Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Varro could feel his heart beat faster just watching the game in the corner of the tavern. He tapped his foot in rhythm with the player who had just offered up a whispered prayer. Varro had once sought out games in the Subura and in the houses of noblemen. He would lie to himself, that he was in control of his habit. But his habit had been in control of him. He would spend hours practising his throw and willing the right outcome. But the dice, like women or the weather, were only constant in their inconstancy.

  Varro was distracted from his thoughts by a familiar voice.

  “Evening. How was your food?” Bassos amiably asked. The plump, balding landlord was always happy to welcome the aristocrat and bodyguard into his establishment. Varro spent plenty of money and Manius was one to end rather than start a brawl.

  “Well you didn’t poison me, for once,” Varro joked, sincerely hoping that his meal wouldn’t repeat on him. He had no wish to relive the taste.

  “I am sorry about the milk curdling earlier. My wife must have stared at it,” Bassos replied, not joking as much as one might expect. Fausta, his formidable wife, drained her husband’s soul and capital. When she deigned to show her face in the tavern, she would scold Bassos like a child. Fear of his wife, rather than any devotion to her, kept Bassos from having an affair with one of the whores. “But I have just arranged for a more welcome sight than my wife to come to the tavern. I am importing a whore from your homeland, Manius. She’s well endowed. I’ve been told that her breasts are as large as those on the statue of Venus at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. Her hair is as red as the dawn and she’s as clean as one of Agrippa’s aqueducts. Nessa will give you a chance to speak in your native tongue, although she can use her tongue for more than just talking, if you know what I mean. Being from that wild island, she will probably be able to drink most of my customers under the table. But she’ll take you on the table too. She’s young as well. Fresh meat. Tender meat. I recommend that you book her early as she’ll be as popular in here as the house wine, and taste as sweet too,” Bassos exclaimed, winking and nudging the Briton, causing him to spill his drink.

  “Thank you, but no thank you. I’m married, remember?” Manius replied.

  Bassos was about to respond that married men were more likely to say yes when it came to his girls, but the landlord checked himself. He consoled himself with the thought that, with or without Manius succumbing to temptation, Nessa would be worth the money he was paying for her. His wife had said he had overpaid. But Bassos wanted to prove her wrong, as much as Fausta might make him pay for doing so, he fancied.

  The landlord’s attention was diverted away from his friends however as he heard laughter and insults sounding out behind him. Bassos turned around to see a quartet of youths - students, no doubt - harassing one of his regular customers, Benjamin. The adolescents were hurling food and abuse at the elderly Jew, who was doing his best to ignore his tormentors, in the hope that they would then leave him alone.

  “Go home Jew. You think you’re a porcupine, who can’t be touched. But Publius Carbo is showing us the way. Your time is nearly up in this city. We’ll drive you out, like rats.”

  Bassos grunted on hearing the name. Carbo was a former senator, who had been forced to resign his position by Augustus. He rarely attended the Senate House to vote. And when Carbo did contribute to a debate, he more often than not raised the subject of the Jews in Rome. He argued they were the cause for any and all of the city’s problems. Julius Caesar and Augustus had decreed that the Jewish community should be free to practise their religion without persecution. But there was not space for Romans and Jews in the city.

