Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  “No doubt your master might be tempted not to see me, when you pass on my name. I can’t honestly blame him for that, as sometimes I grow tired of my own company. But in shunning me the author of this letter may also feel shunned, which would prove un-wise.”

  The slave squinted, taking in the signature and contents of the document, before his eyes were stapled wide in alarm. His hand trembled as he handed the letter back to its bearer. The slave’s supercilious air quickly turned into a model of obsequiousness. He bowed and invited Varro in. The caller was ushered into a reception room and offered refreshments, whilst being asked to briefly wait while the servant convened with his master.

  The slave soon returned, in a mood of barely suppressed anxiety, and asked Varro to follow him. Varro was hastily led through the house, to the sound of the slave’s sandals slapping against the polished marble floors. Varro noted a large library, which would have rivalled Cicero’s. Freshly painted artworks were housed in golden frames. Bronze and marble statues - of Janus, Justitia, Victoria and Lucifer - populated the atrium. Not a flower, or blade of grass, was bent out of shape. A small army of slaves were deployed around the house, to clean and maintain the property. Varro thought to himself how Nerva was likely to be one of those people who liked to be seen to be rich. Perception was reality. Most of the house and its contents had been purchased with “borrowed money”, Agrippa had explained. Or Nerva and his wife could be described as being “new money”. New money was often the worse kind of money. Certainly, it was the most vulgar kind of money, the aristocrat judged.

  Lentulus Nerva sat in his study. He pursed his thin lips, in response to the inconvenience of the visit, but he had also expected a call from an official, sooner or later. The distinguished advocate would let Caesar’s investigator come to him. A hierarchy, authority, needed to be established. He would project an air of calm and confidence. And his guest would be an opponent, whether he knew it or not. Nerva straightened his toga and covered up certain correspondence on his lavish, silver inlaid desk. He instructed a slave to open the shutters behind him, so that the sun would shine in his appointment’s eyes, causing him no little discomfort and displeasure. Every advantage helped, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Nerva briefly closed his eyes and summoned from his mind every fact, or rumour, about Rufus Varro.

  Know your enemy.

  Varro entered the chamber. With a nod of his head Nerva dismissed the slave who had shown his guest in. The lawyer’s expression, in and out of court, could oscillate between being accusatory or suspicious. He briefly smiled at his guest - although if Varro would have blinked, he might have missed it. Nerva wanted to communicate to Caesar’s lap-dog that he was being unnecessarily bothered. Yet he would assist the official in his enquiries, if the mood took him to do so. A narrow, triangular nose - like a shark’s dorsal fin - dominated the advocate’s coffin-shaped head. Although unrelated to the once libertore, it had been commentated upon how Lentulus Nerva resembled Cassius Longinus. He was clean-shaven and smartly attired. His gaze was probing - but ready and willing to be darkly playful at any moment. Varro sensed that the advocate was not just assessing him - but judging him. Even condemning him. His figure was lean, but Varro considered he would have been strong enough to plunge the knife through Herennius’ chest, especially if spurred on by rage. Although he suspected that Nerva would have been cold, clinical, with any attack.

  The room, like the rest of the house, was newly and expensively furnished. A bust of Hortensius sat on the desk. Nerva would publicly - and modestly - state how he was but an apprentice compared to the celebrated orator and advocate. But privately he believed he was, at least, the great man’s equal.

  “Please, sit down,” Nerva remarked, in a tone more akin to an instruction than invitation. “Would you like some wine?”

  Nerva had briefed his slave not to dilute his guest’s wine too much should he require a cup. Hopefully the wine would addle his wits or cause him to feel tired and depart.

  “No, thank you,” Varro replied. Before taking a seat, he glanced at the shelves of scrolls peering out like dozens of black eyes. He noticed how, rather than works of poetry or philosophy, the labelled scrolls contained copies of the advocate’s own speeches.

