The sound of the wooden practice swords smacking against each other reminded Manius of his time as a young gladiator. He had arrived, along with a batch of other slaves, as a scrawny teenager at the ramshackle ludus. Yet he soon bulked-up and learned to fight in practice bouts as if his life depended on it. He forged a few friendships with his fellow trainees, but eventually sickness, or opponents in the arena, cut them down. Manius had been lucky, as much as it may not have felt like it at the time. He still often spared a thought for those who were less fortunate than him, however.
The Briton allowed his new student, Calvus, to force him backwards as they fenced on the freshly cut lawn. The teenager was trying his best, exerting himself. But Manius feared he would be but a tryer, rather than a success. The studious youth lacked a killer instinct. He held his weapon with too little conviction. Manius noticed how the boy often glanced at his father, for approval or praise. But the former senator ignored his son, immersed as he was in conversation with his guest, the tribune Paulus Labeo.
Publius Carbo didn’t give the fencing tutor a second look, when he was briefly introduced to the Briton, but Manius duly took in his new employer. His previously neatly trimmed beard was now longer and unkempt, styled to resemble the kind of beards his supporters donned. His hair was a dull silver, or polished iron. His build was average. His features often appeared tired and ageing, yet a certain vigour returned when the former senator was speaking at the rostrum. Although in public he wore a plain tunic, similar to a common citizen, in private he still liked to wear a toga - a garment befitting his patrician rank. Carbo projected an air of both superiority and sanctimony. Agrippa was right to describe him as “more priest than politician”. When called upon his obsidian eyes could soften and his dour, downturned mouth could hoist itself into a mild, knowing smile. Over the past year Carbo had tried to school himself out of it, but the demagogue still possessed an aristocratic rather than plebeian accent.
“I am still not sure if he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” Agrippa commented to Manius, during his briefing. “I am hoping that you will shepherd me towards the truth, so to speak… There are many in the Senate who consider Carbo a joke. Unfortunately, I cannot afford to be so dismissive. I warrant that he would happily see Rome invoke mob rule, so long as he ruled the mob in question. But the city does not need another Clodius. Its walls have been scorched by fire enough, its streets filled with blood.”
Manius also subtly observed Paulus Labeo. Agrippa described the tribune as being even more radical - and potentially even more dangerous - than his master. During his early years as a student - and as a disciple of Catiline - Labeo campaigned for the release of several foreign terrorists, who had attempted to assassinate a number of senators. He artfully judged them “freedom fighters”. His initial attempts to engage with the course of honours had ended in failure. His philosophy subsequently was, if you can’t join them - beat them. Labeo worked as Carbo’s chief propagandist and served as an intermediary between his paymaster and a number of guilds. He encouraged strike action and was the author behind political pamphlets, which “revealed” Jewish conspiracies and agitated for the populace to rise-up. The merchant and political classes were enemies of the people. Whenever Labeo was challenged about his propagandist claims, or reminded of past contradictory and mendacious remarks, he would deny and obfuscate, arguing that his enemies were misquoting him, or the parchments were forgeries. Fake news.
Labeo had a flat, thuggish face. His build was somewhat portly, to put it politely. It was difficult to tell where his chin ended, and neck began. A large, radish-red nose dominated his face. His hair was as black as the inside of Viola’s nose. When he smiled it seemed an unnatural act. Forced. False. He was notably younger than Carbo and was willing to bide his time for his ally to die or retire. The tribune’s plan was to eventually inherit the movement - and eventually seize power. He would turn the Senate House into a theatre. Not that he enjoyed literature or frivolity. Rome would be made anew. It was fate, his destiny, historically inevitable, the former philosophy student believed. The old order would collapse - and the “man of the people” would be waiting in the wings, ready to save the city. Or, if needs be, cause the old order’s collapse. “Labeo would be content to see Rome burn, providing he could rule over the ash-heap afterwards,” Agrippa remarked to Manius.
The tutor congratulated his pupil on his progress, but he decided that Calvus should practice his strokes in the air, as opposed to against another sword. The lack of noise, from the weapons clacking against each other, would enable Manius to better hear the conversation.
Carbo and Labeo sat on a stone terrace, which protruded out into the garden like a pier in a sea of green. The propagandist consumed another cake and sat with one of his fleshy hands, or paws, resting on his pot-belly. The tribune often proclaimed that Rome was starving (as a result of merchants and Jews fixing the price of grain) but it was clear that at least one of its citizens was well-fed each day.
Both men gesticulated and raised their voices as they spoke, as if in competition with one another to prove who was more passionate about their cause. They paid no heed to the nearby ex-gladiator. As per Agrippa’s instruction, the Briton nodded his head slowly and pretended not to understand every word which was said when he was introduced to Carbo.
“They will think you a half-wit or brute. A nobody. They will feel comfortable being indiscreet in front of you. People who are their own worst enemy are my favourite kind of enemy,” Agrippa remarked, quoting his friend and co-consul.
The sun beat down relentlessly, as if the air might catch fire.
Varro finished his second cup of wine, but his thirst remained unquenched and his argument remained un-won. Lucilla stood her ground, defiant and mocking.
