Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

1.

  A platinum moon hung in the sky like a polished brooch pinned upon a black, silk dress, studded with diamonds. It was the dead of night. The taverns had long turfed out their drunks and the early morning shift-workers of bakers and tanners had yet to stir. Even Rome slept for a couple of hours each night.

  But Rufus Varro and his mistress, Cornelia, were still awake. A film of sweat covered her smooth skin, like a glaze on porcelain. The sheets on the bed were crumpled. A smell of wine and perfume fluttered around in the air like moths in a courtship dance. The lovers lay in bed, tired and satisfied in equal measure.

  Nestled so close to him, Cornelia could see the long, thin horizontal scar which ran across the top of his forehead, beneath the black curls of his fringe. She had noticed the scar before and was curious as to what caused it but had been too hesitant to ask. Now Cornelia believed she was close enough to him to pose the question. The scar was part of him. She would duly accept and love it, like every other part of him.

  “Tell me, how did you get your scar? You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to. I don’t mean to pry,” the woman remarked, prying, as she sensually ran her long fingernails down his chest.

  “A year ago, in a fit of boredom, I decided to test my mettle by fighting as a gladiator. I trained for several months and a lanista arranged a bout for me - sufficed to say the contest wasn’t to the death - at a small arena just outside of Capua. I won the fight, but not before my opponent left me with a memento of the experience. Whether due to my near miss, or that I scratched the itch of testing my courage, I refrained from stepping foot in the arena again… Obviously you get my blood pumping, but there are times when a man needs to lose and find himself at the same time - bleed or draw blood… It was only after the tip of his sword wounded me on the forehead that I became bold and went on the attack,” Varro remarked, before sensuously kissing Cornelia on the lips, throat and breasts.

  She hummed in pleasure, opening-up her body and heart. Her eyes had widened as his confession unfolded and she pictured him combating and defeating a brutish gladiator. Varro was even braver than her centurion husband. She had never met anyone like him. No one had ever made her feel this way, in or out of bed. Every time she met him, Cornelia discovered something new and admirable about the nobleman and poet.

  In truth, Varro received his scar whilst being tortured by Lucius Scaurus, a senator who nursed ambitions of leading a coup against Caesar. Instead of being bold, after being bloodied, something inside of Varro broke (and as much as one can try and put a cracked statue back together, it is never quite the same again). In many respects, the story of Varro’s torture - and defeat of Lucius Scaurus - was more heroic than any victory over an opponent in the arena. But he decided not to divulge it.

  In truth, Rufus Varro was a nobleman, poet and spy. He met Cornelia at a party around ten days ago. His brief, given to him by the consul Marcus Agrippa, was to seduce the woman in order to gain intelligence on her husband, Flavius Hispo. Hispo, a centurion posted on the Spanish frontier, was suspected of corruption and taking payments from an enemy warlord - in exchange for turning a blind eye to smuggling and betraying the positions and strength of the legions posted in the region. Agrippa had no wish to punish an innocent man, however. The morale of the legions would also suffer if Hispo was arbitrarily executed. He consequently instructed one of his agents to uncover evidence of the centurion’s guilt.

  Varro’s eyes softened, and he smiled appreciatively, as he gazed into his lover’s eyes, feigning adoration. The scar didn’t detract from the handsomeness of the rest of his countenance. His sculptured cheekbones, playful aspect and strong jawline. Sometimes his face shaped itself into a mocking expression (“Life is a joke - and death is the punchline”, the poet had once written) but not now. Now his features were artfully positioned to project a sincere affection for the woman beside him. He wanted Cornelia to trust him.

