Agrippa read over the letter in front of him once again. The governor of a province in the East had caught one of his agents embezzling funds. The veteran spy, Lutatius Calenus, had been claiming money in order to pay non-existent sources of intelligence. The assets were not real. But the fraud was. The governor was calling for Agrippa to recall and punish the agent. Yet Calenus also oversaw a couple of genuine assets, ones which provided regular, valuable intelligence. Agrippa would instruct the governor to keep the spy in his post. He may not be a good man, but he is a good agent, the consul would argue, lamentably. It was a far from perfect world.
May the gods save us, for we seem unable to save ourselves.
The light was incandescent. He would castigate his slaves for burning too many candles. Gaius Maecenas paced around his study. Incandescent with rage. He scrunched up the message from Agrippa in his left hand. The soul of civility became the soul of resentment. He wanted to stamp his foot, smash the mosaic depicting a scene from Virgil’s Georgics which lay beneath his feet. In his right hand he carried a stylus, which he was tempted to use to score across the faces of the portraits on the wall. He resented their judgmental, superior expressions. A fine alabaster bust of Augustus sat on his desk. He was a heartbeat away from storming across the room and throwing the ornament against the wall. The bust had been a gift from Caesar, which was why he did and didn’t want to destroy it.
The political fixer called for more wine, bellowing out the order. The shrill noise echoed throughout the marble-clad home. He should not have to wait for whatever he desired. He was descended from Etruscan royalty (or so he commissioned Horace to posit in one of his poems).
Maecenas breathed, seethed. His usually smooth brow grew corrugated with severity. No amount of sonorous poetry, or sweet nothings from mistresses or an Adonis, could quieten his animus now. He could consider himself the third most powerful man in the world. But it wasn’t enough. Maecenas sat down, still holding the message in his recently scrubbed and manicured hands. Despite the gnawing pain it caused, throbbing like a bee sting, he read over Agrippa’s short letter again.
“Dear Gaius,
It gives me great pleasure to tell you that one of my agents has retrieved the knife. Our treasure hunt is over. I am letting you know, as it still may be the case you are attempting to procure the item for Caesar. I wouldn’t want you to go to any further trouble for nothing… I understand that you have made an approach to Rufus Varro, to recruit him to your stable. I am sure he is flattered by your offer but, unfortunately, he is content to remain with his current patron… You should come over for dinner soon. I have recently employed a new cook, Tillius Silanus. I understand your new cook studied under him…”
Perhaps the dour, prudish widower was not devoid of a sense of humour after all, Maecenas considered. As goading - galling - as the letter was, Maecenas was further put out by reports coming in that Agrippa was responsible for saving Rome, or at least the Jewish quarter, from an attack by Publius Carbo’s followers. It was just a shame that the consul didn’t tragically die during his bout of heroism, Maecenas posed. He felt deficient, diminished. The spymaster had been unaware of Carbo’s activities. Before, he would have known what Carbo was going to do, before he knew it himself. Maecenas could blame his agents for his lack of intelligence, but he knew he was to blame too. He castigated himself. Maecenas knew that Caesar always asked the same question he asked of anyone. How useful a man is he to me? If he lost the support and confidence of Caesar, Maecenas knew that his enemies would move against him.
You’ve been enjoying the good life for too long. You have grown weak, culpable. Your days have been filled with poetry, rather than politics… At least I will no longer have Licinius as a distraction… Never reward failure. He says he can win the woman back, but his heart, or head, have not been in the assignment. Both Lucilla and the dagger slipped through his fingers. I will send him on a mission now, situated at the arsehole end of the empire… Varro will rue the day he disappointed me too. No one says “no” to me, without suffering the consequences… I will bide my time, but eventually an opportunity will arise to right the wrongdoing. Vengeance is a dish best served cold. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost… I may have lost a battle, but I will win the war...
“More wine!”
“More wine,” was usually his first thought on such occasions but Varro wished to be sober when he met with Lucilla. He could always have a drink, to celebrate or commiserate, after his conversation with her. He had been less nervous when he first proposed, all those years ago. The poet had also been less in love, as much as he had been in love with Lucilla back then.
“Are you surprised?” Varro said to Manius, after citing his intention to ask Lucilla to marry him the night before, as his companion convalesced.
“I am just surprised that it has taken you this long to realise how much you still love her.”
A storm in the night, which Varro had slept through from exhaustion, had cleared the muggy air. Virgin white clouds scudded across a startling blue sky. Varro walked with purpose towards Lucilla’s house. He barely spared a thought for the likes of Maecenas, Nerva, Publius Carbo or even Tiro. They were ghosts from his past, more than shades at his shoulder. Rather he thought of Lucilla and his villa at Arretium, and the prospect that the former would come away with him to the latter. He started to pick out which books he would take away with him, prioritising those which she would enjoy too. He looked forward breathing in lungfuls of fresh air, gulping it down like wine. He promised himself that he would write again. But not poetry. Instead he would try to write a biography of Cincinnatus.
