Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Agrippa thanked his rival and then dismissed him, like a mid-ranking member of his staff. He was disrespectful. But not too disrespectful. He would temporarily ally himself with Maecenas, for the sake of Varro, but that did not mean he would wholly trust him.

  Much to Agrippa’s relief his wife was asleep when he entered his bedchamber. He thought of Pulcher and pictured the villa his men would attack the next day. It was time to make war, not love, the soldier determined.

  16.

  Varro slept fitfully throughout the night. His linen sheets were damp with sweat. His head hurt, like it was trapped in a vice, from the copious amount of wine he had drunk. He repeatedly downed cups of water, to quench his thirst and avoid dehydration, and filled up more than one piss pot during the night. It was not the first time he had spent an evening intermittently sleeping, drinking and relieving himself. Fronto had argued that Varro was lucky, he only did so after a session in the tavern. When he reached old age, he would do so on a nightly basis, regardless of how much wine he consumed.

  The stinging heat filled the room, like invisible smoke. Varro had locked his shutters, out of an irrational or not fear that an assassin could climb through his window and slit his throat. For so many years he had, from an instinctive or philosophical viewpoint, devalued life. He had been indifferent to life and death – attesting to the fact through his writing:

  Life is a necessary evil, a disease. Sleep provides a balm and death gifts us the cure… Would that the gods lift-up the clouds and stamp on us, like insects. Put us out of our misery.

  But how cruel were the gods, or how cruel was life? Varro had found Lucilla - something to live for. And now death was stalking him like a jilted lover.

  The agent was also unable to sleep from the thoughts and questions pricking his mind, like fat sizzling in a pan. Where was Plancus? Was he hiding out in a neighbouring house or halfway to Alesia or Jerusalem by now? What was Silo’s alibi, and how could he unpick it? How could he trap Trebonius into revealing his involvement? If he was involved. And then there was Maecenas…

  In order to take his mind off the deluge of questions sluicing through his thoughts Varro tried to think about his latest play. The tragedy wasn’t even finished but already he was being approached by actors and actresses, wanting to win a part in the production. A smile finally formed on Varro’s pensive features as he remembered his encounter with an actress the previous night, as he was leaving the party. He was nearly at the door, having worked his way through a crowd of sycophants and sirens, like a forester hacking a path through a dense wood.

  “Are you Rufus Varro, the playwright?” the young woman asked, after shuffling quickly, in a tight-fitting dress, to intercept the famed writer. Her voice was as soft and pliable as the silk belt coiled around her lissom waist. Helvia was a dancer turned actress. Tendrils of auburn hair hung down, framing a comely, oval face. A face which was home to a porcelain brow, pronounced cheekbones and four distinct smiles (seductive, amused, polite and friendly). A beauty spot had also been painted above her upper lip, according to the latest fashion. Helvia was accustomed to being adored. Poets had dedicated verses to her – drooled over her. Helvia considered that love should be bought, as opposed to earned. Although it was unlikely that the actress believed love existed. Desire, yes. But love, no. She had recently become the mistress of Senator Julius Crispus, after the senator’s son had bedded her. Some gossiped that Helvia used the younger man to get to the older, wealthier, one. Crispus had promised that he would divorce his wife and marry Helvia, but the senator wasn’t renowned for keeping his promises.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Varro replied, drily.

  Helvia seemed slightly befuddled by his answer, as though Varro was working from a different script to the actress. His eyes didn’t widen on seeing her. But she soldiered on, keen to deliver her lines.

  “My name is Helvia. I just wanted to tell you how much your last play inspired me. Your words touched my soul,” the practised performer remarked, fingering a pendant around her neck, drawing attention to her perfumed breasts. Her dyed, diaphanous dress left little, or a lot, to the imagination.

  “That’s very kind, thank you,” Varro said. He was going to ask how his words had inspired her, believing that he might be amused by her answer, but he had no desire to prolong their conversation. He was keen to join his friends in the tavern.

