“I am fond of Ovid too, although I worry that as much as his tongue may talk him into trouble, it may not always possess the charm and power to talk him out of it,” Varro replied, planting himself on the other side of the bench to Caesar’s daughter. Not too close or not too far away from her.
“Marcus was envious of Ovid and his talent, not that he would ever have admitted it. Can I ask if you envy anyone?”
“I can say with some confidence that I possess plenty of reprehensible character traits, but envy isn’t one of them.”
“If anyone else would have said that, I wouldn’t have believed them. But I believe you, Rufus.”
Julia here gazed upon Varro with admiration rather than lasciviousness. He was handsome, but that wasn’t (just) the attraction. His considerable wealth meant nothing to her. She probed his expression - or got lost in it. His eyes could be bright, doleful or playful. Like hers. He could tragically make a joke out of anything. Like her. She wanted to tell him how serious she could be too, however. She wanted to tell him how much philosophy she had studied - and how much of his poetry she had read. She had a thirst which, no matter how much wine she drank, she could never quench. “No amount of tears can wash the loneliness away,” she wanted to express, quoting a line from his latest play. Her lust could never fill the hole, left by an absence of love. A devotion to pleasure wasn’t the beginning and end of living happily. It just seemed that way sometimes.
“It’s the only thing in my life that people should envy me for. But tell me, do you know if Maecenas discovered that Marcus divulged his secret to you, or anyone else?”
“You wish to use me, it appears. If only you would use me like other men wish to use me. I certainly didn’t divulge anything to Maecenas. We may have recently shared some lovers, but we are not in the habit of sharing information. He does have excellent taste in art and literature. He is one of the only people in Rome to possess a better stocked wine cellar than myself. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Marcus boasted of his exploits to others. He was well practised, to the point of being pitch perfect, in singing his own praises. Are you imagining that Maecenas could be responsible for Marcus’ death? He could have felt desperate enough to silence him. He is losing influence with my father, faster than his hairline is receding. The great Caesar no longer trusts him, which is ironic seeing that my father was the one to take his friend’s wife for his mistress. Livia may be faithful, out of fear rather than devotion, but my father is unfaithful enough for the both of them. At least I am honest about my lack of virtue. My father still tries to be one thing to the world, and another to his wife and family. He should identify himself with Janus, rather than Apollo. But Maecenas shouldn’t feel overly aggrieved. I am not sure if my father wholly trusts anyone.”
Varro mused how there were some who argued that Julia was shaming her father as a consequence of her debauched behaviour. But could it not equally be the case that Caesar’s daughter had a will to punish her father, and her behaviour was a consequence of that?
Although she wasn’t proud of the fact, Julia wasn’t much interested in Gaius Maecenas, or the death of her friend, right now. She just wanted Varro to lean over and take her. He could bite her lip and draw blood. He could either tenderly clasp her hand or hungrily devour her. That part didn’t much matter. That he could resist her, that he loved his wife, only increased her desire. Other rooms might be occupied, but her private chambers would be free. She could instruct one of her attendants to bring wine and food up to them. And then bid them not to disturb her until morning.
“I am grateful for your help, Julia. The information will hopefully prove useful,” Varro said, thinking how he now had intelligence which he could exploit to blackmail Maecenas - as the spymaster had blackmailed countless others over the years.
“Is it not customary for agents to offer a reward for people who provide them with valuable information?” Caesar’s daughter asked, her eyes twinkling with coquettishness once more. Julia had been playing a part for so long now she couldn’t really tell when she was putting on a performance or not.
Varro’s heart began to beat a little faster, from anxiety rather than ardour. He realised how dry his mouth was. The image of Lucilla loomed larger. The warm breeze wafted the smell of her perfume into his face, as if it were conspiring with the girl to seduce him. He felt like he was engaged in a sword fight, but all he could do was parry, rather than attack.
“It is,” Varro replied, his tone less sure of itself than usual. He gulped before speaking.
“Then I would like just one kiss, as payment.”
