Spies of Rome: Blood & Honour
Richard Foreman
© Richard Foreman 2018
Richard Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.
“The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory.”
Marcus Tullius Cicero.
Table of Contents
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29. Epilogue
End Note
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1.
“She’s probably as dry as a bone, and tastes like one too,” Rufus Varro joked to his friend, Manius, as he gazed up at the whore on the balcony. She adjusted her dress so that her left breast hung out of it. Varro couldn’t quite tell if she’d painted her nipples, or if she had a rash. The ageing prostitute pouted, or mimicked a kiss, at the potential client. Her painted eyebrows must have been put on when she was tipsy, he fancied. A ruddy-cheeked water boy dutifully stood at the top of the stairs, ready to help the whores and customers alike should they want to wash-up afterwards.
It was late. The two men sat in the tavern, The Golden Lion, with a jug of wine and a half-eaten plate of ham, cheese and olives on the rickety table in front of them.
“The flower next to her - more thorn than rose - is called Hilaria, if I remember rightly,” Varro added. “She was past her shelf-life even when Pompey was alive. I once bedded her younger sister though. She either loved what she did or was a great actress. Some might argue that the two professions are one in the same. I think she’s now Nonius Cimber’s wife, or mistress. Either way he’s probably being unfaithful to her. Although she’s doubtless cuckolding him in return. All’s fair in love and marriage. If only love and marriage could prove one in the same thing,” the poet sardonically remarked, wryly smiling as he drained his cup of honeyed wine. He briefly thought about his own wife, Lucilla, and winced. Marriage hadn’t saved his soul. Divorce had.
Manius nodded and grinned in reply, although inside he believed two people could love each other and prove faithful once married. He thought about his parents, long dead. He also thought of Camilla and something inside of him – his heart or another significant organ - yearned to see her. Smell her moreish perfume. Have his fingertips run themselves along her silk dress, or skin. Hear her musical laugh.
Aside from his eyes – bloodshot from a love of good (and indifferent) wine – Rufus Varro appeared younger than his thirty-one years. Glossy black curls hung down over a smooth brow. Pronounced cheekbones and an aquiline nose dominated his classically Roman face. In winter, his unblemished face seemed carved from marble and in summer forged in bronze. A plain tunic covered his slim, well-proportioned figure. It was wise not to dress too ostentatiously in the Subura, for fear of attracting the attention of the robbers and rogues who resided in the infamous neighbourhood. Many joked (and some believed in earnest) that the Subura was the lowest part of Rome, just above the gateway to the underworld.
As well as surveying the languid figures on the balcony Varro cast his eye around the rest of the establishment. It must have been over half a year since he had last walked through the doors of The Golden Lion. But it owned the virtue of being open late and the wine on offer was duly tolerable, for the Subura.
The smell of garum and lamp oil infused the air. A bust of Julius Caesar sat on a shelf over the fireplace. Its nose had been clumsily re-attached, having been broken off after a mass brawl. Next to the bust was an old, rust-ridden gladius – purported to have once belonged to Caesar. The landlord often told the story of how a young Julius, who lived in the Subura as a child, came into the tavern and cleared everyone out in a game of dice. “He came, he saw, he conquered,” Bassos always exclaimed, when ending the anecdote.
Around half a dozen customers were spread out around the tavern (another patron could be heard from the bed, creaking, upstairs). A couple of men in the corner were conducting some business. A thief was attempting to sell some stolen jewellery to a shop owner. The seller was holding the trinkets up to the light, endeavouring to show-off the craftmanship. The prospective buyer however was pursing his lips, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders to convey that it was beyond his power to offer a higher price. A couple of grey-bearded sots were asleep in another corner, after having played some dice. A few flies buzzed over them and occasionally landed on their scalps, like they were pieces of dung. Varro couldn’t help but notice the mice scurrying along the edges of the room. He was tempted to propose a wager with his friend, as if the two mice were involved in a chariot race at the arena and whichever competitor reached the doorway first would be proclaimed the winner.
Manius let out a yawn. Unlike his friend, he hadn’t woken up late nor slept all afternoon. Tiredness was catching up with him. As much as the hulking Briton spent time being Varro’s drinking companion, he was also employed by the Roman aristocrat as his attendant and bodyguard.
Though Manius appeared older, the two men were the same age. They had known each other now for a decade. Appius Varro, Rufus’ father, had purchased the gladiator’s freedom – and adopted him - as a reward for his heroics in the arena. The crowd nicknamed him, somewhat unimaginatively, “The Briton”. As well as serving as a bodyguard, Manius was tasked with conditioning the statesman’s son and teaching him swordsmanship. In return the poet taught his companion Latin and introduced him to Roman literature and history (as well as to the taverns and brothels of the city).
