Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Varro attempted a consoling expression, although he wasn’t sure how much of a balm he was providing. He felt sorry for the adolescent, imagining how bereft and angry would be, should someone murder Manius. Varro turned his head and stared at a bust of Plato carved out of Porphyry marble, on a stylish bronze table, by the sofa.

  “It was a gift from my stepfather. The piece once belonged to Sulla,” Tiberius said, remembering with pride the moment Caesar presented his him with the bust. It had been after Tiberius had given the eulogy at his father’s funeral. He had only been nine, but he had composed the eulogy himself and compelled the mourners to weep with his performance.

  “It’s funny that a dictator would prize a statue of the author of The Republic,” Varro posed.

  “It’s not that funny,” Tiberius said, humourlessly. “Even Pericles displayed shades of being a dictator. We are all a patchwork of contradictions. And thankfully so, otherwise people would be even duller than they are. You have recently become a playwright. Drama is essentially conflict. Your characters must be full of conflict and contradictions, if you are aiming for art to imitate life. In life, unlike art however, few things are resolved. Although I understand that you have found a happy ending yourself. You were a lucky man to marry Lucilla once, let alone twice. I was often in the same room when she called upon our home. Even when my mother poured scorn on you – and highlighted your infidelities – Lucilla did not speak ill of you. Perhaps she thought it was a bit rich, having my mother lecture someone on how one shouldn’t tolerate a husband’s unfaithfulness. My stepfather makes even Marcus seem chaste. The apple has not fallen far from the tree in relation to his daughter,” the Claudian nobleman remarked, pursing his lips in disapproval. “I understand you will be interviewing Julia too.”

  “Yes, I will be paying her a visit later on today.”

  “I hope she can be of some assistance as well. Julia has dedicated her life to the pursuit of pleasure, rather than duty, though. Whatever she wants, she takes. She does not honour the gods, or her father. The Forum is just another place to fuck, for her. You should be careful my stepsister doesn’t take too great a liking to you, Rufus Varro, lest your happy ending comes to an end. Julia has a taste for both poets and husbands. You will be two feast days in one for her. I do not believe that Caesar will tolerate her unseemly behaviour for too long. The closer Marcellus gets to becoming a son and heir, the less need he will have for a daughter. I pity her husband, whoever she marries. She will cuckold him before the wedding night is over.”

  Tiberius took a large swig from his winecup after he spoke, as if he wanted to wash away the names of Julia and Marcellus from his throat. As intelligent and mature as the youth appeared, a childish petulance still understandable eclipsed a sense of wisdom and restraint.

  “You still see your stepsister. She was present on the evening of the party - and may have been the last person to see Corvinus alive. Not counting his killer. Can you tell me if they were more than friends?”

  “Neither are famed for their celibacy. In their ability to seduce and sacrifice their lovers, in the blink of an eye, they may have been a perfect match for one another. But it’s best that you ask Julia that question, when you meet her. And yes, I still see her occasionally. Thankfully our paths do not intersect too much,” he said. Again, a forced, formal smile was followed by a pinched expression - and Varro pictured again the image of a disdainful child, riding next to Caesar during the Triumph.

  The two men spoke for a while longer. Tiberius mentioned that his father was friends with Appius Varro.

  “Your father honoured Rome. He was an asset to the ruling class. Governance was in his blood. I am surprised that you have not chosen to follow in his footsteps and pursue the course of honours,” Tiberius said, as he glanced, not without some pride, at the image of Gaius Claudius.

  “I fear that the course of honours will ultimately lead me down to Hades, rather than to the heights of the Senate House. Becoming a politician really would ruin my happy ending – although as a playwright I am used to making things up, which could aid me in any candidacy to become a statesman.”

  Again, Varro couldn’t discern whether his host grimaced or smiled in reply, as his features were hidden behind his winecup.

  The agent asked a few more follow-up questions. Although Tiberius was unable to suggest a chief suspect, who could be providing refuge for Felix Plancus, he did provide Varro with a comprehensive list of the fugitive’s closest friends. Tiberius also asked the agent to keep him abreast of any developments in the investigation.

