Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  The agent let out a curse of frustration beneath his breath. He was tempted to pick up the clay cup on the nearby table and smash it on the ground. Instead, he sighed wistfully. Death and corruption were still no excuse to act in an uncivilised manner, the aristocrat considered.

  18.

  Despite the tantalising promise of returning to Arretium and Lucilla, Varro found himself trudging home, after he finished making a payment to Marta.

  “Will you be open to negotiating?” the landlady asked, either probing him with her good eye or just squinting in the sunlight.

  “Yes, but I will only be able to negotiate down.”

  Marta took the money, tightly clutching the coins in her hand, wishing that she could receive a similar sum for all the lodgers who died in her beds, from suicide or other causes.

  Varro ascended the slope leading up to the Palatine, fresh air and pristine sunlight. He half-joked to himself that he was feeling so weary, burdened, he might even be developing a stoop. His footsteps were as leaden as a child’s however, travelling to school or heading home, knowing that his father would punish him for another instance of bad behaviour. Or, as the agent thought of where he was in relation to the dead ends of his investigation, he imagined himself akin to Sisyphus again.

  The boulder rolls up the hill. The boulder rolls down the hill. And so on.

  In contrast, Varro observed a notable spring in Manius’ step, when he returned home. He seemed almost as happy as Viola, if that were at all possible.

  Varro resigned himself to lying to Agrippa. He reported that it was a suicide. Or he said that it “appeared” to be a suicide. The writer was, as ever, careful with his words.

  Euclid may disagree, but some circles can be squared.

  He heard the shade of his father whisper in his ear, criticising him for not finishing the job. But Varro had ignored his father enough when he was alive. It was easy to dismiss him in death as well. There had been plenty of crimes in the past which went unpunished. There would be plenty of crimes which would go unpunished in the future too. One more wouldn’t make a difference.

  As well as ending the assignment in order to travel back to Arretium for his friend’s sake, he was doing so for selfish reasons, Varro concluded, as he sat in his garden. Alone. He closed his eyes, attempting to block out most of the world. The grass cooled his warm, aching feet. A merciful breeze lapped against his face, like waves lapping against the shore. Occasionally there would be a lull in the wind blowing against his skin and he would be tempted to call for one of his slaves to stand by his chair and fan him.

  When he finally opened his tired eyes, he noticed a row of pert flowers bordering part of the lawn. They were the same purple and white blooms which brightened up part of his garden in Arretium. He remembered the scene, when he sat and watched Lucilla plant the flowers. She wore an old dress, which wouldn’t have appeared out of place on a slave. Yet the dull, grey garment still couldn’t diminish her beauty or spoil her elegant figure. A smudge of dirt marked her chin. She gardened, similar to other things, with efficiency and care, patting down each plant and brushing off any soil from the leaves or petals.

  “You’re more than welcome to help,” Lucilla suggested, turning to her husband. Varro was soaking up the sun, reading, reclined in his favourite cushioned chair. A slave had just refilled his winecup and delivered another plate of dates and thinly sliced pieces of pear. The nobleman was a picture of indulgence and indolence.

  “I’d prefer not to get my hands dirty. You’re doing a splendid job by yourself too,” Varro replied. A smile peeked out from beneath the brim of his sunhat.

  “If you look after your garden, then your garden will look after you,” Lucilla remarked.

  “If you’re offering up that maxim to be included in the next play, then I’m afraid that I can’t help you out on that front either.”

  His smile was as crisp and bright as the midday sun. Lucilla raised a corner of her mouth, in a nod towards a smirk, but she wasn’t quite as amused as her husband by his words.

  “I take it that you’re going just going to sit there, read and drink wine for the rest of the afternoon?”

  “I doubt if I’ll sit here all afternoon. I need to go inside at some point. I wouldn’t want my reading to eat into my nap time,” Varro drily replied, before yawning. Somehow, even when yawning, he remained smiling.

  “Talking of eating,” Lucilla replied, turning to her attendant, who had just come out into the garden. “Diana, will you be fine to cook dinner this evening?”

  “Yes, I can cook you your favourite. Trout, in a cheese sauce,” the gnarled woman answered, full knowing how much her mistress’ husband disliked the dish. But Varro merely rolled his eyes and shared a conspiratorial look with his wife. Amused. Enamoured.