For once the confident, insouciant, nobleman appeared fretful - almost comically so. How wise would it be to say no to the daughter of the most powerful man in the world? Could this not somehow be his crowning conquest? In some ways Julia was the most powerful woman in the world, or certainly second - after Livia. It would just be one kiss. It wouldn’t mean anything - aside from it meaning everything. Varro had been able to remain faithful since remarrying Lucilla. When she had proposed to him, it was the first day of the rest of his life. He loved her, more than life itself (albeit this was partly due to Varro not being entirely enamoured with the world). One kiss would be nothing, especially considering past transgressions when he was first married to Lucilla. A woman scorned he could deal with. Practise makes perfect. But a Caesar scorned?
“I am afraid my heart wouldn’t be in it.”
“It’s not your heart, but another part of your person, that I’m interested in,” she whispered, luridly, leaning into him. Her chin nearly rested on his shoulder. She was fifteen, going on fifty, Varro fleetingly thought. Yet he also thought how, if fifty, he would have considered how she was behaving childishly. Rome seemed so utterly tawdry and tiresome.
As much as Julia always got her man she drew back when witnessing the discomfort on Varro’s face. He shifted uneasily on the bench, as if he were sitting on hot stones from a bathhouse. Should she pounce, she sensed he would recoil. The cost of the kiss would be too high if she lost Lucilla as a friend. And what if she forced Rufus to sleep with her? He would spend the night with her but then creep out of her room - and life - for forever come the morning.
“I am sorry if you thought you were inviting Rufus Varro the errant poet this evening. Unfortunately, Rufus Varro, the faithful husband, has turned up.”
There was a moment when he thought the young girl might flare her nostrils and snort fire, in response to being rejected. Her hands bunched themselves into small fists. But she merely breathed out and smiled.
“It’s still not been a wasted invite. Instead of stealing a kiss, perhaps I might take up some of your time and write to you and Lucilla at some point?”
The masked slipped. The twinkle in her eye dimmed. Caesar’s daughter now appeared diffident, as opposed to demanding and dominant. The agent gave her the benefit of the doubt that it wasn’t an act. If it was an act it was unerringly convincing. He was tempted to suggest to Julia that she could become a spy too, but he didn’t want to put any such ideas in her head.
“We would both like that,” Varro replied, warmly and evenly. He felt a surge of pity for the vulnerable girl. Despite making a show of having a string of lovers Julia seemed intensely isolated and lonely.
“I suppose I should get back to my party. Duty calls. If my face isn’t aching from smiling too much, I may think that something is wrong. A mob of patricians need entertaining. Even aristocrats need their own form of bread and circuses. I promise to write to you. And as you know, I always try to keep my word, which is why I seldom give it. Will you be coming inside and re-joining the party too?” Julia remarked, getting to her feet, smoothing any creases from her gown, moistening her lips with her tongue and fixing her smile again.
“Not quite yet. You can have too much of a good thing. I’m going to suffer my own company for a little longer,” Varro replied, missing Lucilla more than ever.
14.
Aelius Vulso had arranged for someon
e to spill pig’s blood on the floor, close to the chair which Stolo was bound to. The sight was unavoidable and disconcerting. Manius stood by the glistening stain, sword in hand. Glowering. The equally intimidating praetorian stood a few paces away.
The warehouse they were in was relatively secluded, although Vulso posted a few men to patrol the building. A couple of oil lamps and a brazier, with a branding iron nestled in its orange coals, provided some light. Hooks hung down from beams which criss-crossed the ceiling. The pungent smell of rotten meat - death and decay - hung in the air too. A long-tailed, black rat scurried along the floor and darted into an egg-shaped hole in the wall. It was unlikely that the gang leader could make a similar escape.
Stolo stirred, dehydrated and disorientated. He didn’t know where he was, when it was or who the men were who had abducted him. The last thing he remembered was being assaulted in the courtyard of the tavern. His chin was wine-stained. He could feel his bare feet on the stone floor, from where his captors had removed his shoes. The ropes bit into his wrists. Stolo squinted, taking in his surroundings, and shook his head, as if he were trying to shake off a hangover.
