Blood & Honour

by Richard Foreman

  As such Varro would swallow his pride and talk to one of the last people in Rome he wished to be indebted to. His ex-wife, Lucilla.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Camilla had only been out of his company for a few moments and already she missed him. She still felt the sensation of his lips on hers and her skin still tingled from where his beard had brushed against her cheek. Camilla wasn’t sure how long her last embrace with Manius had been – she just knew that it hadn’t been long enough.

  She owned a spring in her step when entering the gardens to meet with Manius but now Camilla’s footsteps seemed leaden as she trudged up the grassy slope to meet with her litter bearers, to take her home. To her father. She sensed he already knew something was different about her. Perhaps a litter bearer had said something, or he could have ordered an attendant to follow her. She knew her father could be secretive and ruthless when it came to business matters. But she had faith that he loved her and would want what was best for his daughter. And nothing felt better than the thought of being with the man she loved. Camilla would effusively tell her father that Manius was the noblest and bravest man she knew. He also loved Rome, more than his homeland. He was still awestruck when he visited the Senien baths or Circus Maximus. He respected Roman law, customs and prayed to the gods. She would assure her father that there was no danger of Manius taking her away from the city. Although she would subtly hint that she would be willing to run away with him, if he forbade her from seeing him. Her pulse raced faster than her feet. Camilla felt breathless. Partly she was frightened about how her father might react. And partly she was in love. She had never seriously thought about having children, until now. She took more time over what to wear whenever she saw him. She felt safe with him – and he loved her in return, for who she was rather than for how much she stood to inherit.

  Camilla told herself, unconvincingly, that she could be worrying about nothing. Her father would give her his blessing, in the same way Rufus Varro had. She didn’t quite know what to think of the nobleman, who had a reputation. Everything seemed to be a joke for the satirist. He also needed to dilute his wine more. She had read some of his poetry and judged that he modelled himself too much on Catullus. His wit could be too abrasive and his language too bawdy. Too much irony can be a double-edged sword. But if Manius trusted him then she would too. And he never prevented his bodyguard from taking time off to see her.

  He doesn’t seem to have a care in the world… That’s sad rather than enviable.

  Diana, Lucilla’s attendant, instructed Varro to wait in the triclinium while her mistress was getting ready. Diana couldn’t, or wouldn’t, disguise her discomfort and distaste. The Greek maid had served Lucilla during her marriage to Varro. She dried her mistress’ tears too many times to mention and heard too many stories of his callousness and infidelity. Diana could neither forgive nor forget his behaviour.

  Varro sat on a couch. The maid said her mistress would be free at any moment, but he knew from experience that Lucilla would keep him waiting. He looked around the tastefully decorated room, admiring various pieces of sculpture and art. He then remembered how much each piece cost him and he pursed his lips. Out of guilt for the way he had treated his wife – and from desiring a quick divorce – Varro had been generous with his settlement. He purchased a house for Lucilla on the Palatine (a suitable distance away from his own) and provided her with an allowance each month. Lucilla made some wise investments – and could now afford to support herself, if she chose to. Her financial independence also meant she could choose not to marry, although she was not wanting for wealthy suitors and young lovers claiming her attention.

  Varro still visited his former wife once or twice a month. They were, just about, on amicable terms. They had even slept with one another one evening, a year after the divorce. Come the morning after though Lucilla said she wanted him to leave – and to forget about the night before.

  “We will only end up despising each other again,” the woman gravely remarked.

  “I’m not sure I ever despised you, Lucilla.”

  “But I did you. And I didn’t like the person I became.”

  Lucilla was the only woman who he had ever genuinely admired, respected and loved. During their courtship and early days of being married she had inspired him to write his finest love poems. Sweetness sours though and during the divorce Varro composed nothing but cynical, acerbic satires. Yet still she was his muse, inspiring him.

  He heard a burst of laughter out in the hallway between the maid and her mistress (no doubt one of the two women had directed a barb at him) before Lucilla finally entered.