  “I do so hope, as do others, that you are working on another play. And I do so hope that you would consider me for a part in your next work. Julia may have mentioned that I am an actress. I am not just a pretty face. I would do anything to learn from you and perform for you on the stage. Anything. My friend and patron, the statesman Julius Crispus, would even be willing to help fund the production should you offer me a part. I am sure that other actresses have offered to sit on your couch and rehearse for you. But when it comes to casting for roles, please think of me too. You write so well for women. You know how a woman thinks,” Helvia said, mixing and matching her four smiles as she spoke.

  Varro thought of about half a dozen satirical comments to reply to the actresses’ final assertion, but he kept his words sheathed.

  “Rumour has it that you know your way around a woman’s body too,” Helvia added, leaning into the attractive playwright. Smiling, seductively. Whispering. Varro smelled the Massic on her breath, observed the ribbon-like wine stain encircling the inside of her mouth.

  “You shouldn’t put too much stock in rumour. Like my plays, my prowess as a lover had been overpraised. I fear it would take me an age just to undress you. You might interpret my slowness as being a tactic to prolong the anticipation - but really, I am just uncommonly clumsy. If I somehow got you on my couch, I’d probably bore you to sleep,” Varro argued, the soul of earnestness.

  Helvia, again, appeared somewhat perplexed. An expression of confoundment vied for sovereignty with a polite smile to win the battle to shape her youthful features. In the end she made a leap of faith and offered up a laugh, Men liked it when she laughed at their jokes.

  “You are trying to tease me. But that’s fine, as I would love to get to tease you in return and show you how talented I am,” she posed, her features dripping with luridness. The actress would be happy to surrender her body to the aristocrat for the night, in order to be master over his heart later and secure the role. They were just trading assets. Helvia wanted audiences to adore her, as well as a string of suitors. The playwright was married, but that would most likely increase her chances of seducing him, she believed. Helvia preferred married men. They were not such a drain on her time. She resolved to send a messenger to his house in the morning and invite him to the love nest that Crispus rented for her.

  Varro mused how, years ago, he couldn’t think of anything more enjoyable than auditioning a harem of aspiring actresses, with a willingness to impress and please. “You can have the pick of the crop - pluck the ripest fruit from the bough,” Macro had recently enthused in a letter. But Varro was too tired, old or, preferably, too much in love to relive past triumphs or transgressions.

  Perhaps Julia is right. I am now boring, as opposed to being bored.

  Varro offered up his own form of a polite smile and excused himself from the beguiling, or bewildered, actress. When she asked for his address and proposed they have dinner the following evening Varro explained that it was likely he had to leave Rome in the morning. Helvia concluded that the aristocrat preferred bedding men to women, such had been her abject failure to captivate the playwright.

  The nobleman did attempt to relive past glories in relation to the levels of wine he consumed through the night, once he reached the tavern. Oblivion is a warm and welcome destination, especially when accompanied by friends. His memory was hazy, but he did recall Vulso coming back, his legs wobbling a little, from visiting Nefertari and Nessa. “Money well spent,” he exclaimed, breathlessly. Macer was tempted to venture upstairs too but thoughts of the expense, or Sabina, made him think twice. The young archer did his
best to keep pace with the rest of the seasoned drinkers around the table, not wishing to lose face with them. He wanted to prove his manhood, earn their respect. As a result, Macer spent the dregs of the evening in a cycle of drinking, vomiting and sleeping. He declared his love for Sabina, on more than one occasion, although no one listened, not least because his companions couldn’t understand his garbled speech. Varro also remembered how they spent a portion of the evening making various toasts: to friendship, the demise of Publius Carbo, competitively priced whores and the death of the landlord’s wife. The most enthusiastic clinking of cups came after Vulso proposed a toast to finding Licinius Pulcher.

  “Let’s kill the bastard and go home,” Manius announced.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Varro enjoined.

