Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  “Leave us,” Gaius Maecenas ordered, with a mixture of terseness and civility. The handsome slave bowed his head and departed, leaving his master to converse in private with Licinius Pulcher, a regular visitor at the house. Although Maecenas trusted his staff, he made it a rule never to trust anyone completely. If a man cannot wholly trust himself, why should he wholly trust another?

  Maecenas still lay on his massage table, his fleshy body glistening and fragrant with the special blend of oils he instructed his staff to apply. A towel covered his buttocks. But Pulcher had seen everything before. His skin, burnished like polished oak, still tingled from when he instructed the slave to be vigorous with the strigil. He wanted every dead fleck of skin scraped off, every piece of dust removed so his flesh was as smooth as marble. “Cleanliness is even better than godliness,” he had recently advised Propertius, having encouraged the poet to install a bathhouse at his villa in the country.

  His slightly round face could not altogether bury his prominent cheekbones and aquiline nose. His eyes could be piercing, playful - or as black as a shark’s. A tonsor clean-shaved him and cut - or sculptured - his hair every morning.

  Blades of light slanted through the shutters. Maecenas used the tip of a manicured finger to remove a bead of sweat from his temple. He gently closed his eyes and breathed out - carving out a moment of repose - before addressing his agent.

  Maecenas smiled at his friend. It was difficult for him to tell anymore how sincere or contrived his expression was.

  Licinius Pulcher sat in a chair, opposite his employer. His semblance was attentive, dutiful - although his thoughts turned to Lucilla. They were due to have dinner that evening. She was even going to cook for him. They would make love afterwards. Pulcher grinned, inside.

  “What do you think of Restio’s food?” Maecenas asked. The gourmand had just employed a new cook. The old one had been caught in a compromising position, in the kitchen, with a serving girl. Maecenas did not condemn the cook for his appetites, but the thought of him using his kitchen as a bedchamber couldn’t be countenanced. The cook was dismissed immediately, and the serving girl was sold to a slave trader. It was nothing personal. He needed to make an example of the girl, to dissuade others from such depraved - and unhygienic - behaviour.

  “It’s excellent. Restio’s meals will be worth any complaint Quintus Cinna dishes up, in reference to you poaching his prized cook from him,” Pulcher replied, after sampling another bite of the dish - salted sea perch, drizzled over with spiced olive oil and lemon. Pulcher was careful not to eat too much of the delicious fish however, lest he spoil his appetite for the evening. He would rather offend the cook and Maecenas, by not finishing the plate, than upset Lucilla through not eating her meal this evening.

  Pulcher went on to give his report, which essentially amounted to there being nothing to report. The trail was running cold. Finding the dagger would be a problem.

  “Do not bring me problems. Bring me solutions.”

  His voice was rich and smooth, like a fine wine. Maecenas pursed his lips a little, to convey his displeasure. “Perhaps you should have tortured Sestius more, before killing him,” the spymaster added.

  “I believe Sestius was telling the truth, when he said that he wasn’t in possession of the knife. Nor did he have any idea who might have murdered his friend. I have known oxen more guileful. It is as we suspected. Sestius did not inherit the dagger.”

  “Then perhaps we should turn our attention to Lentulus. There are few more guileful creatures in Rome than the lawyer. Though I would count myself as one of them,” Maecenas argued. A flicker of a smile, but no more than that, danced across his lips as he spoke. “Most lawyers are guilty of more crimes than the felons they defend. I know you have your doubts as to whether Lentulus would want to get blood on his hands, but in my experience all men are willing to wash their hands in blood, if it means they can shower themselves in riches afterwards. It is because of - and not in spite of - his distinguished character that we should treat the advocate as a suspect, whether it was a crime of passion, after his heated argument with his son-in-law, or a more mindful act. Lentulus would have believed that by wielding the knife against Herennius he would be wiping away his debts. He could have then taken the jewelled dagger, out of greed or to convince us that the crime was a mere robbery… I am convinced the killer was one of his guests that evening. You should pay another visit to his wife. She already yielded up the secret that she lost a child, after her husband beat her. Perhaps, with a little more persuading, she might let slip something even more revealing. Damning. And what of the poet? Should I grant him an audience? I could promise him patronage in return for information. Is he handsome, or some pock-marked, moon-faced, stripling?”