  Every day was less of a day without her, Varro fancied. The curse of Sisyphus didn’t feel so terrible, with Lucilla helping to roll the boulder up the hill. It was less than half the weight. He wanted to end the investigation in order to go home and view the light in her eyes when he revealed he wanted to adopt a child. Not just because it would make her happy. But that it would make him happy. It was the right thing to do. Varro was determined not to repeat the mistakes his father made with him, albeit he was confident of making his own ones. The world needed condemning.

  But it isn’t - quite - all bad.

  Just as Varro was about to hammer the final nail in the coffin of his investigation, to find Corvinus’ killer, there was a knock at the door. The unexpected guest was shown out into the garden. Questions would now be answered.

  Clouds blocked out the sun. The temperature dropped. The sweat on Varro’s back chilled a little as he stared, his mouth agape, at the familiar face of his visitor. But as much as the face was familiar, his demeanour was strange. Ovid’s usually carefree expression was careworn. Varro had seen the poet hungover, plenty of times, but his pallor and unease were not due to a surfeit of wine, he judged. Ovid’s hair was unkempt, and his tunic marked with food and drink stains. The poet was normally well attired, presentable.

  “Fail to prepare, prepare to fail,” Ovid had once told his friend. “You never know when you might encounter the love of your life. Or, even better, your love for the coming night ahead.”

  His friend was clearly in some distress. Ovid’s head darted about, bird-like, checking to see if anyone might be spying at him from over the garden wall. Sweat was pouring off him, like someone had just thrown a jug of water in his face. The jittery youth was carrying a bag over his shoulder, clutching it tightly, guardedly, as if it contained the only copies of his latest poems. Ovid met Varro’s gaze. His bottom lip quivered, as if he were about to cry.

  “Ovid. It’s good to see you,” the nobleman said equitably, reassuringly. “Please, come, take a seat. Would you like anything to eat?”

  Ovid shook his head, fearing that he wouldn’t be able to keep any food down. Varro led his friend over to where he had been sitting, drawing up another chair. Ovid sat down, just before it looked like he might collapse. Varro poured a cup of wine for his guest. The youth’s hand trembled as he moved it towards his lips – spilling a few drops as he did so. A couple of fresh stains joined the old ones on his tunic.

  “You seem troubled, my friend,” Varro remarked. “How are things?”

  “Things have gone to shit. Things may well never be the same again.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s right? Nothing’s right. But then we’ve always known that. I’ve just obtained another piece of evidence which proves our theory.”

  Ovid wiped his brow again, licked the sweat off his upper lip and retrieved a tightly bound scroll from his bag.

  “I received a letter. It’s from Felix. It was delivered last night, while I was attending the party. My slave put it with a pile of other correspondence. I didn’t read the note until this morning. I can’t guarantee I’m not being watched. I’m more scared of her than him. She has spies everywhere, more
than Agrippa or Maecenas.”

  The agent took the scroll out of Ovid’s shaking hand. As much as he was tempted to do so, he didn’t snatch the parchment and open it up immediately.

  “You will be safe here. Manius is inside, along with a contingent of praetorians,” Varro remarked. He chose not to reveal that the soldiers were present due to the threat on his own life.

  “Thank you, Rufus. I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

  Ovid exhaled and appeared visibly relieved, having handed Varro the scroll. A problem shared is a problem halved, supposedly. The nervous poet still fidgeted however and glued his gaze to Varro’s reaction to Plancus’ letter.

  “My dear friend. Perhaps, because I am entrusting you with this, you are my dearest friend. I have not named you, just in case this letter falls into the wrong hands.

  I have written to you because I must tell someone the truth, even if you will be unable to share the contents of my message for some time. But I need to confess the truth, before it’s too late. I will either flee from Rome soon – and disappear into the aether - or I will be murdered, like Marcus was murdered. By Tiberius.