  Having lost his position in the Senate House, Carbo had recently taken to the streets, as a demagogue, to spread his message. He called it a “new kind of politics”. He gave speeches in market squares and had his followers daub graffiti in the Subura. He wanted the Jews to first be taxed of their wealth and then banished from Rome. Their religion should be prohibited once more. Rome cannot serve two gods, he argued. It was rumoured that he desired to ban religion altogether, although one suspected he would have allowed the cult of Publius Carbo to continue and flourish. Jews should be prohibited from practising usury, he demanded. Any debts owed to them should be cancelled (a policy which proved especially popular among students). Carbo’s principle political slogan was that “Rome is for the many, not the Jew”. He further fomented resentment towards the Jews by claiming that they had caused the civil war between Octavius and Antony, by whispering poison in their ears. They had encouraged the triumvirs to commit to war, in order to lend them the money to do so, and profit from the interest they earned. Jews had too much influence in the Senate House. Their tentacles had a hold over too many political and economic institutions. Those who spoke out against Carbo and his lies were threatened with violence or shouted down by his army of zealous supporters. And his army was gaining recruits by the day. The Jews were a scapegoat for all manner of aggrieved citizens. Tutors spoke-up for Carbo and parroted his message, hoping to encourage students to study with them. The heads of a number of guilds pledged their support for Carbo, as he promised them that the taxes extracted from the Jews would be distributed to their members. Rather than claiming that they belonged to a political faction, his followers called themselves a “progressive movement”. And they had momentum. Bassos had recently read, with shame, a new slogan painted across various locations in the Subura: “The only good Jew is a dead Jew”. Trouble was brewing and boiling over. Jewish shop owners had recently had their premises set fire to. His more fervent supporters had also vandalised places of worship and broken-up Jewish religious services. A number of Jews had been injured - and died - fighting back against his followers. When the authorities asked Carbo to give up the names of those who had committed the acts of anti-Semitism, he refused. The demagogue was becoming a law unto himself.

  But Bassos was determined not to allow Carbo’s followers to become a law unto themselves in his tavern. Benjamin was his friend, as well as his customer. He excused himself to Varro and Manius and approached the youths.

  “I’d like you all to leave, gentlemen,” the landlord said, firmly, wishing that his voice could be just half as harsh as his wife’s tone. “Are you well Benjamin?”

  The Jew nodded, unconvincingly, as his eyes warily flitted between Bassos and his tormentors. The silversmith had often been the victim of ridicule and abuse by Romans, but he was now all too conscious of the stories of his fellow Jews being physically attacked, or even murdered, since the rise in popularity of Carbo. The former senator had emboldened his supporters, given them licence to turn prejudice into persecution.

  “And I’d like you to fuck off,” one of the youths, Tarquin Gellius, exclaimed. His language may have been coarse, but his accent was aristocratic. Gellius was educated, monied. A wisp of a beard covered his chin. The student had straw-coloured hair and a pasty complexion. He needed to get out in the sun more and, from his rake-thin build, he needed to eat a few hearty meals. There was nothing of him, Bassos thought. His face was sharp, angular. He wore a pinched expression, patterned tunic and a few items of jewellery. His eyes were bloodshot, beady, vindictive.

  Gellius’ words were accompanied by a chorus of sniggers, from his three friends. The students had been brought up to consider themselves, in education and manners, to be superior to the likes of the landlord. Their parents and tutors had told them so many times that they were special and entitled that they believed them.

  “Would you rather serve this animal, than us?” Gellius added. “He should be the one to go home, not us. We will spend more than him too. And from the look of things here you could do with earning some extra money,” the student exclaimed, sneering as he surveyed the old tavern.

  As little as he thought of them Bassos knew that the half-drunk youths could cause plenty of trouble - and damage. Each had a small dagger hanging down from his belt. If he tried to forcibly eject them on his own, he could easily cause a greater disturba
nce or suffer an injury. Thankfully Bassos was not alone in wanting to see the back of the group.

  “You’ve been asked to leave, politely. Should my friend here have to ask you he may not be so civil. If he needs to chuck you out of here, he’s likely to throw you all into the Tiber too,” Varro remarked, as the former gladiator stood next to him, cutting an imposing figure.

  “You would side with him, over your own kind?” Gellius replied, confused and contemptuous. His tone became shrill, as if his voice hadn’t broken yet. He was young, but as pompous as a politician, Varro thought.

  “You’re not my kind,” the nobleman countered, less than cordially.

  “Believe it or not but we are here for your benefit, to spread the good word about our leader, Publius Carbo, and his enlightened policies. If you listen to him and follow his ways your lives will be better. You will drink less wine, eat a healthier, vegetable-based diet, ban the barbaric sport of hunting, the unwanted will be driven out of Rome. Your debts will be cancelled, and everyone will work for the good of the state, directed by a council of elders, led by Publius Carbo. Ordinary working people will be live better lives. Our leader has a five-year plan,” Gellius preached.