  “You have an impressive library,” Varro remarked, as he rose to his feet and surveyed the row of scrolls along the wall.

  “Thank you. But what you see before you is merely a branch, rather than the whole tree, in relation to my collection. A room without books is like a body without a soul,” Tiberius exclaimed, quoting Cicero, soullessly.

  Varro reconvened with his companions out in the street. They looked at the agent with an air of expectancy. Unfortunately, he couldn’t provide either answers or certainty.

  “How did it all go?” Vulso asked. He refrained from complaining that all they had been offered while waiting for Varro was bread and water. Thankfully or not, as a soldier, he had suffered worse meals.

  “It went well, I’m sorry to say. Too well. Tiberius cooperated. He furnished me with a list of Plancus’ friends. Although he does not think Plancus is guilty. He has provided us with a couple of other suspects to investigate. He believes we should scrutinise Silo’s alibi. He also believes that we should consider one Quintus Trebonius as a suspect. We will be obliged to investigate both, which could take some time,” Varro said, sighing and rolling his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Manius’ shoulders slump. The Briton didn’t say anything about the delay to returning to Arretium. But he didn’t have to.

  “So, what was Caesar’s stepson like?” Macer said, eagerly. The bowman was keen to take some gossip back to Sabina.

  “Even for a Claudian, he was a snob. Cato wasn’t as self-important, nor Brutus as self-righteous, at the same age I imagine. I didn’t know whether to be worried, or amused, by some of the things he opined. Tiberius has been expensively educated, but he has a lot to learn. One may argue that there is much to admire about the military tribune. But there is something out of kilter about his character. I am just glad Tiberius is some way down the list, in regards to Caesar choosing his successor. So, there you have the stepson. It’s time to now meet the daughter.”

  9.

  A slender, dusky, barefooted slave led Varro and his party through the house, towards where her mistress was relaxing, in the garden. Her perfume, infused with rosewater, trailed in her wake like the train of a gown. Varro mused how he had rarely seen such a provocatively or richly dressed slave. Her figure-hugging dress - dyed in sea-green, purple and saffron-yellow – must have belonged to her mistress. Similarly, Julia must have given her permission to wear her jewellery. The young woman sounded like a tambourine, as numerous bracelets and anklets jangled together with every stride and rhythmic movement of her hips.

  Vulso glared at the slave and licked his lips, as if imagining himself biting into the pert posterior, like it was a pomegranate. Macer was similarly entranced, his eyes as wide and round as a hoplite’s shield, and conveniently forgot about Sabina. The bowman remained slack-jawed as he took in the magnificent house. The property appeared lavish and opulent from the outside – with its marble colonnades, decorative coloured glass and bronze statuary. The interior matched, or surpassed, the exterior. The inside was awash with marble flooring, intricate mosaics, silver mirrors and pieces of furniture inlaid with ivory and gold. The atrium was home to a pond, filled with koi carp. Varro noticed a couple of large paintings by Arellius, with more flesh than clothes on show. As he viewed an awe-struck Macer out the corner of his eye he thought how the praetorian would need to grow accustomed to such households. Should Rome experience an uprising or riot the archer wou
ld be ordered to guard such homes and their owners.

  It was said that Caesar lived modestly, in his small property on the Palatine. But the apple had fallen far from the tree, in another orchard, it seemed. No expense had been spared throughout the ostentatious residence. The house gleamed, dazzled. Everything was impressive – but somehow vulgar too, Varro ruminated.

  The agent and his companions were shown into a small, octagonal-shaped grove, through a narrow entrance, situated within a larger garden. Ornate trellis work served as walls to the grove, intertwined with myrtle, vines, budding flowers and suggestive paintings. Varro reasoned that, as well as serving as decoration, the plants and paintings prevented prying eyes from spying into the intimate alcove. Despite the smell of the various blooms, Julia’s aromatic perfume, laced with myrrh and spikenard, cut through the air like a knife.