  Her hum turned into a contented sigh. The past week had been akin to a dream - or a poem. A chance meeting at a party was now becoming something resembling fate. Cornelia was aware of the nobleman’s reputation, but she was still suitably flattered when he spoke to her throughout the night. He asked her about her upbringing and the books she enjoyed. When realising how well read she was, Varro asked Cornelia if she would do him the honour of being one of the first people to appraise his latest work. She nodded so vigorously in reply, her earrings jangled. She liked it when other women paraded themselves, subtly or otherwise, in front of Varro but he only had eyes for her. Not once was he lewd with her. Not once did he proposition or try to take advantage of her, though later that night she mused that she would not have spurned such an advance. She had proved faithful in her marriage so far. But her husband couldn’t have said the same. Cornelia was bored and wanted to test her own mettle. Could she attract someone like Rufus Varro, rather than just settle for a centurion who was unable to put a sentence or outfit together? Even if nothing came of having an affair with the handsome stranger, she would still have fun and revel in being courted by the nobleman. The following day, Cornelia woke to a messenger, carrying a love token from Varro (a silver necklace, inlaid with orange carnelian). The piece of jewellery was accompanied by a poem he had composed just for her. Her heartbeat discovered a new cadence and she thought about him all day, fingering the necklace or clutching the poem to her breast. The messenger also asked if “the lady” would be free to have dinner with his master the following night. “Yes,” she said, beaming as brightly as the morning sun. Her only unhappiness came from having to wait an entire day to see him again.

  The way he looked - and perhaps more so the size of his house on the Palatine Hill - took Cornelia’s breath away. His charming conversation - and vintages - made her feel lightheaded. She loved the way Varro doted on his dog, Viola. And the way the black and white mongrel doted upon him. They made love and spent the night together, after their exquisite meal. Cornelia thought to herself about how the nobleman could have had any woman he wanted. But he wanted her. During the next few days Varro took Cornelia to the theatre, introduced her to one of the finest dressmakers in Rome, and invited her to a dinner party, where the guests included senators and celebrated artisans.

  The married woman glanced at her bedside table. She had turned her father’s death mask away from her, to face the wall. The former stonemason would have judged her current behaviour to be un-Roman. But there were perhaps few things more common in Rome than a wife - or certainly a husband - being unfaithful. For a man, it was almost a badge of honour or rite of passage to retain a mistress. At first, Cornelia felt awkward at the attention, but now she enjoyed walking into a room with her lover and turning heads.

  Tonight was the first time she had invited Varro back to her own home. Cornelia felt a little uneasy and embarrassed, at first. The Viminal Hill was far from the Palatine, in more ways than one, and she hoped that her slaves would be discreet and not tell her husband about her dinner guest. Thankfully, her home looked far nicer than it had a year ago. Many pieces of furniture were new and expensive, along with recently purchased paintings and ornaments. The property was also well-kept due to the additional staff she had taken on, over the past six months.

  Varro couldn’t help but observe how the interior of the house was beyond the pay of a centurion. There was of course a chance that Flavius Hispo was borrowing the money to finance their new lifestyle. If debt was a crime, then over half of Rome was guilty of the offence. Both soldiers and senators alike owed more than they could afford. But, the more likely explanation for Flavius’ change in fortune over the past year, was due to him receiving illicit payments.

  Varro surveyed the paintings on the bedroom wall and fine, bronze figurines of Aurora and Spes on a rosewood dressing table.

  “You have a good eye. I am even tempted to buy some of your artworks from you. I worry that your husband may be overextending himself however, to pay for your recent purchases. I wouldn’t want to see you impoverished or havin
g to flee Rome to escape your creditors,” Varro remarked, concern replacing lust on his semblance.

  “Everything has already been paid for. My husband has one of his legionaries bring back money and valuables for me, when he also brings back official correspondence. He says they are a gift from a local warlord. When Flavius next comes to Rome, on leave, he has promised to buy us a new house, on the Quirinal Hill. So as far as I know we shouldn’t have any debt collectors knocking on our door. You won’t be able to get rid of me that easily,” Cornelia joked, although a sense of worry, from Varro suddenly getting bored with her, had laced her otherwise amorous thoughts over the past few days.