  Pulcher was tempted to reply that, although Publius may have been Maecenas’ type, the attraction would not be reciprocated. He was also struck by an absence of any pang of jealousy, of his mentor taking an interest in the young poet. He had Lucilla now and no longer craved Maecenas’ favour, or anyone else’s.

  “He is indeed handsome. His verses are accomplished - lyrical and rich with sly humour. I believe he already possesses a patron however, in Marcus Messalla.”

  “Messalla is a good man, but a weak man. The two are far too often one in same thing. Should this Publius impress me, in one way or another, then I will duly take him under my wing. Let us hope he first proves useful as an informer, rather than poet, however. Our attention must be focussed on finding that dagger, before Agrippa does. There will be no prizes for second place, in Caesar’s eyes. I have grown accustomed to winning. There are some habits one can get tired of - but not that one,” Maecenas asserted, his features and tone growing tauter.

  “Have you heard any news, or rumours, from your network of spies in the city?” Pulcher asked, whilst further diluting his wine. He wanted to have a clear head when he called upon Lucilla later.

  “No, unfortunately. The silence has been deafening. I have briefed my agents, who have briefed their contacts, to alert me should the knife come up for sale. If the killer has no need or intention of selling the dagger - or the other valuables stolen - it gives credence to the idea that the murder was a based upon a personal grievance, as opposed to common robbery. I will of course inform you should I hear anything. My web is stretched across the entire city, but no insect has landed on it yet.”

  “At least Agrippa must be suffering the same fate, in relation to his investigation.”

  “I would equally celebrate his failure over my success. I understand he has instructed Rufus Varro to retrieve the knife. His father was an impressive and annoyingly uncorruptible. I am torn as to whether to underestimate or overestimate his son. Did you know Varro was once granted the opportunity to accept my patronage? I am not sure I can wholly admire a man who tells me “no”. For years he remained idle, on an almost industrious scale. He could have been a praetor, should he have engaged with the course of honours. His poetry was not without merit too. His verse was pithy, when it wasn’t being prosaic. His passion wasn’t poetry however, but other peoples’ wives. Agrippa has done well to exploit Varro’s talents. Women understandably have a weakness for the attractive, wealthy aristocrat. One could argue that his weakness is women. It is a shame I didn’t get my hands on him at a younger age. Rufus would now be a more successful agent and poet as a result of my influence. He was one of many poets who tried to emulate Catullus, in their appetites and verse. It was a pity they never shared Catullus’ talent, however. I suppose Varro was the best of a bad bunch, in terms of his literary set. I can recall some of his contemporaries. There was Lucius Ligarius. I could forgive him for sleeping with his sister, but not for butchering a classical hexameter. Then there was the prize fop Quintus Decidius. He once offered me his wife in return for my patronage. I told him that his wife was more elegant than his verses - but that his wife was as ugly as a mule, who had been kicked in the face several times. Too many young poets want to enjoy the garlands, without pu
tting in the graft. Poetry is one percent inspiration and a hundred percent blood, toil and tears. It is easier to prize a stone out of one’s cock, or have a woman tell the truth, than it is to write a good poem… Too many poems nowadays may be blessedly short, but they are still overlong. They use colloquial language, due to their authors possessing a limited vocabulary. I would rather contract a pox than write a poem for “the people”. Populism. It’s worse than wicked - it’s vulgar,” Maecenas stated, shuddering at the thought of a poet pretending to give voice to the great unwashed of Rome.

  “I intend to finish the assignment and find the knife. Even if I have to go through Rufus Varro to do so,” Pulcher replied, determinedly, thinking that it would be his pleasure to confront and subdue his rival, should certain circumstances prevail. He thought it prudent not to address any issues regarding Maecenas’ digression, concerning poets and poetry. He could end up listening to a lecture on literature and aesthetics all evening.