  Caesar’s nubile daughter was reclining on a purple sofa, dressed in a scarlet dress made from luxuriant Coan silk. One of her smooth, tanned legs accidentally (or artfully) hung out of the slit in her dress. Julia rose to greet her guests. A playful smile danced on her glistening lips. She took in the four men, sucking on the tip of her finger, apprising them like a widow might assess the stock during a slave auction.

  “Rufus Varro. I hope you will be worth the wait. I received a letter from Marcus Agrippa. I am surprised that he didn’t call upon me himself. I imagine that he would have been pleased to get out the house, especially if his wonderfully dull wife was at home. Your attendants look good enough to eat. I could feast upon the sight of you and your companions all day. But I must speak with you privately. You will be welcome to feast upon my hospitality while I steal Rufus away from you. I have provided some refreshments in one of the reception rooms in the house. Herminia, please see to their every need and whim,” their hostess instructed, her tone as sweet as honey. The mistress of the house addressed Varro with a disarming amount of confidence – and even familiarity. It was as though he was an ex-lover. Or soon to be lover.

  The comely slave girl beamed, bowed and led Manius, Vulso and Macer back into the house, where a veritable banquet of food was waiting for them, to be washed down with a selection of ruby-red wines.

  “Alone at last,” Caesar’s daughter remarked, tucking her hair behind her ears, revealing a pair of diamond earrings. Her smile added a layer of luridness to its playfulness. “But tell me, who was that large attendant in your party? He seems like the strong and silent type, which I’ve found to be one of the better types. I noticed that he refrained from ogling me, which was both courteous and rude at the same time. He didn’t seem interested me, which of course interests me.”

  “Manius is my bodyguard.”

  “Is he a eunuch?”

  “No, he’s happily married.”

  “Ha! There’s no such thing, in my experience. You may as well say that there’s such a thing as an honest politician. Or an honest woman, come to that. And what of your other companions? Although I have scant interest in the boy. Boys only know how to satisfy themselves. The pups know not how to satisfy women.”

  “They’re soldiers.”

  “Yawn. I have had my fill of soldiers too. They can’t help but be rough and uncouth. They feel they need to dominate and conquer, and frantically move about your body as if they are on manoeuvres.”

  Varro smiled in reply. He couldn’t quite be sure if he was doing so out of politeness, humour or awkwardness. He took in the woman, or rather girl, in front of him. The make-up she wore gave the impression that she was older than she was. Her body wasn’t quite fully developed, but Varro could easily imagine how many men would admire and women envy her figure eventually. Her features were fine, attractive – similar to the statues and portraits Varro had seen of her father. Her blue-green eyes (framed within curled, coquettish eyelashes) were bright – teeming with life, like her fishpond. Occasionally, however, her expression could be, like her father’s, scrutinising or inscrutable. Her fair hair was styled in a bun, and held in place by a large shiny, sharp, silver hairpin. Varro fancied that Julia was wittier – and wiser – than her stepbrother, although that wasn’t such an insurmountable task. Caesar’s daughter had plenty to learn too though. She wanted to gleam, dazzle and shock. She was impressive, but vulgar. She seemed to be wearing more perfume than a courtesan, as if her small hands had accidentally dropped the bottle over her. Her shimmering silk dress possessed a plunging V-shaped neckline, although there was little to see. An inverted V-shape dominated the bottom half of the garment. The material was so sheer that one could see the odd mole and blemish beneath the dress. At least the material was slightly thicker around the girl’s waist. Julia, or her dressmaker, still had a kernel of modesty left, Varro thought.

  “Thank you for sparing me your time.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Or, hopefully, it will be your pleasure,” Julia said, arching her eyebrow, suggestively. But then she smiled, amused at her own joke, flashing her white teeth like a blade. She kept her gaze fixed on Varro, eyeing up his chiselled features and well-conditioned figure, as she took a couple of steps backwards and reclined upon her sofa again. The agent took in her black, soft leather slippers which, open-toed, revealed red-painted nails. A bracelet, coiled around her tawny forearm, resembled an asp. The head of the snake was open-mouthed and contained a sapphire.