  “I knew your father. He was far too incorruptible to ever have use of my services. He was a good Roman. Whether or not I judge him to be a good father will depend upon how this conversation goes. I am of course happy to assist Caesar in any way he sees fit. But, as you can appreciate, my time is valuable, and I may have to cut short our appointment and have us reconvene at a later date. I have innocent men to condemn and guilty ones to liberate. Only joking, of course,” Nerva remarked, with little humour.

  “I will try not to impinge upon your day too much.”

  “Thank you. I will save both of us some time by being candid. Although I may have wished my wretched son-in-law dead, I did not kill him. You may have already discovered, during your investigation, that Herennius and I had a heated argument on the night of his death. We raised our voices, whilst raising certain issues. But have you never raised your voice to someone, Rufus Varro?”

  “Given the surfeit of hangovers I suffer from, I try not to raise my voice too much. But it would be strange if someone didn’t have a disagreement during a family gathering. Can you recall what you argued about?”

  “Unfortunately not, which would signify that the argument was of little importance.”

  “I have received testimony that you threatened your son-in-law during your exchange.”

  Varro probed, but the lawyer parried.

  “I can neither confirm nor refute such testimony. Deeds, not words, matter in life - and the law. I could have even threatened to murder my host. But it means nothing. If we were all punished for the crimes we threaten to commit then half of Rome, particularly warring spouses, would be incarcerated. Did you know or ever meet my son-in-law perchance?”

  “No,” Varro replied, neutrally. He observed, with an inner smile, how Nerva often groomed himself while he spoke. He would scratch away flecks of dirt from his toga, smooth down his oiled hair and clean his fingernails. The advocate believed in being immaculate and precise - in his actions and words.

  “May the gods continue to grant you such good fortune. He was a vile caitiff. Even Circe kept tamer and more refined beasts in her pen. I will be open with you - and Caesar. I am pleased my son-in-law is dead, and my daughter is free of her husband - tormentor. I had cause to kill him myself - and not for any trivial reason, like money. Herennius regularly beat my daughter, even when she was pregnant - and due to one such beating she lost her unborn child, as well as nearly losing her own life,” the advocate bluntly remarked. Anger towards Herennius creased his features, rather than pity for his daughter.

  Varro felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman, shooting up his side like a man suffering a heart attack, as he recalled the time when Lucilla lost their child and nearly died. His sympathy didn’t quite extend to Nerva - and he didn’t quite believe that money was a trivial matter for the lawyer.

  “I can refer you to her doctor to corroborate my testimony,” he added.

  “That won’t be necessary. I am aware of your son-in-law’s temper and character, or rather lack of character. I will not grieve for him either, but that will not prevent me from finding his killer. From discovering the truth.”

  “The truth? I do not know whether to laugh or weep at your naivete. The truth is a facade. Poets and philosophers seek the truth. Investigators and advocates seek outcomes. The truth can be moulded like clay, worn like the robes of a king or the costume of a clown. I have known the truth to be bought and sold more times than an antique bulla, or a whore’s favour. Even if, by the gods, you ever discovered the truth it might prove the case that no one would recognise it. People are used to lies, Rufus Varro. The truth, about anything, would spoil their day, like some stale wine rotting their stomach. The mob only really cares about the appearance of things. The surface
of things. You should do yourself a favour and become a lotus-eater. Even the gods forget, so it’s perfectly pardonable for mortals to do so too. Forget about finding out the truth - or pursuing its bastard offspring of justice. No one else is bothered about honouring my son-in-law. Why should you? Do you believe that you should be diligent in your investigation, in the name of Rome? Trust me, Rome would rather see an innocent man crucified than a guilty one escape punishment, such is its bloodlust. The heinous crime is not even a memory for most people. The surface is clear, clean. But break through the surface and things become a blur – and one is in danger of being pulled under by the tide. Yet perhaps I am being too cynical and glib - and lying to you. There is one truth which I cling to. That I love my daughter. It is a father’s duty to protect his child. But I failed in my duty. Yet I am also a child of the law - and Roman law decrees that a husband is his wife’s master. I felt as helpless as a child, as I watched my precious, sweet-natured girl be abused during her marriage to that brute,” Nerva exclaimed, holding his head and hands up to the gods in despair, before burying his head in his hands on the desk. Varro had witnessed the advocate perform the same gesture during summations at trial. Varro also observed how the seasoned orator took frequent sips of his wine, whilst he spoke. Not because of any enjoyment he derived from the vintage, but because he didn’t want his mouth to dry-out and voice to dry-up.