  “I have every confidence in you, Licinius. It may be the case that you will have to go through, or around Varro, to complete your other assignment too. What is the state of the affair, so to speak, with Lucilla? Has your fruit ripened yet and she is ready to be plucked? She is a rare beauty, the definition of statuesque. Although I hope she doesn’t behave like a statue in bed. The woman is also not without education or a refined sensibility. I cannot ever recall Lucilla boring me, which makes her rare indeed. I am given to understand that she is also blessed with sound business acumen. Livia often consults Lucilla about her investments. Unlike other partners she may even make you some money, rather than just spend it - which would make her rarer still as a wife. Seducing and marrying Lucilla is far from the most unpleasant assignment I have ever given you, I warrant. She is such a fine woman that it may take up to six months or more before you feel compelled to take a mistress,” Maecenas playfully remarked, before running his tongue over his teeth to assess if they needed polishing once more.

  Pulcher forced as smile. Maecenas thought he knew Lucilla, but he didn’t. The agent conceded he didn’t wholly know her either. But he wanted to get to know her - and not just for the sake of gleaning intelligence. Maecenas had allowed his asset to return to Rome, on the condition that he take a wife of his choosing. Due to her intimacy with Livia - and relationships with other prominent figures in Rome - Maecenas instructed Pulcher to seduce and wed Lucilla. “I do not want your talents going completely to waste. That would be a greater crime than the murder of Herennius,” the spymaster remarked recently. Pulcher remembered the night Maecenas had wined and dined him. They had made love - or rather Maecenas instructed Pulcher to make love to him. There was little shared pleasure, unlike when he was with Lucilla.

  Pulcher would honour his agreement and marry Lucilla. He would also report back on any correspondence between Lucilla and Livia. But it felt good, right, keeping at least one secret from the spymaster. He would be marrying Lucilla, because he loved her. What he would feel less comfortable about was keeping the truth from her. Their marriage would, from a certain point of view, be built on a lie. Pulcher consoled himself with the thought however that he had yet to meet a husband and wife who didn’t lie to one another or themselves.

  “As you know I am hosting a modest party tomorrow night. Invite Lucilla. My home will always have room for one more beautiful object. I will also invite the young poet and speak to him. Our guest of honour however shall be Rufus Varro. In the same way that I will entice this Publius away from his patron Marcus Messalla, should I see fit to do so, I will also lure Varro away from Agrippa. Everyone has a price, an Achilles heel… If finding the dagger is a race between you both then I will form a plan to duly hobble your opponent.”

  Wheels were already in motion in his mind. Maecenas was as inspired as an author, conjuring up a story for his latest work. Plotting an enemy’s downfall was one of the few things which made him genuinely happy. It mattered little if his victim was innocent or guilty. His narrative involved a love triangle, jealousy, betrayal, violence and poetic justice. Maecenas would welcome his guest with open arms but stab him in the back while departing. And how ironic, delicious, that Varro would be the author of his own demise.

  Not discounting my role in the scheme of things. Not that he will ever realise I played a part in the drama.

  Manius sat on the lawn and showed Calvus how to sharpen a sword, but he ran the stone along the razor-like edge less vigorously than normal to lessen the sound it made.

  Paulus Labeo talked. And Manius listened. Occasionally he thumped a fist upon the table to hammer home his point. His eyes were ablaze, with zeal and ambition. Carbo often stroked his beard and nodded, sagely, in reply.

