Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Varro and Trogus faced off against one another. Both men circled each other, neither committing to a rash, compromising attack. Trogus’ arm quivered as he held out his weapon, trembling with nerves or exhaustion, from having hauled the prisoner up so many times. Perhaps his tactic was just to keep his opponent occupied and wait for reinforcements. Varro still held the hammer in one hand, the chisel in the other. He was a picture of malice - and concentration. He tried to recall the lessons Manius had imparted to him over the years.

  Be quick in a fight, but not reckless… Counter-attacking can be just as effective as attacking first.

  Trogus’ attention was momentarily diverted on witnessing his comrade fall, as the knife entered his chest and he dropped to the ground. Varro remained focussed however and grasped his opportunity, as he moved forward and swung his hammer, knocking the dagger from his hand. Whilst Trogus watched his weapon slide across the floor Varro closed in and plunged the chisel into his sternum.

  Piso bared his teeth and growled, more than spoke, as he raised his dagger up to Manius’ eye-level. Shafts of light from above glinted off the polished blade.

  “I’m going to gut you like a fish.”

  Manius knew he probably only had one concerted attack in him. Any sudden movement and he was likely to lose his balance afterwards. You miss, I hit, Manius thought to himself. He had been drilled as a gladiator, thousands of time, in the ludi – whereby an opponent would look to thrust and connect with his practise gladius. The task was to avoid the padded point or edge of the weapon whilst also, in one fluid movement, counter-attack.

  Piso feinted one way but then made thrust his blade from a different angle. Manius read the attack, however. He shifted his body weight, much to the annoyance of his stiff, screaming ribcage, and swung his long arm around. The point of the stylus found its mark. His opponent’s jugular vein. Just for good measure Manius ripped the weapon out of his throat, to widen the wound further. Piso, shock replacing rage on his contorted countenance, immediately fell to his knees. Blood gushed out. The former legionary tried to curse his enemy, but he merely emitted a gargling noise, as Piso held his hand up to his gory injury.

  “Some chicken, some neck,” the Briton remarked. Blood would continue to ooze out of the vein. Soon he would lose consciousness. And then he would lose his life.

  Let the bastard bleed and let the bastard die.

  Vulso shifted the heavy chest in front of the door and positioned himself to act as a brace, in order to further shore up his barricade. Yet, to his surprise, the guards outside failed to try and enter. Something was wrong. Or right.

  The two friends approached one another and offered up a subtle nod and fraternal clasp of the shoulder.

  “I did suggest that one day I would get to save you,” Varro said, his heart still pounding from having fought - and killed - a man.

  “I’d be more than happy for you to do so again. Just try not to leave it so late next time,” Manius, looking life death warmed up, replied. “No jokes though, for once. It hurts like a bastard when I laugh.”

  Both men had tears welling in their eyes, but there was no time for the tears to go anywhere else. They turned their attention to Publius Carbo, who was still stuck, limpet-like, to the wall. He had somehow aged since Varro and Vulso had walked through the door.

  “Who are you?” the demagogue asked, or rather demanded. But his whimpering voice diminished his authority somewhat.

  “I am a Roman citizen,” Manius replied, reminding himself and his captor of what he said, while being tortured.

  “And I am a patrician, a former senator. Part of Rome’s establishment,” Publius Carbo haughtily, or shrilly, pronounced, puffing out what little chest he possessed.

  “I know,” the Briton flatly said, before covering the anti-Semite’s mouth with his hand (he had grown more than tired of listening to his voice). Manius then slowly pushed the stylus into the politician’s left eye. Carbo struggled for a moment or two, but eventually his body went limp. Death is the solution to all problems. No man - no problem.

  Vulso realised that he had no need to fight his way out of the warehouse, as Agrippa had fought his way in. Having observed Varro re-enter the building, Agrippa had second-guessed his intention to ignore his orders and attempt to save Manius. The consul had hoped that Vulso would rein his agent in, or at the very least not join him in any act of recklessness.

