Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Lucilla returned his gaze. His build was athletic and the lines of his figure and face were as clean and striking as any sculpture she owned. His emerald eyes could be playful or piercing. The breeze teased itself through his black, curly hair.

  “I hope I am not keeping you from your work today,” Lucilla said, reclining in a wicker chair in the shade of a cherry tree.

  “You have no need to apologise. Rather I should be thanking you. Work can wait. I warrant my hands might become calloused soon, if I keep spending my time grasping a stylus and writing reports. I have spent a memorable evening with you, Lucilla. It would be rude and stupid of me not to want to spend the day with you also.”

  “You may regret saying that. I will be leaving soon to visit my dressmaker, should you wish to join me. But I wouldn’t envy anyone who spent their morning shopping for clothes with a woman, especially when she has plenty of money in her purse and doesn’t quite know what she wants.”

  “I will risk it. As a diplomat I have had plenty of experience in being patient and nodding my head in agreement. The only condition I have in accompanying you is that I buy you something.”

  “I hope you are a tougher negotiator when the interests of Rome are at stake. What do you think I will look good in?”

  “Well as a diplomat I should assert that you will look good in everything. But especially I’d like to see you in my bed.”

  Lucilla grinned and hoped that the shade concealed her blushes. There was a part of her that wanted to make love again.

  “That can of course be arranged. But later. After visiting my dressmaker, I am due to call upon Tiro. He has some pieces, from Cicero’s collection of marble garden statues, he wishes to sell before he departs from Rome to live permanently at his villa in Puteoli.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see Tiro. He’s a true gentleman. You may regret inviting me along however, as I may be tempted to bid for some of the pieces myself.”

  “Hopefully I will be able to distract you in the new outfit you would have bought for me.”

  “I am hoping to be distracted too.”

  “I must then attend a meeting with my estate manager, to go over my accounts for the month. You might get to find out how much I am worth.”

  “I already know how much you’re worth - and it’s even more than your weight in gold.”

  “I hope you are not going to flatter me like this during our day together, or else I will need a litter to carry me, lest I swoon. We have quite a bit of ground to cover today. I also need to pay a visit to Antonia Tillius. She has not been well of late. I want to make sure she is taking her rest and eating well. I also need to ensure that she is listening to her doctor more than Toranius, the soothsayer. It’s always difficult to predict favourable futures for those who put their faith in silver-tongued augurs and astrologists.”

  “The longer the day with you, the better,” Pulcher said, in earnest. Smiling again.

  Lucilla briefly bathed in his handsome, burnished features. And her smile reflected the light back. The woman had been hurt in the past, by Varro, and was wary of giving her heart again. But the past was the past. It struck Lucilla that she couldn’t remember the last time she had been this happy. She was looking forward to spending the day with the nobleman. She might even be able to spend the rest of her life with him.

  Agrippa recounted the events of Herennius’ party to Varro. The guests arrived early in the evening. Halfway through the night there was a break in the courses of the dinner and the poet gave his reading.

  “Can you remember the name of the poet?”

  “I’ve forgotten it, unfortunately. But the reason I cannot recall it is because he’s a no one. You will need to interview the youth, however. One of the slaves mentioned that, after the poet left, he spotted someone who had a similar build - and was wearing what could have been the same black cloak - on the street opposite the house… There was a discordant, or strained, atmosphere throughout the evening, according to Lucilla,” Agrippa posited.

  “You have spoken with her?” Varro asked, slightly vexed that Agrippa had kept things from him. It’s almost a natural state of affairs for a spy to become paranoid. He felt he could no longer wholly trust the consul, who had become a friend over the past year. But it cut even deeper to think that he could no longer wholly trust Lucilla. That he had lost her.

  “Yes, she was most helpful.”

