After making love they rested on their sides, facing one another - their noses almost touching. Varro tenderly tucked a tendril of her long hair behind her ear. Cassandra caught her breath whilst smiling. Varro attempted a similar expression but the strain on his heart - and facial muscles - grew too much. His fingers caressed her shoulders, arms, stomach and thighs. But with an artfulness, borne from several years’ worth of practice, Varro pretended to fall asleep. He soon rolled over, so his back was to his lover and he didn’t feel obliged to smile anymore. Part of him never wanted to seduce - use - a woman in such a fashion again. He felt limed in guilt, or fatigue. Or worthlessness.
I don’t want to go back to my old, stale existence. Something inside of me has changed. Or needs to change.
Viola lay curled-up, cat-like, at the end of his bed. Occasionally she whimpered, perhaps dreaming about her time living on the streets. Friendless. Starving. The sound of her whimpering, or snoring, would then wake her and she would wag her tail at the sight of Manius. The corners of her mouth would even raise themselves in a contented smile.
Manius stirred at the sound of the dog, or himself, snoring too. He immediately thought of Camilla but whereas the image of her in his mind’s eye was once as sharp and familiar as his own reflection her features seemed blurred. The Briton appeared even more mournful as he thought how time had worn away the picture of his parents over the years. He tried his best to recall them every day, clenching his eyes shut, but the wind and rain can erode the hardest of stone. Yet their faces were all too clear when he saw them during a re-occurring nightmare he suffered.
Lightening stabbed the horizon. The rain slashed down. Manius was trapped in the body of his child self again. Enfeebled. Terrified. The village had just finished sharing a feast, having made an offering to its gods. But the gods must have been sleeping, or ungrateful - as they did little to protect the tribe from the attack. The Romans came out of nowhere, encircling their prey, their spear tips glinting in the moonlight.
Women and children were skewered, like the pieces of roasted meat offered up to their deities. Huts were set alight, whether the soldiers knew there were people in them or not. Horses whinnied in the background, but the screeching sound couldn’t drown out the blood-curdling human screams. The Romans were methodical and savage at the same time, fuelled by wine, bloodlust and a will to loot and rape.
Tears mingled with raindrops across his cheeks as Manius splashed his way through the mud towards his home and, hopefully, parents. A few of the men from the village fought back, but in vain. One warrior staggered around, cradling his intestines in his hands. It looked like his stomach was full of adders. One of the village dogs soughed louder than the wind, from being pinned to the ground by a pilum having pierced its chest. Manius was fleetingly tempted to put the animal out of his misery - but he had his own miseries to deal with first.
Manius darted in between clumps of soldiers fighting and made it back to his family’s hut. His father, along with a few of his kinsman, stood guard at the door. As he entered his mother, Minura, clutched the child to her bosom - to the point of almost suffocating him. She then grabbed a basket, filled with what food and valuables she could muster. There would be no escape however. His father entered the hut, doubled over from a stab wound to his stomach. A brace of snarling Roman soldiers also entered, their swords dripping with fresh blood. A smirk, like a gash, lined the lead solder’s countenance as he caught sight of his mother. Attractive. Defeated.
The legionary first ran his gladius across his father’s throat, as though his hand was pulling a curtain across a window, before striding towards his mother. Drool ran down his stubbled chin. The Roman stood as large an oak tree - and Manius was but a sapling then. Scrawny and unaccomplished. He had joined his father on more than one hunting party, but he had yet to make his first kill.
Manius stood between the soldier, Tarius, and his trembling mother. The legionary laughed at the defiant looking child. But his laughter was cut short when the boy attempted to stab him with a small knife he had swiped off a table.
“Little bastard,” Tarius barked, as he grabbed Manius by the wrist and nearly yanked his arm out of the socket. The second soldier, Corvinus, restrained the boy, as he waited his turn to be with the woman. In the meantime, he glanced around the barbarian’s hut, in the hope of locating something valuable.