  Agrippa quickly ordered his men to storm the building and engage the enemy. Most of Carbo’s retinue surrendered immediately. The remainder offered little resistance. The guards posted outside the door to the backroom were attracted to the commotion at the front of the warehouse. They thought about trying to escape - but ended up surrendering quicker than a Gaul in winter.

  The light blazed through the shutters, illuminating motes of dust and dead, translucent skin. Agrippa pursed his lips and gently shook his head as he entered the room and took in the scene. He fancied that the expression on Labeo’s face was one of extreme shock, as though he had just found out he had lost an election. Carbo’s mouth was open, as if he were about to sing. Or he had died mid-scream. The room was a picture of vengeance, as opposed to justice. But perhaps, sometimes, vengeance equates to justice. There are worse fates that Carbo and Labeo could have suffered. Agrippa was just at a loss to think of them right now. The main thing was, the Jewish quarter would be safe. Or the main thing was that Caesar would be pleased. Another potential rival or enemy had perished. Or the main thing was, Varro and Manius had survived.

  “Firstly, let us deal with the living, rather than the dead,” Agrippa remarked, as he instructed one of his men to fetch his personal surgeon, to tend to Manius’ injuries. He then turned his attention towards his agent. Varro appeared remarkably calm, given the drama and violence which had just ensued. He wasn’t sure whether his sense of duty towards his friend made him a better, or worse, agent. Spies should try to shed their emotions - and any notions of honour or morality, Agrippa judged. It may keep them dead inside. But it would also keep them alive. Yet the soldier wasn’t entirely convinced of his own argument.

  “Well, this is all a mess,” the consul exclaimed, as if rebuking some errant schoolboys. “But messes exist, so we can learn to clean them up. I will be generous and say that you misinterpreted my orders, rather than disobeyed them… I am glad you are both safe. I do not have the time to train up any replacements for you… Few will mourn Carbo. Although I imagine that Nerva will lament that there won’t be a trial. The fee he would have earned, either defending or prosecuting him, would have helped pay off his debts… Now, instead of creating a mess, how close are you to cleaning one up? Have you progressed in your investigation?”

  “Maybe,” Varro vaguely replied, thinking how he was confident he could now re-cover the dagger. The agent was just unsure who he would retrieve it for. Agrippa, or Maecenas.

  25.

  None of us is without sin.

  Varro walked with a heavy step - and heavier heart - through Rome as he made his way to Tiro’s house. He passed through some public gardens and along the river at one point, but still failed to find some fresh air and quietude. The agent felt dizzy, nauseous. Varro thought it might be due to the drama and exertion of the afternoon’s events. But, more so, it was due to where he was going. He needed to clear his head, do his job. As much as the agent yearned to be away from Rome, he knew that his work had saved him over the past year - albeit Varro knew it was also now damning him. He felt like he had been tossed into a mortar - and the pestle of life was grinding him down.

  You need to laugh at yourself more, like you used to.

  The investigator did and didn’t believe it. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, he asserted in his mind, like a choral refrain. But he knew that it could be. That it was true. Tiro had murdered Herennius. Not only would the piece of brown material match Tiro’s cloak, but, Ovid was right, the past isn’t just the past. It wasn’t for Varro (he still loved Lucilla), so why should it be for other
s? Tiro had killed Herennius out of an act of vengeance, for executing Cicero all those years ago. Hate perhaps lives on in the heart more than love.

  It was an effort, strain, to think of his noble friend committing the bloody crime. Tiro was not still Tiro. Rome had lost even more of its lustre, if it had any left in the first place.

  Varro reached Tiro’s property, Cicero’s former residence. The previous owner’s shade must have haunted the secretary on a daily basis, just as Varro’s father’s shade had once haunted him. One might as well try to exhume all the dust from a house, as shoo away all one’s memories. Although rich with recollections, the property was now largely devoid of furniture, as Tiro had moved or sold the bulk of it. A few statues and ornaments remained, but the house reminded Tiro of a mausoleum. His footsteps echoed along the marble corridors like he was being followed.