  Cornelia had now unwittingly betrayed her husband in a different - and far more damaging - way, Varro judged. Once he made his report to Marcus Agrippa, the consul would have confirmation of his suspicions. The legionary, who was complicit in Flavius’ crimes, would be tracked down and compelled to give evidence. Both men would be condemned. Varro would petition Agrippa, so Cornelia would not be left bankrupt. She should not suffer for her husband’s transgressions. She was young enough to attract another husband. She was pretty and not without a modicum of good sense. As much as Varro may have wished her well, he knew that he would soon forget about her, whether he took on another lover or not. Cornelia was just another mistress - who wasn’t Lucilla.

  Varro let out a sigh, which was borne more from relief than contentment. He was keen to extricate himself immediately, though he didn’t wish to appear rude. He didn’t want to steal himself away, like a thief in the night, as soon as his mistress fell asleep either. He had done that enough for more than one lifetime. The nobleman would talk to Cornelia in a day or two about why it was best that they no longer saw each other. He had rehearsed and acted out the scene on more than one occasion. Varro could tell her that he was still in love with someone else. That he didn’t want to ruin her marriage or put her in danger, should her husband discover their affair. He would also pedal out the line that he wasn’t good enough for her, that he didn’t want to hurt her. Or a sense of weariness - and cowardice - could grip his heart and Varro would tell his mistress that the affair was over by sending a letter. To avoid any additional scenes Varro would take himself off to his villa, in Arretium, for a month, until the dust settled. The villa, hidden in the heart of the countryside, had become a sanctuary for the spy.

  Eventually Cornelia drifted off to sleep. Varro turned his back on the woman and the lover’s smile fell from his face, as quickly as a mask falling to the floor. His features became as hard as the stone statue of Augustus in the nearby market square (one of many commissioned by Agrippa, in honour of the demi-god). He felt as dead inside as the statue, as empty as the wine jug on the bedside table. He wanted to be back in his own bed, or in hers.

  Lucilla. His ex-wife had helped nurse him back to health, in more ways than one, after Scaurus had tortured him a year ago. They had lived together at his country villa for a few months, just as friends. There had been more than one moment and opportunity for him to make an advance towards Lucilla. He had stood outside her door at night - but always refrained from knocking and retreated to his room. But, even more so than rejecting his advance, he was worried that she might surrender to it. Varro was afraid of hurting her again. Scared of them losing another child - or bringing a child into such an iniquitous world. Scared of giving himself to her again, fear had paralysed Varro and, after returning to Rome, he realised he was in the same boat as when he left. Afloat, but longing for a port to call home. He loved her, but knew Lucilla was better off without him.

  As well as being oppressed by a poet’s melancholy, Varro felt burdened by guilt. He had used Cornelia, as he had used other women in the past, whether for pleasure or work. He had lied to the young woman, barely out of her teens, from the start. He pretended to be interested in her at the party. The love token he had given her the following morning had been one of many, part of a bulk order. Sooner or later a rash might appear on her throat, betraying the fact that the necklace wasn’t made of pure silver. The love poem he had composed, especially for her, had been written over a decade ago. He just inserted a different name, as to the dedicatee, when the occasion called for it. He had purchased an aphrodisiac from the apothecary, Albanus Pollio, and poured it into Cornelia’s wine to encourage her to stay the night. Even Viola didn’t belong to him, but rather he had borrowed the dog from his bodyguard and friend, Manius. Everything had been a lie. An act.

  Nothing is sacred. Nothing is real.

  Varro sometimes told himself that he was doing his duty and working for the good of Rome, or Caesar. But he knew he was lying to himself, as much as he had lied to Cornelia. The nobleman, or wastrel, had fallen into the role of a spy. He had spent most of his life in a hole, as deep as a grave, and he wasn’t quite sure if he could ever climb out of it.

  Birdsong began to thrill from the roof. The rays of the morning sun moved slowly towards them, like honey dripping down a hive. He felt Cornelia stir. He would don his enamoured expression one more time and make love to her. Their play, whether a comedy or tragedy, was now in its final act.

  “I could get used to waking up to you. It’s like waking up to a dream.”

  2.

  Cornelia asked if he would like breakfast in bed, but Varro already felt like the walls were closing in on him and the air was growing thinner. One more lie, one more kiss, and he might be sick. Varro duly took his leave and walked off stage.