Tarius stood over Minura. Her gaze flitted between her husband, son and the man about to rape her. She wailed, in anger or grief, whilst retreating into the corner. Minura tucked her knees under her chin and shook her head as the soldier grew closer. Her head then shook from the invader striking her around her face. Blood dripped from her quivering lips. The soldier said something in a strange tongue. If he was striking a deal whereby he would let her son live if she submitted - then Minura would have submitted.
Thunder rumbled, or growled, in the background. His breath reeked of acetum. She noticed how black his fingernails were too as Tarius clawed open the woman’s dress and his eyes ogled her naked breasts. He licked his lips and slavered. Minura wanted to die.
“Stop.”
The voice was clear, forceful. His expression was unyielding, like his will.
Tarius turned around, gnashed his teeth and responded to his fellow soldier, who had stormed into the hut:
“Fuck off. Find your own piece of meat,” he barked. The legionary considered the barbarian woman to be a legitimate spoil of war. Even more than being rough with a whore, he enjoyed having his way with Rome’s enemies. The terror and submission in their eyes aroused him. He had tasted the women of Gaul. Now he wanted a Briton. It was his right. Part of his pay for being a Roman soldier.
Lucius Oppius was a man of few words at the best of times - and he wasn’t about to waste his breath on the two wayward soldiers in front of him. Oppius first swung a bolder-like fist into the face of the legionary restraining the boy. Corvinus lost consciousness before his head even touched the ground. Tarius let out a curse and rushed forward, thrusting the point of his gladius at his opponent’s chest. Oppius swatted the blade away, using the bronze bracer on his forearm. He then moved inside and buried his sword into Tarius’ groin.
Oppius dragged the two bodies into the corner with little ceremony. Minura hugged her son and observed the Roman with a sense of wariness and confusion. He proceeded to instruct a man mountain of a soldier, one Roscius, to invite other villagers into the hut and keep them safe whilst Oppius continued to try and restore discipline to the bloodthirsty pack of soldiers outside.
Manius never discovered whether the raid on the village was ordered by Caesar. Some said the general let his soldiers of the leash, breaking a peace treaty, to send a message out to neighbouring tribes. Others argued Caesar put a stop to the bloodletting, after hearing about the mutinous behaviour. When all the guilty legionaries were rounded up Caesar decimated the group. One in ten soldiers were slaughtered. But, in terms of the villagers, only one in ten survived.
The following afternoon Caesar made an appearance at the village. Manius had already heard the stories about the great Roman who had, against all odds, landed his army on the south-east coast. Some argued he had come to trade, rather than conquer. Manius would later realise that Rome conquered, in order to trade. Some claimed that Caesar would create the same rivers of blood that ran through Gaul. The Roman bribed or threatened a number of tribes in the region to prevent them from uniting against him.
Manius peeped through the throng and stood on tip-toe to catch sight of Caesar. His red cloak billowed in the wind. The general’s hawkish eyes took everything in. He was quick to smile, or frown, depending on whether he was pleased or displeased. Caesar briefly stood before the villagers and nodded his head, impassively, as a clerk presented him with a wax tablet, which tallied up their value as slaves. The bloody and bowed souls before him were, at best, livestock to Caesar. If the Roman mourned his father and others in the village, he mourned the profit he had missed out on even more.
> Manius would wake, soaked in sweat, from the nightmare - his mind trapped in a vice of grief and trauma. As he lay in bed now the Briton wondered whether, in years to come, if he would similarly have re-occurring nightmares about losing Camilla. Would she be a fond or painful memory? A dream or nightmare?
Dawn. Bars of tawny light shunted themselves through the shutters and reflected off the pair of swords, hung diagonally in a cross-shape, on the wall opposite his bed. The weapons were a legacy from his days as a gladiator. Manius couldn’t remember the last time he had held them in his hands, or even given them a second thought. Perhaps he always knew he would somehow use them again however, as every six months he would oil and polish the weapons. Hopefully he would not have to use them again for too long. Manius recalled his conversation with Felix Dio:
“It is likely you will be matched with a beardless wonder. The lanistas like to use us to blood new fighters… We are seldom able to attract veterans or gladiators in their prime, as they want to fight in the big arenas… The gore on your tunic at the end of any contest should not be your own…”
Manius was confident of victory. He had no reason to distrust the fight promoter.