  A slave led Varro out into the atrium, where Tiro was spending the afternoon reading. The slave had admitted the aristocrat without forewarning his master, having done so numerous times before. Appius Varro’s son was always welcome at the house. The sunlight was weak, jaundiced. The plants were dying. The chipped statues, of Fortuna and Sancus, had their backs turned towards the old man. Tiro was sitting on a large couch, which looked like it might soon swallow him whole, Varro fancied, given his friend’s increasingly slight figure. The same wisps of silvery-grey hair covered his liver-spotted scalp. The same bat-like ears protruded from his large head. But something was different. New, subtle shades - of shame and sorrow - were cast over his features, like a grim morning mist. How much had it been life, or Rome, which had ground him down? Varro would have to think more intently on the question, to provide an answer. The brown cloak was spread out on a nearby chair. The agent felt that the world would be able to see where a piece had been torn off.

  Tiro squinted a little on first seeing the figure standing before him. It looked like Varro, but his expression was odd. Pained. His tunic was also different. Dirty. Even bloody? If he doesn’t know the truth, he probably suspects it, Tiro considered.

  The truth will out. Murder will out. Both expressions are one in the same, in this instance.

  “Rufus, what an unexpected pleasure,” Tiro said, his voice cracking. His smile similarly faltered - all but stillborn.

  For as many questions as Varro wanted to ask, for as many lines as he prepared on his walk over, a pregnant pause hung in the air. It suddenly felt ludicrous, or incredibly rude, turning up at his old friend’s house and accusing him of murder - with little or no evidence to substantiate his claim.

  “Or perhaps I should have expected you would call on me at some point, both in your capacity as a friend and an investigator,” Tiro added. “You have a new tailor it seems, although I cannot altogether say he’s an improvement on the last one. Have you been labouring?”

  “My father used to say that just once he would like to see me do an honest day’s work. I fear he’s still waiting.”

  “I like to think I have tried to be honest throughout my life, which is no mean achievement when you consider I used to serve a politician. Given my surfeit of perceived honesty, perhaps I thought I had earned a dishonest act. I regret having lied to you Rufus, but I do not regret having murdered the man who killed my master. The only thing I regret, concerning the deed, is waiting too long.”

  Varro didn’t envision his assignment ending this way. There was no sense of satisfaction, or roar of applause. Part of him wished that what Tiro had just said could be unsaid. The agent sat down, lest his legs gave way, on a chair opposite the couch. He breathed deeply, wearily. To grant him more time to compose his thoughts he poured out a cup of water for both himself and his, now, potential prisoner. Varro was tempted to ask for something stronger. Much stronger. It had been the longest of longest days. He still hadn’t quite processed the events from earlier on in the day. Both he and Manius had nearly died. Varro felt like a pane of glass, which could shatter at any moment. The gods were testing him - or just being cruel for cruelty’s sake. Tiro interpreted his silence as a prompt to talk - or confess - more. Neither party was terribly well-practised in how an interrogation should be conducted.

  “I owed my master one last service, before I left Rome. I know that probably sounds foolish. But you’re wise enough to know that’s why it’s true. People will argue that foolishness is the province of the young - just look at those self-righteous students who blindly follow the likes of Publius Carbo and his ilk. But everyone can contract foolishness. It’s like the common cold. Foolishness may well be our most defining quality. It can cause us to commit acts of wickedness, or be a spur to be brave and virtuous… I could never quite free myself of knowing what my duty was. I suppose my decision to leave Rome brought the issue to a head. Vengeance never wholly subsides. It’s like a scorpion, ready to strike after seemingly remaining dormant… I know I have lived my life in another man’s shadow. I served him, even after he died. But Cicero’s life, cause, was fundamentally a noble one. Perhaps all the more noble for being tragic. I, more than anyone, knew his flaws. I lived with him daily. When one gets close to a portrait one can see the cracks in the paint and misplaced brush strokes. But it’s important to step back sometimes and take in the picture as a whole. Despite his vanity, despite his political chicanery, Cicero was a force for good in Rome. He sacrificed his life for Rome, long before he died for it. Herennius deserved his fate. He deserved to die many deaths, for the crimes committed after executing my master. I kept track of his life, hoping that he would one day do something so atrocious that it would heat my blood to such an extent, that I would be compelled to slay the monster. But I remained a coward, to my shame, for far too long. Ironically, I now finally feel free, even if it means I will soon be incarcerated.”