  Varro, amused and saddened, considered that he had known poets less conceited than the addled student.

  “My plan is not so long-term, unfortunately for you. I just want to be rid of you from my sight and, more importantly, have you out of earshot too.”

  “I’m not scared of you,” Gellius countered, unconvincingly, as his large Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat.

  “But if you’re half as clever as you think you are you should fear me. Benjamin here is far more welcome here than you are,” Manius posited, as he amiably and respectfully nodded to the silversmith, who had recently crafted a ring for him, which he had given to his wife as a present. The Jew nodded back, in thanks to the Briton. Benjamin also appeared awkward - and even apologetic - for somehow causing a fuss. It was not the first time he had been mocked. But he was all too aware of the growing animosity towards his people. Carbo was stoking the fires of resentment. He had a friend, Abraham, whose beard had been singed, by a group of students, after they had beaten him to the ground. His neighbour had a brick thrown through his window. His own wife and daughter had been spat upon in the market.

  The Briton’s expression was far from amiable and respectful when he turned towards the irksome youth.

  Varro could no longer hear the sound of rattling dice. Instead the noise of scraping chairs filled the room, as customers moved to obtain a better view of the unfolding spectacle.

  Gellius and his confederates offered each other a nervous stare. They gulped in unison. They were all used to intimidating elderly Jews - or abusing their opponents at a distance, anonymous within a mob - as opposed to facing brutal-looking bodyguards. Tarquin Gellius’ friends were willing to drink with him (especially as he usually paid for their wine), but they had little desire to spill blood for their comrade.

  As Manius stepped forward, the three ashen companions stepped back. Gellius’ eyes widened, and he recoiled a little. The adolescent also began to hold his hands up. The Briton was unconcerned whether he was doing so in a gesture of surrender, or if he was about to throw a limp-wristed punch. Manius was agile for his size. His arm darted forward, as swiftly as a ballista bolt, and grabbed Gellius’ right hand, twisting it so that the student bent down and contorted his body to alleviate the pain. Gellius whimpered and was about to snivel. Manius’ face remained impassive as he bent back his little finger and then broke it. A couple of regulars, sitting nearby, winced slightly at the clicking sound. The bodyguard neither enjoyed the action, nor felt any remorse. It just needed to be done, like a carpenter has to hammer in nails.

  “If you come back, or if I witness you tormenting another of my friends, or even a complete stranger, I’ll break your arm. Do you understand?”

  Gellius’ lip quivered and his injured hand trembled, like a leaf half hanging from a branch. He scrunched his face up, as if he were about to sob, and nodded. Although the petrified youth would have agreed with the bodyguard even if Manius said that two plus two equalled five, just to be free of him.

  “Now you fuck off, before I further injure you with a barbed comment,” Varro remarked, unable to suppress a grin in response to seeing the bullies retreat, with their tails between their legs, as they nearly tripped over one another when scrambling out the tavern.

  To celebrate, or ease the tension in the room, Varro bought a round of drinks for everyone. It was Manius’ turn to appear awkward - and blush - as a number of regulars applauded him for despatching the unwelcome youths. People offered to buy him drinks but he politely declined. Manius had to wake early in the morning to give a fencing lesson to the son of Publius Carbo.

  8.

  Any twinge of guilt was decidedly absent, in regard to his behaviour towards Publius Carbo’s followers, as Varro made his way home later that evening. He did however suffer a rare twinge of envy as Varro parted from his friend. The nobleman was heading home to an empty bed (unless he summoned one of his serving girls to attend to him). Whilst Manius was walking in a different direction, towards a loving wife and an equally devoted dog.

  “We’re trying for a child… Camilla is being both scientific and amorous in relation to conceiving. I’ve known lanistas who were less demanding of my time and energy,” Manius half-joked, as they trundled up the hill, out of the Subura. He thought how his wife might be waiting up for him, expecting him to sober up enough - or be drunk enough - to perform his husbandly duties. “But there are worse fates to endure, than a man having to make love to his wife.”

