6.
Manius picked at some finger food, although he had little appetite for once. He stared out the window, pre-occupied. Fronto noticed him tap his foot and chew his nails. The estate manager imagined that the bodyguard could be troubled by any number of worries, jabbing at his side like a gladiator’s spear. Manius was embarking on a fresh assignment. His closest friend had been targeted by an assassin – and probably would be again. Yet Fronto fancied that, more than anything, Manius was thinking about his wife and unborn child. The hulking, fearless Briton felt powerless and scared.
Macer entered the room, adjusting his tunic, his hair dishevelled. If he looked anymore sheepish, he would have wool sprouting out from his ears, Vulso thought to himself. The praetorian had given the archer leave to disappear earlier – and spend some quality time with Sabina. The girl led the soldier back into the staff quarters of the house, where the two of them could be alone. Macer brimmed with pride as he told the story of how he had saved Varro’s life, during their perilous journey from Arretium. He was occasionally distracted in the telling of his tale, when he caught glimpses of Sabina’s upper thighs and bosom, beneath her skimpy dress. The Greek slave, with almond eyes and ambitions of becoming a freedwoman, liked the young soldier. When he was not being lusty, he was courteous. His prospects were good. Despite his age he was already a member of the Praetorian Guard. He had the body of a gladiator, but boyish features of a eunuch. She could attest, from first-hand knowledge, that he was no eunuch, however.
Macer blushed and grinned at his commanding officer.
“I hope you put a similar smile on the girl’s face,” Vulso remarked. He could still just about remember being a young soldier - and being directed more by what was between his legs than between his ears. As much as Vulso might have been tempted to rib the bowman some more - and see his visage grow redder than carnelian - he wanted to turn to the issues at hand. Agrippa had briefed Vulso, Manius and Fronto about the assignment to investigate the murder of Marcus Corvinus and find Felix Plancus.
“I remember hearing some gossip about the crime when it happened, last month,” the praetorian remarked. “Opinion was split. Some called it a tragedy, believing that Corvinus was bound for high office, or military glory. Others explained that the philanderer received his just desserts – and he was stabbed with the horns of a cuckold. Sooner or later his transgressions would catch up with him. And they did. Agrippa mentioned that you once gave Corvinus some lessons in swordsmanship. What was your impression of him?”
Manius shrugged his shoulders, to indicate he had no great insight to offer, and replied:
“He was an accomplished student, physically strong and intelligent. He had a confidence that often spilled over into arrogance. Corvinus knew he was gifted, and he wanted everyone else to know it too. Either he didn’t see his attacker coming, or he knew and trusted him. Otherwise he would have put up a decent fight.”
“I caught wind of a couple of interesting rumours, after news of the murder spread,” Fronto said, in his slow, considered voice. “Firstly, the gossip was that Julia became one of Corvinus’ conquests. Apparently, he composed some lewd, compromising verses about her, which found their way to Caesar. The murder may have been the result of a father protecting the reputation of his daughter. Although, that being the case, it would mean that Caesar has initiated an investigation against himself. But stranger things have happened in Rome. The other main suspect at the time, who people twittered on about for a few days, was Senator Gnaeus Silo. Shortly before his murder, Silo attacked Corvinus at a party. The rumour, which was just a rumour, was that Corvinus had not just seduced the senator’s wife - but had raped her. When questioned after the murder, Silo provided a cast iron alibi. But, as we know, alibis are as easily purchased as whores in Rome. Silo has a known violent temper. He has flogged at least two of his slaves to death, over the years. His first wife also died in suspicious circumstances, a month after he discovered evidence that she was having an affair. You will need to pay a visit to Silo, during the course of your investigation.”
Manius nodded, but then gently shook his head in ruefulness. The investigation would take longer than expected. There would be more questions than answers, as weeds outnumber flowers. The Briton felt a twinge of anguish, believing he wouldn’t be present for the birth of his first child. The world was unfair. But, thankfully, he knew that already.
