Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Varro thought to himself, how much of his wealth had his host earned and how much had he stolen? He wondered whether Maecenas would recognise if there was any difference between the two.

  Varro and Manius followed a stream of people towards an even greater sized hall at the rear of the house, where the majority of guests congregated. Two expansive friezes, depicting the battles of Mutina and Actium, decorated the walls of the corridor which funnelled the party goers towards the food and drink. Occasionally, over the years, a visitor would ask their host if he had taken part in the monumental, bloody campaigns. Maecenas would merely cryptically reply,

  “What do you think?”

  Caesar’s close confidant was on the verge of changing the friezes however, as the victories at Mutina and Actium belonged too much to Marcus Agrippa. They were a reminder of his success and close relationship with their master.

  Their munificent host stood beneath an arch, which served as the main entrance to the great hall. Maecenas greeted each guest personally and effusively. He would also make a mental note of anyone who snubbed his invitation. A black mark would be put next to anyone’s name who was absent. And it would be difficult - but by no means impossible - to erase the mark. Everyone was a cherished, special guest. Everyone received a hearty handshake, kiss or smile. His teeth gleamed, having been polished throughout the afternoon, as much as the gilt-inwrought marble archway which surrounded him like a picture frame, or garland. His toga was coral white, bordered with purple silk, embroidered with golden thread. His skin was oiled and perfumed - and Varro noticed that his host was even wearing a little make-up. He had probably taken longer to get ready than many of the women at the party.

  Maecenas greeted the nobleman and poet with open arms, like an old, familiar friend. The act of Varro spurning Maecenas’ offer of patronage for his poetry had been forgotten. It was water under the bridge. What mattered now was the present and their potential future relationship. Varro smiled back. They were all smiles now, although both also briefly narrowed their eyes in scrutiny, to try and divine what was behind the perfectly civil masks they wore.

  “Ah, Rufus. I am so glad you could attend. I am keen to introduce you to Propertius, who is here tonight, along with some other poets I am patron to. He is a great admirer of you and your work. As am I. Together we can hopefully persuade you to come out of retirement. I will make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Maecenas remarked. His voice was smooth, equitable and even playful. The host took in his guest. He would have made a handsome addition to his stable of writers, Maecenas thought. And he would have improved Varro as a writer, as well as instructed him in other ways. Maecenas licked his lips and smirked once more. Perhaps he could still induce him to accept his offer of patronage, as a poet - and agent.

  “The planets must be aligned, as I came here tonight hoping to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse too.”

  “I am intrigued - and it is not often I can say that. It appears that an accord between us may be written in the stars. Please, allow me to greet my guests and I will seek you out later. We can discuss matters in private. In the interim, enjoy my hospitality. Should you desire a particular dish or vintage then do ask one of the serving girls. I am auditioning a new chef this evening. Do let me know what you think of the food. You can be as pointed as a literary critic with your comments.”

  “I am not sure that even I can be that cruel, though I am willing to give it a try,” Varro grinningly replied.

  “Ha! You have a healthy, wicked sense of humour. Of course, should there be a particular serving girl you desire then I can happily furnish you with an introduction. And you must be the famed Manius? Gladiator, bodyguard and teacher of swordsmanship,” Maecenas remarked, congenially turning towards the Briton.

  Manius tried his best to suppress his surprise - and trepidation – at being known to his host. Despite his imposing figure he had always been pleased with his ability to stay in the background. Anonymous. Maecenas smiled - but his oppressive gaze made Manius feel slightly uncomfortable in his skin. The host always prided himself on knowing more about his guests than they knew about him. He preferred to inspire fear rather than love, as a rule. Things worked much more efficiently that way.

  Varro noted that the host’s wife was conspicuous by her absence from the party. It was one of Rome’s worst kept secrets that Caesar had taken Tarentia as a mistress. Although some argued that Maecenas had freely given his wife to the princeps, in order to spy on his master.