  As many disagreements as Varro had while they were married he could never argue against how beautiful his wife was, almost painfully so. Her body was as lithe and graceful as a dancer’s. Lucilla had always appeared older than her years in her youth but now she seemed miraculously younger than her twenty-eight years (despite the anguish he had caused her), Varro thought. Her almond-shaped eyes were perpetually smiling - whether joyfully, sensually or slyly. Her skin was pale but radiated like a pearl. If she went out Diana was always by her side, holding a parasol over her mistress. Her high cheekbones and slender jawline could have been sculptured by Praxiteles himself.

  Varro heard the rustle of silk behind him and turned to face her. Her lustrous, kohl-black tresses were artfully pinned up on her head, held in place by silver, gem-encrusted clips which glinted in the sunlight. She wore a long, sleeveless, pleated dress of Tyrian purple, with a narrow slit up one side. Occasionally Varro would catch a glimpse of her smooth, contoured calf and he’d need to redouble his efforts to concentrate on the conversation. Her leather sandals, with straps that disappeared up the hem of her dress, were painted gold.

  If Lucilla wanted to have reminded her former husband about what he was missing, she succeeded. Yet Varro didn’t just esteem her for her beauty. Lucilla, who had largely educated herself, was considered as well as considerate. She had always treated his staff with kindness and generosity, calling out doctors for them if they were sick and making sure that they ate well. Fronto and Manius were suitably devoted to her too and regularly sided with his wife when he would go to them with grievances against her. But he knew that those soft lips, which could kiss him so lovingly, and those rows of gleaming teeth, guarded a tongue shaped like a scorpion’s sting.

  “You’ve given up one of the rarest and most desired blooms in Rome,” Fronto asserted, on the day their divorce was settled.

  “But the most beautiful flowers can also be the most poisonous,” Varro replied, trying to convince his attendant – and himself – that he had done the right thing.

  Yet Varro often missed her scornful wit and wisdom. They shared the same black and dry sense of humour. He missed trading quotes from Horace, Aristotle and Aeschylus with her – and her critical comments after a performance at the theatre:

  “It was a tragedy, but not in the way they intended… The Trojan Horse gave a less wooden performance than the protagonist… I’ve never known someone to try their best and fail so much at the same time…”

  Varro had to concede that Lucilla had flourished after she left him. She had become one of the great social lionesses of Rome. She threw parties which were attended by all manner of statesmen, artists and figures of influence. Lucilla was regularly consulted, by men and women alike, on business matters, the latest fashions and trends in the art world. She was a favourite of the Princep’s wife, Livia – and rumour had it that her son, Tiberius, had recently declared that she was the most beautiful woman in the empire.

  “What an unexpected pleasure. Would you care for some refreshments?” Lucilla remarked. Her voice was the soul of politeness rather than warmth. As much as she might have been pleased to see him, she didn’t wish to show it. He noticed the ornate glass pendant around her neck, a gift from an ex-lover from when they were married (who had once been a friend of Varro’s).

  “I’m fine, thank you.
I’m also worried that Diana might poison any dish she served me. Although she may be out of poison, having whispered it all in your ear since my arrival.”

  The veneer of Lucilla’s formality cracked a little and an amused smile shone through. She reined herself in though, when tempted to laugh.

  “You are too hard on Diana. Or perhaps not hard enough, given how much she, rightly or wrongly, has cause to dislike you. But I hope all is well. Are Fronto and Manius in good health?” Lucilla asked, as she noticed something amiss in his aspect (although his careworn expression may have just been the result of another long night spent in the Subura).

  “They are both well. Fronto still quotes my father’s maxims and nags me,” Varro replied, resisting the temptation to add, like a wife. “And Manius is, of all things, in love. He’s even ignoring Viola, to spend time with the woman.”

  “I have heard. Her name is Camilla I believe. I met her once. She’s pretty. Much lovelier than her father, although he’s no benchmark for any competition, I warrant. But I hope Manius is not falling too deeply in love, lest he’s unable to climb out of the hole when the affair ends. Aulus Sanga will never allow his precious daughter to stoop to marrying someone of such a base rank. It’s a shame. Manius deserves some happiness. He can’t stay married to you – and live under your roof – forever.”

