Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Varro’s thought turned towards Manius. The former gladiator lived by his sword, in some respects, His friend just hoped that he would not now die by it.

  “Those of you who are poor will soon be rich. Those of you who are powerless will soon be powerful. Together we can take back control of Rome. Together we will drive out the Jews. Let them settle elsewhere. Rome must be a beacon of light, for the rest of the world to follow… Workers of Rome unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains,” Publius Carbo proclaimed, to a crescendo of cheers. The sheep wished to unleash themselves, like wolves, Varro wryly thought.

  Gnaeus Piso punched his fist into the air and roared louder than most. Although he was grateful for the former senator’s contribution to the cause - and he chanted his name - Piso’s loyalty was towards the author behind the speech. The enforcer looked forward to a time when the elderly Carbo retired, or was ushered aside, for Paulus Labeo to inherit the crown. He knew how to further their cause. People worship the rising rather than the setting sun and one didn’t need an augur to recognise that Labeo was slowly but surely directing their movement. Labeo possessed more ideas, energy and passion. He had the stomach for the fight. Ultimately, the aristocratic senator would always be a part of the establishment, when he needed to be its enemy. Carbo wanted to lead the Senate House, while Labeo wanted to raze it to the ground and build a thousand-year regime. Labeo would be the one to give the order to kill their prisoner.

  Lucilla sat in the shade beneath a pear tree, in her garden. Her heart was still beating quickly, irregularly. But all would be well, she told herself. She had done the right thing. Lucilla had settled on declining Pulcher’s proposal, even before being presented with his terms. One of which - that she needed to agree never to see her previous husband again, once they were married - she would have refused. Lucilla politely thanked her suitor for his proposal - and mentioned how honoured she felt and how much she enjoyed spending time with him - but asserted that she had no desire to re-marry. She further argued that it was best they no longer saw each other, as they wanted different things from the relationship.

  “I do not want you thinking that I am leading you on or lying to you.”

  Pulcher was perhaps too shocked or crestfallen to notice, but there was an element of irony, as well as sincerity, in the woman’s tone. Whereas as a few moments before he had been articulate, verbose, the agent was now lost for words. Disbelief (or almost denial) flooded his being. He felt akin a man who had placed a fortune on an overwhelming favourite for a chariot race, only to have his champion finish in second place. Pulcher was not sure he had been refused anything before. The agent had always broken hearts, as opposed to have someone break his. He had failed on a personal and professional level - and further failed to comprehend why.

  Anger and ingratitude soon displaced feelings of confusion and sorrow. Yet the spurned suitor did his best to remain civil. An agent should never lose possession of himself. As with most emotions, they bubbled beneath the surface. He was tempted to ask - or demand - whether Varro had whispered poison into her ear and turned her against him. He wanted to know why so much had seemed to change, since only the night before. He wanted to call her a whore, threaten to ruin her reputation and ask for his love tokens back. Yet, Pulcher still owned a number of fine feelings for her. He wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. He could still win her over too. It would just take time and a fresh strategy. Should he cause such offense now and behave in such a boorish manner she might never forgive him and reconsider his proposal. It wasn’t all over, he told himself.

  It was all over, she told herself. Even the birdsong seemed plaintive. The sun was shining, but there was little light in her heart. Diana served her a cup of wine, which was barely diluted, hoping that the drink might help her mistress sleep.

  Varro had been right, although Lucilla was in no rush to tell him so. Licinius had been introduced to her by Maecenas, in order to spy on her (and read her correspondence with Caesar’s wife). Livia always asked her friend to destroy her letters, for fear of them eventually falling into the hands of gossips or her enemies. Lucilla complied with the instruction and always burned the missives immediately, although Maecenas and his agent were unaware of this arrangement.