  Varro was tempted to ask if ever Nerva thought about buying his daughter back to keep her safe, after mercilessly selling her like a slave to pay for his marble flooring.

  “I would like to take you back to the evening of your son-in-law’s death. How was his mood?”

  “Unpleasant, as usual. He was inebriated, as usual. And when he got drunk, he grew garrulous. He liked the sound of his own voice,” the advocate asserted, without irony. “Along with his equally unpleasant and drunk business partner, Sestius, we had to listen to old war stories. I was rudely cut off, at more than one juncture, when someone asked me about my previous trials. I wish I could say that our host was only discourteous to me. Perhaps everyone around the dinner table, or in the staff quarters, wanted to kill him that night. I imagine it is proving difficult to narrow down your list of suspects. I have seldom encountered a murder where so many of the great unwashed - and the great and the good - cared so little for the victim. That should perhaps tell you to let sleeping dogs lie. I heard about the demise of Sestius too. News travels fast in Rome, especially bad news. Or good news. How will the slave trade cope with the loss of so much cruelty and ineptitude? Perhaps you wish to now posit how Sestius was the victim’s benefactor and as a consequence of his death my daughter will inherit her late husband’s estate. You might then insinuate, or be plainer in your language, that such a chain of events makes her a suspect. An investigator should always ask the question, who benefits? But I can assure you Rufus Varro that my daughter did not murder my son-in-law. Nor did she murder his business partner. I would not look on you too kindly, if you considered her a suspect and tarnished her good name.”

  There was more than a hint of warning in the advocate’s countenance. The mask of soup-thin cordiality slipped. His eyes somehow seemed blacker, caustic. The skin tightened across his face, like someone was pulling his hair back. Varro considered at that moment how Nerva seemed wholly capable of murder, whether from the cause of protecting his daughter or preserving his own interests. Nerva wagged a bony, talon-like, finger at the investigator, as a warning. Varro had seen him unsheathe the same finger before, in court - either admonishing a witness for telling a lie or stabbing the air to hammer a point home and condemn a man. Or the advocate would flick the finger up when recounting a list of reasons why a jury should judge a man guilty or innocent.

  “I am afraid I must consider everyone a suspect at present.”

  “Except your former wife. Surely, she, like Caesar’s wife, must be above suspicion?”

  “If I had more time, I could reveal to you the details of our divorce settlement. You might then appreciate what my former wife is capable of. The poet, who gave a reading that evening, is even a suspect. A slave mentioned that they saw a figure, similar in build to the young writer, in the shadows, across the street, later that night. Can you tell me if you witnessed any such figure when you left? Also, what are your thoughts concerning the poet? I understand that he is a friend of your daughter and she invited him to the dinner party.”

  “I have very few thoughts concerning poets. I have no idea how close my daughter is to him. I did not observe anyone loitering across the street either when I departed. But that is not to say there wasn’t someone present. Allow me to impart some advice. I have probably investigated and prosecuted more murders than you have had affairs with married women. Yes, that many. It is tempting to try and construct an elaborate story, or shadowy conspiracy, to explain a crime. But the real world is far more mundane - yet, admittedly, not without wickedness. The likely explanation of Herennius’s death is that a robber invaded his house, slew him and stole what valuables were to hand. Or I have a suspicion Herennius’ past came back to haunt him - and a maltreated slave finally took his revenge. I hope you are sufficiently sensible to believe in a dull, but credible, story. Now you may wish to question my wife and daughter at some point, but they will not be able to shed any additional light on your investigation. They will say the same as me.”