24.
Whilst Cassandra’s maid attended to her mistress’ hair and make-up in a guest bedroom Varro briefed Fronto about his plan to parcel the woman off to his villa in Arretium. Their bones creaked, for different reasons, as they sat on a stone bench in the garden. A fountain, depicting Orpheus dying at the hands of a trio of maenads, murmured in the background. Lucilla had designed and overseen the construction of the fountain years ago. Perhaps the piece was her way of warning Varro not to allow the Bacchante in him to triumph over the poet.
“Have you told the lady of your intentions yet? She seems to be under the impression she will be remaining here,” the old man remarked, scribbling away on a wax tablet with a speed and neatness worthy of Tiro, Cicero’s famed secretary.
“I will talk to her this morning. Hopefully she will understand. Self-preservation should, quite rightly, eclipse any amorous feelings she harbours for me,” Varro argued, as he anxiously played with some dice in his hand and shuffled a little, in an attempt to sit more comfortably on the bench. He often carried the ivory, gold-spotted dice in his hands when he went out into the garden, read in the library or drank in the house. Sometimes he would practise rolling them, as he tried to devise a system of securing the score he desired. Just when he thought he had mastered a technique he would then throw several scores counter to his wishes. Good luck runs through one’s hands quicker than sand or water. The corners were becoming rounded and the gold was beginning to fade on the dice. But still he played on.
“Do you think it’s for the best, to send her away?”
“I dare say you have known me long enough to conclude that I never know what’s for the best. I just want Cassandra to be safe. Even if I break her heart, that will be nothing compared to the pain her husband might inflict upon her, should he find her.”
“Should Augustus choose to prosecute the senator, or dispense with justice in some other fashion, then she will be a free woman again,” Fronto said, raising a suggestive eyebrow. The old attendant was still optimistic that he could see his master become a husband and father before he died.
“Well you know how I prefer to pay for my women,” Varro joked, deflecting any talk of him remarrying. “Now have you secured the funds I will need for later, for Manius?”
“Yes. Hopefully you will return with even more gold than both of you can carry.”
“It’s unfortunate Manius will have to pay for his woman too. Should his plan somehow fail however, and Camilla’s merchant father still doesn’t wish to sell his daughter, then I will have to come up with a different approach.”
A sly smile enlivened Fronto’s features.
“And why, pray tell, are you grinning like an idiot?”
“It’s nice to see you thinking of others for a change.”
“Enjoy it while you can, because I’m sure it won’t last. But if I can have a slight - and temporary - change of heart by thinking of others then you should start thinking of yourself, my friend. I would prefer it if Aelia put a smile on your face, rather than me. The gods only know why, but she likes you. Perhaps I could come out of retirement and compose a love poem, which you could send to her.”
“That would be a bold and clever plan, if Aelia were able to read.”
“I am determined to make a match for you Fronto, more than even you are determined to see me married I warrant. If needs be I’ll drug you with some of Albanus Pollio’s theriac, wait till you fall asleep, carry you across the house and leave you in Aelia’s bed. She can have her wicked way with you, whether you like it or not. But before that we need to put a stop to Lucius Scaurus’ wickedness. After I talk to Cassandra and we finalise arrangements for her departure, I will dictate my report to Agrippa. If the gods are willing, I will then be able to start thinking of myself again and things will be back to normal.”
Varro felt a sudden cramp in his hands and the dice dropped to the ground. He noted how they fell.
The Dog throw. The lowest score one could get.
Just as well I’m not superstitious, thank the gods… At least things can’t get any worse.
The morning sun beat down, like a drum. Rome was sweating. The smell of seafood, freshly baked bread and sweetened wine assaulted his nostrils. The sound of competing hawkers, selling their wares, assaulted his ears. Varro and Cassandra made their way down towards the Forum. Varro wracked his brains for suitably quiet locations where he could tell Cassandra that she needed to leave Rome. Leave him. He was tempted to delay the scene and wait till they got back to the house. There was a corner of the garden he had used before to tell other lovers that their affair should end. But no, he had put off the conversation for too long already. He should tell her before they returned.
