Varro fancied that a dozen dark thoughts and machinations might well be preoccupying his host right now - who appeared content, at peace. Or perhaps he was composing a poem in his head, as the celebrated funder of the arts also dabbled in writing himself. Maecenas had to swat away praise for his verses, like flies - as any and everyone looked to ingratiate themselves with the munificent patron. Thankfully Maecenas knew the merit of his work and he endeavoured to champion Virgil and Horace more than himself. At least, in that, Gaius Maecenas could be considered just.
The agent recalled Agrippa’s words, as he approached his host:
“Do not underestimate him. Gaius can charm the wick out of a wax candle - and talk the leaves off the trees. Work from the premise that he knows more than you think he knows… Gaius can delve into a man’s soul and divine what he wants before he even realises it himself.”
“Please, join me Rufus,” Maecenas blithely remarked, as he courteously stood up and allowed his guest to sit beside him. His manners could be impeccable, even to a torture victim. The host dismissed his attendant and poured Varro a cup of wine from an ornate, silver jug. The handle was in the shape of a dolphin, the spout in the shape of a serpent.
“Thank you.”
“Are you happy with the wine? It’s one of my favourite vintages. It’s from a small vineyard, just outside of Asculum.”
“The wine is excellent,” Varro replied, thinking that he was happy with most wine. “I import some of my stock in from that region too.”
“I knew you were a man of good taste, literary or otherwise, Rufus. I should take you on a tour of my library and cellar one day. I think it’s best we do so in that order too. I have an uncommon respect for you, both as a nobleman and poet. The blood which courses through your veins is as ancient as the waters of the Tiber. Which is why I will afford you the courtesy of being honest and candid.”
Varro merely offered an unassuming, non-committal nod in reply. At the same time as wishing to appear relaxed, unimpressed and unintimated - he willed his mind to be as sharp as a blade, fresh from the lave.
“We are both men of the world, Rufus, in that we know how tawdry and pernicious this world can be. We know that the gods do not always have their hand in the tiller, in steering this ship of fate. I will not treat you like a fool. In return I expect you not to take me for a fool either. I am aware that you work as an agent for Marcus Agrippa. I know that you uncovered Lucius Scaurus’ treachery last year and that your role in bringing him to justice remains unsung. I have also been apprised of several other assignments you have carried out over the past year, for the benefit of Rome. Either Marcus has schooled you well as a spy, or you possess a natural talent for being an agent. I am inclined to consider it more the latter than former,” Maecenas asserted.
“I am not sure if I would be much of a spy, if I admitted to being a spy,” Varro answered.
“Indeed. But should you work as an agent for Agrippa, he would have doubtless mentioned me. If he does not consider me a close friend, we are still strong allies. We both serve Caesar and have his best interests at heart. Whereas Marcus builds aqueducts, I build alliances and support in the Senate House. I also wish to create a cultural legacy for Caesar. The works of Virgil should far outlive any temple which Agrippa has laid the foundations for. Rome should honour its poets, as well as its soldiers. My greatest achievement was not to serve as steward to Rome, in Caesar’s absence, during the civil war. But rather I am prouder of bringing Horace to the attention of Caesar, who then brought him to the attention of the world… I do not wish to put you in a compromising position, or betray any confidence, by asking you what Agrippa said, or didn’t say. I like to think of myself as a problem solver. I fix things. I arrange marriages, or divorces. I help merchants avoid bankruptcy - or compel them to pay their debts. I arrange praetorships and senatorial positions - or sometimes encourage others in office to retire. I ensure that our esteemed governors refrain from collecting too much, or too little, tax. I often work in the shadows, because our enemies work in the shadows. There has been more than one Scaurus in the past few years - and there will be more than one Scaurus in the future, hoping to tear down what we have built… When a senator has been found guilty of embezzlement, or a general of cowardice, they do not pray to the gods to spare them, they pray to me… Some people may paint me as a villain, but I blackmail, bribe, extort and torture - all for the good of Rome and Caesar,” Maecenas said in earnest, whilst placing his palm over his heart to emphasise his sincerity.
