Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Varro didn’t wholly admire Ovid’s response to Plancus’ letter, yet he understood it. The revelations in the correspondence - and his friend’s gruesome death – were a lot to bear. Varro decided he would give Ovid some money to clear his debts and finance his trip to Ravenna. Hopefully his new mistress would take his mind off things.

  The agent also spared a thought for Tiberius. Caesar’s stepson had asked Varro to inform him of any developments in the investigation.

  He was about to do so.

  19.

  The room was windowless. Tiberius often locked himself - and his lovers - in. Away from prying eyes. The chamber was decorated with fine works of art - paintings and sculptures. Eroticism blended with militaria. A couple of couches sat opposite each other. A glass-topped table, standing on iron, lion-footed legs, stood in the middle of the room. Incense burned in one corner. A shield, once belonging to the dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla, was mounted in another, close to a murmuring brazier. Candles lined the walls, like a shrine in a temple.

  The private chamber was adjoined to a bedroom and a small bathhouse. Tiberius had recently bathed himself. First, he had sweated in a hot bath, using a strigil to vigorously scrape away any dirt and dust from his skin. He then plunged himself into a cold pool, refreshing and numbing himself. Tiberius recalled, during his ablutions, how he had scrubbed and scraped Marcus’ blood off his person, after he murdered his lover. He believed his body to be clean and his conscience clear.

  Tiberius stood over a large wooden bowl, which sat on the glass-topped table. He clasped a vine cane and used it to prod the two scorpions in the bowl – or arena – together. Caesar’s stepson had imported a new batch of the creatures, which marked his star sign. He wanted the scorpions to do battle for, like gladiators. Tiberius had long been fascinated and enamoured with the species. As a child he would carefully hold his pets by the sting and let their claws pinch his fingers. Sometimes they would draw blood – and he would lick it like honey. As a student he also composed verses, in Latin and Greek, in praise of the creatures. The nobleman would force slaves to be stung, to scientifically assess the potency of different types – and because the acts of cruelty amused him. He even experimented with slaves being stung in their eyes, to see them comically balloon up. Tiberius also arranged races, using a specially constructed model, based upon the Circus Maximus. The victor would be allowed to eat the losers.

  A wax tablet lay on the table as well. Before Tiberius wiped it clean, the tablet contained the news of Plancus’ death. The youth would have mourned one of his scorpions more. Plancus was weak, over sensitive. Corvinus had kept him around for his amusement. He nicknamed him his “Patroclus.” Tiberius felt offended that he had shared the same lover. He knew women who acted less effeminately than the dead poet. Yet Plancus was now gone. The sole witness to his crime would never be able to testify against him. Caesar’s stepson had got away with murder. He smiled to himself as he planned to write a letter to Plancus’ parents, to attempt to console them during their loss. He would even say that he didn’t believed that his friend Felix was capable of such an act of violence, and that he was innocent.

  Tiberius would also write a letter to his mother, employing the coded cypher they shared, informing her of Plancus’ death – albeit her agents, who had arranged the “suicide,” had probably sent word already. Tiberius had advised that Plancus could be spared, due to being too fearful of accusing Caesar’s stepson of the killing. But he knew that as soon as he informed his mother of the situation, she would dispatch her agents to silence the unfortunate witness. “Death cures all ills,” she had once told him, after hearing the news that a senator, championing the cause of the old republic, had died in mysterious circumstances. The self-satisfied smile on her lips suggested that the circumstances of his death were not such a mystery to her.

