternoon. His eyes were blue, but more cordial than cold nowadays. His nails were manicured but stained with ink, from where he had been working all evening, answering correspondence and signing official documents. His tunic was plain and freshly laundered. The garment had been woven by his sister, Octavia.
Agrippa didn’t believe in Caesar because he was a demi-god, but rather because he was a man. Agrippa had known his friend to be both unsure of himself and too sure of himself. He had stood by him when Caesar exhibited moral courage as well as physical cowardice. He read widely but wore his learning lightly. He was earnest in his ambition, to turn Rome into a city of marble, where once it had been a city of rubble. Agrippa had never regretted the oath he made to his companion, many years ago, on Apollonia. He gave Octavius his sword. Caecilia had warned him, a year afterwards however, that Caesar would never allow him to sheathe it again. “He will never stop asking you to do your duty. And you will never stop offering to do so, even if duty means dishonour.” His wife had been right, again, of course. Both men had committed crimes during the civil war which they would have liked to see erased from history - and their conscience.
Agrippa spent most of the evening briefing Caesar about the events of the afternoon - and the conspiracy his agent had uncovered. His co-consul remained calm and collected in response to the dramatic news. He only interjected occasionally on certain points of interest.
Perhaps Octavius was becoming a man at peace, Agrippa judged, as Caesar decided to spare the life of the actor who was due to play Caesarion.
“We already silenced him in Alexandria. It would be over-kill to execute Caesarion again… As to the rest of the company of actors you can provide them with the necessary funds to travel back to Egypt. Their passage should be one way. It won’t be just the critics who have their knives out for them if they return. Some performers die on stage. If you warn them that they will die before they even complete rehearsals, should we hear wind of them putting on the “Tragedy of the Antony and Cleopatra,” Caesar drily remarked, his voice as clear and sharp as glass. “Scaurus bit off. more than he could chew, which still won’t put off other candidates who long to eat at our table, Marcus… It was a calculated risk to confront Lucius as soon as you did, but you had your reasons. If you continue to investigate and gather intelligence. We must unweed our garden, root out any co-conspirators… As for Varro and his bodyguard please pass on our sincerest thanks. We are in their debt. Varro has been a victim of his own success however. We may have use of him again, in the future. Livia is friends with his ex-wife, Lucilla. Despite her divorce to him she considers Varro capable of great things. He just doesn’t know it yet, she said… At the very least he has good taste in women. What do you think of the man?”
“He has potential. He has become a better agent than he is a poet, which admittedly was not too difficult.”
“Let us just allow him to rest and recuperate. For now… You must get some rest too, my friend. You will have an even greater workload once I leave for Spain. But Rome is in safe hands, I warrant. If anyone else attempts a coup in my absence make sure it turns out to be a bloody one, for them,” Caesar half-joked.
The following morning Augustus instructed his personal surgeon and doctor to call on the patient. Aside from his nose being a little out of joint and suffering the legacy of a scar on his forehead (which would be largely concealed by his fringe) time would heal most of Varro’s wounds.
He slept for most of the rest of the day. When he woke his nostrils were filled with the once familiar fragrance of Lucilla’s hair and skin. For a fleeting moment, Varro believed he had woken to a dream. She was a sight for sore eyes. Ringlets of hair hung down, framing an elegant yet concerned countenance. She had been crying. Lucilla was sitting on a chair next to his bed, her hand gently clutching his. A pair of onyx inlaid gold earrings, which he had gifted to her when they first met, glinted in the lustrous afternoon sun. Varro had forced a smile for other visitors, bu
t not her.
“Thank you for coming. I didn’t know you cared,” he said, his voice more playful than croaky.
“You still don’t. I came to call on Manius to give him his winnings, from the wager I placed yesterday. Fronto sent me a message yesterday morning. I thought Manius was worth investing in. I even attended the bout. And I thought women could be cruel to one another! I have just given him his share of our winnings. I thought the money should go to a good cause, if love is a good cause.”