Varro often performed the same gesture when declaring his love to a mistress, so he remained unconvinced by his host’s performance.
“I do what little I can for the good of Rome and Caesar too, but I suspect you have invited me here this evening to find out what I can do for the good of Gaius Maecenas,” Varro remarked, with more playfulness than cynicism.
“I am aware of your current assignment for Agrippa. You have been asked to find Herennius’ killer and retrieve a certain dagger, which was in his possession. I have been asked to find the item too.”
“All of Rome is keen to possess the knife it seems. We have as many suspects as you have guests at your party. I wonder however, why is Caesar so determined to recover the dagger?”
“I only have my orders, not explanations. I am willing to offer you a deal. Should you find the dagger, I would like you to hand it over to me rather than Agrippa. I can assure you it will still find its way back to Caesar, who, after all, is your ultimate employer.”
“I owe a duty to Agrippa. A Roman who lacks honour can scarce call himself a Roman,” Varro replied, somewhat sententiously.
Maecenas remained unconvinced by his guest’s performance.
“Duty?” the political agent said, screwing his face up in either confusion or contempt. “Duty is just habit. Duty is fear. Duty is a conceit. It is a commodity, which can be bought or sold. Senators talk about “duty”. That should be enough to tell you all you need to know about its worth. The gods will forgive you - and I am sure you can forgive yourself - if you put yourself in front of your duty. Duty, like celibacy, is an almost unnatural state. Did you not owe a duty to be faithful to your former wife? Do you not owe a duty to your family name, to produce an heir? Do you not owe a duty to your muse, to write an epic poem? No man has the energy, or sense of honour, to be duteous all the time. What an unconscionable bore he would be! Trying to do one’s duty and the right thing sometimes resembles a man standing in a bucket, trying to lift himself up by the handle. Yet, should you still wish to cling to the conceit of duty, that is all well and good - for you will still be fulfilling your duty to Caesar by handing over the knife to me. Agrippa need never know of any dishonour. And what he doesn’t know, cannot hurt him,” Maecenas persuasively argued, whilst also thinking that he could one day blackmail Varro over betraying Agrippa.
“And should I hand the dagger over to you - and I am only suggesting if rather than when at present - what will you offer me in return?”
Varro was determined to remain coy, non-committal. People who sell their soul too easily are rarely able to command a high price, he thought.
“Immortality - and a consignment of this vintage. I can arrange for Caesar to become a patron of your poetry. You will be lauded in this age and in eras yet to come. Your verses will be taken to heart by every child in school. Women will call your name and sigh. Your work will be distributed throughout the empire. And when you die, you will live on through your words.”
“Immortality sounds like torture. I am not sure if my life is worth living now. Death is about the only thing I am looking forward to,” Varro remarked, glibly.
“What are you most passionate about in life?” Maecenas asked. Every man has a passion and every man has a weakness, he judged.
“My indifference,” Varro replied, with a knowing, nonchalant shrug. “But I would ask one favour in return, which is in your power to grant, should I be able to retrieve the dagger for you. Call off your dog.
Licinius needs to stop courting my former wife, Lucilla.”
“I was unaware that he was seeing her,” Maecenas countered, nonchalantly. Innocently. “But I can speak with my agent. I cannot make any promises, however. This is a matter of the heart, rather than the state.”
“I am confident you will do your duty - to yourself.”
“You can be sure of it, as night follows day. Of course, this will all prove to be supposition, unless you can deliver the aforementioned dagger. I will not be averse to employing your services in the future though, should I have need of them. Agrippa may have been a young lion during the civil war and we should all be grateful for his service to Rome. But young lions turn into old lions. There are no more great battles to fight, thankfully. We have need of men with political prowess, as opposed to military prowess. Agrippa is a man of honour. But the enemies of Rome possess no such code. I would have nailed Scaurus to the highest crucifix in the land, before he had time to recruit a single gladiator and plot to overthrow Caesar.”
