Spies of Rome Omnibus

by Richard Foreman

  Tiberius tried to smile, through gritted teeth. He shook his head, refuting the words he was hearing, But he knew what the agent was saying was true. Varro had engineered things so, if Tiberius brought about his downfall, he would bring about his own too. It was a stalemate. Yet it felt like a defeat, given his sense of triumph earlier.

  “I underestimated you. But I would not overestimate Caesar’s support, should you choose to reveal the truth and expose the imperial family to such scandal.”

  “I have no intention of overestimating or underestimating Caesar. The truth will soon be leaving Rome with me. I will be back in Arretium before the end of the month. Think of me as a modern Cincinnatus. I will be ploughing my fields, so to speak, keeping myself to myself. But if called upon, should you continue to act as law unto yourself, then I will return to Rome to bring you down, even if I bring myself down at the same time,” Varro asserted, meaningfully. Icily.

  Tiberius believed that the agent would honour his promise to keep silent. The agent would also honour his vow to expose him, should he transgress again. In turn, Tiberius wouldn’t inform his mother about the agent’s knowledge of his crime. She could cause more harm than good, by moving against Varro. The disgruntled aristocrat emitted a sound. Part snort of derision. Part sigh of resignation.

  “It seems we can have an accord, Rufus Varro. I am grateful for your discretion. You know how to work in the shadows and act in the best interests of Rome. I could use a man with your virtues and talents in the future, should you be open to a position of service,” Tiberius said, hoping, like his stepfather had done in the past, to turn an enemy into an ally.

  Varro did his best to suppress his laughter - but he couldn’t fail to appear amused by the conceited aristocrat’s advances. He was drinking wine while Tiberius spoke. It was small miracle that he didn’t choke on the vintage or spit it out. After recovering, the agent wanted to leave the would-be Caesar in no doubt as to his future as a spy.

  “I’m retired.”

  20.

  Something was wrong, Licinius Pulcher thought to himself, as he paced around his bedchamber. His expression turned into a brief rictus, or wince, as if he had just peeled off a scab. Stolo should have sent word by now. During his time as an agent Pulcher had learned to be patient. But this was different. He needed to know, either way. Was Rufus Varro dead? He resolved to send one of his attendants to Rome, to call upon Varro’s house and ask after him. He would also order his man to meet with Stolo and demand an update. Stolo had given his word that his lieutenant could be trusted to complete his task, but his word was worth about as much as the shit clinging to the cracks in his sandals. Guild leaders were as practised as politicians at dissembling.

  From a distance the aristocrat appeared as attractive as ever. His figure was trim and muscular. His freshly pressed tunic was bordered with silk and embroidered with gold thread. His sharp eyes darted about and took everything in, whilst giving nothing away. But Pulcher’s usually smooth features had sprouted wrinkles. His usually oiled, sculptured hair was unkempt. He was a satin cushion, suddenly looking worse for wear. The stuffing was coming out of him. A cool breeze fluttered through the shutters. But it did nothing to temper his prickling skin and heart. The scene outside, of a gently sloping lawn leading down towards a dimpled, tranquil river, stirred not an atom of calm. Pulcher needed to know Varro was dead. Nothing else mattered. He pictured the poet’s smug face, heard his glib speech. That he had found fame as a playwright rubbed salt in the wound.

  The former spy took little pleasure in the cup of Falernian he downed. Similar to his rival’s bedchamber, Pulcher’s walls were made-up of shelves filled with books. Works of poetry and history populated the room, as if the scrolls had been breeding behind his back. Both agents were well-read, as well as being well-versed in the art of seduction.