  After Varro departed the other day, she was left with a seed of doubt as to Licinius’ intentions. Lucilla needed to know if her suitor - the man who she was considering marrying - was honourable. If it was all an act, it was all worth nothing. Lucilla confided in Manius during the party, asking the bodyguard not to reveal her anxieties to his friend. The Briton furnished her with a plan.

  “You should give him enough rope to hang himself.”

  Lucilla casually mentioned that she would be replying to a piece of correspondence, recently sent by Livia. She composed one letter herself - and asked Diana to write out another letter, pretending to be from Caesar’s wife. She put the letters in the drawer of her desk, placing a fleck of ash on them, and left the door of her study open. When she returned, the ash had been disturbed and the letters were positioned differently in the drawer. Licinius had entered the room and reviewed the contents. Lucilla felt violated and wanted to be sick. She was close to crying. Love was nothing without trust and, once lost, it is difficult, if not impossible, to restore.

  Lucilla quickly gained possession of herself, however. She decided that she did not wish to cause a scene with Licinius or listen to any more of his lies. She would prove that spies were not the only people capable of putting on an act. Women can deceive too. If the agent acted inappropriately, she would threaten to tell Livia - and Caesar - about Maecenas’ attempt to spy on them.

  And so, Lucilla listened to his proposal. She took great pleasure in refusing it. She was tempted to try to humiliate and hurt him. She was also tempted to confront him with his crime. The agent was far from retired. But then he might try to tell her the truth. Yet men invariably dissemble the most when endeavouring to tell the truth. Lucilla was just pleased the affair was over. Ultimately, she did not love Licinius. Partly because she knew what genuine love felt like. She was free, again.

  Despite the heat her skin prickled, and she placed a brown cloak over her. A wave of loneliness washed over her, as black as the waters of Acheron. Her future seemed dim again. But then Lucilla smiled, wistfully, telling herself that her canvas was blank rather than black. She had a lot to be thankful for. It was a phrase that her mother had often used. Her mother too had endured an unhappy marriage but had argued that she had taken consolation from being wedded to her children. Who she loved dearly - and who loved her back. Her father had been, like Rufus, unfaithful and untrustworthy. Unlike Lucilla’s father however, had Rufus changed? Once trust is lost it is difficult, but not impossible, to restore. It struck Lucilla how she had lied to herself the other day, when she couldn’t remember the last time she had been happy. She could. It was when she was with Rufus in Arretium, last year, nursing him back to health. Lucilla realised she could spend the rest of her life with him. He just had to ask.

  24.

  Piso ordered his lieutenants to assemble his force outside the warehouse. The heat and wine fuelled their desire to get on with the job. They had an itch they wanted to scratch. Carbo’s speech had tapped into a rich seam of envy and resentment. The Jews were the enemy. The cause of all of Rome’s ills. Eventually, he would convince his followers that Caesar was responsible for their grievances. Others followed the demagogue out of greed. Varro had overheard more than one man talk about what he was going to spend his loot on, after the raid. It was time to “tax” the Jews. “The broadest shoulders should bear the heaviest burden,” Carbo argued. Some seemed veritably jubilant, as they set off towards the Jewish quarter, carrying knives and clubs - like revellers travelling to a party. Many of the pale, rake-thin students appeared skittish, as if a gust of wind could blow them over. A fair few downed an extra measure of wine, to settle their nerves and bolster their confidence. Tarquin Gellius imagined himself encountering the
elderly Jew, Benjamin. He would have his revenge on him and the Briton today, he satisfyingly thought. The gods were smiling on him. Gellius also licked his lips, as he pictured cornering a Jewess.

  The mob set off, snaking around into the next street, in less disarray than Vulso would have liked. A few of them staggered from too much wine but many marched in good order, their backs as straight as a pilum, betraying some military training. Their leader, Piso, oversaw their departure but then headed into the warehouse again. The throng possessed an air of purpose and animus, the praetorian considered. But a seemingly unstoppable force would soon encounter an immovable object. Vulso believed that Carbo’s army of thugs would be no match for professional soldiers. He pictured the shield wall, sharpened spear points poking out, moving inexorably towards the trapped, doomed enemy. A contingent of archers would rain death from above. His fellow soldiers neither loved not loathed the Jews. They would do their duty of keeping the peace and serving Caesar, their paymaster, however.