Cassandra cast another sidelong glance at Varro. Sometimes he clenched his teeth. Sometimes his features dropped, as if they were about to fall to the ground. She knew something was wrong but didn’t want to ask. They had made polite conversation on their walk. But one of the virtues of a good Roman wife was to know when to speak and when to remain patient and silent.
Varro breathed in the hot, dirty air and sucked in the scene. A jaundiced plaster wall was home to a patchwork of graffiti, scrawled by various hands. Although dominated by curse words and insults there was the odd, worthy, satirical comment. Varro was pleased to note quotes from Aristotle and Euripides, among the literary vomit staining the side of the building: There is no great genius without some touch of madness… Ten soldiers wisely led will defeat a hundred without a head.
A couple of pot-bellied government officials shuffled past him. Their togas and faces had seen better days. Varro caught a snippet of their bleating conversation:
“We’re now overworked and underpaid. Caesar is rooting out corruption against his enemies but turning a blind eye to the greed of his supporters… Thankfully I put some money aside when the going was good, when I was in a position to grease the wheels.”
“Aye, I felt more courted than a whore, when I was involved in auctioning off the licences to collect taxes.”
Varro passed by his local bookseller and he remembered he had a couple of books on order. He thought about popping in and asking if the copyists had finished their work. The shop’s owner, Novius, had been a keen supporter of his poetry over the years (although he couldn’t remember the last time the bookseller had sold any of his works). Perhaps he championed me more out of a sense of pity than profit, Varro half-joked to himself. Varro grinned too as he remembered how Novius would always mention if a female fan came in to order a book or ask about the author. Bless him. In some ways he was my pimp.
A gaggle of women, accompanied by an army of slaves, entered the marketplace as if they owned it. Their garish stolas, and oversized pieces of foreign made jewellery, scalded the eyes more than the summer sun. Their make-up was ap
plied like cement, covering over the cracks. Some wittered on, or feigned moral outrage, about the latest scandal or affair to come to the attention of their social circle: “She only has herself to blame… She should have kept one eye on her appearance in the mirror and the other eye on her straying husband… Senator Haterius groped me again the other evening. We should band together and say time’s up on such appalling behaviour. He is the most beastly man I know. Although hopefully I will see you at the party Haterius is throwing tomorrow. He has contacts with merchants, who will be attending, who import Chinese silks.” Others complained about the rising price of avocados, as if the world was coming to an end.
Varro quickened his pace to escape the increasingly vapid and dinful market. He winced slightly as a blister on his left foot burst. He had been on his feet, rushing around, far too much lately. He looked forward to catching up on a week’s worth of afternoon naps. Before he had a chance to lament his minor injury anymore he was distracted by Bassos walking towards him. The landlord of the The Golden Lion appeared harassed and in a hurry. His nose was beetroot red (in summer he was unable to blame the phenomenon on the cold weather) and his hair was mussed up more than one of his whores, after a busy night up against the headrest.
“Morning, unfortunately I cannot stop to talk,” Bassos said, breathlessly, carrying a sack of vegetables over his shoulder. “My wife is minding the tavern. If I’m away for too long my life won’t be worth living. Although, once I’m back and suffering her company then my life won’t be worth living even more. Remember, we have that new wine coming in from Alexandria soon, which I thought you might like to be the first to try.”
The landlord offered his patron a wink, just in case he didn’t quite understand his meaning, that the new wine was code for his new whore, Nefertari.
Bassos rushed off before Varro had a chance to reply. His attention was also diverted towards Cassandra, who leaned into him, nestling her head against his arm. Her maid had doused her hair in too much perfume this morning, he noted. Didn’t she know how he preferred her natural fragrance? Varro recalled how he enjoyed waking up next to Lucilla - and the first thing he would smell would be the moreish scent of her hair and skin. He missed the fragrance all the more, now that it was gone.
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