  Both agents had fallen in love with the same woman too. If not for Varro, Pulcher believed that he would have been married to Lucilla right now. Maecenas had ordered his trusted agent to seduce Lucilla, so he could get close to Livia’s confidante and read their correspondence. But Pulcher developed genuine feelings for the cultured, beautiful woman. She unwittingly seduced him and gave the weary agent a glimpse at a different world. He was ready to marry her and retire from working as an agent for Maecenas. Varro, however, had sowed seeds of doubt about Pulcher in her mind. Varro encouraged her to test and trap Pulcher, he believed. At the same time his rival had embarrassed him professionally, undermining him in the eyes of Caesar. So, at the same time as being rejected by Lucilla, he was spurned by Maecenas, like an old lover who could no longer please him. The past year would have been different, if not for Varro. He would have been married to Lucilla. With his new-found wealth they would have been a formidable, feted power couple in Rome. He could have befriended Caesar and replaced Maecenas as his one of his key political agents. Aye, once Varro had been disposed of, he would turn his attention to his former mentor. Pulcher had spied for Maecenas, prostituted himself, killed for him. Yet he had cast him out, like a leper – or a vintage wine which had suddenly turned sour.

  Pulcher had been left out in the cold over the past year. He abandoned Rome, travelling south. He devoted himself to a life of pleasure, but no wine could wash away the bitter taste of resentment in his mouth. No dish could satisfy him as much as the desire for revenge (or, as he viewed it, for justice). No mistress or whore could make him forget about Lucilla. Regrets – and a malignancy towards Varro – gnawed at his heart, as the eagle suppered on the liver of Prometheus.

  When Pulcher’s inheritance came through he was determined to return to Rome and solidify his vengeance. He first thought about ruining his opponent’s marriage by paying a skilful courtesan to seduce him. Pulcher was also tempted to besmirch the nobleman’s reputation by spreading scandalous rumours about him. He often imagined attending the same party as Varro and poisoning his winecup. Or sneaking up behind Varro at night and sliding a knife in between his ribs.

  Pulcher was content to pay somebody else to bloody their hands, however. He had everything to lose if he was caught in the act. So, he had employed Stolo’s band of brigands. The main thing was that he was still the author behind his enemy’s demise. Pulcher realised that he couldn’t start a new chapter in his life without bringing the last one to a close – and creating an unhappy ending for Varro.

  The former agent decided to travel to Rome himself. Confront Stolo. Demand answers. He would also, during his trip, look to buy a property in the capital for when he would need to stay overnight. Pulcher would call upon Caesar’s daughter as well. Getting close to Julia could improve his chances of getting closer to Caesar. She could prove to be a font of intelligence, through careless pillow talk. Pulcher would attend her next party and seduce the girl, or duly give the impression that she had seduced him.

  Dusk was beginning to bleed into the pale blue sky, like wine darkening water. Clouds were gathering across the firmament – as, unseen, soldiers were gathering outside the front of Pulcher’s estate. Preparing to attack.

  It had been a long day, Varro wearily considered. His arse ached from the ride. His head ached from the sun - and life - pounding upon him. But it still could be a long, bloody night ahead. The agent was crouched down, grass tickling his chin, as he hid within a line of dense woodland which ran along the road, opposite Pulcher’s villa. The pungent smell of body odour and garum, from various praetorians laying alongside him, coloured the air. The soldiers filled their lungs and flexed their hands, ready to grab their swords and leap up, like dead men springing from their graves, once the time was right. The soon to be besieging force barely blinked, as they took in their target.

  A patina of moss and bird shit decorated the walls. The large, black, thick oak door was barred – and further strengthened with iron brackets. A couple of guards manned the walls above the entrance.

  “It might be a tough egg to crack,” Vulso had remarked. “But crack it we will.”

  Varro wat
ched the wagon, laden with wine, trundle along the road, towards the villa. Yet his inner eye pictured the corpse of Plancus on his gore-strewn bedroll. Few would mourn his death – and no one would be punished for it. As the agent took his leave from Caesar’s loathsome stepson earlier, he rightly, painfully, concluded that justice hadn’t been done. But he was a spy. Justice wasn’t part of his brief, Varro argued with himself. An agent’s mission was to deliver up intelligence, that his paymaster wanted to hear. Agents often avoided telling the truth. Should Varro reveal the truth to Agrippa or Caesar, he would cause more problems than he would solve. Just tell the powers that be what they wanted to hear. The truth needed to remain secret. For once, he wouldn’t even share his findings with Manius, Lucilla or Fronto – lest he placed them in danger.

