Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  “My name is Manius. I am just an attendant. A bodyguard. I needed some air too.”

  “Where do you come from, if you do not mind me asking?” she said, intrigued by his looks and slightly off-kilter accent.

  Her voice was clear, cultured. But not cold, he judged. He felt that no matter how comfortable he was with his Latin his accent would always betray his foreignness. He just hoped that she would not think less of him for not being Roman born.

  “Britannia. I am a long way from home, I know. It’s a long story.”

  “Well it’s going to be a long night. And I know you enough, Manius, to want to get to know you some more.”

  And so the Briton sat with Camilla and told her about himself. How, when he was a child, the Romans had attacked his village. His father had been a farmer, his mother a seamstress. “Rome is as much a bastion of brutality, as it is of civilisation… My father was murdered before my eyes… I was only a boy but I attacked the soldier who was about to assault my mother. He turned his sword on me, but I was saved when another soldier, Lucius Oppius, intervened… My mother and I were sold as slaves… She died in Gaul. I was sent to Rome to attend one of Caesar’s gladiator schools… I learned my trade and fought well… I survived, which is more than many of my companions did… The arena is a theatre, filled with jeers and cheers. I experienced both… Eventually Appius Varro, the general and senator, bought my freedom and adopted me. He said he won a lot of money betting on me, against the odds, during my last fight. I was a freedman but decided to accept his offer of serving as an attendant to his son – and schooling him in combat,” Manius recounted, conveniently leaving out the times spent drinking, whoring and gambling with his employer.

  Camilla listened intently and occasionally interrupted Manius’ story with a question. She never overtly pitied him. Rather she found herself just being interested in him. Attracted to him. Camilla also found herself telling him things she had not told others before:

  “I can only imagine what it is like to be a slave… But I have lived most of my life in a gilded cage. Partly my father locked me away, after my mother passed away. But partly I have locked myself away. My days are spent surrounded by books. They’re far cleverer and more entertaining than most people, I find,” she said, half-jokingly, her teeth gleaming like coral as she smiled.

  “You might want to meet Rufus. He’s a poet, although he often calls himself a professional wastrel,” Manius said, recalling how, the day before, his companion argued that, “It takes a lot of hard-work and practise to be this idle,” whilst a servant poured him another cup of Falernian as he reclined on a couch which had been brought out to the garden (as another slave held a parasol over his head, to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare).

  “You may have to introduce me to him one day, but I would prefer to just see you again, Manius.”

  Camilla blushed a little and surprised herself by how forward she was being, in asking a man if she could see him again.

  “I’d like that,” the Briton answered, his smile shining through his beard - similarly more smitten than shy.

  Manius became distracted from his reverie when he came to a familiar turning in the street where, six months ago, he had found Viola. She was a knee-high black and white mongrel. “She’s a stray, like me,” he had said as he carefully moved towards the dog and fed her a piece of ham. Her ribcage was pronounced from starvation, she seemed to have lost half an ear in a fight with another dog, her claws had nigh-on grown into talons and her fur was mangy. Manius decided to take her home, carrying her most of the way. Viola had a sweet temper and would cower at her own shadow. She would even sit behind Manius’ chair in the garden when birds landed upon the lawn. But ferocity was in plentiful supply in Rome. Gentleness was rarer – and therefore more valuable. Manius nursed the mongrel backed to health. He doted on her – and she on him. “The more I get to know people, the more I love my dog,” the Briton remarked to Camilla, not even half-jokingly, the last time he saw her.

  Manius looked forward to getting home and seeing Viola again. He could never be unhappy in her company. She would jump-up excitedly at him, wag her tail and offer up a couple of throaty growls, by way of chiding him for getting back late. She would then curl-up contentedly at the foot of his bed and occasionally, like her master, snore.

  4.

  When they returned to Varro’s house on the Palatine Hill they were met by Fronto in the triclinium, waiting-up for them.

  Fronto had, over the years, served as Appius Varro’s secretary, accountant, housekeeper and cook. He had also been his son’s tutor, schooling him in history, rhetoric and philosophy. The old man still kept himself busy – and served his master’s son – by managing Rufus’ finances and household. Thankfully income still exceeded outgoings, albeit this had more to do with Fronto’s financial acumen than any sense of prudence on Rufus’ part.

  Wiry white hairs protruded from his nose, ears and chin. His build was slight and his back was hunched but Varro was always pleasantly surprised by Fronto’s vitality and robustness. The old man could regularly be found tending to the garden or coming back from the market, laden with produce like a pack mule. He had a shrewd, wrinkled face and kind, grey rheumy eyes. His voice was croaky, sometimes even gruff, but rarely devoid of irony or humour. Varro considered him both sage and sarcastic, in equal measure. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t fond of Fronto. Or when the old man hadn’t taken care of him. Far more than his father, who for long periods of time was absent on campaign, Fronto had been responsible for raising him. As a child he considered Fronto a Mentor to his Telemachos, with his father, Odysseus, away fighting on foreign shores. He had introduced him to Plato, Thucydides and Tacitus. Encouraged him to read and write poetry. Instructed him on how to don a toga and how Roman politics worked (or didn’t work). Taught him that the gods could be cruel, comedic or indifferent. That decency - and a sense of humour - matter. He told the child about his mother, who had died a year after his birth. How she was beautiful and pious and her father mourned and missed her every day, even though it might not have seemed like it (Appius had never remarried, though he had courted more than one mistress after his wife’s death). Fronto also made sure that, when Manius was adopted, Rufus treated him like a brother rather than rival, or servant.