  “Aye, a man divorcing his wife is a far more painful - and expensive - experience,” Varro replied. He clasped his friend by the forearm and wished him well as they went their separate ways. The bodyguard did offer to accompany his employer to his door, but Varro remarked that the Briton needed to save his strength.

  “It’s Camilla’s job, not mine, to wear you out tonight. I’ll be fine. All the husbands I’ve cuckolded, who’ll be baying for my blood, will be tucked up in bed by now.”

  Although he never expressed his feelings on the subject Varro sometimes felt vulnerable, naked, without his bodyguard and friend by his side. They had naturally spent less time together, since Manius had married and moved in with Camilla. Varro couldn’t blame his wife for seeing less of his drinking companion, as she actively encouraged Manius to spend time with him. Perhaps she feels sorry for me. She knows how few true friends I possess. He would never admit it but, as well as missing his drinking partner, he missed seeing Viola every day. Varro was at pains to think of more than a handful of women who he had loved more than the sweet-tempered mongrel. But life must move on. The nobleman comforted himself with the fact that he had seen more of Lucilla over the past year, since Manius had married - which was no mean fate. He had not seen so much of her lately however - though he now realised why.

  Life moves on. For other people.

  Whereas he would have preferred to be greeted by Aspasia when he walked through the door, Varro was met by his wizened estate manager, Fronto, when he returned home. Fronto had served his father for decades. Now the attendant served Varro, overseeing his staff and capital. His aged countenance was weathered, rather than defeated. There was still an occasional twinkle in his rheumy eye, especially since Fronto had started to court the laundrywoman, Aelia.

  Fronto had served as Varro’s tutor throughout his youth, and the nobleman still sought his elder’s counsel. The old man could be cynical, but it was a cynical world Varro reasoned. Yet, in the face of such a cynical and even wicked world, Varro admired his friend’s determination to retain his sense of decency and sense of humour. His frame may have been hunched, but the stoic was unbowed. He still gardened, cooked and kept his promise to Appius Varro, that he would wait up for his son and keep watch over him. Fronto still nursed hope that his young master would find someone and bear
a son to carry on the family name. Have a future. Or, in the form of Lucilla, the old man hoped that the nobleman’s future lay in the past.

  Fronto poured out a couple of cups of diluted wine as Varro recounted the events of the evening. He frowned, with his skin resembling creased-up parchment, when Varro spoke about the attack on the silversmith. It was rare for Fronto to raise his voice or lose his even-temper, but he did so after hearing Carbo’s name. He even began to down his wine quicker than Varro, which was perhaps a first.

  “This Carbo could prove to be another Clodius, given the chance, inciting mob rule. I had the misfortune to hear him pontificate once, in the market. He affects the air of a priest. But he possesses a black soul. Beneath the smell of his perfume I warrant that there is something which smells rotten, gangrenous. Caesar should douse the spark before it turns into a conflagration. Carbo would happily see everything turn to ash, so he could volunteer to rebuild things… His thuggish followers will first come for the Jews. But then they will come for the nobility and the educated… The demagogue may even harbour ambitions of challenging Caesar. I would like to see him try. Caesar knows how defeat an enemy. Any enemy. He fears no man, though he might be wise to fear his wife… I’ve witnessed the fool’s followers first hand. I saw one of their mobs drag a Jewess out of her litter the other month. The vile dogs urinated on her, claiming that the wife of a banker should suffer for her husband’s sins. Bankers were to blame for all of Rome’s ills, they pronounced. The imbeciles also blurted out various trite slogans, force fed to them by Carbo and his propagandists. I’m not usually one to trouble the gods, as it’s often best not to bring oneself to their attention, but I feel compelled to pray to them. To blight the demagogue and his odious ilk. I’m not sure how much my prayers will help, but they probably can’t do any harm… So, what are your plans for tomorrow?”