  “We must grasp the nettle now, make a show of strength in order to grow stronger. We need more people to flock to our banner. We have the numbers to march on the Jewish quarter - and drive them out like vermin. I can also task some of our men to enter houses and appropriate gold and valuables. We can always use more money in the campaign coffers. Eventually we will need a war chest, to pay for an army. We will spread the word afterwards that the Jews started to agitate and riot. We can be viewed as the peacemakers, who brought order to chaos… We need to go back to a time when Jews were seen as enemies of the people. Julius Caesar should have never handed out an olive branch to them. No doubt he did so because he owed them money. Augustus is continuing a policy of integration. But the Jews need to be our scapegoats. We need to keep feeding ordinary working people with grievances… Let Augustus win glory in Spain. We need to win support and power in Rome while he gallivants in foreign lands… The purge of the Jewish quarter will act as a statement of intent. Might is right… Our long-term strategy should be to de-stabilise the state, so people look to a new Rome with a new form of government. We must work within the Senate House, but our ambition should be to demolish it. We need an uprising, revolution. Power must be given to the people and placed in our hands - for the good of the people. The state must control agriculture and industry, so it works efficiently. I am working on a five-year plan for the economy. It cannot possibly fail. If it does, then the people will be to blame, rather than us… All property is theft, so private property will be confiscated and bequeathed to the state… This raid will be the spark that lights the fire.”

  Labeo often reached for his cup whilst he spoke (in contrast to Carbo, who remained abstemious). Wine stained his lips and chin. It was as if the tribune had been spitting blood. Labeo’s capacity to hold his drink was the only thing Manius found remotely admirable about his character. He briefly fancied how he would have liked to witness a drinking contest between Labeo and Rufus. He had seen his friend outdrink poets, priests and sailors over the years. He always managed to keep his head and wits about him, whilst others lost theirs.

  “Let us not get too far ahead of ourselves, as much as I believe in a new Rome too. I am willing to take a lead, for the good of ordinary people. Our first task should be to set a date to purify the Jewish quarter. Rome should be for the Romans. Any immigrants we invite in should serve as a cheap labour force. One half of our forces should re-claim the streets, whilst the other half enters properties and secures valuables. Make sure the latter are sufficiently trustworthy. We need to fatten our purse, not theirs… Now tell me, how are we faring with recruitment?”

  “Recruitment is up, especially among students. The young have wonderful, mouldable minds. They believe in hope and change and are not afraid to tear down the old world to build a new one. The policy of cancelling their debts - funded by tax rises to the wealthy and elderly - is proving extremely popular… Molon, the charioteer, is willing to be an advocate for our cause. Numerous actors have also agreed to endorse you, although in return some would like you to mention their latest play in the next speech you give.”

  “That can be arranged. Perhaps we should organise a dinner party for some of our more distinguished supporters. But ultimately, we need to recruit from the guilds and the army to properly swell our rank
s. Students and actors will disappear, faster than water runs down a drain, when the real fighting starts. They’re as capricious - and witless - as women. The mob and the army need to be won over. Caesar knew this. We just need to come up with the right promises and rewards,” Carbo remarked, as he began to tug, rather than just stroke, his beard in thought.

  Or the right lies, Manius mused. He suspected the reason why the demagogue hadn’t won as much support among soldiers and the working classes was because they had heard it all before. They had older, more cynical heads on their shoulders. “Beware of politicians bearing gifts,” Fronto had told the Briton, on more than one occasion over the years.

  “I am currently drafting some new literature, which will be posted up and given to our supporters to spread the word. I have re-worked some old propaganda I found, originally penned by Gaius Gracchus and Catiline. The mob will hopefully lap it up like wine. Free wine. I also wanted to present you with some new slogans, for your approval. What do you think of the following? “Forward, Not Back”, “Workers of Rome Unite” and “Things Can Only Get Better”. I think they suitably convey our message. I am even looking into producing tunics, which we can sell to our student followers, with the slogans dyed into the material.”

  “The slogans are fine. But this is not a time for soundbites. I feel the hand of history upon my shoulder. What we need now are deeds, not words,” Carbo proclaimed, as if speaking to an audience of thousands and hearing a rapturous applause inside his head.

  Manius rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, envisioning a hand upon the agitator’s shoulder, apprehending him.

  “The only way in which I’ll know if I am closing in on Herennius’ killer is if he endeavours to murder me,” Varro joked.

  For once however Lucilla failed to appreciate his black humour and the smile fell from her face. There may have been scores of people in Rome - women and men - who wanted Varro dead but, ironically or not, his ex-wife wasn’t among them.