  The morning light scorched the back of his eyes. His skull felt bruised. His mouth was dry, like he’d been chewing sand. Varro stretched out in bed and felt bones click which he never knew he had. He washed, dressed and entered the triclinium. Manius was up, hunched over a wax tablet, composing a letter to his wife, as he gulped down another cup of water. The Briton was nursing the kind of hangover he used to experience when Varro was on a roll and wouldn’t leave the dicing tables. It was like old times. Too much like old times.

  The friends nodded to one another and lazily raised their hands, to serve as a greeting. Varro realised that he couldn’t remember how he got home. He had a vague memory of someone pouring some effluence out a window, above his head. The agent argued that he was used to life shitting on him, so it wasn’t worth complaining if a Roman citizen imitated life. No doubt Manius took care of him as he stumbled homeward and, after reaching the house, Fronto made sure he got into bed. The estate manager would have provided him with his ewer of water as well.

  “The events of last night are flitting in and out of shadow. I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself,” Varro said, after yawning.

  “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Manius replied, raising a corner of his mouth, as if amused by one of the events from the previous evening.

  “That bad?”

  “It was fine, partly because I’ve seen worse,” Manius remarked, stroking Viola, who was curled up at his feet. Or rather she was on his feet, hoping to trap him, so they spent the day together.

  Varro clasped a fraternal hand on his friend’s shoulder, leaving all manner of things left unspoken. What also remained unspoken was the news that Varro wanted to give Manius. His new family could make use of his house in Rome, while he based himself in Arretium. Manius would provide some company for Fronto. He could also sell his own house, and save money on rent, by living on his estate. Viola would enjoy the large garden too. Varro had discussed things with Lucilla, as it was her home as much as his.

  “It’s one of your better ideas.”

  Varro and Lucilla intended to tell Manius and Camilla after the baby was born.

  Vulso entered. He was back in uniform. His features were set firm, like a keystone set above an arch. His hand was clasped around his sword, as he marched purposefully into the triclinium. He had woken early. His hangover was already a memory. The soldier’s brow was corrugated in determination, or bellicosity. Varro thought that the praetorian might deliver more bad news. But he was wrong.

  The veteran’s face broke out into a grin when he saw his friends.

  “Good news. We’ve found Plancus,” Vulso announced.

  Varro’s mind suddenly became alert, like a hound taut with anticipation.

  “What has he said?” the agent asked, eagerly.

  “Nothing. He’s dead.”

  It was a beautiful day, one that could almost prove the existence of the gods. The cool, blue sky was fretted with wisps of cloud, and awash with clement sunshine. The storm, the previous evening, had cleared the air. Lucilla wondered if the tempest, which had come in from the sea, had reached Rome and Varro. Some storms die out, some thrive. The dewy fields basked in the light, seemingly turning greener as the day progressed. Flowers turned their heads towards the sun, like a group of senators craning their necks when a pretty woman walks past.

  As pleasant as the view was out the window Lucilla averted her gaze back towards Camilla. The expectant mother was in bed, with extra pillows propping up her head. The room had been aired and cleaned. The bedsheets had been laundered that morning. The silver ewer and cup, filled with water, had been polished to a standard that Vulso would have approved of. Lucilla had also removed various extraneous pieces of furniture from the chamber, so the surgeon and his attendant had more space to move around in. Camilla had just endured her first contractions. The privileged daughter of a wealthy merchant had never experienced pain like it before, and she began to rue her words to her husband, that she wanted as many children as possible. Her features were contorted, at differing times, with anxiety and elation. Her face was glazed in sweat. Tendrils of hair were stuck to her cheeks, like wet long grass sticking to smooth stone.

  Camilla called for Manius to be with her, more than once. She often felt like she was the safest – and luckiest – woman in the world when she was with him. But she felt less safe and lucky right now. Lucilla observed her friend’s distress and held her hand, offering soothing words of support.

  “I have sent for Septimus. He will be here with his attendant soon.”

  “Thank you, for everything, Lucilla. I promise to be here for you, when you have your first child,” Camilla replied. Manius had never told his wife about how Lucilla had lost two unborn babies when she was first married to Varro.

