Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  “I will deal with Flavius Hispo from hereon in. As for Cornelia, I will ensure that she is not unduly punished for her husband’s wrongdoing. Nor will she be rewarded, however. Should she have twenty slaves in her household, she will soon have two. If she currently wears diamonds and silks, she will soon wear coloured glass and linen… You have helped to swat a gadfly on the Spanish frontier, Rufus. As much as it is the lot of an agent for his work to go un-lauded, Caesar will be pleased and grateful for your service… But I have not just invited you here to give your report. I have another important assignment for you.”

  Varro shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His skin prickled, his scar itched as though his stitches had just been taken out again. Over the past year he had done his duty, worked for the glory of Caesar and Rome. But he was bone tired. Weary of seducing - and hurting - the women he was ordered to spy on. Varro was beginning to feel akin to a common whore, with Agrippa acting as his pimp. Enough was enough.

  “I was intending to spend time away from Rome. Not only am I concerned that Cornelia or Valerius might knock on my door - and I am far more worried about the former doing so than the latter - but I also suffered some injuries during my encounter with Valerius,” Varro argued, feigning a slight shot of pain in his ribs and wincing as he did so.

  “If would you hear me out, Rufus. I warrant that I will have no need to compel you to take on the assignment. Rather you will choose to,” the consul said confidently, knowingly. Varro didn’t know whether to be curious or alarmed.

  “Tell me, have you heard of the name Herennius of late?”

  “He was the soldier who, along with Popilius, hunted down and murdered Cicero. Antony and Fulvia rewarded him for his service and he grew wealthy through investing in the slave trade. Rumour has it that he was also a partner in a smuggling ring, which controlled a small fleet of pirate ships. Herennius recently bought a house on the Palatine, but I never met the man. He died last month, after being robbed in his own home.”

  “Herennius was stabbed with a thin-bladed dagger through the chest. Few mourned his passing. Rome’s loss is not exactly the underworld’s gain. I cared little for the man when I barely knew him. I care less now, since I have got to know him more. By all accounts Herennius was an odious, ignoble brute. After attending slave auctions, he would arrange for the “stock” he didn’t sell to be thrown into a pit - and the men and women would be ordered to fight for their lives whilst Herennius and his fellow slave traders placed bets on the contests. “They lack value in life. Perhaps I can extract some money out of their deaths,” he once told me at a party, making a boast of his enterprise… He was known to be abusive towards whores - as well as his wife… His wealth funded and fuelled his corrupt and boorish behaviour. He once bought up the debts of his neighbour, in order to force him out of his home so Herennius could take over his house and build a swimming pool… I also remember the time he tried to buy his way into the Senate House. Octavius replied that he didn’t need his money and that even the Senate House demanded a minimum requirement of wit and morality… I have little doubt that Herennius developed numerous enemies over the years, both for personal and professional reasons. He collected them, like my wife collects hairpins or astrologers. But I believe Herennius was murdered by someone he knew, rather than a random intruder. There was no sign of a struggle in the triclinium, where he was found. He also appeared to be carrying a goblet of wine and a few dates in his hands, when he fell to the floor after being stabbed… I am confident his murderer has a connection to one of the guests at the dinner that night, or indeed the culprit was one of his guests.”

  “Do you know the people present?” Varro asked, before yawning.

  “Firstly, there was Herennius’ wife, Corinna. She has yet to reach twenty. Corinna is a sweet girl, by all accounts. I sent a trusted attendant over to question the servants in the house. But she was a woman scorned. Such sweetness can sour, and Corinna could have murdered her husband in order to be free of him. At that point she might have also considered she would inherit his estate. Also, in attendance was Lentulus Nerva - Herennius’ father-in-law - and his wife, Lucretia.”

  “The advocate?” Varro remarked, somewhat surprised.

  “The very same. I have met Lentulus and seen him perform at trial. He is an accomplished advocate. He would claim he was second to none, but lawyers have been known to massage the truth. He is wonderfully fawning towards anyone equal or higher in social status. And wonderfully dismissive of anyone he considers beneath him - unless they are potential clients, with sufficient capital to buy his time and favour. You may question why Lentulus permitted his daughter to marry an ex-soldier and son of a swineherd. The answer is the cause and solution to all of life’s problems: money. Herennius took a fancy to Corinna and found out that Lentulus owed considerable debts. The advocate hadn’t built-up debts from gambling or poor investments. But rather Lentulus suffers from pride and envy. He desires to live the life of his wealthiest clients. So, he purchased a villa on the Palatine, which he could ill afford. His wife also burned through money, whilst decorating the house, quicker than the great fire of Alexandria engulfed the library. Much to their resentment, Herennius saved them. It was a choice between the shame of financial ruin, or the shame of having their family name linked to that of the slave trader. “To know him is to despise him,” Lentulus once said of his son-in-law. But like most lawyers, he decided to take money from a far from innocent man. We could look at the crime as a murder of convenience. Lentulus wanted to be free of Herennius, as much as his daughter did.”