  Agrippa had been impressed by the woman’s memory and perceptiveness. He even flirted with the idea of trying to recruit her as an asset. The consul knew a little of her history. Varro once confessed how the woman had lost a child in the womb when they were married. He blamed the tragedy for being the beginning of the end to their marriage. He shortly afterwards confessed however, whether immersed in wine truth or not, that he was to blame for ruining their marriage. Agrippa concluded how the best of Varro had won the esteemed lady, but the worst of him had lost her.

  “It’s nice that she told someone about her night with Herennius and Pulcher. She may even deign to get around to telling me one day too,” Varro waspishly said, unable to suppress his grievance.

  “There was little warmth and gratitude between Lentulus and his son-in-law. Herennius spent most of the evening gorging on food and getting drunk with Sestius. They dictated the conversation by sharing old war stories and boasting about their wealth… Towards the end of the evening Lucilla heard raised words between Herennius and Lentulus out in the garden. Our advocate marched rather than walked out of the house. His blood was up. There is no reason why the advocate couldn’t have returned to the house and put an end to their argument by putting a knife in his son-in-law’s chest… Lucilla mentioned that Corinna seemed ill at ease for most of the night, cowed by her husband. He curtly ordered her about, like a slave, and silenced her when she attempted to join in the conversation… Lucilla noticed a possible intimacy between Corinna and the poet, if you bait your hook accordingly when you go fishing and question them both.”

  “And how did Lucilla report upon Pulcher’s behaviour throughout the evening? Do we even know why Maecenas’ agent was in attendance?”

  “She said that he tried to placate people and change the subject when the atmosphere grew too heated. Although the arch diplomat failed in his brief it seems. As to the question of whether Lucilla knew why Pulcher was there I believe she remains in the dark. I can enlighten you, however. He had been instructed by Maecenas, on the orders of Caesar, to meet with Herennius. His assignment was, or is, to acquire the gift Mark Antony and Fulvia gave the soldier as a reward for murdering Cicero. As you know Antony issued a handsome reward to Popilius Laenas, who led the small contingent of soldiers which tracked down Cicero. But what you may not know is that Fulvia made a gift of a dagger to the man who carried out the deed. It was perhaps the only time I ever saw the woman happy, when she talked about the death of Cicero. She probably hated Cicero with a greater passion than which she loved Antony. When Popilius brought the head of Cicero back to her she arranged to have it nailed onto the speaker’s platform in the Forum. She gleefully then spat in its face and repeatedly stabbed the tongue, which had been used to defame both her and her husband, with a hairpin. Fulvia was cruel, even for a woman. I warrant that even Antony was cowed by her at times. First, he was led by Fulvia. And then by Cleopatra. He was a great leader of men, but a follower of women… But as to the dagger. It is made of gold, with a ruby encrusted pommel. Fulvia reportedly chose rubies to symbolise Cicero’s blood. Now it appears that Pulcher left Herennius’ house empty-handed. Yet somebody entered the house that night and stole the knife, as well as a few other choice valuables. Or it could well be the case that the dagger still resides at the property - and my attendant missed it during his search. Your first port of call should be to visit the house and double-check the dagger’s not there. After hearing of Herennius’ death - and Maecenas’ inability to secure the trophy - Caesar sent me a message, instructing me to locate the knife and find Herennius’ killer. In that
order. But if we find one, we should find the other. Although the death of Sestius has made things murkier. Bloodier… You should pay a visit to each of the guests at the party. You are a keen reader of people, as well as poetry, Rufus. One of them must surely know more than they have so far admitted. I have a letter from Caesar, decreeing that any and everyone should assist you with your investigation. Fear may shake some fruit free from the tree. If you have any problems with people cooperating, let me know.”

  “Should I question Lucilla too?”

  “Question, but do not interrogate. I imagine you must be worried about her dalliance with Pulcher, Rufus. But Lucilla will eventually see through his act, or Licinius will show his true colours and prove inconstant. Don’t try and force the issue. If there’s one thing that being the second most powerful man in Rome has taught me, it’s that you can’t control everything. The heart has a mind of its own.”

  6.