His smile widened, even though parts of his face ached as a result. Varro wanted to tell the woman that he still loved her. But didn’t.
“I didn’t know you considered love to be a good cause.”
“You still don’t,” Lucilla replied, unable to suppress a sly, or even flirtatious, smirk. “I made sure I won some money myself though. I cannot go on spending yours indefinitely.”
“Now that’s a cause that I could get behind.”
“I just hope the sum is sufficient to win, or buy, Aulus Sanga’s blessing. I suspect Manius may still have more chance of finding an honest politician - or an honest poet - than of Sanga permitting his daughter to marry him.”
“Don’t worry, I have a plan. I’m going to make Sanga an offer he can’t refuse.”
“It seems you are turning into quite the hero. I would be wary of making too positive an impression on Caesar however. You may live to regret it.”
“I warrant I am already regretting it. I may have to ask you to denigrate me in front of him, take the lustre off my achievements.”
“How do you know that I haven’t done so already?”
Varro emitted a laugh, despite it hurting to do so. A poignant, tender expression then replaced the usual mocking one which shaped his features.
“I’m grateful for you calling on me, Lucilla. Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t sure if she squeezed his hand first or he squeezed hers.
“For what?” she answered, slightly confused.
“For everything,” he replied, meaningfully. “I’m intending to travel to the villa outside Arretium soon. I could use some peace and quiet. I thought you might like to join me. Just as a friend,” Varro tentatively remarked, wanting to lift her hand to his lips and kiss it. But he thought better of it. He didn’t want to ruin the moment or their friendship.
“Well it seems you have made someone else an offer they can’t refuse.”
Later in the day, while there was still a slither of daylight remaining, Varro mustered the strength to arrange for a litter to take him to Aulus Sanga’s house. He snuck out as Manius lay asleep.
Sanga first paused but then agreed to meet with his unexpected guest when a slave told him who was at his door. No doubt Varro wanted to petition him to allow his bodyguard to meet with his daughter. He would, politely or otherwise, refuse the request. The merchant decided to neither pander nor be overtly rude to the nobleman. He would merely tolerate him and greet him with a face that looked like he was chewing a wasp. Should Varro have somehow uncovered his involvement with Felix Dio then he would feign offence and ask him to leave.
Varro entered his host’s reception room. A quick glance around at the décor made Varro conclude that the merchant had more money than taste (a common occurrence in Rome). Sanga was understandably taken back by his visitor’s countenance, mottled with bruises and laced with cuts. He couldn’t help but stare.
“Excuse my appearance. If you think I look bad, you wouldn’t want to wake to the fate of who did this to me.”
Aulus Sanga was caught between being curious and not caring about his guest’s well-being - and the story behind his injuries.
“Would you like some wine?”
“No thank you, I am afraid I cannot stay too long.”
“Should you be here to intercede for your bodyguard, then I am afraid you have had a wasted journey,” Sanga remarked, with a thin veneer of civility. “I knew your father – and I will duly respect your rank Rufus Varro. But I hope however that you will duly respect my position - and allow me to forbid my daughter to see your attendant, who has proved himself to be little more than a savage. The law is on my side in this matter, as I am sure you will concede.”
Varro sighed a little, after yawning, as he took the weight off his feet and sat down. Or he offered up a sigh in response to his host’s attitude.
“From what I have experienced of noblemen in the past few days, I might prefer to be courted by a savage. But to the matter at hand. News travels fast
in Rome, as you know. People will soon hear rumours of a failed coup, involving Lucius Scaurus.”
Sanga held his nerve upon hearing the name of the senator. He tried his best to convey that the name and news meant nothing to him. But he tried too hard. The shrug was too pronounced, the lips were too pursed.
“I am pleased to hear that any coup was hindered. I fail to understand why you are giving me forewarning of this news though,” the merchant replied, his heart beginning to canter and then gallop as he worried that Scaurus or an ally might have implicated him in the conspiracy. All he did was contribute to the senator’s campaign fund, in return for favours and contacts to help him in his business dealings. Sanga was going to ask his guest again if he wanted a cup of wine, mainly because he now craved one himself.