  Varro was slightly taken back by Lucilla’s knowledge of Manius’ affair, although he endeavoured not to show his surprise. And in a way, it wasn’t such great a surprise. If gossip was currency in Rome then Lucilla was as rich as Croesus. People trusted her, either to keep their secrets or, more so, spread stories which they wanted to disseminate. She knew everyone. Her nobility and beauty opened doors. Doubtless she still had spies in his own household.

  “Well I thought I’d come and speak to you regarding another affair, so to speak. I am due to attend a party this evening, hosted by Lucius Scaurus. I’m keen to know what you think of him, seeing as his wife and I were once intimate. I don’t want to arrive at his house and be set upon by his hunting hounds or, worse, be served any second-rate wine.”

  “Lucius certainly approves of affairs himself, given the number of mistresses he’s courted since being married. He even cast his glassy eye over me at one point. But he’s far too old - and poor - for my taste, of course. The greatest love affair Lucius has conducted has always been, like most men, with himself. He owns aspirations of obtaining a consulship, but even he must have woken-up to the fact that the dream is over… He is forever listing the achievements of his noble ancestors, but it only serves to highlight how little he has achieved… I heard he is spending more time lately with a troupe of actors at a theatre, situated just outside the city, than he is with his senatorial colleagues. Not that our statesmen couldn’t teach the performers a thing or two about putting on an act… Apparently, he was once a victim of Cicero’s wit, in the Senate House. Lucius exclaimed that he was “a modest man”. Cicero chirped in with the reply, “Aye, with a lot to be modest about.” The laughter that followed made him shrivel up like a salted slug… I knew one of his mistresses. She shall remain nameless, but she revealed how, when making love, she couldn’t quite tell if it was the bed, or his bones, creaking… Perhaps I am being slightly unfair. Lucius can be charming in a vague way. But he is best summed up by saying he’s a senator. His most distinguishing feature is his mediocrity. He’s like Crassus, but not as wealthy. He’s like Brutus, but not as noble. He’s like Pompey, but far from great. And like Caesar, but without the courage.”

  “And what do you think Lucius thinks of Caesar’s heir?”

  “His only son died at the Battle of Philippi and his father perished at Pharsalus, so I’m not sure the name of any Caesar is particularly welcome in his house. Yet I suspect you will be welcome, despite your previous dalliance with his wife. Lucius is always looking to recruit men of wealth and noble blood to his faction. He knew your father well, I believe. Although I imagine that he liked your father more than your father liked him. Lucius may even encourage you enter into office, unless he’s already been briefed that you would rather suffer the underworld than ever countenance the thought of working for a living. You will soon work him out for yourself though, once introduced to him this evening. As dense as Lucius can be, you’ll see through him.”

  “Would you consider him dangerous?”

  “I wouldn’t want him as an enemy. I wouldn’t much like him as a friend either. You may want to think twice about re-igniting any flames of passion with his wife. The last time I saw Cassandra she was wearing a bruise on her cheek, which no amount of make-up could quite conceal. I was told that he beat her for having flirted with a soldier. But be careful, for both your sakes. You seem to have more on your mind that just the party however, Rufus,” she said, seemingly genuinely concerned.

  Lucilla looked up, gazing fixedly into his eyes – or what was left of his threadbare soul. His semblance seemed to burn with shame - and he buried his chin in his chest. Varro noticed the bold, cherry-red colour of her fingernails as she placed her hand on his. He remembered how she would stroke her nails along his back and the inside of his thighs. He also recalled however how he had described her long fingernails as being akin to cat-like claws in a poem he wrote, after they were married. The poem recounted an incident of how Varro had come home late, drunk, to his wife. He blearily, yet spitefully, confessed to having slept with one of her best friends – and she slapped him around the face. Her nails broke the skin and drew blood – although, partly because of the drink, he barely felt anything.

  He thought how, even more than Fronto or Manius, she could read his moods. More than anyone else Lucilla also had the ability to alter his mood. She could make him grin and laugh or, by reminding him of his past, cause him to feel guilty or miserable.

