Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  The awkward pause was thankfully cut short by Diana walking into the room, to remind her mistress that one of her dressmakers had arrived for their appointment. The servant offered Varro a pert, accusatory look.

  Diana retreated. Varro rose to his feet, as did Lucilla. He didn’t know whether to bow politely, embrace her as a friend or kiss the woman. In the end Lucilla saved him from any awkwardness by embracing him and kissing Varro on each cheek. He breathed in her perfume once more and exhaled in the subtlest of sighs. The kiss lingered, tingling on his skin, for longer than he expected.

  As he reached the doorway Varro turned to face Lucilla. For once his expression was devoid of irony or playfulness.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Pulcher?” he asked, more forlorn than angry.

  Lucilla paused before answering:

  “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t want to hurt you?”

  Varro paused and then answered:

  “Yes.”

  11.

  Agrippa looked upon Manius with something resembling paternal pride, after the Briton delivered his report. He didn’t doubt the veracity of Manius’ words. Agrippa recalled Varro’s assertion, that his bodyguard was one of the most honourable men in Rome. Even taking into account his career change - of becoming a duplicitous spy - he was still one of the most honourable men in the capital. Although there may have been a distinct lack of competition from others in the city, which handed Manius an advantage.

  Agrippa even permitted himself a smile, his granite expression cracking.

  “Should the gods be willing - and you can find out the day and location of when Carbo will assemble his followers - we may be able to wipe them off the map in a single action. Stamp out the fire, before it even becomes a spark. As much as they will be doing our job for us, by rounding themselves up, we cannot allow them to disperse and run riot in the Jewish quarter. It would be a massacre. Timing will be key. I can ready the Praetorian Guard, but we will still need to know when and where the mob will congregate. If you are unable to gain the intelligence beforehand you must shadow Carbo over the coming weeks. Send word once you are sure our opponents are assembling. My men will be ready,” Agrippa instructed. He heard the words of his mentor, Lucius Oppius, echo in his head: Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

  Manius nodded. He couldn’t help but be pleased with his initial success as an agent, during his first assignment. When the consul recruited him, the guileless Briton was worried that he would be unable to play the part and live a lie. Yet, as Agrippa argued, “Man can take to lying like a duck to water. Lies hold a man up, as much as his skin and bones. We deceive ourselves and others every day, so much so that we barely notice it. To work as an effective spy, you just need to raise your quota of lies each day - to something resembling a politician or courtesan.”

  As much as Manius felt comfortable in deceiving the likes of Carbo and Labeo he still felt uneasy about lying to his wife. But he was lying to Camilla out of good intentions, he believed. He needed to protect her. And she would surely only worry if she knew the truth.

  But the road to Hades is filled with good intentions.

  Manius shuffled a little on his feet and his proud expression faltered. To distract himself from thinking about Camilla he took in his surroundings. As usual a mountain of correspondence, from the four corners of the empire, was piled up on the consul’s desk. Agrippa would, sooner or later, reply to each letter personally. As much as he may be wedded to an attractive young wife, Agrippa was still married to his work. A tower of wax tablets was balanced precariously on the edge of the table and, if added to, would likely lurch over and fall onto the floor. A special corner of the desk was devoted to architectural plans - for temples, theatres and aqueducts - and designs for various statues which would honour the gods and, more importantly, his co-consul. A living god.

  Ironically, Manius dared not stare too intently at the correspondence lest Agrippa thought he might be spying. So, his eyes flitted around at the walls. To his left hung a new portrait of his late wife. Next to it was a sword, once belonging to Lucius Oppius, a centurion who had fought bravely under Julius and Octavius Caesar. The centurion had a connection with Manius too. During an attack on his village as a boy, the Roman soldier had saved him and his mother from being slaughtered by a brace of mutinous legionaries. To his right was a map of Rome and, next to it, a map of the Spanish frontier, marked with the latest details of Caesar’s campaign.