  Manius was dutifully placing himself in danger already, however, as he accompanied Vulso and a couple of other praetorians on the wagon. Agrippa had suggested the ruse of pretending to deliver wine to the residence, in order to have the enemy open its doors to the contingent of soldiers.

  The Briton sat next to Vulso at the front of the wagon. The latter believed that it was no time to blood a batch of new recruits. He had selected a group of battle-hardened veterans for the assignment. Loyal. Lethal. Pugnacious. Professional. Some had fought under Agrippa at Philippi and Actium. One of the praetorians, Ulpius, spoke to Manius as they approached the house. Ulpius chewed a piece of dried goat’s meat - and often spat out gobbets of phlegm - as he talked. He had a guttural accent, as thick as pottage, and the Briton barely understood one out of three words he said.

  “I remember seeing you compete in the arena, many years ago. Some retiarius bastard trapped you in his net and buried his trident in your thigh. They then started to play to the crowd. He was from Gaul if I remember rightly. Usually they turn their back on an opponent with the intention of running away. We all thought you were finished. That trident in your leg must have smarted a bit, eh? Must have hurt even more when you pulled the weapon out and launched it into your opponent, as the silly fucker tried to get the arena to chant his name. I remember the day because I placed a bet on you. And I remember paying for a whore with my winnings. And I remember the whore because she gave me a pox. I must have scratched my dick so much afterwards, I’m surprised it didn’t wear down to nothing. By Venus, she was a lively filly though. What a ride! The pox was almost worth it. Almost. But it’s good to have you with us, Manius. Save some of the bastards for the rest of us. I don’t want you and Vulso killing everyone.”

  Manius merely half-smiled and nodded. Rather than past glories, he was focussed on the imminent fight. Only one kill mattered to him. He needed to kill Pulcher. Then he need never kill again (although he had made – and broken – such a promise before). Once they had secured the entrance, Manius would scour the house for his quarry. Agrippa’s agents, who had kept the house under surveillance, reported that Pulcher was still inside the property. The former gladiator had oiled and sharpened his sword, which lay under a blanket by his feet, before setting off from Rome. He had also spent part of the morning practising throwing his dagger, at a wooden target, in preparation for the assault.

  The brace of guards, standing on the parapet above the entrance, remained relaxed as the wagon approached. They had no reason to be suspicious, or on alert. They received deliveries every day. Vulso noted how each guard carried a bow. But Agrippa’s agent had forewarned him about the archers. The agent had also reported that the household contained around twenty slaves (but many were women, young boys and old men) and around two dozen bodyguards. They were well-armed and seasoned professionals, no doubt former soldiers or ex-gladiators. The agent also briefed Vulso that, once inside, he would encounter a courtyard filled with approximately ten guards sitting around, carousing. “Half the battle will be about securing the entrance, preventing the enemy from defending the villa from a position of strength. Once your men are inside, in numbers, then you’ll soon be tasting victory – and drinking the wine you’re carrying,” the agent remarked.

  Manius glanced up at the bowmen on the walls. Their powerful arms and chests signified that they were professionals. Well-practised. The Briton recalled the way Macer had turned the tide, during their skirmish on the way to Rome. From their elevated position the two archers above him could wreak similar damage and decimate the ranks of the attacking force. The bowmen probably had an arsenal of spears to hand too – and if supported by more men could turn defeat into victory, when the praetorians broke cover from the treeline and stormed the villa. Vulso had a plan to nullify the archers, but few plans ever remain intact once one engages the enemy.