  A second wax tablet rested on the table, containing the news that his stepfather was recovering from his recent illness. His surgeon, Antonius Musa, had worked another miracle in Tarraco. The physician was worth a thousand priests, praying for the Princeps. Tiberius was slightly conflicted on hearing the good news. He knew that Rome needed a Caesar. Should his stepfather perish then Rome could be plunged into chaos. An uncivil war. There would be a grab for power. Factions would be unleashed, fighting over Rome like a pack of dogs fighting over a bone. A Caesar was needed to maintain order and lead. The empire was a wolf, which one needed to constantly hold by the ears. The earthly problem of Caesar’s successor had to be resolved, before Augustus could finally ascend to the heavens. Yet Tiberius would be willing to help solve the issue. His education, experience as a commander, name and bloodline meant that he was fit to lead. Inspire. Perhaps his stepfather dying now would be the right time to stake his claim, before he officially passed his seal onto Agrippa or Marcellus. Before he had other children or grandchildren, to weaken his own legitimacy. Tiberius dreamed of seizing power, for the good of Rome. He would be a just leader, and return (some) authority to the Senate House and great families of Rome. Nobility has its responsibilities. As a member of the Claudii, Tiberius often exclaimed how he was duty-bound to serve Rome – although, after a few wines, he would state how Rome existed to serve him. Tiberius often thought about optimum tax levels. It is the duty of a good shepherd to shear his sheep, not to flay them. He planned, in his mind, the games he would hold to celebrate his ascension. Which exotic beasts he would import to perform in the arena. Which plays he would commission and which poets he would patronise, to mark the epoch. He would arrange for the Praetorian Guard to wear an emblem of a scorpion on their shields and breastplates. Power was so near, yet so far away. He calculated he could bide his time, however. A scorpion should strike, only if it knows it will defeat its prey. His mother would continue to champion his cause, though he would curtail her influence should he gain power. He would court Maecenas’ favour – and allow the political agent to court him in return. Should Tiberius be unable to succeed Caesar, he vowed to banish himself from the city. He would be content to live on an island somewhere, couched in luxury and small pleasures. Master of all he surveyed. Recalling the words of Julius Caesar, Tiberius would rather be the first man in a village than the second in Rome. He could not serve under Agrippa, a mere commoner, or Marcellus – a peacock. His pride wouldn’t allow it, in the same way that his pride wouldn’t permit Marcus Corvinus to turn him into a fool and victim.

  The scorpions grappled, each vying to bring their stingers into play, after circling one another like boxers. Tiberius enjoyed it when one competitor stung the other and then, with the opponent paralysed, the victor eviscerated its foe.

  Tiberius took another large swig of wine and folded a piece of cured meat into his mouth. He glanced into the bedchamber. Despite the thought he expended on politics and his future, Tiberius desired a distraction. He would soon be joined by the courtesan, Fausta. One of her many attractions was that she liked to be dominated in bed. Which was fortunate, as Tiberius liked to dominate as a lover. Fausta had already agreed to dress up as a boy, during their time together. She would be discreet. Whatever happened in his private quarters, remained in his private quarters.

  Yet, before Fausta arrived, Tiberius would quickly deal with his other visitor. He had instructed his attendant to make Rufus Varro wait for a prolonged period of time, before showing him through. The nobleman needed to know his place. The investigator would arrive at any moment now though. No doubt Varro was here to relay the news of Plancus’ suicide - and his letter, confessing to the crime. He was tempted to present a show of being shocked and saddened, but he decided to be honest and stoical and reveal that he had already been informed of events. The sooner the agent departed the better.

  Although Varro was sufficiently emboldened to confront Tiberius, he was still fearful enough to invite Manius to accompany him. The bodyguard waited in the corridor as Varro entered the room and closed the door behind him. The agent’s manner was cordial, relaxed. Though he had a look of thunder o
n his brow as Varro travelled across the Palatine. Injustice burned, as much as the searing sun. The agent’s pride rankled too, from the youth having misled him so comprehensively. He had been his dupe. During their first interview Tiberius must have been laughing at him on the inside, from knowing the gruesome truth.

  But now it was Varro’s time to pretend not to know the truth. The agent had underestimated his interviewee last time. But Tiberius would here underestimate him. Even before becoming a spy, Varro was well practised at deception and playing a role. Feelings, passions, must be suppressed. Suffocated. As much as Varro was determined to initially play a part, he ultimately wanted to rip the mask off the pernicious adolescent. Even if he was the only witness to his true face. Or maybe the gods would be watching – and they would punish the guilty. But divine justice was far from prevalent in the world, even when taking into account that the gods could work in mysterious ways.

