“Rufus came to see me today. Principally because he has been asked to investigate Herennius’ murder,” Lucilla casually remarked, as if she had been visited by an elderly uncle. Not only did she need to be careful with Varro, in regard to any feeling of jealousy - but she needed to take Licinius’ feelings into consideration. Men. The word could be tantamount to a sigh too. A more exasperated sigh.
“What did you tell him, if you do not mind me asking?” Licinius replied, as he involuntarily squeezed her hand.
“The truth. I said that I had no idea who killed Herennius. I also finally told Rufus about us, although he already knew.”
“How did he react? I hope he wasn’t too unhappy,” the agent said, hoping that he was.
“Unfortunately, I imagine that Rufus will remain unhappy, no matter what my situation,” Lucilla suggested, her voice tinged with sorrow or, at best, wistfulness. She pictured his face. Her eyes softened. She may have even raised one corner of her mouth. She moved her leg, so it no longer brushed against his.
“Maecenas has invited us to a party tomorrow evening. I should warn you that Rufus may be attending too. I know it will not be a problem for you, but I pray he will not cause a scene,” Licinius said, praying that he would. “If he causes you any distress, you must tell me Lucilla. He will then answer to me. You are no longer responsible for his happiness.”
He is your former husband. But I will be your future one.
“I know I am no longer responsible for him,” Lucilla answered, feeling that she was, partly, lying to the man next to her. And herself. “Rufus will be fine seeing us together, because he will have to be.”
“How was the rest of your day, after he left?”
“It was fine. I caught up on some correspondence.”
“Did you write back to Livia?” the agent asked. He had been able to search Lucilla’s room earlier in the evening but, frustratingly, could find no trace of the letter from Caesar’s wife.
“I am planning to do so soon. But I fear the contents would bore you to sleep. And I would prefer to keep you awake for a little while longer,” the woman sensuously expressed, whilst rolling over and kissing his parched, parting lips.
The spy could no longer rightly judge where his assignment ended, and feelings began.
14.
Varro woke early the next morning. Or rather early for him. A greasy drizzle swirled around in the air, like a plague of insects. His expression was one of disgruntlement - with the weather, his assignment and, perhaps, life. He had drunk too much the night before - or needed a drink now. The nobleman was tempted to use a litter but considered it was better that just one person got wet, as opposed to six. Fronto needed the slaves for chores around the property too. His home was in a state of perpetual maintenance.
He travelled, with his head bowed down and rain spitting his face, to Sestius’ house. Varro showed the estate manager, Milo, his letter from Caesar. Milo appeared nearly as old as Fronto, although he must have been at least a decade younger. The slave shuffled, more than walked, and led the investigator into the triclinium. His back was arched, and Varro had encountered corpses less pale and gaunt. Milo spoke slowly, but thankfully because he was considered in his answers rather than dim-witted.
Could his master have had anything to do with his business partner’s murder? No, they were close companions and never had a falling out. Herennius would visit his friend at least every week, the estate manager reported. They would sometimes stay up late and drink by themselves - or arrange for prostitutes to join them. Was Sestius an abusive master, towards his slaves? No more than most Milo replied, either mournfully or philosophically. It was difficult to tell. On the evening of Herennius’ murder, how was his master’s mood when he returned? He was drunk, but that was normal. Was his master wearing a black cloak on the night? No. Did his master have many enemies. Milo couldn’t say, but Sestius seldom went anywhere unless accompanied by a bodyguard. Had he seen Sestius in possession of a golden dagger? No. Had a man, called Licinius Pulcher, visited the house after the murder and enquired about the knife? Yes. Did Sestius have any dealings with the advocate, Lentulus Nerva? No. Did he, or any of the other slaves, notice anyone or anything strange before Sestius was murdered? No.
After questioning the estate manager Varro conducted a search of the house. The only thing he discovered of note was that Sestius owned an appalling (or impressive) amount of pornography. Some might have called it art, but most, quite rightly, wouldn’t have.
Varro took his leave. The investigation had more dead ends than King Minos’ labyrinth, he joked to himself. But he didn’t feel like laughing. Failure’s not good for the soul. Even if he could hammer out some cast-iron theories concerning who murdered Herennius - involving Nerva, his widow or even Pulcher - he still lacked any cast-iron proof.
The rain persisted, as did his enquiries. Varro made his way across the city towards Herennius’ house again. He still needed to interview the victim’s wife. Every step seemed to take a gnat’s bite out of his soul, like a grain of sand slipping through an hourglass. He darkly mused how, even if all the grains of sand had fallen through, the hourglass would be turned over and the process would start all over again.
Life diminishes.
Fabullus instructed Varro that his mistress was out shopping once more, when he called at the house. He wondered if shopping might be an unofficial code – and Corinna was meeting her lover. “O”. Perhaps the widow was avoiding the investigator however, because she was concealing something. Before Varro left however Fabullus did mention an incident of possible interest.