  Manius and Varro made a couple of token pleasantries before entering the main hall, which was already over half full. Varro surveyed the marble chamber, like a general surveying the lay of the land on the eve of a battle. As well as smelling of perfume and wine, the air reeked of wealth and privilege. He had attended similar parties before. Too many. Many of the guests would be faithful supporters of Caesar. They would have backed him, with capital or political support, during the civil war. Caesar in turn showed them favour now. Preferential treatment would be given when awarding government contracts. Tax collectors and the courts would turn a blind eye to misdemeanours (and more serious crimes). But corruption and cronyism were ever thus - and ever would be. Varro was too tired to feel indignant or self-righteous, but many of the people present made him feel nauseous.

  Most of the men wore togas, young and old. The domed foreheads of the latter proved another surface for the light to reflect off. Their sharp, aristocratic features matched their sharp business practices. They were part of Rome’s elite - prosperous in times of war and peace. Varro noticed that most of the guests had invited their wives, as opposed to mistresses. Perhaps they did not want to provide Maecenas with more material to blackmail them with. Word could get back to Caesar too. Despite his own indiscretions and infidelity, Augustus frowned on others replicating his behaviour. Some argued he wasn’t displaying hypocrisy, but fine leadership. Varro fancied how he was inhabiting a gilded cage. Rather than thinking how they were imprisoned, the good and the great believed that they were protecting themselves from the outside world. From the stench and the plebs.

  Some of the older women wore traditional, matronly stolas and often glanced with disapproval and distaste at a number of younger women wearing revealing, diaphanous dresses which clung to them as if the material or their bodies were damp. The silks shimmered. Jewels sparkled. Bulbous earrings hung down, elongating lobes. Hairstyles resembled edifices, which defied gravity. Make-up was applied with the same gusto that artists had applied to the paintings on the wall.

  Varro attended similar gatherings almost every night. The sight of so many people often reminded him of a menagerie. His stomach could only cope with so much rich food and folly. The yoke of melancholy sat too often on his shoulders. Wine lessoned the load. Drink made him happy, but one can’t be drunk all the time in society. Too many people in one place bred too much misanthropy. Varro lost count of the amount of times he had accompanied someone’s wife or daughter to a glittering party. His mistresses wanted to give him everything - their time, wealth, hearts and bodies. They would offer to leave their husbands and face estrangement from their families. But all Varro wanted to offer them in return was some half-decent sex and a half-decent poem to remember him by. Until Lucilla. All he needed was her society.

  “I can see a few familiar faces,” Manius issued, arching an eyebrow, as he also glanced around the room. “A couple of your former mistresses and at least one cuckolded husband.”

  Perhaps tonight would be the night when the past would catch up with the priapic nobleman. A woman scorned can become quite scornful. The bodyguard took comfort from the fact that it was unlikely someone would want to cause a scene and earn their host’s displeasure.

  Varro nodded and rolled his eyes a little. He had already observed Calpurnia in the far corner, with her husband. The affair had ended some time ago, but the woman had just glowered at him, as if he had wronged her only yesterday. Varro extricated himself from their affair by explaining to the enamo
ured lady that he needed time to himself, due to his father recently passing away. In truth he had grown tired of the shipbuilder’s wife. She constantly talked about her days spent shopping and had the annoying habit of biting her nails, before and after sex. Once he broke off the affair, he immediately courted another mistress, Scribonia, who it turned out was a cousin of Calpurnia’s - who she shared news of all her affairs with. Varro made a mental note to avoid any corner of the room where his past and present mistresses resided.

  Varro caught the sound of a melodious harp.Maecenas had hired Cornelius Rullus to play for him. Rullus was a peerless musician. And he knew it. His cheekbones were as high as some of the notes he played, and more than one satirist had commented that Rullus was as highly strung as his instrument. He nodded sagely in agreement whenever someone praised his talent and boasted how he had the ability to touch a woman, without laying a finger on her. “My notes pluck her heartstrings and she doesn’t quite know whether to give herself over to the music or the musician.” As sweet as the melody was, unfurling from the harp, the harpist’s expression strangely remained impassive, joyless. Perhaps at another time, during another mood, Varro would have approached Rullus and confessed how he seduced his wife over a year ago. He would have been curious to see whether the musician would still be able to strike all the right notes.