The Briton had the solid build of the soldier - although he had been brought up in a school for gladiators, rather than in the army. His square jawline was covered with a short beard. He suggested to Camilla that he would shave it off if she wished, but as she said she liked it he kept it. His hazel eyes could harden or soften, depending on his mood. Some might have considered the Briton to be ruggedly handsome. If one moved close enough though they could discern the evidence of several broken noses and small facial scars, earned through doing battle in the arena or fighting in tavern brawls (although Manius was not one to start a fight, he was more than capable of ending one). His tunic stretched across his barrel chest. Brawny arms hung down from the sleeves. And a dagger hung down from his belt.
“Is that a couple of ghosts from the past I see before me?” Bassos, the owner of the establishment, warmly remarked as he walked out from the steam-filled kitchen. Bassos was bald, rotund with bushy eyebrows and a double, if not treble, chin. The apron he wore was even filthier than his whores, Varro mused. And his fingernails were as black as night. The niggarding proprietor, a former sailor from Brundiscium, could often be heard complaining about how little money he earned, but Varro figured that had more to do with his wife’s profligacy than his business acumen. The poet recalled how, over the years, Bassos advertised his tavern as being a place filled with good wine and che
ap whores. Although he also occasionally argued the establishment was filled with cheap wine and good whores.
“Good to see you again, Rufus,” Bassos said. “And you too, Manius.” His voice carried a slight sibilance to it, from his mouth missing a few front teeth. The two men got up from their chairs and shook hands with their host, before sitting again. They had spent, or wasted, many a night in the The Golden Lion before, over the years. Drinking. Whoring. Gambling. Varro found it difficult to adhere to the Ciceronian “good life”, as much as he admired the famed statesman’s prose style. As a youth he had carved several quotes into a bench in his garden. A room without books is like a body without a soul… Honour is the reward of virtue… The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory.
“I’ve not seen you both for some time. Have you been travelling?”
“No. I’ve seen enough of the world not to want to see any more of it,” Varro answered, before popping another brackish olive into his mouth. “The best of the provinces, in terms of food, wine and women all come to Rome. I’ve no need to venture out and encounter the worst they offer too.”
“I hope you haven’t been ill,” Bassos replied, creasing-up his bushy eyebrows in potential sympathy.
“Well Manius here has been sick in one way. Love sick.”
“Ignore him. Or better still, poison him,” Manius said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in mild exasperation at his friend. He’d long started to question the wisdom of having told Rufus about Camilla.
“The symptoms are all there. Should Cytheris or Clodia now walk in, in their prime, Manius would not give them a second look. He’s not sleeping properly, he’s off his food and I may have even caught him singing the other day. Or at the very least humming. I suspect he’s even been reading poetry.”
“Well if I read any of yours then at least I’d be cured of any difficulties falling asleep,” the Briton said, raising his cup to his companion in a mock-toast of getting his own joke in.
“Et tu, Manius?” Varro countered, feigning insult. “You should be more grateful. If it wasn’t for my selfish and priapic ways I wouldn’t have abandoned you at the party the other month – and left you to discover your intended in the garden.”
“It’s good to see you haven’t changed much in the time I last saw you,” the landlord asserted, enjoying the friends’ banter. They had been good customers over the years. Varro had plenty of money and purchased his better wines. And Manius had helped Bassos eject more than one troublesome drunk.
“So, how’s business been?” Varro asked, having noticed fewer customers, fewer tables, fewer whores and fewer olives on the plate compared to previous visits to the tavern.
“It’s been bad. But it’s picking up. Soldiers are coming back from the war. Peace encourages prosperity. Octavius finally ran out of rivals and enemies,” the landlord said, shrugging his shoulders philosophically – and excavating some wax out of his ear with his little finger. Weariness and optimism seemed to equally chequer his tone.
“This is Rome, remember? Enemies can breed like rats. Everyone wants to be a Caesar. The comedy or tragedy of the course of honours must be played out. Factions in the Senate House will look to curb Octavius’ power. Some still view him as an interloper, a boy who inherited a name,” Varro argued, unsure about which way he would side, should the Senate attempt to challenge Octavius. Although born to an old patrician family - whose ancestors had served as senators and consuls throughout the history of the Republic – Varro had started to believe in the new Caesar, that he had more chance than the squabbling Senate House of providing stability and prosperity in Rome.
“Well, I’m not sure about Octavius from Velitrae. I’m more excited about Nefertari from Alexandria. I’ve got a fresh girl coming next week. I remember, Rufus, when you used to try all my new dishes,” Bassos remarked, raising his eyebrows and winking suggestively.
“Aye, I had quite an appetite back then. Who’s going to be on the menu then?” the nobleman asked, indulging his host and allowing him to deliver his sales pitch.