  Varro willed himself not to be taken back by how young the killer was, when he saw Tiberius. He noticed a few pinpricks of blood on his cheeks, from having scratched the heads off a few pimples. Youth was sometimes not credited with how innocent it could be, but even more so Varro considered how youth wasn’t credited with the amount of wickedness it could inhabit. He sometimes thought how it would be easier to flatten the seven hills of Rome than reduce the cruelty in the world by just a fraction. Yet it seemed to him it would be equally difficult to increase the goodness in the world. If goodness existed. Goodness was a flitting shadow at twilight, a conceit. Yet wickedness was all too real. Solid.

  “Rufus Varro. Welcome. I take it that you have come here to deliver news pertaining to your investigation. If you have come to report the sad event of Felix’s suicide then I am afraid you have had a wasted journey, I’m sorry to say. News travels fast in Rome, like so many smells from some of the more plebeian districts in our city. It is a shame that Felix took his own life. He always admired Cato and Brutus and spoke of their noble, Roman deaths. It is a tragedy. Suicide is no laughing matter. His family will be devastated. Not to sound insensitive, but you must be relieved that your investigation is over, however. I am still trying to comprehend the situation. It was surely a moment of weakness rather than wickedness, which caused him to commit the awful crime. You must take no pleasure from being right, but you did say that we hurt the ones we love. We may be able to argue that Felix deserved his fate, given the viciousness of his actions. But all life is valuable,” Tiberius said, plaintively.

  “Some life is valuable,” Varro drily countered, as he noticed the large mosaic, of a black scorpion, he was standing on. The central image was bordered by a circle of smaller, red, scorpions, either forming a ring to protect their queen or marching aimlessly around, just following the tail of the one in front.

  Varro allowed Tiberius to speak, like an angler letting a fish run with the bait.

  Let him keep digging a hole for himself. One deep enough to bury himself in.

  “I understand that Felix wrote a note, explaining things,” the aristocrat remarked, unable to suppress a yawn. He idly thought if there would be ample time to nap, before Fausta arrived.

  “He did. Before he was murdered, Felix wrote me a letter. Explaining everything, as you say,” Varro replied, knowingly. His gaze hardened, like water turning to ice. “You were right. My investigation is over.”

  Caesar’s stepson’s suddenly felt less than imperious. The winecup felt heavy in his hand and he placed it back on the table, without drinking from it. For a brief moment the ground seemed to give way and the murderer imagined that a detachment of praetorians might come marching through the door, to apprehend him. His stomach churned and his mouth twitched, in thinly veiled distress or anger. Yet the moment lasted but for a moment and the soldier reined himself in. He forced a smile, trying (but failing) to mirror the confidence and calm of the agent in front of him. The smile soon turned into a snarl. The aristocrat was like a dog, about to bark. He strode towards Varro - and made himself bigger, in an attempt to intimidate his accuser. He puffed out his chest and even lifted his heels of the ground.

  Yet Varro remained undaunted. He seemed nerveless. Agrippa had once advised his agent. “There’s nothing wrong with being nervous. You just shouldn’t seem nervous. Spying is all about seeming.”

  “You are either brave or foolhardy,” Tiberius stated, his nostrils flared. “I can’t quite decide which. You are not here to apprehend me, however, and you’re wealthy enough not to ask for a bribe to keep silent. Not that you have much to blackmail me with. A dead man’s testimony? Which can be claimed is a forgery. You will make more enemies than allies should your spurious evidence ever see the light of day.”

  Varro’s gaze didn’t flinch. He almost wanted the arrogant aristocrat to attack him, so he could fight back. Deliver some real justice, for Corvinus and Plancus.