“You are to question, but not interrogate, Julia and Tiberius. They may be able to shed some light on Plancus’ character and location - or identify other possible suspects. Tread carefully. Caesar’s daughter and stepson must be beyond suspicion. Caesar is all too aware of his daughter’s behaviour and indiscretions, but that doesn’t mean that he will want you to point them out to him. I have already sent messages to Julia and Tiberius, informing them that you will be calling over the next day or so. Julia sent a message back, saying that she is looking forward to meeting you - having read your poetry and seen your plays. She is curious to see whether you live up to your reputation. Do not let her youth fool you. I have known Julia since her birth. She is as intelligent as any woman, or man, twice her age. I am fond of her. She enjoys a good joke, but her licentious conduct is proving to be no laughing matter. Although she can quote Aristotle better than any philosophy student, Julia does not embody his virtues and lessons of restraint. As well as her images appearing on coins, you may have observed a few bawdy images and graffiti comments about her, scattered throughout the city. I would argue though that, however salacious the gossip is about Julia, the reality may be even more colourful. You are already in the young woman’s good graces. I just don’t want you to find yourself in her bedchamber,” Agrippa warned, his features becoming rigid, like quick-drying cement.
Varro offered up a chuckle, whilst shaking his head.
“You have no need to worry on that front. I will make it clear to Julia that I am happily married.”
“That will only increase her attraction to you, I imagine. You could prove an irresistible challenge. Others have believed themselves immune to Julia’s charms before, yet they fell for them.”
“You should be mindful of your conduct in Julia’s company, for fear of earning Caesar’s displeasure” Agrippa reiterated, appreciating how Varro could be tempted to behave more like a satirist than diplomat at times. “But you should be even warier of your behaviour towards Tiberius, for fear of earning his mother’s wrath. Livia is not a woman to be trifled with. Even your marriage to one of her closest companions will count for nothing, should you upset her precious son. Livia dotes on him. She is ambitious for him, perhaps far more than he is ambitious for himself. Despite or because of Livia’s influence over him, Tiberius is turning into a fine Roman. I have heard favourable reports concerning his bravery and professionalism whilst fighting under Caesar in Spain. Although Augustus has been championing Marcellus in official dispatches, Tiberius has earned the respect of the ordinary soldiers. He has already been helpful in providing information about Corvinus and Plancus. I am sure he will similarly assist you in any way he can.”
“It will make a welcome change, someone volunteering information during an investigation. Usually people are about as helpful as a hole in a bucket, or a one-legged cavalry horse,” Varro said, resisting the urge to both yawn and call for a jug of Massic.
“But it’s important I now assist you, Rufus. The events in Arretium are as alarming as they are baffling. We need to identify who was behind the attack, before they have an opportunity to strike again. It may take at least a day or two for your unknown adversary to receive word that his assassination attempt has failed. If he dares to plan another attack, as opposed to abscond, that cannot be arranged overnight, either. We have a window of opportunity, for the hunted to become the hunter. I have sent a message to the garrison commander in the region to double the guard posted at your house. I have assigned Vulso and Macer to accompany you during your task to locate Plancus, as well as serve as additional protection for you
. But who do we need to protect you from? Have you slandered anyone in your plays, who may have the cause and means to exact their revenge?” Agrippa remarked, with a raised, almost reproachful, eyebrow.
“No. As much as the plays may offend some sensibilities, they do not insult any specific individuals,” Varro said. “I have heard a recent report that Livius Galba is baying for my blood.”
“Do you blame him? You did cuckold him. Under the law, should you be of an unenviable social rank, Galba would have had the right to execute you, without fear of prosecution. But Galba can be full of bluster, as well as brutality. He also has some semblance of honour. He would want to be present or involved in your punishment. I will send him a carefully worded letter, to warn him off, should he still harbour any ideas of violence towards you. An attack on one of Caesar’s agents is an attack on Caesar himself, I’ll subtly convey. We shall identify your adversary soon enough. I have instructed a number of men to visit the relevant docks and taverns, to locate other tattooed members of the gang – and their leader. Once I’ve gathered the requisite intelligence, I’ll send word. I can arrange more men, should you need them to apprehend the gang leader. Vulso will interrogate, rather than question, him.”