  Unfortunately, the sound of the melody was drowned out by the shrill conversation emanating from various party guests. It sounded like a menagerie, as well as looked like one, Varro fancied. Snorts of derision, braying laughter, cooing compliments and roaring opinions swirled around the room, as if in competition with one another. He overheard people talk about the weather, the success of the war on the Spanish front and the beauty of their host’s home. A few guests artfully admired the paintings on the wall and raised their voices when complimenting the pieces, hoping that Maecenas might catch their flattering comments.

  Thankfully, a breeze continued to waft through the room - via the row of doors, which opened-up and looked out onto the garden. It cooled his skin and ire. Varro cursed Agrippa under his breath. Now, more than ever, at the heart of Roman society, he longed to be in Arretium.

  Varro caught the eye of a lissom serving girl, wearing a dress which could intoxicate more than the wine she was carrying, and grabbed his second cup. As he did so he also noticed Lentulus Nerva enter the hall. The advocate was accompanied by his wife, Lucretia, who was wearing a dress which was far too expensive and far too revealing. The garment displayed what little the wearer had to offer, Varro judged. Sura was also accompanying Nerva. He was equal, if not larger than Manius, in size. The shape of his muscular frame could be seen beneath his tunic. Tooth-shaped scars gleamed, like pieces of ivory, on his shaven head. A dour, downturned mouth was housed within a square, charmless jaw. A billy-goat beard sat on his chin, above his ram-like neck and shoulders. Every face tells a story. Sura’s was a violent one. Varro had little doubt that he could have killed Herennius in cold blood, if called upon to do so. The former soldier appeared slightly ill at ease in the rarefied atmosphere, among the rarefied company. Sweat glazed his skin. Varro was tempted to approach the bodyguard and try to goad him into making a confession.

  He was distracted from doing so, however, by another temptation entering the hall. It was time for Varro’s mouth to become slack. He knew that she would be attending but that still didn’t temper the shock - and hurt - of seeing Lucilla with Licinius. She was wearing an elegant sea-blue silk dress. High-necked. Belted. Sleeveless. The material clung to her slender legs but then trumpeted out at her feet. Through an unassuming slit at the bottom one could catch a glimpse of her snow-white felt sippers and pretty, sun-kissed ankles. She was somehow more attractive to him than she had been ten years ago. He wanted to reach out and clasp Manius’ arm, to help steady him, lest his legs gave way.

  Varro instantly recalled three other occasions when Lucilla wore the same dress. He also remembered how much he desired her - and how Diana did her best to stand sentry alongside her mistress and remind her that she had an early start in the morning.

  “I think that she’s trying to protect you from me,” Varro had whispered to Lucilla, wryly smiling.

  “More so you need protection from you,” she replied, half-joking.

  “You know me too well.”

  “I do, unfortunately. But still you are welcome around my dinner table.”

  Licinius spotted Varro, before Lucilla, but pretended not to notice him. He slid his arm inside hers and gently pulled her close, whispering something in her ear. She tilted her head back, flashed an unrivalled smile, and laughed.

  Varro tried to remain impassive, stoical, but something gnawed at his being. His pupils burned, like hot coals. His innards rumbled, as if starving. But the poet knew that, even if he ate, he wouldn’t be satisfied. Or be able to keep any food down. Jealousy, grief, resentment, misery, powerlessness - all jabbed the points of their swords at him. Death by a thousand cuts. Varro told himself he was experiencing despair because of his rival. He was wrong for her. Using her. Deceiving her. Sooner or later Licinius would hurt her (admittedly not as much as he had once hurt her). If it was anyone else courting her, he could stomach it. If she married the agent, Varro knew that he could no longer bear seeing her. They could no longer have dinner together. Laugh together. Discuss the books they were reading and satirise Rome’s finest citizens. He couldn’t quite tell if his heart was beating wildly out of hatred for him, or love for her.