“Life is rich with irony enough, without having you lecture me on matters of the heart,” Lucilla asserted, her voice caked in sarcasm. She imagined that Varro would not take the news of her relationship with Licinius well, but she was still disappointed and angry at his reaction. He should be happy for her. She would have been happy for him if he found someone, Lucilla told herself.
“I need to be honest with you,” he replied, his voice a mixture of desperation and plaintiveness. Beads of sweat hung on his temples. His face was flush from the sun - and a stinging frustration.
“An honest man in Rome. Wonders will never cease.”
“Has Pulcher been honest with you? He is no more a diplomat than Viola is a wood pigeon. He is a spy. He may not have murdered Herennius, but he has plenty of blood on his hands. He could bathe in the stuff. Maecenas has used him as a weapon, to bully, seduce and corrupt across the empire. If Pulcher has told you he loves you for your intelligence, he is indeed being honest.”
“Licinius has already been candid with me about his past. I am not sure I can say the same about you, concerning your exploits as an agent for Marcus Agrippa. He has told me about some of his assignments. Some of his targets were innocent, some less so. But, unlike you, Licinius wants his past to remain in the past. Once he completes his task to secure Caesar’s dagger, he will cease to be an agent. Should you find the dagger and murderer, will you be able to say the same? Licinius wants to begin a new life,” Lucilla argued, resisting the temptation to add, “with me.”
Varro compressed his lips and shook his head, either in disbelief or because he didn’t want to hear any more. The breeze passed through the nearby leafy trees, as if making a shushing sound to admonish the quarrelling couple.
“He has only told you what you want to hear.”
“He has told me about his past, with other women. Can you make claim to the same? At least he was unmarried, during his time seducing other women. Can you make claim to the same? There is little that you can accuse Licinius of, that he couldn’t conversely accuse you of.”
Her features became harder, her voice colder.
“I’m not like him,” Varro steadfastly - and agitatedly - coun
tered. Her words were as sharp as the knife used to slice through Sestius’ throat. Such was their growing animus he fancied that the pair of them could have been married again. She was the only woman who had ever truly hurt him.
“That could prove a blessing rather than a curse for him.”
Her barb hung in the air, like a rain cloud ready to spit out a bolt of lightning. Varro wore a storm on his brow too. But the sound of his laughter, as opposed to any thunder, broke the silence.
“I deserved that. And worse. I preferred it when we remained repressed and didn’t share our feelings. I think it may be best if we agree to disagree for now. We have the rest of our lives to argue like an old married couple, I hope. It will be easier that way. And we both know how much I enjoy the easy life.”
Lucilla’s icy gaze melted. Her features softened. The sun peeped through the clouds once more.
“You would test the patience of the gods,” she remarked, sighing and gently shaking her head. But she was pleased they were no longer arguing. That they would not say something they might regret.
“Personally, I find the gods to be impatient. They are ever quick to punish, fall in love or turn into some rutting animal.”
“The gods will condemn you for such blasphemy.”
“The gods condemned me a long time ago.”
Or I condemned myself.
10.
Thankfully a breeze swept through the door and tempered the needling heat. Varro and Lucilla sat on adjoining couches. He diluted his wine, whilst admiring a new painting on the wall, depicting a scene from Horace’s Odes. Varro remembered how he had always promised his wife that he would introduce her to the poet. But he never did. It was perhaps the least significant of his broken promises over the years.
Varro decided it was best to cease discussing Pulcher. What was the good of trying to win an argument, if it meant losing something far more valuable? Her. Her friendship. The agent told himself he was here in a professional, rather than personal, capacity and brought up the evening of Herennius’ murder.
Lucilla was relieved at the change of subject. She was worried Varro might ask her to choose between the two men. Or try to order her from seeing Licinius. If he did so, she would have asked Varro to leave. And he may have never come back. But there was peace between the former married couple, for now. An unspoken accord. Hostilities could, or would, break out again in the future. It was a matter of when, not if, she lamentably thought. She knew it was difficult for him to be happy for himself, but why couldn’t he be happy for her?
She sat close enough to him for Varro to subtly breathe in her perfume and the natural fragrance of her skin and hair. As much as it was a sweet sensation, it was also bittersweet.
“I am not quite sure which proved to be the most unpalatable, the atmosphere or overdone venison… Our host had a good enough time for all of us - eating, drinking and singing his own praises - but that may have been his plan all along. His language was coarse, his manner boorish, particularly when he addressed his wife. At one point, after a particularly lewd comment, Lucretia tried to upbraid him and called him rude. If looks could kill, then she would have murdered him then and there. Herennius replied that it was ruder still to try and tell a man how to behave in his own home.”
“Did Herennius or any other guest mention the dagger during proceedings?” Varro asked, as he started to paint a more detailed picture of the dinner party and its participants.