  When Manius had entered the room earlier he had caught the consul staring wistfully up at the map, as if Agrippa were wishing he could be leading an army again or with his friend. Or both. Yet part of the reason why Caesar had decided to lead the campaign was to prove to himself - and Rome - that he could win military glory without the help of his friend.

  Agrippa kept himself in good condition and rode when he could. He wanted to be ready to answer the call, should Caesar fall ill or find himself in difficulty.

  “Should all go according to plan then Caesar will doubtless reward you, Manius, for your service. Is there anything particularly you desire?”

  “My wife would like a child, but not even Caesar can bestow that,” Manius replied.

  Agrippa thought to himself how, given the attractiveness of the Briton’s wife, it could be the case that his priapic friend would be willing to try to grant Manius his prize.

  “Indeed. But what about you? Are you so annoyingly content that you do not want for anything yourself?”

  Manius first appeared awkward - and the words stuck in his throat - but then thought how fortune favours the brave. All he could do was ask.

  “It would be an honour, Consul, if I could receive a fencing lesson from yourself,” Manius said, sheepishly. He wanted to test himself against the best - and it would be a tale to tell his unborn child, that he had once fought (or even bested) the legendary general.

  “Such a reward is cheap at half the price Manius - and will not impact on Rome’s treasury. Caesar would approve. It would also be my honour and pleasure. Either you will teach me a thing or two, or I will give you a lesson in swordsmanship. I hope that you won’t go easy on me however, as I can assure you, I will not go easy on you. If I win then I will permit you to buy me dinner. Should you get the better of me though you will have another secret to keep as an agent of Rome. We cannot have news spreading around the capital that a Briton conquered a Roman,” Agrippa said, in good humour. He suddenly became keen to test himself against the skilled gladiator. It was important he still exerted himself. Swords which remain too long in their scabbards can become stuck. The consul was growing increasingly appreciative of the Briton, both as a man and now as an agent. He thought how Caecilia would have liked him. She was always an astute judge of character. The Briton had come from nothing. Or, in regard to being a slave and foreigner, less than nothing in some eyes. Agrippa too had been scorned in front of his face years ago (and doubtless behind his back now by the self-proclaimed elite) for coming from a humble background. His father was farmer. But he was a good man. “Goodness is not the province of those who have read moral philosophy, nor is honour the province of the Roman nobility,” his wife had rightly once argued.

  Agrippa instructed his agent to take care when spying on Carbo and his confederates. “Don’t let the hunter become the prey… Your wife would never forgive me if something happened to you, Manius,” the consul remarked, missing out how he would unable to forgive himself too.

  The Briton took his leave and started to prepare various responses for when Camilla would ask him about his day. Agrippa called in a servant and asked for some food - olives, bread and ham - to be brought in. Thankfully his wife was away for the afternoon. She had one of her appointments with Toranius, the augur. Another husband might have worried that his wife was spending so much time with another man. But Agrippa was pleased to have the girl out of his way. He could even forgive her for being unfaithful, just so long as the affair was kept secret. He had been tempted, on more than one
occasion, to take a mistress himself. It was even expected of him. Somehow Agrippa felt he would be being unfaithful to his first wife, rather than second, if he took a lover. Agrippa felt confident Marcella would remain faithful, however. It would not be due to any affection she felt for her husband, but rather she feared her uncle’s disapproval should she commit adultery.

  Agrippa sighed, with the hoarse weariness of a water carrier in the hot sun. The correspondence in front of him loomed large, like a mosaic made up of pieces which, no matter how many times one tried, the pieces would never tesselate. He reached for Caesar’s most recent letter again and took in its contents.