  Lucilla forced a grateful smile, but twinges of regret and dejection soon shaped her expression as she averted her gaze and stared back out the window. She had imagined holding Camilla’s baby, wondering whether she would feel a sense of boundless joy or boundless envy. She masked it well, but her mood could be as changeable as the weather. As serene as Lucilla seemed on the surface, who knew the strengths of the currents pulling beneath? There were moments when she intensely envied her friend – and thought that she deserved to have a child before the younger woman. As content as she felt since remarrying, she still didn’t feel complete. Only a child could fill the hole inside her. Lucilla had yet to tell Rufus how she felt. “Everyone must keep some secrets. Anyone who isn’t hiding something isn’t worth knowing,” he had written, in his first play. Even if they adopted a baby, that would be enough. Be more than enough. She raised the subject a couple of times, but his enthusiasm was conspicuous by its absence. “Whatever makes you happy,” he had said. But she needed him to be happy with any decision too. Lucilla remembered how Rufus used to argue that he didn’t want to bring a child into the world – and that it had more to do with the world than with the child. The world was cruel, vain and, more often than not, dull, he argued. Lucilla sometimes thought that Rufus wasn’t keen on having children as an act of rebellion against his dead father, or class. His name, history, would die with him. The chief reason why Varro wasn’t keen on having children however was that the surgeon who had attended to Lucilla, when she lost her second child, warned him that his wife could die if she fell pregnant again.

  Both Lucilla and Camilla grew distracted from their thoughts when they heard voices from outside. Burrus, a grizzled veteran, was talking to Piso, a new recruit. Burrus decided to tell a few jokes, to help kill the time as the soldiers made a routine patrol of the property.

  “So, I went to get my hair trimmed the other day,” Burrus said, his gravelly voice as rough as his manners. “The hairdresser asked how would I like in cut? In silence, I replied. Ha! That’s not olden, that’s golden lad. Now, listen, what I’m about to tell you isn’t a joke. It’s a true story, that actually happened. It was the night before the Battle of Pharsalus, and a group of Caesar’s soldiers captured a decurion from Pompey’s camp. At first, they beat him and interrogated the peacock. The wine flowed as much as the blood. The officer in charge of Caesar’s men then tossed a noose around the strongest branch of the nearest tree - and pull
ed out some dice. He said to the poor bastard decurion that if he threw a one to a five then he would hang him. “What happens if I throw a six?” Pompey’s man asked, through a mouth of broken teeth. “Then you get to throw again.” Ha! How do you like that one?”

  Burrus slapped his thigh as he let out a throaty cackle, before he snorted and spat out a gob of phlegm.

  Lucilla smirked, easing the tension in her expression. She made a mental note of the joke, so she could tell it to Rufus when he returned. Although her husband often appeared amused - and it was not always clear what he was amused by - he seldom laughed out loud when sober.

  17.

  “The old Jewess, who rented the room out to Plancus in the Subura, found him first thing this morning,” Vulso explained. “He was laid out on his bed, having plunged a knife in his throat. I’m not sure if we should consider the stupid bastard courageous, or cowardly, for taking his own life in such a way. He was a poet though. The fool probably thought he was Cato re-born. Agrippa has asked that you visit the scene. The corpse and the note Plancus left are still in place. The letter confesses how he murdered Corvinus. He waited until Julia left. He says that he loved Corvinus, that it was a crime of passion and all that rot. He killed himself because he felt guilty. He didn’t want to bring any further shame to his family. Anyway, it’s all now a dead issue it seems. It looks like you can both go home.”

  The praetorian was pleased to be the harbinger of such good news, having previously felt ill at ease, having acted as the messenger to summon Varro and Manius to Rome in the first place. He felt a small pang of regret, that he was unlikely to experience the hospitality of Caesar’s daughter again or learn how an investigation could unfold. But he welcomed the fact that his assignment was over. He was a soldier rather than spy. He was used to marching, as opposed to sneaking about. Vulso looked forward to returning to his duties, chipping away at the blocks of stone of his new recruits and shaping them into praetorians worthy enough to wear the uniform. He hadn’t drilled his men for several days.