  Varro and Vulso lingered just outside the warehouse. The stench had receded, but an air of danger remained. A contingent of a dozen or so men, who were part of Carbo’s retinue, also milled about the building. A few were armed. None gave the two strangers, who kept to themselves, a second look though.

  Contrary to Agrippa’s orders, Varro was determined to rescue his friend. Despite the heat, a shiver of terror zig-zagged down his spine. But Varro’s fear was secondary to his will save Manius. If he was still alive. A greater fear was arriving too late. Anger and helplessness overpowered his normal air of indifference. Varro was willing to lose his life. Fronto would act as executor to his will. He had also entrusted certain letters to his estate manager. One of which would be sent to Lucilla. She should know how I feel, once I get to the next world, he thought.

  Although I should tell her how I feel in this world.

  Varro pictured his friend. When his father had first brought him home, like a stray, he had felt slightly threatened. Manius should not be considered a mere slave, his father had ordered. Varro resentfully thought the Briton would be the son his father never had.

  “The barbarian looks like he has come from the underworld, rather than the arena… I am not sure what we should lament the most, his table manners or dress sense,” Varro had pointedly remarked to Fronto.

  Yet Fronto admonished, rather than agreed with, his young master. The sage estate manager posited that if anyone was displaying bad manners, it was him.

  “You need to help educate Manius, as much as he’s been charged to tutor you. Nobility has its responsibilities.”

  It soon turned out that the Briton was the brother Varro never had. There was not a braver, more honourable soul in Rome. Varro never had the heart - or material - to satirise his friend in a poem. The bodyguard had saved the nobleman from injury - and even death - more times than he could recall.

  Varro already overheard that a prisoner was being kept in the rear of the warehouse. The scar on his forehead began to itch and he briefly shuddered, recalling the horror of his own torture, before casting it out of his mind - pushing it away with a pole like a barge creeping too close to the riverbank. Varro would not wish such a fate he endured on his enemies, let alone his friend.

  “We need to strike now, before it’s too late,” the agent urgently asserted, whilst keeping his voice low.

  “We have our orders. We need to gather intelligence and report back. We can then form a plan as to how best to proceed,” Vulso replied, shaking his head whilst repeating Agrippa’s words. The soldier was not without courage. Years of marching, digging, fighting and suffering had turned the orphan into a block of iron. But one of the reasons why the praetorian had survived so long was that he cultivated a sense of caution too.

  “I have all the intelligence I need. We must get to him, now.”

  “You shouldn’t engage an enemy, when unsure of your opponent’s strength,” the praetorian, somewhat sententiously, countered. “We do not know the extent of the force behind the door. And even if we could free your bodyguard, we would have to fight our way out. Our orders are our orders. Why would you wish to commit to such a suicidal plan?”

  Vulso resisted the temptation to add that his friend may already be dead.

  “Because he would do the same for me. If some bastard was torturing your friend, would you leave him to his fate?”

  Manius lay on the floor, resembling a corpse. Blood trickled down his chin from where his lip had cracked again. The former gladiator knew a number of his bones had been broken. His body felt like a slab of tenderised meat. He promised that any pain inflicted upon him by his enemies, he would return with interest. Hate was one of the things binding him together. And love for Camilla. The agent pretended to be unconscious. He flinched not on hearing the suggestion that they should discover if the agent had a wife or child - and threaten to torture them in order to extract the information they craved.

  Conserve what little strength you have. Keep your mind alert.