  “I can’t quite decide whether I’m being brave or foolhardy either. I remember the first time I ever saw you. You were even more of a child than you are now, if that’s possible. It was the day of Caesar’s triumph – and you were riding, along with Marcellus, on the lead chariot. There was someone whispering in your stepfather’s ear, “Remember that you are mortal.” I have not come here to apprehend or blackmail you. I just wanted to look you in the eye and remind you that you are mortal. That you’re human, or rather inhuman.”

  Tiberius let out a growl cum laugh. He reached for his cup of wine again and gulped down the contents, smacking his lips afterwards.

  “You should mind your tone, lest I choose to remind you how mortal you are. I’ve killed once. I can kill again. I wonder, how surprised were you when you read Felix’s letter and found out about my moment of weakness? Or, one may postulate, my moment of strength,” Tiberius asserted. The confident, cold gleam was returning to his aspect. The sparkle in his eye was akin to when he watched his scorpions torture and kill the spiders and rodents he placed in the arena with them. “Were you not listening to me when I said that I had my doubts that Felix murdered Marcus? I was being honest with you. But, I must confess, I was lying to you at another juncture during our previous meeting. I said that no one should be above the law. You have doubtless asked yourself the question, why did I kill Marcus? The answer is, because I could. Some people can and should be a law unto themselves. A Caesar and a Claudian should. You can take your pick as to which to call me. Not all men are created equal. Some men, who seem superior, like Alexander, Sulla and Julius Caesar, are superior. They take, but they also give back – and forge a better world for others. If they have some blood on their hands, so be it. The eagle has no need to concern itself for the earthworm. You might argue Felix was innocent. But the innocent are punished every day. It’s what makes them innocent, one could argue. His greatest ambition in life was to be a catamite. And I killed Marcus because it was his greatest ambition to turn me into his catamite. On the night of the party he promised he would do his best to get rid of my sister – and spend the evening with me. He lied to me and dishonoured himself. I knew they were lovers. My sister is accustomed to getting whatever, or whomever, she wants. She can prey on a man, like a leech. A succubus. She is a law unto herself too. But Marcus always promised me he didn’t possess any true feelings for Julia. And I believed him. But then I heard the two of them rutting, from behind the garden wall. I heard Marcus employ the same terms of endearment for her, as he uttered for me. I felt like a cuckold. Betrayed. He made a fool of me. Marcus became a cause of pain, which needed to be removed from the world. His murder was an act of surgery. I suppose that Felix’s murder was another small act of surgery. When he walked into the garden he was accidentally walking onto a battlefield, one which he was ill-equipped for. His face was as pale as the moon above us. Part of me wanted him to escape Rome and live happily ever after. But he was already dead, a ghost. Yet he was resourceful enough to send you a letter, make his final confession, before he perished. Believe it or not but it was not my decision to murder Felix, and make it appear like suicide
. That honour belongs to my mother. Caesar is more merciful. You may not fear me Rufus Varro, but you should fear her. You do not want to make an enemy of her.”

  “And she does not want to make an enemy of me,” Varro replied, firmly. Menacingly. “Should she even raise a little finger against myself or my friends then any ambitions she nurses for you will turn to dust. I could live with your demise, but I suspect she couldn’t. I have arranged for the evidence against you to be placed in safekeeping, should I share the same fate as Felix. Silencing me will not suppress the truth, but rather give voice to it,” Varro said, lying. He hadn’t placed the letter into safekeeping, but he soon would. “My days contemplating suicide ended when I discovered sex and Falernian, so my death will be considered suspicious if it seems I have died by my hand, or any other’s. I have every confidence that you will never be prosecuted for your crimes, but that doesn’t mean you won’t suffer some form of punishment should you or your mother roll the dice against me and the truth is exposed. As you said, news travels fast across Rome. Given the choice between preserving his own honour, or yours, I know who Caesar will sacrifice. Even your mother will not be able to save you. When eagles fall, they fall from great heights – and end up lying next to earthworms. To be out of favour with Caesar must be similar to dying a death of a thousand cuts.”