“I forgot to mention this during our previous conversation, but six months ago my master was briefly harassed by an old soldier comrade. He claimed that he had been there when my master apprehended Cicero - and this soldier wanted his fair share of the reward that he received.”
“Can you remember the name of this man?”
“No. But he was distinctive looking. He had long, grey hair. Pitted skin. He walked with a limp and had a scar, in the shape of a forked serpent’s tongue, on his neck… He hounded my master for several days and threatened him, but, after my master’s bodyguards attacked him one evening, he disappeared… There have been other incidents of aggrieved merchants, women and employees over the years. But they are almost too numerous to mention.”
Chinks of light shone through the sodden air as he left the house and a chink of optimism dimly glowed in his heart as he thought how he might have a solid suspect in the shape of the old soldier. Solid, as in a shadowy figure who he could point the finger towards, to satisfy Agrippa and Caesar. He may not be finding out the truth, but he wouldn’t be wholly lying either. Perhaps he could serve as an advocate after all, if he cultivated such a viewpoint.
As much as Varro yearned for a hot bath - and massage - he decided to plough on and interview the poet. At the very least he hoped he could eliminate him as a suspect. The agent was temporarily delayed however, when he walked through a main thoroughfare, by Gaius Macro, an old drinking companion. The former philosophy student was now a property developer. Macro was one of the few friends he had kept in touch with from his dissolute youth. They attended the same parties and bath houses. Macro was good humoured. Unlike too many from their class, he knew how to laugh at himself. The two men stopped to talk with one another. The throng of people moved around them, like water bending around a rock in a river.
“Rufus, what a pleasant surprise. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you out and about this early - and in such foul weather. Has someone’s husband come home early and a mistress has kicked you out of bed?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Rufus replied, warmly clasping his friend’s arm. He noticed how Macro’s pot belly had grown more pronounced since he had last seen him, and his complexion had grown more florid, roseate. “And how comes you are not at home?”
“Because the wife is. I would say she kicked me out of bed, but happily we no longer sleep in th
e same room. I finally feel like I have a marriage similar to my parents. I missed you at Ligarius’ party last month. He hired both a fire eater and sword swallower. I envied their diet - given the quality, or lack of, of the food the rest of us had to consume throughout the evening.”
Varro laughed. Seeing Macro was often a tonic. He always wondered how his friend managed to be so cheerful in the face of such a drear and wicked world. He once asked Macro how he managed to marry his contented disposition with being a philosophy student.
“I was a bad philosophy student. Or perhaps I was an average one - and therefore attained Aristotle’s golden mean… I would say that having a surfeit of money has caused me to be happy, far more than passages from Plato and Lucretius ever did.”
The rain started to abate. The showers had turned the excrement on the streets into a slick film of grime. Varro mused how even the greatest storm would never be able to wash all the filth away from Rome. More would just turn up.
“Let’s hope the food will be better at Maecenas’ party tonight. I take it you have been invited?”
“No, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I don’t know anyone else who has been invited either. Seems it’s a somewhat exclusive gathering. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or offended at being snubbed. If you let me know the quality of the serving girls, I’ll make my decision then. I would be careful of getting too close to Maecenas and letting him do you a favour. You could end up in his debt for the rest of your days. As much as he may wear a toga, he still seems to have plenty of pockets to put people in.”
“I will be mindful. Thanks. Tell me though, have you ever had any dealings with Lentulus Nerva, the advocate?” Varro asked, innocently. As well as being an inveterate drinker, Macro was an inveterate gossip. On more than one occasion the agent had used his friend as a source of information for an assignment.
“My father once hired him to settle a legal matter, which he did so effectively. I have heard that he has generated debts which no honest man can pay. Thankfully Nerva is a lawyer though. He already knows that honesty doesn’t pay… He has ambitions of entering the Senate House. He moves in rarefied circles, which is why he needs a rare amount of money. Why do you ask?”
“His daughter has recently become a widow. I thought I might pay my respects to her.”
“Indeed. Nerva sold his daughter once. I doubt if he will have any qualms about re-selling her. Although I dare say you could do better, my friend. Corinna may be considered a beauty, but not a great one. I’m not sure she’s quite marriage material. Then again nor are you. But feel free to blissfully ignore any advice I might offer. It’s somewhat difficult for me to sing the praises of married life, what with me being a husband.”
Varro grinned and gently shook his head in bafflement.
“I am always amazed by how much you malign marriage - and your wife - Gaius.”
“I should invite you to dinner soon. Meeting my wife will help clarify my attitude for you. I should mention, in relation to any bid to court Nerva’s daughter, that he has a formidable enforcer working for him. His nephew, Titus Sura. A nasty piece of work, by all accounts. He killed a fellow officer in the army, stabbed him in the throat. His uncle defended him however and Sura was found innocent. He owes Nerva his life. And Sura would probably take yours away if ordered to do so, should you wrong the fair Corinna.”
“I’m grateful for the information. It’s all food for thought.”