  I should have travelled home after the party. But there was a knot in my stomach which I couldn’t untie – a Gordian knot which I should have just cut – when I dwelled upon the misery that Marcus had chosen Julia over me. Marcus whispered that he would see me the following evening, that he would think of me when he was with her. Even at the end I still swallowed his lies and love. When I waited behind the garden wall and overheard them together, every groan was like a spear thrust into my chest. I felt like opening-up a vein and composing a poem in my blood. My Lesbia was betraying me. Yet still I loved Marcus. I must have loved him, otherwise it wouldn’t have hurt so much. He told me before too that, if I wanted him, I would have to share him. I would have forgiven him anything. He was Catiline and Brutus reborn. I could even forgive him ridiculing and plagiarising my poetry. No one knew him like I knew him. No one loved him like I loved him. He told me I was his true love. As much as he could be mocking and arrogant in public, he could be tender, sweet and generous in private. When he spoke about philosophy, you felt like you were in the presence of a character from Plato’s dialogues. I know you never quite felt for his charms, which I envy you for in a way. Love is a fever and the cure. But I fell for him completely. In some ways, I feel like I am still falling.

  I was gripped by jealousy, as surely as a hand can grip the wrong end of a poker. And I wasn’t the only one gripped by jealousy. Tiberius was drawn back to the house. Unbeknownst to me, he was standing around the corner. Waiting – and listening – like me. We overheard part of their conversation.

  “You will be welcome to stay the whole night,” Marcus said to Julia.

  “You couldn’t afford me for the whole night,” she replied, laughing and mocking him. As you know, Julia often likes to play the courtesan. However, it’s her lovers who feel used, that they’ve prostituted themselves.

  When he heard Julia leave, Tiberius entered the garden through the back door.

  “I’m glad she’s finally gone,” Marcus exclaimed, at seeing Tiberius. “I know it may come as scant consolation, but when I was with her, I was thinking of you. I feel like I am living a lie when I am with her. But you know how demanding your sister can be. If I refused her, she would not be forgiving. We will soon be together though, away from Julia and Rome. Fighting side by side. Sleeping side by side. In Spain.”

  I couldn’t hear Tiberius’ reply. What I did hear was the rasping sound of a blade being removed from its scabbard. And then I heard splashing and a slight sluicing sound – of, what it turned out, was noise of the blade penetrating Marcus’ skull. Something was wrong and, without thinking, I rushed into the garden. If there was a struggle ensuing, my intention was to save Marcus.

  Yet I was too late. I stood in the doorway, as if I were Patroclus having witnessed the death of my Achilles. The knife had already been plunged into his skull. Tiberius was standing over him. He shifted his focus from the wound he had inflicted and met my gaze. Blood trickled down Marcus’ forehead and his killer let the body slide into the pool. Foolishly, for a moment, I was worried he might drown – before I remembered he was already dead. You would have thought that Tiberius’ expression would have been imbued with remorse or rage. But no. It was a look of triumph, satisfaction and “you’re next”. I have witnessed gladiators enjoy killing less. You might think that the crime was committed in the heat of passion. Yet his countenance was cold, chilling.

  I remember observing a pitcher of water on a nearby table. I was nearly compelled to use it as a missile - or clasp its handle and wrap it around the monster’s head. To my shame, I was a coward. I regret my actions, or inaction. I wish I could have done something, though more so I wish I had just travelled home after the party.

  Marcus perished immediately. He would have wanted a soldier’s death, or a philosopher’s death. Instead he was butchered, sacrificed on the altar of Tiberius’ jealousy and cruelty. Should we thank the gods for small mercies, that he died so quickly? If the gods have any devotion to justice, then Tiberius will not experience such a merciful demise.

  I ran, as if Cerberus were at my heels. I needed time to think. I couldn’t spend the night at my family’s home, for fear of Tiberius and his bodyguards breaking in and slaughtering us all in our beds, to silence us. I realised I needed funds, immediately – and that I should go into hiding. The more squalid the hole I found, the better. My plan was to contact my friends and raise money, to flee Rome. But friends turned their backs on me. I feel hollowed out. My faith in my friends – and the world – has diminished to near extinction. My fugitive status has condemned me, in more ways than one. You might argue that I should have immediately reported the crime to the authorities. But who would have believed me or have dared to apprehend Tiberius? Caesar would have ended the investigation before it began.

  I feel trapped, enfeebled. I feel like I have been murdered. My life is now over. The truth is a death sentence – and I am sorry for burdening you. But one day you may have the audience of Horace and Virgil and be able to share the truth, without fear of punishment from Caesar or Tiberius.

  I intend to leave Rome, the day after tomorrow. I have caught word of a large funeral procession leaving the gates of Rome for the necropolis. The authorities will have probably posted watchers on the walls, but there is safety in numbers. Ironically, or poetically, a funeral will provide salvation.