“I do not believe that my mistress is admitting visitors today,” Diana pronounced, with even more piquancy than normal - eyeing Varro with suspicion at best or, at worse, unfiltered antagonism.
“I am sure if you put in a good word for me, you will get her to change her mind,” Varro replied. The slave noticed a hint of desperation, as well as playfulness, in his tone, however. He wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic more than once and there was a rare vulnerability, or diffidence, in the nobleman’s expression. The scar on his forehead itched, again.
Diana disappeared but shortly afterwards another slave opened the door and led Varro out into the garden. A smudge of dirt marked her left cheek. Lucilla wore an apron and ill-fitting dress which did little to flatter her figure. That she wasn’t always obsessed by her appearance made Lucilla all the more attractive.
A mellow, sumptuous smell of freshly picked apples scented the air. He could smell honeysuckle and love-lies-bleeding too.
“I am just gardening,” she said, curious and a little worried by his strange expression. Although she still smiled upon seeing him, beaming like the serene sunshine proliferating the scene.
“I am a professional investigator. I can deduce such things now, would you believe?”
“And there I was thinking that the only thing you took professional pride in, was a life dedicated to indolence,” Lucilla replied, with equal good, sarcastic, humour.
The smile fell from his face, however, when Varro asked Lucilla to sit down on a nearby bench. He licked his lips and yearned for a cup of water to moisten his parched throat. But the words couldn’t wait. They had waited long enough. He gulped and tried to catch his breath. The agent had perhaps been less anxious during the attack on the warehouse, the day before.
“You sound serious, which is rare for you. Usually you are only serious about treating life as a joke,” Lucilla remarked, growing a little anxious herself. Although, she was still pleased to see him. She wanted Varro to be one of the first to know she had ended her affair with Licinius.
“I am going to be serious - and sincere - for a moment or two,” Varro declared, as he sat down on the bench next to her. His hands were trembling. “If I do not say something now, I fear I never will. I have recently told Fronto and Manius how much you mean to me. It’s somewhat more important though that I tell you… Please do not think I am here j
ust because I want to spoil your relationship with Licinius. I will respect any choice you make… I have loved you for some time. Indeed, I probably never stopped loving you. I have never quite deserved you, but I would be a wretch should I be with someone who I do deserve… When I am with you, I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I am half the man I could be, when I am not with you. “We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly when embracing one another,” Lucretius wrote… Growing old with you will help me stay young. Give me something to live for. I have no desire to be married to my work anymore. I can survive without Caesar - and Caesar can survive without me… I have taken things, all my life. But the only way to become more than oneself is to give something of oneself. I hope it doesn’t sound too much of a joke to your ears, but I am ready to be faithful and honourable. If you believe in me, then I will believe in myself.”
Varro here took a breath and caught Lucilla’s eye, to try and gauge her reaction to his confession. He felt he might be coming across too desperate, feverish. “Love is a disease though,” he had once written. In contrast to his febrile manner Lucilla appeared calm, but not cold. Receptive, but unresolved to any decision.
Varro pictured her earlier, whilst walking to the house, wearing her favourite silk dress and finest jewels (ones bought before her affair with Pulcher). But this was more beautiful for being real. Lucilla removed her headscarf. Her glossy hair tumbled down her kind, elegant features. She tucked a few strands behind her ears, but some remained hanging in front of her face. She had loved him for the man he used to be - or could be again. But she realised, over the past year or so, how she loved her former husband for who he was now.
“I remember this time last year. I said how sorry I was, for everything - and you believed me. I need you to believe me now, when I say that I love you. I may even love you more than Manius loves Viola,” Varro said, hoping that his joke might ease the perceived tension in the air.
He just wished her to say something back now. Anything. But Varro’s wish wasn’t granted.
Instead, Lucilla rose to her feet. He tried to breath in her perfume, but she wasn’t wearing any. She took a step and he considered she was just going to walk back into the house, without saying uttering a sound. Actions can speak louder than words. Varro thought he was about to lose her forever and he hung his head in grief accordingly.
But Lucilla lifted-up his face in her soft hands and gazed, tenderly, into his teary eyes. She first bent over and kissed him on his brow. His scar stopped itching. Lucilla then kissed Varro full on the lips, before smiling that smile which made him smile. Finally, the graceful woman kneeled in front of the elated nobleman and took his hands, which had stopped trembling, in hers. She was grinning ear to ear - and tearing up too.
“Rufus Varro, will you marry me?”
End Note.
Spies of Rome: Blood & Vengeance is a mixture of fact and fiction. Should you be interested in reading more about the real life characters featured in the book then you may find the following titles of interest: The First Emperor, by Anthony Everitt; The Roman Revolution, by Ronald Syme; Marcus Agrippa, by Lindsay Powell.
Should you be interested in reading more fiction about the era then I can heartily recommend the relevant works of Steven Saylor, Peter Tonkin and Robert Harris.