  As he closed the door to the house behind him Varro experienced a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. His assignment was all but over. He just needed to make his report to Agrippa. He resolved to leave Rome for Arretium the following day. Varro already started to picture the view outside his bedroom window. A luscious valley, seemingly sculptured by a higher power, was home to olive groves and vineyards. Sheep ambled in the pasture - and clouds ambled across the blue skies above. He wanted to feel the quilt of his lawn beneath his bare feet, pick fresh apples off the trees for breakfast. Feel a sea breeze against his skin. He would sleep and read for most of the day. He would invite his neighbours over for lunch or dinner. He enjoyed the company of an old married couple, Sergius and Miyria. They had been together for fifty years yet still doted on one another and laughed at each other’s jokes. He realised they were an antidote to his scepticism and cynicism concerning love and marriage. He craved fresh air. The smoke and sins of Rome were choking him.

  Before Varro had a chance to breathe out, however, he was accosted by two men walking towards him on a narrow, cobblestoned street around the corner from the house he had just escaped from. He heard footsteps behind him too and when Varro turned his head he was greeted by an equally inhospitable figure.

  The eldest of the trio stood closest to Varro, to the point where he could smell the vinegary wine and garum on his breath. The man’s creased, leathery skin betrayed his fifty plus years. Yet his frame was still broad and knotted with muscle. When he made two fists his brawny arms hung down like mallets. His short, cropped brown hair, dusted with grey, meant that Varro couldn’t help but notice the man’s left ear lobe, which had been half sliced off. His black eyes were narrow, accusatory. His pronounced brow was large and bony, like a cliff jutting out over the sea. A large dogtooth, housed in swollen gums, turned his smile into a sneer. Varro took the two younger men accompanying him to be his sons, given their similar features. Their tunics were as dirty as the looks they gave the nobleman.

  “You don’t know me, but I know you Rufus Varro. Or the likes of you. I fought under cowards and reprobates like you during the civil war. You think you’re entitled to take what you want and damn the consequences. You think the blood running through your veins makes you superior to everyone else. But the only thing your blood is good for is being spilled. My name is Valerius Hispo, brother to the man whose wife you’ve corrupted. These are my sons, Vibius and Macro,” Hispo stated, in a voice as rough as sack cloth, nodding to the stout youth behind him and then the sour-face
d figure breathing down Varro’s neck. “I want you to know the names of the men who are about to teach you a lesson - beat some sense into you.”

  Varro refused to give his enemies the satisfaction of appearing unnerved, which he duly was. Rather he appeared mildly amused. A mocking expression still shaped his features, as if chiselled by the gods. He recalled how Agrippa had warned him about Flavius’ brother - and to avoid encountering him at all costs. Valerius was a veteran legionary turned debt collector. Even though he employed plenty of thugs to collect for him, Valerius still enjoyed the hands-on part of his business.

  Vibius Hispo sniggered, like a hyena. The youth had a pronounced squint, to the point where his left eye seemed half-closed. Macro tapped his cudgel against his leg, eager to get on with the task at hand. He had a lean, flinty expression which bespoke a man who hated for hate’s sake. Mercy was not a prized virtue in the debt collecting trade.

  “I was just keeping your brother’s wife warm for him. You should be thanking me, not threatening me,” Varro replied, his voice limed in civility - and sardonicism. His sarcastic wit had got Varro into trouble more times than it had got him out of it over the years.

  “So, you want to play the joker?” Valerius replied, cracking his knuckles. The debt collector had experienced all manner of responses when going about his business. Some begged for forgiveness or one more day to pay the sum. Some accepted their beating, being as bold as a lion or meek as a lamb. Some tried to run. Some tried to fight. The outcome was always the same though. The debt was paid, in blood and then gold.

  “Surely playing the joker is preferable to playing the mime? I don’t suppose you would accept a bribe to make all this unpleasantness go away?”

  Varro was tempted to comment that he hoped the act of receiving a bribe ran in the family, but for once he considered it wise to hold his tongue.