  Varro was tempted to reply that their story might be exactly the same, as if they were reading from a script which had been given to them.

  Before Varro spoke, he noted a black cloak, draped over a chair in the corner of the room. He briefly scrutinised the garment, to check whether it had been torn, but he couldn’t rightly tell, either way.

  “You will appreciate that I will still need to speak to your daughter at some point,” Varro said, once she had ceased grieving through the act of shopping, he thought.

  “Yes, I understand,” Nerva conceded, through all but gritted teeth.

  “Instead of awkwardly broaching the subject with your daughter, perhaps you could help me? I do not have to be a seer to know that Corinna had an unhappy marriage, but can you tell me if she ever found solace in the arms of another man?”

  “My daughter possesses more virtues that you and I will ever have, Rufus Varro. To my knowledge she was faithful,” he calmly replied. Varro noticed a growing, seething, tension in his voice, however. The advocate was not accustomed to being questioned, investigated, himself. It impinged upon his dignity and authority. He bristled, like a sophist who had just been corrected by a clever, upstart student. “Could you say the same for your wife, while you were married? I do not say this to rile you, but Lucilla and Licinius Pulcher did seem to make a fitting couple. Licinius seems as interested as you are in who murdered Herennius. He came to speak to me too, on behalf of Maecenas no doubt. Now there’s a man who can shape the truth like a god. Black can become white and white can become black, should he decree it. Licinius appeared to be more interested in locating my son-in-law’s dagger, than he was in finding the fool’s gold of the truth. Please do not take offense, but if I had to place a wager on you both then I would back Licinius to find what he is looking for, before you. And not just because he has the love of a good woman behind him. Ironically, the more you attempt to uncover the truth, the more the truth may remain buried. The culprit will catch wind of your investigation and abscond. He will choose not to sell the dagger, for fear of being apprehended. My counsel would be to cease your enquiries. Make your report to Caesar. Fill it with endeavour and earnestness. But then go back to chasing married women. The sport will provide you with far more meaning and pleasure than any search for the truth.”

  Varro began to grow a little irritated with his suspect offering him advice, on how best to conduct his investigation - partly because there was a certain degree of wisdom in his words.

  “I am grateful for your words,” the investigator remarked, not without a hint of sarcasm. But just a hint. Yet Varro would have conceded that th
e lawyer had knocked him off his stride somewhat, during the interview. Nerva had driven the conversation and second-guessed his lines of enquiry. Varro regretted not having any notes to refer to. He was sure he had more questions to ask; he just didn’t know what they were. Already he was turning into a lotus-eater.

  “I can only offer you so much advice and expertise however, else I might have to start charging for my time. I am afraid I must ask you to leave now, as duty calls once more. Time is money to a humble lawyer. Thankfully Rome is a wonderful font of crime and corruption. Much like the whores in the Subura, which you may or may not be familiar with, I am never short of work. Should you have any questions in the future I would be happy to answer them, but I must ask that you make an appointment to see me through my secretary first. Please forgive me if I allow you to show yourself out,” Lentulus Nerva issued, not without a hint of politeness. But just a hint. Either the advocate forced the briefest of smiles, or the corner of his mouth twitched. He then picked up his stylus, bowed his head and turned to a document on his desk to further indicate to Varro that their meeting was over.

  The investigator stood with his mouth open for a moment or two, slightly dumb struck. He felt akin to an actor who had forgotten his lines - and there was no one to prompt him from the wings. Varro was lost for words. He took his leave, with his tail between his legs somewhat. He later thought how Nerva had acted with the confidence an innocent man, or a guilty one who knew he would never be punished. As well as murdering his son-in-law he had it in him to kill Sestius too. Although, surely, he would have hired assassins for the task? Nerva wouldn’t want to get any blood beneath his manicured fingernails. Varro didn’t quite know whether to deem the lawyer immoral or amoral. People probably wondered the same about him, he imagined, over the years.