  If I do not escape the city soon, I will be found and killed. I was nearly apprehended yesterday. I was chased through the Subura by two men. Thankfully I evaded capture. My rag-like clothes befit my state, yet they proved an asset through allowing me to blend into the crowd. I am unsure whether Tiberius or Caesar himself dispatched people to find me. Marcus once told me too how Livia has a far more extensive and ruthless network of agents than Agrippa or Maecenas. She will do anything to protect her son.

  I am running out of parchment and time. Perhaps one day we will meet again and share our verses, on Mount Parnassus. I do so esteem and envy your gifts. The greatest gift you gave me was that of your friendship, however.”

  The parchment weighed like a slab of lead in Varro’s hand. His mind was ablaze, as it struggled to fully comprehend what he had just read. He tried to imagine Tiberius murdering Corvinus, with Plancus looking on, but the poet’s imagination was somehow deficient. Incredulous. A torrent of sympathy flooded his being, as he put himself in Plancus’ shoes. The adolescent had seen his friend and lover murdered. His existence had been turned upside down. Terror must have coursed, like blood, through his body. Had he been brave or cowardly to hide himself away? Varro admired his will to keep his parents safe, however. Any admiration the agent cultivated for Corvinus further dissipated. Corvinus reminded him of his past self. Manipulative. Self-interested.

  Ovid’s febrile manner diminished - but didn’t vanish completely.

  “I pity anyone who considers me their d
earest friend. He must be desperate. I have spent half this morning cursing Plancus’ name, for involving me in his plans. Why did he choose me to confess to? I am as loyal and reliable as a whore. Yet I feel sorry for the fool too. Can we help him, without compromising ourselves? Can we get some money to Felix? I will repay you, albeit my list of creditors is as long as my list of ex-lovers. There are some names which occupy both lists, of course. But we must assist Felix if we can. He is innocent. If we cannot save the innocent, then what hope is there for the guilty, like us?” Ovid argued. His strained voice was scarce above a whisper, as he leaned towards his host. His knuckles were as white as snow covered mountaintops, as he gripped the arm of the chair he was sitting on.

  “Felix is now beyond saving I’m afraid. Or he has been saved, delivered. He was found dead this morning,” Varro said, sorrowfully. “He was discovered in a lodging house in the Subura.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was stabbed, in the throat. I examined the scene myself. It was made to appear as if Felix committed suicide. The bastards even forced him to compose a final letter, confessing to the murder.”

  Both men paused, imagining the grim scenario. Ovid shook his head, mournfully. Although twinges of grief were ultimately eclipsed by pangs of fear.

  “It pains me that Felix has died. He may have been a second-rate poet, but he was harmless. He retained a sweetness that not even this city could blight. I imagine that few will attend his funeral. I should compose an elegy, one that will wring tears from the heart. But the poem would need to remain unread. I must keep my distance, like a lover I’ve recently spurned and do not want to cause a scene in public with. I know my behaviour may be deemed ignoble. But better to be ignoble than dead. For once poetry seems unimportant. Poetry is, at heart, frippery. Verbal perfume. Poetry can linger for a while, but it will fade. I have no desire to fade or die right now, however. This letter is a death sentence. It’s poisonous. I cannot use it as evidence to expose Tiberius, as it will expose myself. I feel like a dead man walking. At best I would be banished, exiled, if Caesar found out that I knew the truth. I do not want to keep this letter in my possession any longer. You can keep it. I would burn it, if I were you. We can just pretend it never existed. Or you can be the friend he refers to in the note. But even if the authorities believed Plancus’ version of events in his letter, they would still dismiss the contents. This letter, like justice, can never see the light of the day. Caesar’s authority and dignity will be tarnished if he allows Tiberius to be put on trial. Yet, if his stepson escaped punishment, Caesar would be accused of corruption. The walls of Rome would be strewn with caustic graffiti. I am intending to leave Rome for a few months. Against the bold, daring is unsafe. Out of sight, out of mind. The dust needs to settle. Time is the best doctor. I have a mistress, currently residing in Ravenna. Her husband, who was as old as the hills surrounding the town, has recently passed. I am developing an urge to accept her hospitality and comfort the widow. I shouldn’t laugh though. We should be weeping.”