  Viola soon came scampering into the room, her claws tapping across the tiled floor. Manius’ smile was nearly as wide as the mongrel’s mouth as Viola jumped up at her master and licked his hands and face. She duly greeted Rufus too. Although, at first, he had kept his distance from the mangy and silly dog – and believed it wasn’t worth investing time and emotion into a creature that was at death’s door – Rufus eventually bonded with Viola. When he was alone with the dog he would play with her – embrace silliness – and feed her treats.

  Manius bid his two friends goodnight and went off to bed. Viola followed him out the room, her wagging tail knocking against the furniture, doorframe and walls as she did so.

  Varro sat down on one of the three couches in the room. Each had a bronze frame, beneath long, thick cushions and plump goose-feather pillows. He reached over to the marble-topped table next to the couch, where Fronto had left a pitcher of water and plate of dates, figs and slices of apple. The flames from four braziers, in each corner of the room, murmured. Occasionally a tongue of fire would dart upwards, forming dancing shadows against the wall. A large mosaic dominated the floor of the chamber, depicting the Battle of Zama. A brace of intricately woven rugs, brought back from one of Appius Varro’s campaigns in the East, also gave the room some colour and character. A frieze, featuring Cincinnatus returning to his plough, hung over the fireplace whilst the walls were home to several paintings – mainly battles scenes. Rufus had lost count of the number of times his father had proudly recounted to party guests how his ancestors had fought for Rome during the Punic, Cimbrian and Mithridatic wars. At the end of his talk he would always exclaim, “And now I just need my son to add to the glory o
f Rome,” in an attempt to goad, inspire or shame his child.

  “You have returned earlier than expected. Did you not find a nice young lady to spend the night with?” Fronto asked, raising his eyebrow suggestively, but inwardly pleased that his young master had come back home, safe and sound.

  “I would much rather try and find a nice old lady, for you. One that doesn’t bleat but likes old goats. You never know, she might light a fire within you,” Varro joked, but at the same time hoped that his friend would find a companion in his final years. He worried Fronto had sacrificed too much, in his service to him and his father.

  “I would much prefer her to light the stove and cook me a nice meal. Although once she gets to know me I fear she might poison my food. I’d also worry about the strain on my back, should I be called upon to sweep a woman off her feet.”

  “I just wouldn’t mind you being tucked up in bed with a good woman, instead of spending your nights waiting up for me. Why do you still wait up for me? Not that I’m ungrateful for the water and food,” Varro remarked, before pouring himself out another cup from the silver pitcher and eating a date.

  “Your father asked me to.”

  “That would have been years ago. Perhaps one day you might follow my instructions, instead of his.”

  “And what would your instructions be?”

  “That you should go to bed instead of waiting up. That you should drink anything but the Falernian when you sneak down into the wine cellar, when you think I don’t notice. That you don’t overcook the red mullet and that you pluck up the courage to start courting Aelia. I’ve seen the way you look at our laundry woman, when she’s not looking. Similarly, I’ve seen the way she looks at you, when you’re not looking.”

  “Aelia is a fine woman, endowed with good sense. Which is why she shouldn’t look twice at me. I’ve known for a long time that I’ll die alone. We all die alone. It’s just that most people, may the gods bless them, don’t realise it,” Fronto said, almost cheerfully. “But I would be happy to be proved wrong. You should take a leaf out of Manius’ book and find someone. Just because your first married failed, it doesn’t infer that a second one will. I know you are prone to catching a different kind of pox, but love can be infectious too. I promised your father I would help you make something of yourself and see you settle down. His shade probably visits the house every now and then, in hope that he will see a grandchild to carry on the family name.”

  Varro forced a smile, as he remembered the two miscarriages Lucilla suffered, whilst he was married to her. She had nearly died each time. The first had somehow brought them closer together, but the second tore them apart. She grew distant, depressed, believing she somehow failed as a woman. That the gods were punishing her. He thought how he was not meant to be a father. He was too faithless and selfish. Varro was frightened that, if Lucilla suffered another miscarriage, he might lose her altogether. He stopped making love to her at certain times in the month. He spent more time with his mistresses and drowned his sorrows with Manius and other companions. It was the beginning of the end for their marriage.

  “Once again, you’ve both depressed me and made me smile,” Varro exclaimed, sighing from either exhaustion or melancholy.