  The sun-baked ground beneath him was bone hard, but he was ready to spring up from it as if it were made of sponge. Varro’s body tensed and he felt his heart pound in his chest, like a prisoner banging a fist against his cell door, as he watched the wagon come to halt. They would soon know if their ruse would succeed or fail. He pulled the strap again on his small, round shield, so it bit further into his forearm. He licked the sweat off his top lip, as brackish as tears. Agrippa had sent over a message back in Rome, saying that he did not expect Varro to take part in the assault. But he was not about to let his friends fight his battles for him. He wanted to see Pulcher’s corpse. Unlike the memory of Plancus’ bloody body, Varro would welcome the image.

  A shutter abruptly slid open, at the heart of the oak door. Vulso took in the dark, close-set eyes and broken nose. The thuggish face scrutinised the unexpected visitors. Manius faked a yawn and appeared bored, as if desiring just to get the delivery over and done with. Ulpius, and the soldier sitting next to him, Ravilla, both wore sunhats to conceal their military haircuts.

  “State your business,” the less than hospitable figure demanded. His voice was raspy, like the sound of an unoiled blade being drawn from a rusty scabbard.

  “We’re here to deliver a consignment of wine. It’s a gift for your master, from Lucius Curio,” Vulso exclaimed. Agrippa had given the praetorian a name to use. Curio was a known acquaintance of Pulcher’s.

  There was a short pause – and then a grunt of assent or gratitude. The man greeting them, if greeting was the right term, was Flavius Piso. Piso was a former lanista, who now commanded a group of mercenaries. Swords for hire. Piso’s men didn’t come cheap, but he argued that “you get what you pay for.” The Etruscan wasn’t one to take prisoners, unless they could command a valuable ransom.

  Piso snapped out an order for a couple of his men to unbar the door. Vulso wiped his sweaty palms on his grubby tunic and shared a brief look with Manius, to let the Briton know that he was ready – and to assure himself that his friend was ready too. The large door, wide enough to swallow the wagon up, creaked opened.

  Vulso flicked the reins and entered the lion’s den.

  21.

  Vulso pulled on the reins and slowed the wagon, ensuring that the back of the vehicle was still located in the doorway, to help prevent the enemy from quickly barring the entrance.

  Manius surveyed his opponents. Their leader seemed to be the man who had spoken to them through the shutter. He was lean, grey-haired and his chin jutted out like a cliff. He had a severe centre-parting, and a severer expression. He possessed a face that one wouldn’t altogether trust – and one that you wouldn’t want to betray either, Manius judged. The men he led were not to be underestimated. They numbered over a dozen, but more could be called upon if the alarm was sounded. They were well-conditioned and well-armed. Well-maintained swords and daggers hung down from belts. Many were lank-haired, bearded and brutish. Their eyes were slightly glazed, from an afternoon spent drinking. But wine often fuelled violence, instead of quelling it. Not even Pythagoras could come up with a theorem to calculate how many men the mercenaries had killed over the years. The Briton suspected that more than a few were foreign born – Germans, Spanish and Gauls. Manius couldn’t help but note one barbarian, wearing leather trousers, sitting in the corner. Mago. He was equal, if not superior, in size
to the bodyguard. A double-bladed axe lay within his muscular arm’s reach, although he appeared more interested in the plate of salted ham on his lap, than in the strangers who had newly arrived. He didn’t appear ready for a fight. But Manius was.

  Piso wondered if the wine delivery consisted of various vintages, for his employer’s cellar, of if the consignment was of a sufficient quality (or lack of quality) so that Pulcher would share it with his men. He would refrain from disturbing his employer at present, with news about the wine. The irritable – and irritating – nobleman had been in a foul mood for a couple of days now. Not even Mago was strong enough to remove the stick from his arse, Piso joked to himself.

  The wagon was in position. It was time. Macer and a handful of archers dashed forward. He had his orders. The praetorian was keen to prove himself. Vulso had promised him a month’s leave if he made his arrow count. Varro had added that he would grant Sabina a month’s leave too – and provide enough coin for them to visit a coastal resort. The guards on the wall had their backs turned, as they took an interest in what was happening inside the courtyard. Macer lined up with five other archers. Three were tasked with targeting the guard on the left, three targeted the guard on the right.