“I can make no promises either. You wouldn’t wish to make a liar out of me. Rome already has a surfeit of them, as you know.”
Varro made his way back through the house and re-joined the party. A dazzling brightness still glistened across the chamber, like petals of sunlight strewn across a lake. The guests chirruped even louder, like crickets. Yet the words of Maecenas chimed in his ears even more. Varro had shared some of his thoughts - those which were next to worthless - about his ongoing investigation. Maecenas repeated how he looked forward “to doing business together” with the patriotic nobleman and agent.
When he returned to the great hall, he was unable to find Manius, but he did spot Ovid. His back was against the wall. Varro grinned to himself as he witnessed the poet subtly, yet lustfully, take stock of the women present. His eyes feasted on the beauty and flesh on show. Surely his expression could not have been too dissimilar to his own, when he was that age? There was a blend of discernment, as well as desire, in his features. His expression would artfully change once he caught someone’s eye, or they caught his. Perhaps he was deducing which women were unattached and ripe to be approached. Who would stray from the herd? Ovid licked his lips a couple of times and sipped his wine. No doubt he wanted the timing - and prey - to be right for when he entered the fray. The adolescent displayed a palpable relief and pleasure at encountering his new friend, however, and temporarily postponed his hunt.
“Evening Ovid, I hope I am not disturbing you,” Varro amiably issued. He was genuinely pleased to see the young poet again.
“I welcome your company. I arrived alone, although that does not mean that I would wish to leave alone. It’s quite a party. The jewels in the room could buy a small palace, or a dozen senators… I overheard Gaius Statius, the poet, if you can call him such, earlier. He pronounced, in a voice as high as a eunuch’s, that he owed everything to his muse. I was tempted to remark that he should hire an advocate to prosecute his muse, for crimes against humanity. His verses are sentimental trite. Steaming piles of perfumed shit! He has a dedicated following it seems though. Hopefully they will follow him off the Tarpeian Rock one day… There’s more than one woman in the room, worthy of dedicating a poem to. If only I could somehow make their husbands disappear. Most would then doubly thank me. I had one pigeon earlier glance at me demurely, as she prettily tucked a tendril of hair behind her sparkling ear. She batted her eyes so much, I could veritably feel a breeze emanate from them. But then her husband, or it could have been her father, distracted her and my pigeon flew away. But there’s sport to be had, no matter what,” the eagle-eyed youth pronounced, as much attracted to the verses he might write as to any potential mistress. “Wish me luck.”
“I am sure that you won’t need it,” Varro replied.
“Every man needs a portion of luck in his endeavours, whether he be Caesar or a nameless beggar. Luck affects everything. Let your hook always be cast; in the stream where you least expect it, there is sometimes a fish. In love one must cultivate perseverance, as well as good fortune. Love is a kind of warfare. Seduction is a campaign. One must fight the good fight. Every lover is a soldier,” Ovid said with relish, quoting one of his own verses. “Women seem to enjoy the fight too, as well as surrendering. Whether they give or refuse, it delights woman the same just to be asked.”
It struck Varro how he had shared some of Ovid’s sentiments and philosophy when he was in the first flush of manhood. But he was different now. Either wiser, or wearier. Lucilla needed to be won, but not conquered. Love should engender a state of peace, not war.
“And have you been the hunted, as well as the hunter, this evening? Has Maecenas approached you about recruiting you to his army of authors?”
“He tried to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse earlier. He quoted Horace, advising that I should “seize the day” and allow me to him to recruit me. He would have been wiser to have read some of my poetry and quoted me. But I said I was tempted by his offer to leave Messalla and accept his patronage. It’s important to let powerful men think they have triumphed. From some of his expressions, facial and verbal, it seems that Maecenas was keen to get me into his bedroom, as well as his stable. But I have no desire to succumb to his advances, on any front. Messalla has done right by me so far. Also, Maecenas already possesses enough stars in his firmament. I do not want to forever be eclipsed by Horace and Virgil and live in their shadow. I want my star to burn just as brightly one day,” Ovid remarked, empyreal-eyed.