The gang leader noted the patch of blood on the floor, which he reasoned had come from a previous prisoner. He took in the iron-wrought countenances of his captors. He considered them foot-soldiers. He ultimately needed to speak to their superior to negotiate a deal and extract himself. Stolo’s attention was naturally drawn to the nearby wooden table as well. Resting on which was a mallet, a meat cleaver, pliers, several slightly bent long nails and a stonemason’s hammer and chisel.
“Who are you? Where am I? Do you know who I am?” Stolo said, or rather croaked. His throat was sore, his voice raspy – as if he had just inhaled clouds of black smoke from a fire. He posed the first two of his questions in a state of bewilderment. The last contained a hint of menace.
“This is an interrogation. You’re required to answer questions, not ask them,” Vulso stated, his voice as flat as the head of the mallet beside him.
The gang leader was all too familiar with interrogations and torture sessions. Stolo had taken part in several over the years, albeit his role in them was somewhat different to his current one.
“What do you want to know? I want to help. But I am just the head of a stonemason’s guild. You are talking to the wrong man.”
“I just want a name. Who hired you to murder Rufus Varro?”
“Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
As convincing as Stolo’s performance was it wasn’t convincing enough. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes when he heard the name.
“You’re about to find out that ignorance isn’t bliss,” Vulso said, turning to Manius and nodding.
The Briton didn’t hesitate. He picked up the mallet from the table and smashed it against the prisoner’s toes. Stolo’s head snapped back and he howled in agony, like a wolf baying at the moon. A tooth-sized piece of bone flew off in one direction and a scrap of flesh squirted in another.
Outside, a couple of soldiers standing sentry heard a faint scream from inside and shared an amused look, as they watched a group of birds scatter from the roof of the warehouse. They had every confidence that Vulso would extract the information he was after. The praetorian would be thorough. They nearly, but not quite, felt sorry for the doomed prisoner.
Vulso didn’t take any overt pleasure in torturing a suspect, but neither would he shirk from the task. Violence worked. It was a valuable and necessary tool. A stock part of his trade.
His battered, bloody foot throbbed and felt like it was on fire. Stolo gnashed his teeth and cursed the men in front of him, under his breath. He vowed he would find, torture and execute them, once he was free. He would slaughter their families too, if they had them. But he needed to deal with what was happening now. He still didn’t know if Bursa had found and killed Varro. He could collect the remaining fee owed if so. And what had happened to Bursa and his men?
“Bursa already gave us your name,” Vulso said, lying.
“What happened to Bursa?” Stolo remarked, the resistance draining out of his voice, as blood seeped out of his foot.
“You will see him soon enough. You can ask him yourself,” Manius said, stolidly. Blood freckled his cheeks, from where he had smashed open the prisoner’s foot, squishing it like a piece of fruit.
“You’re going to give me the name I’m after, even if I have to work through the night. I have all sorts of incentives on this table to compel you to talk. Firstly, I’ll employ the hammer and chisel to cut off your fingers and toes. I will then use the pliers to pull out what few teeth you’ve left in your head. This will just be the appetiser course, before we get to the main meal. The branding iron is heating up nicely. It’ll soon melt through your flesh as easy as a tax collector will go through your accounts. Your skin will melt like wax and the putrid smell will make you retch. But vomiting will be the least of your concerns at that point. I will brand your bollocks and cook your eyes. I’m practised in inflicting a horrific amount of pain, whilst preventing a prisoner from dying. Trust me, you will be confessing your deepest, darkest secrets by then. I am giving you the opportunity to talk now, however.”
Stolo’s eyes briefly flitted from side to side, weighing up each option. The issue was whether to betray his client or not. There was little or no real choice to make. The gang leader would save his own skin, even if another’s skin was flayed as a consequence. He remembered some of the incidents of torture he had presided over. He had no desire to be disfigured, broken or die from his wounds.