  “If it’s any consolation I’ve depressed myself, as well as made myself smile. I still can’t quite decide whether the wrinkles on my face are laughter or worry lines. They’re probably both,” the old man posed, before masticating and then yawning.

  Varro rested in bed. Tired – but unable to sleep. His eyelids weighed heavy but the words Fronto uttered weighed heavier. He remarked that Varro might soon have plenty of time to find a wife, should Manius leave to marry Camilla. He had yet to confront the reality of his attendant making another life for himself. Perhaps Varro believed the affair was ultimately doomed (like so many others). Aulus Sanga would forbid his daughter from marrying a lowly bodyguard. He had also known plenty of young noblewomen to amuse themselves with a soldier or poet - before committing to marry a relevant cousin or uncle. Manius would be heartbroken - and Varro would not lack a drinking companion again. But what if love somehow conquered all and his proposal was accepted? The house would be emptier without Manius. Varro would miss Viola too, although he might not openly admit it. He would have to find another bodyguard, who could discern and suffer his moods. Varro much preferred interviewing for serving girls.

  The words of his father, as well as Fronto, echoed in his ears to keep him awake. What had he done for the glory of Rome? Although he had not wholly failed as a poet, he had hardly succeeded. Most people had judged his first collection of verse, composed nearly a decade ago, to be “promising”. Half his friends and fellow poets commented that his poetry was “too original,” the other half accused him of being “too conventional.” His odes were too joyless, his shepherds too urbane, his extended metaphors too long and his similes were like water, trickling through the minds of his all too few readers. Varro doubted whether he could even afford to live in a tenement building, in the Subura, on a diet of stale bread and sour acetum, from the income he generated as a writer.

  He sometimes still felt inspired when he read Horace and Virgil. Their words touched his soul, proving at least that he had a soul. But Horace and Virgil also reminded him of how little talent he possessed. They were Hyperions to his satyr. He spent more time with his mistresses than with his muse. He had lost count of the monumental poems he had started but failed to complete. Varro could still compose short, second-rate, love poems causing female hearts to flutter. But he felt dead inside. He had also fallen out of love with his literary circle. He preferred the company of whores to writers. They were less vain and were more likely to pay their way.

  A gentle breeze ushered its way through the shutters - tickling his nostrils with the smell of thyme from Fronto’s herb garden beneath his window - but it failed to cool his skin. He turned restlessly, as if suffering a nightmare. I can’t even settle down to a good night’s sleep. How am I supposed to settle down to married life again? Varro remembered however how he had slept peacefully when married to Lucilla – at least during the first few months of their marriage. She would often use his chest as a pillow and her leg would curl around his, like myrtle entwined around ivy.

  To sleep.

  5.

  It was closer to midday than dawn when Varro woke up. Or rather when Fronto woke Varro up, by prodding his bony finger into his master’s ribcage and yammering in his ear. Varro stirred, his eyes squinting in the light. His forehead throbbed, as if Vulcan himself were hammering upon the anvil of his brow.

  “Wake up, you have a visitor!” Fronto exclaimed, either excitedly or in a frenzied panic.

  “Tell them I’m out. Or say I’m feeling unwell, which is not altogether untrue. If it’s a woman, even Venus herself, explain that I’m unable to raise myself for her. And if it’s a man, even the First Man of Rome himself,” –

  “It’s not the First Man of Rome. But it is the Second. Your time may not be valuable, but mine is. Now get up from that bed, before I drag you out of it by the balls,” Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa announced, his stentorian voice as hard as iron, as he stood at the door – before retreating back into the triclinium along the hallway.

  Despite the sweltering heat a chill ran along Varro’s spine. His mouth became even dryer, his stomach queasier. He gulped, before turning to Fronto.

  “Is it really?” he asked, still hoping that it might be a joke or he was imagining things.

  “Yes. I suggest you make a miracle recovery from your non-existent illness.”

  Varro winced again, either from the light or his aching head, but got out of bed. He plunged his face into a bowl of cold water and donned his tunic from yesternight, which was still sprawled across the floor. Fear vied with confusion. He tried to remember if he had somehow slept with someone he shouldn’t have. Varro had no desire to share a mistress with Caesar.

  Whilst his master readied himself Fronto quickly hobbled out, with all the
grace of a three-legged dog, to attend to their distinguished guest. He hoped to placate the consul by furnishing him with the right vintage or delicacy.

  “Would I like anything? I would like my meeting to start,” Agrippa replied, testily, to Fronto’s offer. Although he swiftly sighed and altered his tone, no longer sounding like a drill master on the parade ground. A servant should not suffer for the sins of his master. “But thank you for your hospitality. Some water will be sufficient.”

  Fronto poured out a cup of water for Agrippa. Varro finally entered the room, flattening his hair and smoothing down the creases in his tunic. He offered up a respectful bow before speaking:

  “My apologies, Consul. I was up late last night, working on a new poem.”

  “I rather suspect you were working your way through your wine cellar, but no matter. You are here now.”