  Varro nodded his head to convey he was taking Agrippa’s words in, but he still wondered what this all had to do with him. He wanted to get back home, to a choice vintage and the equally intoxicating Aspasia.

  “So far I’m not regretting having missed out on an invitation to the gathering.”

  “Marcus Sestius was also present, Herennius’ long-term business partner,” Agrippa added, ignoring Varro’s glib comment. “Sestius had served with Herennius in the army, before they started their slave trading venture. Such was the closeness of the pair - or his lack of affection for his wife - that Herennius bequeathed the bulk of his estate to Sestius, when his will was unsealed after his demise.”

  “Did Sestius know about the contents of the will beforehand?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s now going to be somewhat difficult to ask him too, as I was informed that he had been murdered himself yesterday afternoon. Sestius was found, in his bedroom, with his throat slit from ear to ear.”

  “Blood begets blood, it seems. I could always feign concern or curiosity, should you ask me to, but I still fail to see why I should be compelled to be interested in any assignment linked to these murders,” Varro asserted, thinking that Agrippa must have other agents at his disposal who could investigate the crimes.

  “There were three more guests at the dinner party. The first was a young poet who, at the invitation of Herennius’ wife, gave a reading half-way through the night. I will pass on his name and address to you later. You will be familiar with the name of the second guest however: Licinius Omerus Pulcher.”

  Agrippa’s face betrayed a flicker of irritation or portent as he said the name.

  “The nobleman?”

  “You could call him that. You could also call him a propagandist, diplomat, blackmailer and patron of the arts - as well as a spy and assassin. As you know Pulcher serves the higher power of Maecenas. He first came to my attention during the civil war. He was rumoured to be Maecenas’ lover, but that did not prevent him from seducing a Vestal Virgin, in order to steal a copy of Mark Antony’s will, which proved invaluable in the propaganda war against the enemy. Pulcher further worked under Maecenas, blackmailing or bribing senators who wavered in their support of Caesar during the Actium campaign… Like Maecenas, Pulcher is unfailingly polite and unfailingly duplicitous. I would trust him about as much as I would a priest or Parthian. On the surface of things, he is cultured, charming and de
dicated to his duty. But if ever Pulcher whispers flattery in your ear, he will more than likely be pouring poison into your wine cup while you’re distracted… He spends half his time in Rome and half his time abroad, tending to the political and business interests of his paymaster… Licinius Pulcher did not attend Herennius’ dinner party by accident, or for the quality of the cuisine and conversation.”

  “Well it seems that you have your prime suspect.”

  “I thought that too, until I discovered Pulcher has a cast iron alibi. On the night of Herennius’ murder, he spent the evening with your ex-wife, Lucilla.”

  5.

  Varro felt winded, as if punched in the stomach by a hulking gladiator, on hearing her name being linked to the gruesome murders. Lucilla was the last person he would have expected to attend a party hosted by Herennius. She had also never mentioned Pulcher before. Varro was shocked and confused, light-headed. He called for some wine and took a seat, else he feared his legs might give way. It was one of the rare occasions when the nobleman was incapable of insouciance.

  “Are you sure?” Varro asked, after downing his first cup of wine.

  “Sure about what, exactly?”

  “About everything. Was Lucilla really present that night, with Pulcher? And did she really spend the night with him?”

  Varro would have genuinely preferred to be hit in the stomach by a gladiator than to find out the answer was “yes” to his questions.

  “I am sure. I even spoke to Lucilla myself. I consider her an honourable woman, which thankfully isn’t quite an oxymoron in Rome yet; like honourable politician. I do not believe she was lying to me, to gift Pulcher an alibi. I am confident Lucilla has nothing to do with either of the deaths, but she may have been unwittingly drawn into someone else’s plot. There is a slim - but real - chance that someone may be targeting the guests at the party. Lucilla might be in danger. For that reason alone, I thought you might want to take on the assignment.”

  Raw jealously began to bubble-up in his guts, like lava in a volcano - ousting or incinerating the feelings of shock and confusion. His nostrils widened as he breathed out. Heavily. Wearily. Although he was no longer married to Lucilla, he still felt like he had been betrayed. She had been unfaithful. She had taken lovers before, even when they were married. But somehow this was different. Pulcher was dangerous. He could be using her. He was somehow his rival as an agent.

  Varro unconsciously clasped his dagger and pictured Pulcher’s face. He had met his fellow nobleman countless times, both before and after he had discovered he was a spy, working in Gaius Maecenas’ employ. They had attended the same parties over the years, read the same books and slept with the same women. Like a courtesan slapping on make-up, Pulcher always plastered a blithe - or self-satisfied - grin on his countenance. He smiled too much, to the point of it being unnatural - or certainly annoying. Or his smirk was more akin to a leer. Pulcher acted the life and soul of the party - generous and gregarious. But it was all just an act. He was but playing a part. Like himself.