  Manius kept his eyes closed but counted the men in the room. Carbo and Labeo. The latter might have some fight in him, but the former had as much backbone as a jellyfish. The former senator would resile himself from any fight. The man who had tortured him was a former soldier and shouldn’t be underestimated. But Manius had just overheard him say he would be leaving soon, to take charge of his men when they reached the Jewish quarter. The two men who had been tasked with hoisting him up and down were an unknown quantity. But it was likely they could handle themselves. They would have to kill or be killed though. Were they ready for that? It could prove that, at some point, he would be left alone with just one guard in the room too. Manius was conscious of not underestimating his opponents. But he hoped that they would underestimate him. The gladiator had one last contest left in his weakened body. He wanted to at least take one of his enemies into the next life with him.

  Just as Manius finished counting the people in the room and thinking about how he could even the odds he heard the door open.

  Vulso had agreed to accompany Varro inside the warehouse. Their aim was to reconnoitre where the prisoner was being held, judge his physical state and assess the force which was keeping him captive. Should Manius somehow only be guarded by one or two men, then, Vulso conceded, they could look to liberate the Briton. Otherwise they would take their intelligence back to Agrippa and engage the enemy, after they arranged the requisite plan and numbers.

  As a ruse to gain access to the backroom Varro would tell the two guards outside that he had intelligence about a wealthy Jew. They knew where his valuables were secreted in the house. Their leader would want to know.

  Access proved easy as the two soggy-brained sentries believed Varro’s story. Varro and Vulso shut the door behind them as they entered the room.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Labeo barked, like a teacher scolding some errant students. The tribune was vexed by the intrusion and interruption.

  There was an eerie pause as people turned their attention towards Varro and Vulso, except Manius, who still felt it prudent to pretend to be unconscious.

  Varro turned his attention towards the prisoner, prostrate upon the blood-stained floor. His friend was alive, just about, as he observed his chest move up and down. The nobleman’s blood was on fire. His heart beat, savagely. The agent had killed, once, before. He hadn’t enjoyed the experience, but he hadn’t regretted it either.

  Even if the room would have been filled with twice the number of opponents, Varro had no intention of leaving without his companion.

  “We’re here to deliver a message,” the agent remarked.

  Manius’ eyes snapped open on recognising the familiar voice.

  Varro had a small dagger tucked inside the back of his belt, but he noticed the hammer and chisel on the chest next to the door and picked the tools up. Just before he did so the propagandist marched towards him, intending to confront and further berate the irksome stranger. Labeo’s contempt turned to con
fusion - and then alarm - as Varro walked purposely forward too. The stone mason’s hammer weighed heavy in his hand, but not so heavy that he could not quickly raise the tool and smash it against his enemy’s temple. The sound of the low thud and splintering crack, as Labeo’s skull was shattered, caused Publius Carbo to wince and flatten himself against the wall. The noise resembled someone breaking open a lobster claw.

  The two men who had helped torture the prisoner - Trogus and Papius - sprang into action. Trogus drew his dagger and rushed towards Varro. Papius retrieved his short club from the nearby table and honed-in on Vulso.

  Manius pushed through the pain barrier and rose to his feet, turning to confront Piso, picking up the bronze stylus. He was wounded, near defeated, like a lion with a brace of spears protruding from his chest. But he wasn’t wholly defeated. He stood, slightly bent over, one arm tucked in, consciously or unconsciously protecting his broken ribs. His left eye was swollen, causing his vision to be blurry. His blood-stained, grimy tunic seemed mottled with scabs.

  Vulso saw Papius running towards him, his weapon held aloft, and heard the sound of the guards outside about to open the door. He would not last long trying to fight on two fronts. He would be stabbed in the back quicker than any politician. The praetorian, in an action oft practised on a piece of wood in various camps throughout his time campaigning, threw his knife at the advancing opponent. The blade buried itself into Papius’ chest. His legs gave way, as if slipping on a sheet of ice, and he fell at Vulso’s feet. The soldier quickly pulled the weapon from the dying man’s body and turned to face the door, where he imagined that the two guards were about to enter the fray.