“Forewarned is forearmed. I am in possession of certain information and evidence linking you to the coup. I also have the ear of Marcus Agrippa, who will be keen to prosecute anyone who called Scaurus a friend. You are a successful merchant and are well versed in negotiating - and knowing whether you are in an advantageous position, or otherwise. I wish to make a trade. Marcus Agrippa will not hear of your name, in connection with the coup, but in return you must give your blessing should Manius and Camilla decide to marry.”
The colour drained from Sanga’s pinched expression, either from dread or from the shock of suffering such insult.
“Are you attempting to blackmail me, Rufus Varro?”
“No. I like to think I’m succeeding in blackmailing you. I have no qualms about informing the authorities that Scaurus confessed you were an ardent supporter of his - and resided at the heart of the conspiracy. You may hire the most expensive advocate in Rome and cite that you have the law on your side. But I will have Caesar on mine. You well may be wondering whether Caesar, not known for his clemency, will take your life or your capital. I suggest he will take both. I have little doubt that you wish to here protest your innocence. But I am too tired, weary, to listen. What isn’t in dispute, as far as I’m concerned, is that you are guilty of wronging my friend.”
Aulus Sanga looked like he was chewing on two wasps. Anger was rising-up in his throat, like bile. But the thought of suffering Caesar’s displeasure tempered his reaction. He would have to swallow it.
“You have no honour,” the merchant asserted, albeit his tone already conveyed a sense of capitulation. The merchant didn’t want to countenance being tortured and executed, or no longer being able to balance his books.
“That may well be the case. But you will be pleased to know that your future son-in-law is the most honourable man I know.”
The following night Marcus Agrippa called upon Varro. He was sitting out in the garden, along with Manius, and he invited the consul to join him. Varro had also asked his estate manager to join him earlier too. But Fronto had other plans.
“I have arranged to have supper with Aelia. If you can write a second act into your life, I figure I can too. Suffice to say, please don’t wait up for me.”
Agrippa took a seat, after handing his host a jug of wine.
“A gift from Caesar.”
“Thank you.”
As fine as the vintage is, I hope Caesar doesn’t now think we are somehow even, Varro mused.
The evening air was balmy and fragrant with flowers - and the even more welcome aroma of garlic infused roasted pork. A cloudless sky was studded with stars and, aside from the sound of a man vomiting behind the garden wall, Ro
me seemed at peace.
Viola nuzzled Manius’ leg as a prompt to feed her another piece of meat. The dog had spent the previous evening sleeping in Varro’s room. Partly because she was worried about him. But more so Manius had spent the night with Camilla - and they locked his bedroom door. Aulus Sanga had a change of heart and it had nothing to do with Manius’ change in fortune. The gods do work in mysterious way, the bodyguard thought to himself.
“Are you healing well?” Agrippa asked his agent.
“I’ve felt better. As a poet I played the tortured soul. But now I know what it really feels like however, I wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone.”
“Your father would be proud of you, Rufus. But I would rather you were proud of yourself.”
“Maybe I will feel proud of myself later, after another measure or two of this vintage. But thank you.”
End Note
It was fun to write Blood & Honour. I hope readers enjoy the book, at least half as much as I enjoyed writing it. The book came about because I wanted to write something slightly different, with a new set of characters. But at the same time I was drawn to writing about Augustus Caesar and Marcus Agrippa once more. I hope I have satisfied fans of the Augustus books and Sword of Rome series. But I similarly hope I have pulled in some new readers.
Should you be interested in some further reading, both fiction and non-fiction, I can recommend the following. The Roman Revolution, by Ronald Syme. Augustus: The Life of Rome’s First Emperor, by Anthony Everitt. Caesar’s Spies, by Peter Tonkin. And Steven Saylor’s Roma Sub Rosa series.
Should you have enjoyed this book, or others written by myself, please do get in touch via [email protected]
Rufus Varro and Manius will return in Spies of Rome: Blood & Vengeance https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07L4XY6NW
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