  The blue skies turned grey. Clouds poured across the horizon, like smoke. Varro walked from Agrippa’s home towards Herennius’ house. The scene of the crime. The streets were teeming with all manner of people: slaves and senators, jewellers and jugglers, actors and aediles, dyers and drunks. Some dawdled but most scurried, like ants. Or vermin, Varro darkly - and admittedly unkindly - thought. Rome was a river, he mused - with foaming and, occasionally, tranquil eddies. No one knew where the river sprung from and no one knew where it flowed to.

  “Rufus, my dear friend,” Novius, the bookseller, exclaimed as he caught sight of one of his best customers. It’s fate, or more likely good luck, that I have ran into you. My copyist has finished the edition of The Last Days of Socrates you wanted. You will be free to collect it at any time, or I can have my assistant run it round to you.”

  Novius stood before him, with his stoop and squint on full display, his knees gnarled and knobbly beneath his worn tunic. Varro liked the amiable and knowledgeable bookseller. He had always tried to champion his poetry - and always noted down the name of any young woman who came in to buy one of collections of verse.

  “It’s nice to see you Novius. I trust you are well. I will pick the book up over the coming days,” Varro replied, figuring that he would be passing by the shop during the course of his enquiries. He liked to visit the store every now and then, just in case he spotted something new. He looked forward to reading the book. He remembered his father recommending it to him many years ago.

  “I also had a customer come in and buy a couple of your books recently. It wasn’t a fetching young lady, alas. But rather a well-read and most charming gentleman, one Licinius Pulcher.”

  Varro briefly made a face and bit his bottom lip but thankfully the bookseller failed to notice, or his eyesight had grown even poorer. The poet was far from grateful for the additional sales, for once. Why was Pulcher buying his poetry? Was he intending to criticise and ridicule his verse in front of Lucilla? Was the agent’s assignment to get close to him, rather than her? As per usual the spy had more questions than answers.

  “Well, if nothing else, it seems he has superior taste. As ever, thank you for promoting my work Novius.”

  “And can we expect any new works soon? It has been some time. People sometimes ask if you will be releasing any new verses.”

  “I’ve just begun working on something new, actually. ‘Tis a tale of murder, seduction, greed and a rare, bejewelled dagger.”

  “I’m intrigued. Have you figured out how it will end yet?”

  “No, unfortunately I have no idea about how things will turn out at the moment. From experience, things seldom turn out well though,” Varro half-joked, straining his facial muscles to force a smile.

  Manius stared into space, his features frozen. Pained. He looked like he had just heard the news that a good friend had died. A bee buzzed around his head, but he didn’t flinch or notice it at all. Usually her husband was alert and attentive. But he had been distracted for most of the morning, Camilla judged. Yet she was at least comforted by the thought that she knew why her husband appeared anxious. He was due to take on another client. Whilst Manius still occasionally worked for Varro as a bodyguard he had recently taken on work as a tutor, teaching swordsmanship to the sons of aristocrats, wealthy merchants and politicians.

  Business was good. He had several clients. She was proud of him. The past year had been even better than she dreamed it would be, she considered. Because it had been real. There was a moment when her future had been as black as the river Styx. Her father had forbidden any talk of marriage to the lowly bodyguard and foreigner. He even kept her housebound, so she could no longer see him. Yet her father underwent a change of heart and Manius experienced a change in his fortunes when he came into some money. They married and bought a house on the Caelian Hill. Camilla spent her days cooking, sewing and reading. Varro kindly allowed the couple use of his villa in the countryside. Her maid, Decima, had become her best friend. She had little interest in parties or making a name for herself, or her husband, in Roman society. The household was happy and in good health, including - or especially - Viola.