“I will cooperate. I didn’t like the haughty bastard anyway. But business is business,” Stolo stated, sneering in reaction to thinking about the figure, or from the pain in his foot. He just wanted to put the whole unpleasant business behind him. He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to spend too much time and money having to recruit more men, to replace any he lost. He would have to now write-off the second tranche of his fee, but so be it. Stolo revealed the name.
Manius offered up a grim but confirmatory nod to Vulso, to convey that he believed Stolo was telling the truth. The name was familiar and unsurprising. Vulso nodded in reply and moved aside, so the Briton could stand directly in front of the prisoner, his sword still in his hand.
“Is that it? What else do you want to know? What happened to Bursa? Where is he now?” Stolo asked, spewing out questions like a camel, spitting.
“He’s dead,” Manius declared, as short and sharp as a drumbeat.
Stolo screwed up his already bitter countenance, in confusion and antagonism.
“But you said I would see him again soon.”
The bodyguard thought about how, if the man in front of him lived, he would still pose a threat to Varro. The gang leader might also look to hunt himself down, as well as harm Camilla and his new-born child. Vulso’s men were already prepared to dispose of the body in the river. Stolo was a dead man, as soon as he was abducted. He just didn’t know it.
The stonemason’s features began to crumble, his complexion began to grow pale, as he realised the import of his captor’s words. There was a hoarse intake of breath. He wondered if the blood on the floor belonged to Bursa.
“You will,” Manius replied, free from pity or perniciousness, before punching the tip of his sword through Stolo’s chest. The blade scraped against bone. Death is death.
15.
The tavern was busy, raucous – but the atmosphere congenial. The sawdust on the floor was used to soaking up wine rather than blood nowadays. Food was being wolfed down, and no one was wincing on tasting their first mouthful of wine. Manius noticed a new menu, new furniture and new whores. Bassos had changed over the past year too. He had lost weight, his clothes were smarter and his manner seemed less fraught. His posture had even improved. The weight of the world no longer seemed to be on his rounded shoulders. His teeth were clean-ish and what little hair he possessed had been combed.
Varro and his bodyguard had b
een loyal, regular customers years ago. Bassos caught sight of the Briton and wended his way through the crowd. The landlord instructed one of his slaves to provide a table and chairs for his old friend and his guests. When Manius introduced his companions and discovered they were soldiers - praetorians no less - he provided the first jug of wine on the house, knowing that others would follow. He hoped the wine would whet the soldier’s appetite to try out other wares in the tavern.
“My girls are the best in the Subura,” Bassos boasted. As much as the landlord’s appearance had changed, he still saw himself as a salesman. “We have a special deal on for two of our most popular fillies. There’s Nefertari, an Alexandrian. It’ll be all too easy to imagine you’re bedding Cleopatra herself. She’ll coil around you like a snake and swallow you whole. And then there’s Nessa, a Briton like our friend Manius here. She’s clean, yet dirty. The exotic redhead is wild like a barbarian, but in a good way. Men, not just women, need to be ravaged sometime, eh? You can book to see them both in the same session. You will have the world in the palm of your hand - east meets west. Two women. One price. You don’t need to speak their languages, as they speak the language of love. You may initially think the cost is on the high side, but quality is quality. Or, due to the fact that you will have two lovely ladies serving your will and whim, quality is quantity.”
Whilst Macer remained rapt by the landlord’s lurid sales patter, and Vulso attempted to negotiate down the price, Manius was understandably pre-occupied. The mystery had been solved as to who was behind the assassination attempt, but the threat still existed. He barely registered the shapely serving girl putting a cup of wine in front of him - or heard the laughter of nearby patrons telling a joke about a three-legged goat, a fascinum and a one-eyed Vestal Virgin. Varro’s past was coming back to haunt him, again. Manius knew that the man who had wanted to murder him once would be doubly determined to murder him a second time. To finish the job. By killing Stolo, Manius had hopefully been able to buy some more time. Should any of the brigands make their way back to Rome, they would not be able to report back to their gang leader – who could subsequently inform his paymaster. Yet their adversary had the experience and means to arrange surveillance on Varro’s home. It would now be a race. Could Licinius Pulcher get to Varro first, or could they get to him first?
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