  “… The army is Rome’s most invaluable asset, but I suspect that there will come a time when the army might prove too costly. At present Rome is a state with an army attached, but such is the growth in numbers and influence of the legions that I fear Rome will, at some point, become an army with a state attached. It is another reason why I must secure my succession. I do not wish my legacy to be a civil war, with the victor being decided by who controls the most legions. Or which statesman the legion controls. To that end, once I conclude this campaign, I will be wary of extending the bounds of the empire and therefore extending the size of the army. The Rhine should be a Rubicon we should not cross. Let the channel between Gaul and Britannia serve as a natural barrier too. The island is filled with more tin than gold and their idea of culture is to sing a drinking song and tell a lewd joke. Spain has little more to offer, aside from the fact that the women are prettier - and they produce wine, as opposed to just consume it. Unfortunately, our opponents here are more adept at hiding than fighting. The landscape is littered with mountains, trees and shrubs - behind which lurk swarthy barbarians who, although they may not know how to bathe and dress, know how to kill… But too much talk of war will bring me little peace. Tell me, how is my niece? Forgive her any acts of childishness or conceit. She will grow into a woman and the role of wife soon enough. I predict that one day she will become less obsessed with augury. Time is accustomed to revealing the error of our ways. I will forgive you of course should you choose to take a mistress. Fruit exists to be plucked, after all. You need to relax and enjoy the company of a good woman, in and out of the bedchamber. Sober I’d be if I only tasted Livia’s wine. The decision of a husband to take a mistress has saved more marriages that it has ruined over the years, I warrant… ‘Tis a rare occurrence, but I found myself drinking the other evening. I cannot quite recall whether the bout of drinking was the cause or effect of it all, but my mind’s eye started to witness a macabre procession of the dead, of fallen friends. My great-uncle. My mother. Cleanthes. Roscius and Teucer. Oppius. Cicero. They gazed upon me with a mixture of pride, fondness and mournfulness. I nodded my head in gratitude and respect for each - and downed a measure of wine to honour them. I decided to down two measures of wine for Cicero however, as something inside of me died on the day Herennius took his life. Or rather something in me died on the day I capitulated to Antony’s demands and signed his death warrant. He was a friend, mentor. Even when we disagreed, I still valued his company and counsel. Caesar would have never agreed to such a deed, deal. But I was young, ambitious and unwise. I also felt betrayed, when I heard Cicero say I should be, “Praised, honoured and removed.” I told myself I needed to be rid of him, before he got rid of me. He taught me much. I am not sure how much of his teachings I have remembered, however. Not enough, some might argue. I find it difficult to re-read his books. Waves of shame and guilt crash against me, like a foaming tide will crash against the shore. Eventually such a tide will wear me down and wash me away. I have also started to hide from view his cherished letters. Yet we should not altogether hide from our sins. They are part of us. We should remember them, so they prompt us to pay restitution and better ourselves. The ghost of Cicero cannot make me un-sign his death warrant, but it can stay my hand when I am due to sign the next one. I am told that the knife reminded Herennius of his finest hour, his greatest achievement. Yet, for me, the dagger will serve as a reminder of my greatest infamy, ignominy. When my divine spark dimmed - or was extinguished. Perhaps one can never properly ignite it again after such a black crime. I would happily give up half the riches in the treasury to have the old man back just for one day, to have dinner with him, after giving a thunderous speech at court or oration in the Senate House. Rome would cheer his name, which he would enjoy even more than dinner… When I pass into the next life, I will of course possess enough riches to bribe the ferryman and hire him for the day. I would first instruct the boatman to take me to see Caesar and my mother. I would drop in on Oppius and Roscius. No doubt they will be sharing old war stories and a jug of acetum around a campfire. But at the end of the long day I would much like to visit Cicero. I would bow down before him and ask for forgiveness. I would show him my neck, as he showed Herennius’ his, and hand him the gold dagger. Perhaps the gesture might lack an air of self-sacrifice however, given that I would already be dead… I am not overly concerned with finding out who murdered Herennius, indeed there is an argument that I should reward the culprit, but I would like you to still prioritise locating the dagger. My wish may sound absurd - but I have found that most of the important things in life have an element of the comic or absurd about them. It’s what makes life so tragic… We cannot rely on Maecenas to secure the item. His agent had the knife in his sights at the beginning of the party. Unfortunately, he did not have it within his grasp by the end… I will endeavour to return to Rome soon, my friend. I agree with Cicero, when he said that Rome resembled a cesspool more than it did Plato’s Republic. But home is home. I miss the city, as I still miss the old man…”