  She loved him, more and more each day. Camilla believed that her husband would never prove unfaithful or lie to her. His heart was nobler, for having endured so much misfortune. As a boy, Manius had watched his father die when a group of Roman soldiers attacked and burned his village. Along with his mother, he was sold into slavery in Gaul. His mother died soon after. “She just wasted away, like ice melting on a mountaintop in Spring,” he had once confessed to Camilla, tears welling in his eyes. It was rare for the Briton to share much of his past however, yet his silence spoke volumes. After his mother passed away Manius was sent off to train as a gladiator. His body became work-hardened, like a piece of metal, and he began to make a name for himself as a young gladiator. The crowds called him, somewhat prosaically, “The Briton”. He remained undefeated, but not untouched during his time in the arena. When she first saw Manius naked, Camilla did well not to recoil from the scars, which marked his torso like features on a map. The Briton had enough blood on his hands for two lifetimes, from gladiatorial contests and tavern brawls.

  Appius Varro had saved him, taking him in as a young man. He bought his freedom and cut short his career as a gladiator (before his career as a gladiator cut short his life). Rufus Varro taught his new companion how to read and write and Manius taught him swordsmanship in return. The Briton proved the more diligent student, by some margin.

  Manius’ life had been good, serving as Varro’s bodyguard. But it became even better, after meeting Camilla.

  Varro was invited into the atrium and met by the household’s head slave, Fabullus. He explained that the lady of the house was out shopping for the day. Like many slaves in Rome, Fabullus was sallow-faced and lank-haired with an expression of submissiveness and apprehension on his countenance - as though at any moment Varro might admonish or strike him. When the nobleman informed the slave how he was investigating the murder of his master, under the authority of Caesar himself, Fabullus’ anxiety increased. His eyes blinked more than a coquette’s. Varro attempted to put the man at ease, however. He just wanted to ask some questions and look around the house.

  Varro first asked what had been stolen. Fabullus confirmed that the gold dagger, which usually hung, pride of place, in the triclinium was missing. A few other pieces of jewellery - and some gold coins - had also been taken. The intruder had not ventured up to the first floor during the robbery. The staff and lady of the house had all been asleep during the incident too, although Fabullus confirmed that one of the slaves, Dio, had noticed a figure wearing a dark cloak standing across from the front of the property on the night of the murder. “He seemed to be waiting for something.” Fabullus also told Varro about a piece of black wool which had been found by the front gate in the morning. To his mind, it hadn’t been there when he had shown the guests out earlier in the evening.

  “Thank you, this is all helpful,” Varro remarked, as he interviewed the slave on a bench in the atri
um. “But tell me, were you party to the heated discussion your master and his father-in-law had after dinner? I was told that there were raised voices. You seem a conscientious servant Fabullus. One who would remain within earshot of his master, in case you were summoned.”

  “I do not want to speak ill of the dead,” the slave said, sheepishly, unable to look Varro in the eye.

  “On the contrary, the dead are the best people to speak ill of. They cannot take you to court or answer you back, to prove you wrong. And the more I get to know your old master, the more I am inclined to speak ill of him. Whatever you tell me I will keep in the strictest confidence. Rather than protect the reputation of the dead, you owe a duty to the living. As you know, Sestius has also been killed. I am here to ensure that no one else is murdered. So, did you overhear what was said?” the investigator asked, firmly and fairly.

  “Yes. He claimed that my master owed him money. He said that his son-in-law needed to pay the second instalment for what he owed for his daughter. That he was reneging on their arrangement. My master replied that possession was nine tenths of the law and his daughter was now his property. He would pay the remaining money once his daughter had fulfilled her wifely duty to bear him a child. A son. My master would withhold the second payment until then.”

  “And how then did Lentulus react?”

  “He grew angrier.”

  “Did he threaten Herennius?”

  “Yes. He said my master would pay, one way or another. He then left with his wife to go home.”

  Varro considered how Lentulus’ words were far from a confession, but the finger of suspicion was pointing towards the advocate. He had sufficient motive it seemed to kill Herennius. It was also conceivable that, after killing his son-in-law, he then might murder Sestius to make sure that Herennius’ estate passed to his daughter. Any financial difficulties he was suffering would be over - and his daughter would be rid of an undesirable husband.”