“Her name means “the most beautiful.” Her legs go right up to her breasts and I’ve got wine that’s twice her age. She’s exotic looking, being from the East - and as sinuous as the asp which done for Cleopatra. For the right price, I can put your name down for being first on the list to try her out. Invite your friends too,” Bassos suggested, licking his lips at the thought of the profits from the girl, rather than picturing the girl herself. Rumour had it that the owner of the establishment didn’t sample his own goods because, as a youth, he had contracted a pox and half his manhood fell off. Varro tended to believe however that Bassos behaved himself because, if he didn’t, his wife would castrate him completely – if she hadn’t done so already.
A crashing sound, emanating from the kitchen, caused the landlord to suddenly break off his sales pitch.
“Stupid bastard! I best see what’s gone wrong. Serves me for hiring a cripple as a chef. Thankfully he’s cheap and he doesn’t mind working through the night.”
Bassos marched back into the kitchen, offering up a curse to the world or one more specifically directed towards his cook.
“He’s not changed much either, for good or ill,” Varro commented, pouring himself another measure of wine. Manius shook his head to indicate that he didn’t want anymore. His friend could guess the reason why. “So, are you meeting Camilla tomorrow? Or given the late hour, I should say later today.”
“Hopefully. She is now worried her father will find out about us and forbid her from seeing me - or have her followed.”
“She’s spirited and clever. In my experience, a woman will always find a way to meet her suitor. Of course, the women I see often need to escape the attention of their husbands, rather than fathers,” Varro drily said.
Manius raised a half-smile, at best, in response. His stomach churned, dreading that his relationship with the merchant’s daughter was doomed to fail. Her father wanted her to marry into the political classes, to advance his own interests as well as his daughter’s. The Briton was but a lowly attendant – and a barbaric foreigner. Manius knew what the problem and solution was: money. This was Rome. Respect and influence could be bought, as surely as one of the women up on the balcony could be purchased for the night. More than wine or olive oil, money lubricated Rome. Appius Varro had bequeathed him some capital in his will, but it would not be enough. Manius had been tempted to ask Rufus how much he could lend him, but he had his pride. Camilla professed she loved him for who he was, not for what he did. She argued that she possessed a sufficient income, from her allowance, for both of them to live comfortably. But he had his pride.
Varro subtly observed the tension in his companion’s face. The bodyguard’s brow was more creased than the ageing whore’s dress and his eyes narrowed, as if in physical torment. For once, a satirical or cynical comment wouldn’t improve the situation. Camilla was good for his friend, she made him happy (despite his current despondent demeanour). She recognised how honourable, amiable and decent he was. Rufus resolved that he would chat to his friend further, when he was sober, over the next day or so.
But before Varro could address Manius’ problem, he would need to deal with his own: Dellius Cinna walked through the doors of The Golden Lion.
2.
“You owe me money, Rufus Varro… You can either pay in silver, or blood. It’s up to you,” Cinna issued, standing over Varro, his hand gripping his dagger.
Spittle peppered the air as he spoke, or rather barked. Cinna’s deep-set eyes burned as brightly as the flames of the brazier in the corner. As much as his features were scrunched up into a scowl, there was also a sense of satisfaction in his expression and tone. He had finally come across the man who had ruined his life. Perhaps the gods were on his side, he thought. Cinna was drunk enough to feel over confident, but not drunk enough to know he was drunk.
The carpenter was accompanied by three other members of his guild. The first, Porcius, walked, or wa
ddled, forward to stand in front of Manius, with the intention of intimidating his opponents. Wine stained his tunic. Grease stained his plump features. He balled his fleshy hands into two large fists and snorted at the Briton. Porcius had heard the story, on more than one occasion, of how his friend had been cheated out of his money, by the poet, during a game of dice.
The remaining two companions, Nonius and Marcus Ligarius, were brothers. They possessed the same angular jaw, sandy-coloured hair, nut-brown skin, beetle-brow and wiry build. Their eyes glinted, like polished coins, as they recalled Cinna’s promise – that, should anyone help retrieve his money, he would give them their fair share.
Manius rose to his feet, towering over Porcius, who gulped but stood his ground. It was the bodyguard’s job to intimidate, rather than be intimidated. He yawned, again. Manius had lost count of the amount of times Rufus had caused offence. Usually it was a wronged husband, drunken soldier or a victim of one of the poet’s satirical verses who sought recompense. Varro had a gift (almost god given) for antagonising people. His tongue was sharper than a Spanish blade – and he rarely kept it sheathed. His friend was his own worst enemy, the Briton considered. Although Rufus would have argued that no one else was deserving of the role.
The whores on first floor watched on, with more amusement than arousal. They just hoped there wouldn’t be too much damage, lest Bassos decided to cut their wages for the month. The water boy widened his eyes in dismay. He had witnessed such scenes before – and was worried that he would have to clean up any mess – although thankfully there was sawdust on the floor to soak up some of the blood.
“I won the money fairly. You would make a liar of me if I paid back the winnings from a just wager. And Rome already has her fair share of liars.”
“You ruined my life.”
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