  “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine. Once I’ve had a drink, of course,” he replied, forcing an unconvincing smile.

  “Are you writing anything at the moment?” Lucilla knew how listless – and worthless – Varro felt when he wasn’t working on something.

  “No.”

  He wanted to tell her that nothing inspired him anymore. He found it harder to laugh in the face of an absurd world. The joke of life, with its punchline of death, was no longer funny. His poems were forged from lead, not gold. Horace and Virgil would rightly live forever. But anything he had written would be lost, like footprints blown away in the sand. He wanted to tell her how someone had recently scrawled one of his couplets on the inside of the Servian wall. But come the following day it had been replaced with a lewd piece of graffiti and the picture of a giant phallus.

  “I don’t want you to squander your life,” Lucilla said softly, almost in a whisper, her voice now infused with warmth and meaningfulness. For all that had happened between them – and that she couldn’t forgive or forget – Lucilla still cared for him.

  Varro was going to reply how he had already done so, by squandering his marriage to her. But he desisted. A sigh came out, and then some brittle words.

  “I’m more concerned about squandering my estate.”

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about that. I intend to bankrupt you far quicker than you can do so yourself. On that subject I must show you a new piece I purchased last month, off a dealer over from Alexandria.”

  “I suppose I should see it. After all, I probably paid for it.”

  “I remember you once telling me that what’s yours is mine.”

  “It must have been the wine talking.”

  “I think you also said at the time that you gave me your heart too. But this piece I’m about to show you is far more valuable than that.”

  7.

  Sunlight still burned in the sky, like embers. It had been a long day. For Varro it seemed even longer. And it was still far from over. He sat, along with Manius, in the triclinium of his house. Fronto had put out some fried squid, olives and grapes on the table but neither man felt hungry. Varro recounted the morning’s events to his friend.

&n
bsp; “It appears that you don’t just have to be in the Subura to get screwed, when you’re in Rome,” the Briton commented, in response to Varro’s predicament. “So, are you going to attend the party this evening?”

  “Am I going to drink the night away and seduce a former mistress? Yes. Duty calls,” Varro joked, holding his cup of wine up in a toast. There was little good humour in his strained expression however. “I suppose my best hope is that I fail to find any evidence of possible treachery – and I report back to Agrippa that Scaurus is not worth investigating any further.”

  “And if you do find any evidence?”

  “Then I’ll just have to drink and fuck some more, for the good of Rome and pursuit of truth.”

  Varro raised a corner of his mouth, in a gesture towards a half-smile, as he took in Viola, curled-up contentedly at Manius’ feet. The mongrel had sat attentively when he first began discussing Agrippa’s unexpected appearance that morning. But her yawning soon turned into a bout of gentle snoring.

  “I may have to ask for a pay rise, given the newfound peril you’re placing yourself in,” the bodyguard half-joked.

  “You may well end up deserving one. I’m caught between Scylla and Charybdis – Caesar and Scaurus. But I’m depressing myself, talking about me. How was your day?”

  “More pleasant – and less dramatic - than yours. Although it may increase in drama by nightfall. Camilla said she would tell her father about us today,” Manius divulged, with more anxiety in his voice than relief and elation. He pictured the scene of Camilla talking to her father over dinner – and the various outcomes of the conversation. Come morning she could be his intended, with her father’s blessing. Or come morning she could be forbidden from leaving the house or sent away to the countryside. Perhaps Sanga wouldn’t make a quick decision, either way. He could reserve judgement and ask to meet with the man his daughter professed to love. Should her father ask him about his estate and prospects though the conversation could prove a short one. He possessed neither. Manius had thought about cobbling together his money and wagering it all on a chariot race. Or he could ask Varro to use the sum as stake money in a game of dice. But neither idea appealed to the Briton. Camilla had said that she would pray to Venus. Yet Manius knew he couldn’t just hope that the gods would favour his suite. It was always prudent to rely on a plan which didn’t depend on divine intervention.