Galba wasn’t the only one baying for blood. Attempting to assassinate his agent and friend was an act of war. When Agrippa heard about the attack, he was willing to fix his sword around his waist again and dirty his blade. The culprit would not have his day in court. His body would be buried or burned. Un-mourned.
“There is one other person I have thought of, who may be pulling the strings behind the scenes. Maecenas is not one to forgive and forget. He has the motive and means,” Varro said, his face twitching as the image of the spymaster, from his nightmare, flashed through his mind.
“It’s unlikely. I have never known Gaius to employ the services of a criminal gang before, to carry out an assassination. Indeed, he has nothing but contempt for the guilds. They are on a long list of things which he sneers at. There is also the argument that if Maecenas wanted you dead, you would be dead. If, however, there is firm evidence that he is involved in any plot, he will be brought to justice. Caesar will not protect him. But, trust me Rufus, Maecenas wasn’t behind the attack.”
Gaius Maecenas marched into his opulent study, adjusting the pleats in his toga. He was freshly shaved. His skin had been perfumed with crocus oil and cosmetics disguised the burgeoning liver spots on his temples. His hands were manicured, his nasal and ear hair plucked (along with any grey hairs sprouting from his chest). Although he had instructed one of his young, handsome slaves to give him a massage and relieve him of his anxiety during the morning, Maecenas could still feel tension in his shoulders.
His wife, Terentia, had already left the house. She said she was out shopping for the day and seeing friends, but Maecenas didn’t need to have her followed to know that she would be visiting her new lover. After being Caesar’s mistress, he would prove second best. Terentia had been one of his greatest assets, when she shared Caesar’s bed. But now that wellspring of intelligence had run dry.
It could soon be the case, however, that the spymaster needed to find someone to share Caesar’s nephew’s bed. He had already befriended Marcellus and opened-up a line of communication. Over the past few months he had often written to the youth and sent him gifts, such as books or pieces of jewellery. He had already sowed the seed in the adolescent’s mind that Maecenas could help guide him through the labyrinth of Roman politics. Should Caesar die from his latest bout of serious illness – and Agrippa be named as his successor – then Marcellus needed to see Agrippa as a rival. Marcellus should be encouraged to feel he is the rightful heir - the blood heir. But should Caesar pass his ring to his nephew, he should be made to view Agrippa as a potential threat. One that should be addressed and nullified.
Maecenas reached his desk. He smirked upon seeing a pile of love letters, which one of his agents had secured. They proved that an influential senator, Publius Strabo, was conducting an affair with his daughter-in-law. Doubtless there were some others in the Senate House who would privately admire their colleague’s behaviour, but most would admonish him if the scandal were made public. Strabo’s influence could now be added to the store of Maecenas’ influence. Sitting on the other side of his desk, like a squat, ugly toad, was the latest book of verse by Crispus Rullus. The young poet wasn’t fit to polish the stylus of Horace or Virgil, but he had invited the aristocrat into his inner circle and taken him as a lover. Rullus had dedicated the book to his patron and mentor - but it was far from the greatest poetry ever to honour him. Rullus had tried too hard, or not tried hard enough. The lady - another ubiquitous Lesbia figure - had inspired him too much, or not enough.
Maecenas smoothed down his already oiled hair and made a mental note of who to invite - and more importantly who to snub - in relation to his forthcoming dinner party. He was distracted however by one of his agents, Vedius Sallust, entering.
Sallust had a furtive expression and upturned nose, like a rat sniffing the air. Despite his untrustworthy countenance Maecenas trusted the veteran spy. He had proved his loyalty on countless occasions. Sallust took particular pleasure in delivering bad news to an adversary, in the form of blackmail or extortion, on Maecenas’ behalf. Secrets were treasure, to be snuffled out like pigs uncovering truffles.