  Perhaps if he could reconcile himself to Lucilla turning the page, he could move on too. Write another chapter. He wanted to at least get to the point where he could pretend to love someone else - to fool his would-be wife and himself. He wanted someone else to know which wine he liked, which translation of Homer he preferred. When he needed to be alone and when he needed company. When he was joking. How much and how little his poetry meant to him. But it felt like it would take a lifetime for someone else to learn those things which Lucilla already knew by heart.

  She finally saw him from across the room, glimpsing him between the throng of guests. But one glance was enough for Lucilla to observe the anguish on his face. She knew that it would hurt him to see them together. But sooner or later he would have to. Her heart went out to him, although Lucilla felt it would be inappropriate to abandon her current lover to talk to her former husband. There had been times in the past when she had dreamed of inflicting such torment upon him. How many times had she witnessed him attend a party with a mistress? Yet Lucilla knew that he was the last person she wanted to hurt now. He looked like he was about to cry, she thought - a scared and lonely child, too traumatised to put on a brave face. Manius was next to him, but there was nothing the bodyguard could do to protect him from the pain he was enduring. Why couldn’t he be happy for her? She had her doubts about Licinius too. Even if she thought Licinius was somehow second best, second best was still good enough for her. She wasn’t getting any younger. And Lucilla wanted to be a wife, to then be a mother. Even if it killed her.

  Varro craned his head a little, so he could still see her - as if he believed that if he lost sight of her now, he might never lay eyes on her again. She was achingly beautiful. Lucilla offered him a consoling smile and appeared as if she wanted to mouth something to him. He wanted to smile back but the corners of his own mouth - and soul - lacked the strength to do so. Varro could never quite resolve, during this past year or so, if he would make her happy, should he confess how he felt. Yet, he knew for certain that Licinius wouldn’t make her happy. Something inside of him - fuelled by the wine - told Varro that he could not leave Lucilla to her fate. He needed deeds, not words. Though words were all he had. Varro was suddenly determined to work his way through the forest of people between them and tell Lucilla how he felt, give air to his emotions. He recalled Tiro’s advice, again. Even if he failed, he had to try. Varro needed to tell her that he was a different man to the one she married, or rather divorced. He was a better man, partly because
of her. If he didn’t tell her how he felt now, he feared he might lose her forever. Licinius would get his claws into her, pour poison into her ear.

  Varro drained his cup and wiped his perspiring palms against his tunic. Even at night, Rome could be a furnace. He took a deep breath. He would take her by the hand and lead Lucilla off into the garden, into the fresh air and quiet. Away from Licinius.

  It’s now or never.

  “My master is ready to see you now. If you would like to accompany me out into the side garden,” a fastidious attendant remarked. His nasally tone was courteous yet firm. Maecenas was not accustomed to waiting. Duty called. Varro was about to speak, defy his host - assert that he had something to attend to beforehand. But didn’t.

  18.

  Varro was led out into a small, secluded garden. Gaius Maecenas sat on a marble bench, flanked by oil lamps and twin statues of Veritas. A bodyguard stood, as mute and still as the statues, by the door. His head was as square as the small shield he carried. His face had endured a thousand scouring winds and a dozen tavern brawls. Varro couldn’t quite decide if the attendant was the soul of duty or dullness.

  Birdsong out-sounded the trill of conversation from the party. A manicured lawn, bordered by recently pruned shrubs and rose bushes, sat in front of Maecenas. The scent of jasmine tickled his nostrils and the white flowers pin-pricked the inky background. Ironically Varro pictured a similar scene, when he envisioned taking Lucilla off to talk to her. To open-up his heart.