Please do get in touch should you have enjoyed reading the Spies of Rome series. I am grateful to all those readers who still write to me about the Augustus and Sword of Rome series too. You can contact me at [email protected]
Rufus Varro and Manius will return in Spies of Rome: Blood & Secrets.
Richard Foreman.
Blood & Secrets
Richard Foreman
© Richard Foreman 2019
Richard Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2019 by Sharpe Books.
“The difficulty is not so great to die for a friend, as to find a friend worth dying for.”
Homer.
“We men are wretched things.”
Homer.
1.
Night, as black as the Acheron. Thunder rumbled in the background like a presumed dormant volcano, stirring. The distant storm growled but had yet to bare its teeth. But it would.
“It’s good to see you again,” Rufus Varro remarked to his late-night, unexpected guest - Aelius Vulso. The nobleman welcomed the praetorian, who was saddle sore but undaunted, to his country villa. Vulso walked across the threshold and noticed marble tiles - and some wording - on the floor. A quote from Aristotle:
“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.”
Varro warmly shook his hand and poured the soldier, who had travelled from Rome, a large cup of wine. “Of course, given that you are likely to be a harbinger of bad news, you are the last person I would wish to see again.”
The former spy first encountered the praetorian during a mission to liberate Varro’s bodyguard, Manius, from being tortured and held prisoner by the demagogue, Publius Carbo. The three men had shared more than one joke and jug of Massic since that day. Vulso could be as stern-faced as a lictor at times, but there was no doubting his courage and sense of honour, Varro considered. His men would follow him into the fires of Hades - and the officer would lead them out again too. Vulso was as tough as the old leather boots he wore. The soldier appeared slightly ill at ease however, having to visit his friend in an official capacity. His firm features were shiny with sweat. He gleamed like a freshly painted statue, the poet fancied.
An oil lamp glowed between them above a rosewood table, as the two men sat facing one another on soft-cushioned sofas. Varro encouraged his friend to help himself to the various dishes to hand which were left over from supper: honey-glazed ham, spiced mussels and asparagus tips.
Vulso downed his wine and thanked his host as he refilled his cup. As he caught his breath and quenched his thirst the praetorian took in his friend. He hadn’t seen Varro for several months, after taking the decision to spend over half the year at his house in Arretium. “I’m tired of Rome. It may well be tired of me in return. Familiarity breeds contempt. Maybe absence will make the heart grow fonder, due to spending the summer in the country,” Varro explained, before departing. Some things had changed. Some things hadn’t. The same black curls hung over his brow, concealing the same horizontal scar. His eyes were less bloodshot. Varro drank less and slept more nowadays. He was glowing, with health and happiness. The smile was fulsome, rather than mocking or wry. Varro remarried his first wife, Lucilla, a year ago. Lucilla had given him a second chance, after the wastrel had given himself a second chance. Their mornings were spent walking and swimming in the sea. During the afternoon Varro would write, whilst his wife painted or tended to her garden. During the evenings they would have dinner with Manius and his wife, Camilla. The couple arrived last month. Camilla was expecting their first child.
“You are looking well, Rufus.”
“Not working for the glory of Rome can do wonders for one’s constitution - and soul. The only thing I need to get up for in the morning is my afternoon nap. I trust you are well too, Aelius.”
“My sword has spent more time in, rather than out of, its scabbard of late. I’ll leave you to decide whether that’s a good thing or not,” the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested soldier replied, shrugging.
“As much as I would wish it to be so, it’s unlikely that this is a social visit. I take it that you have a message for me?” Varro asked, the smile falling from his face. His smooth, aristocratic features became pinched. He thought that Arretium might be faraway enough for him to remain untouched by the tentacles of Rome. He was wrong.
“I do not have any detailed message to pass on, Rufus. Agrippa has just asked me to accompany you back to Rome. I am as much in the dark as you. I thought you were retired.”
“I thought so too. Perhaps I can’t quite call myself a former
spy yet. Perhaps no one can,” Varro replied. His haunted expression was allied to a world-weary sigh, before he forced a half-smile. He thought of Lucilla. The nobleman promised his wife that he would no longer work as an agent for Agrippa. He had been tortured and nearly killed during his first assignment (Varro had a scar on his forehead, which served as a daily reminder of the ordeal). Manius had been tortured and nearly killed during their last mission. Even when he was a poet, the critics weren’t quite as cruel as the likes of Lucius Scaurus and Publius Carbo, he judged. As an agent, working for Agrippa, he had often been charged with uncovering the truth. But perhaps it was the job of a spy to keep secrets hidden, rather than reveal them. Varro winced slightly as he remembered Tiro. Cicero’s former secretary had been one of the noblest men he had ever known. A friend and mentor. Yet Tiro had proved himself to be a killer. A victim of his baser instincts. Or could he not argue that Tiro had murdered the brutish slave trader, Herennius, out of a noble duty to avenge the murder of his old master?
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