“What’s the latest news?” Maecenas asked, demanded. The smirk had fallen from his face, like a scab. His lips were pursed, in worry or determination - clamped shut like the jaws of a shark.
“Rufus Varro returned to Rome last night. The attack must have failed, or Bursa didn’t intercept him. He’s had a lucky escape it seems,” Sallust reported, snorting in derision or respect. When the agent spoke, it sounded like a piece of phlegm was permanently attached to the back of his throat.
“We must find and kill him immediately,” Maecenas replied, seething, baring his teeth - like a shark.
7.
Agrippa departed. Varro joined his companions and discussed a plan of action. He lifted his weary heart and rose to his feet, soughing like the wind. More than the will of the gods, Caesar’s will must be honoured and obeyed. Another day, another assignment. Arretium seemed far more than just a day’s journey away. Varro could no longer smell his wife’s perfume on his clothes. But he wished he could.
The agent resolved to first visit Caesar’s stepson. He hoped Tiberius could provide him with the name of a close confidante of Plancus. They would then discover their suspect, hiding at his home. Plancus would confess to the murder and they could return to Arretium, before the baby was born. That’s what Varro hoped. But the agent was experienced enough to not put too much faith in his hopes.
Varro, Manius, Vulso and Macer made their way across the Palatine, weaving their way through the busy streets like fishing boats negotiating clusters of sharp coral in the shallows. Breathless slaves, their faces slick with sweat, were running an array of errands. Petty officials were burdened, like pack animals, with scrolls and wax tablets. Queues had already formed at wine stalls, with customers looking to quench their thirst in the unrelenting heat. Bedraggled tunics brushed against rustling silks. Friends traded morsels of gossip - or bewailed the state of their finances or marriages (with the latter often causing a strain on the former, or vice-versa). Scrub-faced boys were being taken off to the gymnasium (some skipped, some dragged their feet, lumbering like aged oxen). Mothers and daughters, dressed in their finery, were making their way to the temple, to make an offering. The daughters would be praying for a wealthy, handsome suitor to make a marriage proposal. The mothers would just be praying that he would be wealthy.
Varro couldn’t help but catch snippets of conversation, as the flow of pedestrians grew congested through the presence of litters clogging up the streets. A couple of food vendors swapped news on past and forthcoming chariot races. A trio of women complained about the rising price of squid at the fish market, situated just outside of Rome. Varro sensed that it was mor
e than just the merchants he overheard, who were concerned about the issue of Caesar’s health.
“May the gods preserve him.”
“The people may raise a riot, after their grief subsides, should he perish. Law and order, peace and prosperity, may be thrown out the window, like a bucket of shit.”
“Those parasites in the Senate House may look to raise taxes too, given half the chance, and make a power grab if Augustus passes.”
Despite the muggy heat Varro’s party all donned cloaks, beneath which hung swords and daggers. Macer also carried a cloth bag, containing his bow and a clutch of arrows.
An assassin, or death itself, could be stalking him, Varro told himself, as he licked the sweat off his upper lip. His eyes flitted from side to side occasionally, surveying possible adversaries. Ironically, the more unassuming and anonymous people looked, the more they were likely to be a professional killer. Fatalism hung in the air, like the thick stench of ordure. Thoughts flailed around his mind, like an untethered sail in a storm. He was tempted to march across the city and confront Maecenas. But the only evidence he had, to accuse him of a crime, was that he had featured in a bad dream. Could he not just defy Caesar and Agrippa - and return to Arretium? One death sentence is the same as another. Perhaps he should at least order Manius to be by his wife’s side. But he knew his friend would defy him.
A motley-dressed juggler appeared from out of nowhere in the crowd. Sweat cut scars through his make-up. He grinned, toothily, whilst juggling a set of polished knives. For a moment Varro imagined that the street entertainer might be an assassin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Manius reach beneath his cloak and clasp his dagger. But the juggler passed harmlessly by. Varro exhaled, and was close to laughing at his paranoia. He mused how it was more likely that he would be bored to death by a juggler than stabbed by one.
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