  Varro told himself Lucilla was her own woman and he was not responsible for her. That he didn’t care who she took as a lover. If she needed protection, Pulcher could provide it. But what if the man protecting her was the same man who she needed to be protected from?

  “What do you want me to do?” Varro said, resigned to his fate, as he accepted his new assignment.

  “I need you to investigate Herennius’ murder. But, as well as finding his killer, I need you to find something else too,” Agrippa replied, ominously.

  The sun’s massaging rays spread themselves over the scene, like butter across bread. The flowers in the garden were in bloom, freckling the air with colour and tickling the nostrils with their varied fragrances.

  They laughed together, again. In harmony.

  Lucilla had been rapt, enamoured, as Licinius told her a story about Horace. He was visiting his poet friend at his estate near Licenza. They were taking a walk around his grounds and Horace was extolling the virtues of nature and the quiet life - when he accidently stepped in a mound of horse dung, wearing open-toed sandals.

  “Suffice to say he let out a string of obscenities which were far from poetic, or extolled the virtues of nature… You must accompany me when I next visit him however.”

  “I would like that,” Lucilla replied, her eyes widening with delight and anticipation. She had been introduced to numerous poets before, by Varro. She couldn’t help but be unimpressed. They were often drunk, vain - telling each other they were talented. They each thought themselves Homer or Catullus re-born but were blind to the truth. Yet, Horace was Horace. To meet the author of The Satires, one of her most beloved books, would be tantamount to a dream. She would be happy to listen to him recite his verse or see him step in more dung. Just to hear his voice. Meet a genius.

  Pulcher smiled - his mouth crescent-shaped, like a Persian blade. He was happy that she was happy. The nobleman had stayed the night, again. The couple had talked long into the evening, about literature, art, the theatre and politics. He valued her opinion. Men seldom encouraged women to speak their mind in Rome. But he was different, she judged.

  She had first met him at a party at Maecenas’ house. Their host had introduced them.

  “As long as you promise not to tell me if I have overpaid for certain pieces Lucilla, I will let Licinius show you my collection of Greek bronze figurines in the atrium towards the back of the house. The tour will give you a chance to escape some of my less engaging guests. Worse than being fantastically dull, some of them have committed the unforgivable crime of being ill-dressed.”

  The couple spent most of the night in one another’s company. Pulcher arranged to have some food and wine brought out into the garden. She was more intelligent - and wittier - than he expected. He was more self-effacing and candid than she predicted.

  “You are a diplomat, are you not?” Lucilla asked, sitting on a marble bench opposite a statue of Voluptas.

  “You’re being wonderfully diplomatic in saying so, when we both know that I am a spy,” he replied, making a face whilst whispering the last word in the sentence. “I have recently been attached to a trade delegation. Our official brief was to improve the trade between ourselves and certain chieftains in the south-east region of Britannia. My unofficial brief however was to gather intelligence on their military strengths and natural resources… The people there are not as drunk as reported. They’re drunker… The height of cuisine there is to trim the mould off the bread before they eat it… But we have whipped barbarians into shape before… As much as travel may have widened my sympathies and knowledge, I have arrived at a point in my life where I want to settle again in Rome. It’s my home. I missed the capital all the more for suffering Gaulish conversation, Spanish theatre, Greek financial advice and the wine from Britannia. Or, as they should call it, vinegar…”

  At the end of the evening they agreed to attend the theatre together the next day. Lucilla often went with her maid, Diana, but the uneducated servant frequently screwed her already sour countenance up in confusion and disappointment, in response to the unfolding drama. Part of the enjoyment of the theatre for Lucilla stemmed from discussing the play afterwards, which she found she could do with Licinius: “The lead actor seemed to take pride in his regional accent. He shouldn’t… Her voice set the audience’s teeth on edge and one could hear dogs bark in response to her shrill tone, as if serving as her chorus. Hopefully she will go far in her career, as far away from Rome as possible… A playwright should aim to produce some form of conflict in his work, and then resolve the drama. Unfortunately, after that showing, I am only resolved to never see another one of his plays.”

  She saw him again, and again. He made her laugh. He was unfailingly courteous - yet passionate when aroused. She knew he had a past, with other women. But the past is the past. They wrote letters on the days when they were unable to see one another. Licinius invited Lucilla to his house. He tenderly held her hand as he showed her hi
s art collection.

  “You have excellent taste,” the fellow collector exclaimed in earnest, smiling to herself as she noticed how she had bid on a couple of the landscapes herself.

  “I know,” Pulcher replied, gazing at the woman appreciatively - and amorously.

  The nobleman and spy similarly gazed at Lucilla now, appreciatively and amorously, as he sat next to her in the garden. She was wearing a summer stola of cream linen, with a border of turquoise silk along the hem and sleeves. The silver earrings he had bought her - which had once belonged to Julius Caesar’s daughter, Julia - glinted in the pristine sunlight.