  Varro also couldn’t help but observe two finely crafted statues, carved from Luna marble, flanking Caesar’s daughter.

  “I take it you recognise Bacchus. From what I have heard, you were a devotee of the god, when you were younger.”

  “I’m not sure any god would be entirely pleased to have me as a devotee – and I wouldn’t wish to be a worshipper of any god who had the poor taste to welcome me into its cult.”

  Julia laughed. The unaffected, sparkling sound filled the grove, jangling like Herminia’s jewellery.

  “I remember overhearing your wife, or she was your former wife then, calling you witty, several years ago. She was telling the truth. Perhaps there is at least one honest woman in the world. The other statue is, of course, Aphrodite. You may have seen coins attesting to my affinity with the deity. Although you may not zealously follow any god, I am hoping that goddesses still possess the ability to captivate you,” Julia remarked. Again, she smiled – either playfully or amorously.

  “Any goddess would hopefully divine I am happily married too.”

  “I think I might have to start praying to the gods, that you have not grown old before your time, Rufus. I have read some of your poetry. You used to be bored. But now you may be boring. You were once hailed as a new Catullus. But you are doing a better impression of Horace, hiding yourself away and living an inextricably tedious existence in the countryside. The countryside is overrated. I couldn’t bear living a life of so-called domestic bliss. The birdsong will be drowned out by the sound of a bleating spouse. The smell of dung will overpower the scent of wildflowers. The only man I’d be able to fuck is a slave or, worse, my husband – as there wouldn’t be anyone else’s husband around to have fun with,” Julia argued, before sipping some wine and running her tongue over her top lip. “But, alas, you have not come here to have fun, Rufus Varro. You wish to interview me about the evening of Marcus Corvinus’ murder. I should of course be offended that I am not being considered a suspect. Do I not possess the necessary strength and courage to kill a man, if my life depended on it? Or if my honour, or dishonour, depended on it? My father has been responsible for tens of thousands of deaths, can his daughter not be responsible for just one? But I should be answering your questions, rather than asking you to answer mine,” Julia added, adjusting her dress slightly, so that Varro could see more of her bosom and thighs. Was she hoping to shock, embarrass or distract the agent?

  “Could you tell me about the night of the murder?”

  “We had an enjoyable party – and then Marcus was killed.” Caesar’s daughter stated. For once the smile fell from her face. The make-up around her eyes cracked a little. But her ma
sk, or true semblance, soon returned. “Most of my memories were washed away by the wine I drank, but I do not recall any air of tension during the night. Marcus may have teased Felix, but we all like teasing and being teased, do we not?”

  Mischief sparkled in her eyes, like petals of light strewn across water. Julia looked like she as on the cusp of laughing, or pouncing.

  “You were the last to leave, were you not?”

  “Yes. Marcus was still relaxing in his pool. I left, accompanied my bodyguards, through the front door. Perhaps if I had left through the door in the garden, I might have spotted the assassin, or scared them off. To save you the embarrassment of asking whether Marcus and I were more than friends, I will tell you. We were lovers. But by being lovers, we were less than friends. Our relationship was casual, at best. I cannot rightly remember who seduced who. He was a dish I had to sample. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity with Marcus. His reputation, like yours, preceded him. I saw women fall into his lap, or he fell into theirs. He was as handsome as Paris, and as cunning as Odysseus. You would have admired his seduction techniques, far more than you would have admired his verses. He could leer at a young girl, or her mother, and it almost seemed like the straps of the dress they were wearing would unfasten themselves. My curiosity was satisfied, but little else. The most important love affair in Marcus’ life was the one he conducted with himself. The most alluring gown could never compete with the sight of himself in a mirror. He duly craved to be the centre of attention during the party - and succeeded. Even though I was present and competed for the honour.”