“He spoke briefly, or boasted, about how Cicero’s demise had been the making of him. Apparently, he did Rome a “great service” by silencing the troublemaker. “The only good advocate is a dead advocate,” he added, but one suspects he said this for Lentulus’ benefit. He went on to recount how he was invited to meet Fulvia, after she heard about his heroic deed. “She was a fine-looking lady. They rarely make Roman women like that anymore… Her dark eyes bulged with spite and she coloured the air with insults as she stabbed her hairpin into the severed head’s lolling tongue and face. Blood freckled her cheeks. “Where’s your wit now? Where are your vile lies? Who’s laughing now?” she said. Maybe it was her time of the month.” I am just surprised that Herennius wasn’t murdered ten years ago. He knew he was being obnoxious - but didn’t seem to care. Or he revelled in his tasteless behaviour, like a pig rolling in mud. He said, “When you’re as rich as I am you don’t need to worry about what people think of you. They need to worry about what I think of them.” Again, he turned to Lentulus when he spoke. Goading him. As he regaled us with his stories and philosophy, he held the dagger in his hands. Stroking it. He talked about its value. “It’s very dear to me. Caesar said he would be in my debt if I sold it to him, which is worth more than any sum of gold I know. Mark Antony is said to have designed the knife himself.” The irony is he could have sown the seed of his murder and the theft of the dagger there and then. What do you think?”
“I’ve had too many thoughts on the matter. I’m clouding my own judgement. I keep returning to the notion that Lentulus is the likeliest suspect, whether the killing was pre-meditated or he decided on the crime that night, after his argument with Herennius in the garden,” Varro posed, as he stared at a small figurine of Apollo on the cedarwood table in front of him, briefly fancying that the statue might come alive and mouth who the murderer was. “But tell me about Sestius. Could he be guilty of murdering his friend and business partner?”
“It’s doubtful. The two men seemed close. They certainly shared the same colourful vocabulary and table manners. It could be possible they shared the same enemies too. They were considered callous, even for slave traders. Families were broken up in their camps. People were branded and tortured. Half-starved. The weak and infirm were left to die,” Lucilla revealed, whilst failing to name the source of her information. Pulcher had spoken to her about their host’s business practices, with indignation and pity brimming over in his eyes.
“Do you think Sestius could have known about the contents of his friend’s will, that he would be the chief beneficiary?”
“I’m not sure. But Sestius had little need to kill for money, as a motive, given how wealthy he was in his own right.”
“Did he engage you in conversation during the party?”
“He tried to. But I gave him such a withering look he duly kept his distance.”
Varro briefly smiled, picturing the likely expression Lucilla must have offered the slave trader. He would have been akin to a slug - and his ex-wife would have been the salt.
“And what of the poet who was present for part of the evening?”
“Publius? He was sweet and fun. And talented. He reminded me of you, when you were younger. But do not let that prejudice you, either way. Corinna invited him to perform. He didn’t eat with us, but he drank as if playing catch-up with some of the guests. His poetry flowed like the wine - and could be as fruity too. It was witty, lyrical and at times remarkably insightful, given his tender age. I couldn’t help but notice the subtle, or not so subtle, looks Corinna offered him from across the room. Either she is his mistress, or she longs to be so.”
“And do you believe Publius has returned her advances?” Varro asked, a little crestfallen that Publius would probably not have signed his name as “O”, in relation to the love letters in Corinna’s jewellery box.
“It’s likely. Although I sense it’s likely he has returned the advances of women from across the city. As I said, he reminded me of you somewhat. In the same way that a sailor has a girl in every port, I suspect Publius has a mistress living on every one of Rome’s seven hills… He was mercurial. I noted how he could at one-point sit in the corner of the room and quietly observe everyone - and then within the blink of an eye he could come to life and demand to be the centre of attention at the party. Again, like you, he could say something, and one couldn’t quite be sure if he was being sarcastic or not. His poetry could capture a fine feeling and, within the next line, ridicule that same fine feeling.”
“It seems you are smitten.
But did the amorous young poet make a play for you? I of course would have done so, when I was his age,” Varro remarked, curious to now meet the precocious teenager.
“No. And I am not sure if I should feel relieved or insulted. Perhaps he sensed that I have had enough of being courted by poets for one lifetime… He knew I was once married to you, would you believe? And he was familiar with your verses. He quoted you in our conversation, more than once.”
“Did you notice if he stole any of my lines during his readings?”
“No, his work was refreshingly original.”
“I should almost feel insulted rather than relieved.”
“He hoped your best years were not behind you, that you were working on an epic. Publius preferred your satirical verses to your love poems. He admired you, in that the only thing you took seriously was your propensity to laugh at the world. Yet he also asked if there had been tears behind the laughter.”
“And how did you reply?”
“I said there was certainly copious amounts of wine behind any laughter.”
“How seriously should I consider him a suspect?”
Lucilla let out a little laugh, at the thought of the sweet-faced teenage poet murdering the odious slave trader.
“Not very, would be my answer. Publius would be happy to cut Herennius down with a jibe, but I cannot picture him wielding a knife.”
Varro nodded his head, taking Lucilla’s words into consideration. But he could not exonerate the youth yet. If he was in love with Herennius’ wife, then Publius would be judged a serious suspect. As insane as the idea of the poet killing Herennius was for Lucilla, love fosters madness. Could Corinna be Circe - and have turned her lover into a beast, one wild enough to commit murder?
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