If anyone else would have uttered the same words Varro would have thought them full of bombast and foolishness. But, somehow, he believed Ovid’s name might one day be mentioned in the same breath as Virgil and Horace. He wished him good luck in his vaunting ambition.
“Of course, our host also invited me this evening to ask about the night Herennius died. I was courted and interrogated at the same time.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him almost as much as I told you, which amounts to very little. I said that not only would the gods think it worthy of punishing Herennius but plenty of mortals owned a grievance against him too. He is, like you, suspicious of Nerva. He asked questions about Corinna, albeit I’m not so sure he knows how close to her I got. I had nothing to say when he quizzed me about Sestius, as thankfully I didn’t get to know the oaf… The questions came thick and fast, but the answers didn’t. I’ve been less breathless during poetry readings though.”
Varro took heart that Licinius appeared even less advanced in his investigation as he was. No wonder Maecenas is eager to recruit me.
His agent was proving to be a disappointment. Hopefully he would prove a disappointment for Lucilla too.
“You have already had a busy evening it seems, and the night is still young.”
“Not quite as young as the redhead over your shoulder. She may have just dyed her hair, however. I would be willing to dedicate ten or twenty love poems to her to find out if she is a natural redhead. Her nose is a little too pronounced and sharp for my taste though. It cuts through the air like the prow of a ship. The milky-skinned specimen behind her has a perfect nose. It’s just that the rest of her features are fantastically bland… But I sense that you only have eyes for one woman in the room, Rufus.”
For the first time, in a long time, Varro blushed slightly. Even while Ovid was speaking, he was casting a glance around the hall, searching for a glimpse of Lucilla, like a sailor desperately looking for land. Even Ovid thought it best to bite his tongue when he was tempted to confess that, out of all the beauty on show at the party, he would wish to possess Lucilla. Or have Lucilla possess him. Clearly there was still something between the former husband and wife. They both still loved each other. The tragedy would be that they would be the last ones to realise it.
19.
She was nowhere to be seen. But out of sight was not out of mind. Varro pictured Lucilla being led away by him. Captivating her, like some male Calypso. He was smirking. Simpering. The amount
of oil in his hair was equal to the amount contained in the lamps overhead. Her smile was so thin as to barely exist. Varro thought how she could be on the other side of the room - but she may as well be as far away as the stars. His love for her was a curse. Cassandra was fated to always tell the truth but never be believed. Varro was fated to love Lucilla but never be with her.
“She’s gone,” Manius stated, plainly, after his friend met up with him again. “I was speaking to her out in the garden, while you met with Maecenas.”
Lucilla had observed Manius across the room, alone and not a little awkward looking, and decided to keep him company. Licinius had frowned upon his lady wanting to converse with someone who was barely more than a servant, but she ignored him. Manius and Lucilla spoke for some time. He provided her with some advice, in relation to an issue which needed resolving. Lucilla said she would talk to some friends and spread the word about his new business. It would be best if he didn’t have to spy on all his clients, the Briton thought.
“I am afraid I need to leave now. I have another engagement to attend, before the end of the night. Marcus Trainus is having a party to celebrate his wedding anniversary. Everyone is going to be there apparently, including his mistress and illegitimate sons. Give my regards to Camilla. And Viola, of course.”
“Would you like me to give any message to Rufus?”
Lucilla felt a twinge of pain on hearing his name - and took a breath before replying.
“Yes. No. I will write to him soon,” she pensively murmured, although not even the gods knew would what she would include in the letter, Lucilla thought.
They left the party, shortly after finding one another. As much as his fellow guests might have been similar in rank and wealth, Varro felt like he didn’t belong. Or he didn’t want to belong. He shuddered in revulsion too, that he might be being dragged into Maecenas’ orbit. My world shouldn’t revolve around his. Perhaps he hadn’t had enough to drink. He didn’t want to talk to any of the men around him and he would somehow feel unfaithful talking to any of the women, as though Lucilla was still watching him from a vantage point in the room.
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