  Tiro spoke as much to himself, as he did Varro. His rheumy eyes grew teary as he remembered his master. His lip curled, as he pronounced the name of his victim. Varro didn’t quite know how to react. He was a cracked mosaic, made-up of countless tiles: shock, abhorrence, compassion and confoundment. Tiro paused in his confession, to quench his thirst. Another awkward silence hung in the air, like a vulture circling a carcass. This time Varro felt obliged to speak.

  “Can you tell me more about the night in question?”

  “I was willing to wait that evening, all evening if required. The gods knew I had waited for years. It was Lucilla who informed me about the gathering, in an offhand comment about the party she was due to attend. I imagined it would run on late. Herennius would be drunk by the end of proceedings. I stood across the street from the house, shrouded in darkness. I counted the guests in and I counted them out. I was surprised to see Lentulus Nerva in attendance, until I discovered that the advocate had sold his daughter to the fiend. Nerva once came to visit me, shortly after Cicero died. He made a prepared, spontaneous speech about how much he admired my master. But in truth he was angling to gain access to Cicero’s client list… Once the guests departed, I approached the house, offering up a prayer to the gods that Herennius would be still awake - and alone. My prayers were answered. The gods were on my side. Herennius answered the door himself, imagining that I was one of his guests, returning to retrieve something they had forgotten. He was confused by my appearance. I explained that I was leaving Rome and in the process of selling some of Cicero’s valuables. I thought he might be interested. On remarking that I was desperate, and therefore he thought he could take advantage of me, he let me in. My host was still drinking heavily at this point. He didn’t suspect for one moment that my motives were anything but pure, or pecuniary.

  “I am glad you do not have any hard feelings relating to what happened all those years ago, he explained. I have all but forgotten about it. Business is business. He picked up the golden dagger, which had been a present from Antony and Fulvia, and gazed at it fondly as he spoke. It was at that point when I struck. Vengeance gave me the strength of a man half my age. I was confident that I could do it. I had pictured murdering him for so long that I con
sidered myself well trained, in some respects. The knife belonged there. The thin blade went through his chest and punctured his lung. He barely made a sound as he fell. He turned and landed on a couch, softening the noise of his fall. There was not a spot of blood on me. I planned beforehand to make the crime look like a robbery, so I took what valuables were to hand, including the gold dagger. I have kept everything, not that I consider them trophies of any sort… I never imagined that you would be placed in charge of the investigation, although I didn’t discount that I might somehow be on someone’s long list of suspects. I do not suppose you could disclose what led you to suspect me?”

  “You snagged your cloak on the gate, as you entered or exited the scene.”

  “The apparel oft proclaims the man,” Tiro muttered, wistfully - permitting himself the faintest of smiles. He felt more resignation, than rage, at being caught. “It seems your application now exceeds your laziness. You will be considered an effective agent. Be wary of where the path of your new vocation may lead you though, Rufus. A life dedicated to deception will invariably cause you to deceive yourself. You will have to lie for a living, even more than a politician or lawyer. You will often be asked to distort the truth, to such an extent that your soul may be distorted too. The darkness always returns and dominates, Cicero once told me. As ever, he was right. Even though I have finally paid my due to my master, I cannot envision seeing much light for the remainder of my days. I worry that, as an agent for Caesar, you may be travelling down a path from which you will be unable to return.”

  Varro let his friend’s words linger. Perhaps Tiro might muse upon how much his own soul had been besmirched and distorted, from killing a man in cold blood. The unassuming kindness and cheerful humour, which he had always esteemed Tiro for, had disappeared from his aspect. He seemed hollowed out. Only sorrow remained. If that. Varro wondered how, haunted by his duty and grief, had Tiro been able to remain so kind and cheerful in the face of such an unjust world? The agent didn’t quite know whether to admire his friend for his (tragic) heroism - or condemn him for his fraudulence. Surely his goodness was just an act? Varro desperately wanted to believe in Tiro’s decency, rather than deception. The gods only knew how Rome needed every decent man it could find. There were precious few in the Senate House.