  Agrippa’s head hung over the parchment. He closed his eyes and pinched his nose. Parts of the letter brought back memories and made for uncomfortable reading. He had been present when his friend signed Cicero’s death warrant. He should have advised him not to do it, to defy Antony. Antony was always the real enemy, not Cicero. But Agrippa had been young, ambitious and unwise too.

  12.

  Varro weaved his way through the sweltering streets and heaving marketplaces. The nobleman used to pride himself of never having to draw sweat, rush around or be purposeful. He thought how, a year ago, he would have stayed home during the afternoon heat and slept.

  “You are missing out on life,” Fronto would argue, or nag.

  “Life is worth missing out on. Life can be as unpleasant as people, partly because people make life unpleasant. The only thing which keeps me going is the certainty that it will all be over one day,” Varro replied, before yawning.

  But his afternoon naps were currently few and far between. He occasionally, wistfully, missed them. Duty now called, annoyingly. He missed Lucilla too, even on the days he saw her. Or especially on the days he saw her. But Varro couldn’t afford to dwell on what might have been - or what might be. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. Somewhere out there a dagger was waiting, yearning, to be found.

  He arrived at Lentulus Nerva’s house. The exterior had recently been scrubbed clean of any grime or graffiti. There was not a single cracked tile on the roof. Manicured, pollarded trees peeped over the garden walls. It was a house worthy of a corrupt senator, rather than an overworked lawyer.

  As much as Varro considered that the advocate might be his strongest suspect, he would also be the most difficult to trip up. Nerva would possess a water tight defence and alibi. He was more likely to extract a promise from a politician than a confession from the lawyer. Most of the clients Nerva represented over the years had turned up guilty at court - but left as innocent men. Few knew how to game the system better than the seasoned advocate. At least Augustus’ letter would permit him to question him. Nerva wouldn’t think twice about deceiving Varro, but he wouldn’t want to be found guilty of lying to Caesar.

  His reputation preceded him, like a growling dog strutting in front of its master. Nerva first made a name for himself when prosecuting Sextus Silanus, a senior official
in Gaul. Silanus was corrupt, at the lowest and highest levels. He used the province’s treasury as an interest free loan, which he had every intention of not paying back, and he raised taxes to such an extent that even the tax collectors blanched at the increases. Nerva took the time to travel to the region and investigate the allegations against Silanus personally. Evidence and testimonies were collected. At the trial Nerva skewered the defendant like a piece of meat. The arrogant official shrivelled up, like a slug, with the young advocate relentlessly pouring salt upon him. Silanus was found guilty and sent into exile for five years. On his return Silanus, due to his family’s influence within the Senate House, secured another post. When he was accused of corruption again Silanus hired Nerva to defend him - and the official was acquitted of all charges.

  Lentulus Nerva was as feted, in some quarters, as much as any actor or charioteer. A rival lawyer called him “an intellectual gladiator.” The advocate promised that, if a client’s money was good, then his defence would be too. It was rare for Nerva to lose a trial. His performances were often entertaining, as well as edifying, as “the new Cicero” ridiculed his opponents, whilst condemning them. No barb was too sharp, no insinuation too outrageous. If the law was an ass, then Nerva rode it like a thoroughbred. The advocate had made plenty of enemies over the years, but more so he had made plenty of powerful friends. Varro mused if it had got to the point where Nerva considered that he was a law unto himself.

  He knocked on the thick, iron-bracketed door. A haughty looking slave first peered through a shutter, before opening the heavily bolted entrance to address the uninvited caller.

  “My master is a busy official. He only receives people by appointment,” the slave pronounced, thrusting his chin out and holding his blade of a nose up in the air.