The poet’s address was in a smart neighbourhood on the Quirinal Hill. Although his name was unfamiliar to Varro, he suspected that Publius was from a respectable, affluent family. His father had probably bought the house for his son to put a roof over his head, as well as for investment purposes. The more Caesar’s reign promoted peace and prosperity, the more property prices soared in the capital. Far more importantly than any military glory, the people loved Augustus for their increased wealth - and the tax cuts he introduced. Given that the poet seemed financially secure, it was unlikely that greed would motivate Publius to murder Herennius and rob him. Although should someone tell the writer how much money he would make throughout his career, he might be tempted to supplicate his income through more practical and profitable means.
As Varro approached the poet’s house, he could hear a voice bellow over the hissing rain, in the nearby square. A soldier was delivering the latest news from the front.
“Caesar’s glory is your glory. He fights in your name - and triumphs in your name. He puts himself at the vanguard, battling the enemies of Rome and civilisation, so you do not have to… His military prowess and courage are unmatched. He is his father’s son…”
Varro wryly smiled. He thought he might suggest to Agrippa to employ a new propagandist, but then considered that the consul might order him to fill the position.
A burst of laughter drowned out the sound of the rain and soldier’s proclamation. A young woman stood outside the doorway of the poet’s house, as the lovers said their goodbyes. Her dress was creased, her hair hastily pinned up. Varro paused, not wishing to disturb the couple. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
A hand reached out from the house and grasped the woman’s buttock, as if it were squeezing a piece of fruit to check how ripe it was. He heard a voice - playful and amorous - recite a few lines of poetry:
“None but you shall be sung
In my verses, you and you alone
Shall give my creative spirit its form and theme.”
The woman sighed, her legs even gave way a little, before she launched herself upwards and hungrily stole another barrage of kisses. The poet continued to whisper verses in her ear, when they came up for air from kissing.
“Honestly, all I desire is to care for you
Till death do us part - for the two of us to live together.”
Finally, they parted. Her expression was a picture of adoration and satisfaction as she sauntered away, her coquettish eyes gleaming like semi-precious stones. Her cheeks sat on her face like two plump, rosy apples when she smiled.
Varro nearly laughed to himself, observing the scene, although part of him also wanted to cringe. Already, he could see why the poet had reminded Lucilla of his younger self.
The investigator put on a stern expression, as cold as the rain. He intended to establish his authority straightaway. Fear, rather than civic duty, would motivate the adolescent to tell the truth, he reasoned. He banged, rather than just knocked, on the door. Twice.
The young man opened the door himself, as opposed to instructing a slave to do so. If he was disappointed that it wasn’t his mistress returning to his threshold the youth didn’t show it. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, albeit he would soon learn that the adolescent was wiser - and wittier - than his years suggested. The fresh-faced poet smiled, easily and amiably. His features were not so dissimilar to Varro’s, although the older man’s face looked more “lived-in”, one could say. His frame was slender, his hair and complexion fair. He wore a clean, plain, light blue tunic with a smart, leather belt. Its gold buckle glinted in what little light the day afforded. His skin was smooth. When Varro clasped his hand, later, he guessed that the poet had never done a proper day’s work in his life. It takes one to know one, he judged. The youth’s sea-green eyes shone with verve, intelligence and amusement. Varro found it difficult to maintain his stern gaze - and his voice wasn’t as stentorian as he would have liked, as he spoke to his suspect for the first time. The words were as much of a statement as a question.
“Publius Ovidius Naso?”
“Yes. But, please, call me Ovid.”
15.
The young man’s grin grew broader and the light in his eyes shone brighter when his visitor introduced himself. He briefly blinked, repeatedly, and his mouth was agape. Varro didn’t need to show Ovid his document, signed by Caesar. He was invited in straightaway and offered refreshments (which Varro discourteously declined, conveying that he was here for business rather than pleasure). When the investigator menti
oned the purpose of his visit his host said that he would assist him in any way he could. His bubble didn’t burst.
As Ovid led his guest through to the back of his house and small garden, Varro couldn’t help but notice various scraps of parchment containing poems, in varying states of completion, pinned against the walls and resting on pieces of furniture. Scrolls, books and wax tablets also populated the otherwise tidy and well-furnished property. Varro was compelled stop and take in some of the poet’s works in progress. He was impressed - very impressed - by what he read. His tone could be tawdry in one couplet and yet tender in the next. The adolescent possessed genuine talent and wit - and seemed dedicated to his craft. Love and poetry were all that mattered.
“Love is a warfare: sluggards be dismissed,
No faint-heart ‘neath this banner may enlist.
Storms, darkness, anguish, weary trails you’ll find
On love’s campaign, and toil of every kind.”
Ovid avidly watched on, as proud as a mother when a stranger admires her children, as he noted flickers of reactions on Varro’s face, whilst he absorbed different poems and lines. The investigator’s features softened - and a smile was carved into his previously stony expression. Varro even looked like he was going to laugh on more than one occasion.
“Youth tempts me. So do riper years. Youth’s prettier,
Yet older women’s ways have me in thrall;
Yes, every worthwhile girl in Rome’s great city,
My love’s a candidate to win them all.”
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