Varro remembered the night in question, when the two men had first met and played dice. They had been frequenting The Crooked Plough, a tavern at the heart of the Subura. Varro had gone there, hoping that the wine would wash away the glutinous boredom which seemed to attach itself to his soul, like tree sap trapping a fly. He had just decided to end his affair with Marcella Laronius. The night before she had declared she loved him – and would divorce her husband to marry him. But Varro had no desire to marry again. Marcella also had children. He did not want to break-up a family, even if it was an unhappy one. Varro knew all too well what it was like to grow-up without a mother and a largely absent father. He decided he would end things by writing a letter to the woman, even if he judged it to be a coward’s way out. Or better still he would compose a poem (he could adapt one he had written a year ago for another mistress). The poet would remain fond of the woman, until he forgot about her. Varro had initially seduced Marcella in order to cuckold her husband, the praetor Cornelius Laronius. Cornelius was an odious creature, even for a politician. Snakes would even blush at his sly malpractices. He had changed sides and betrayed his friends in the civil war more times than even Euclid could calculate. The poet had also overheard the statesman criticise his verses. If only Manius could safeguard me from critics, he half-jokingly thought to himself.
And so, to distract himself from any unpleasantness regarding the ill-fated affair, Varro surrendered to a night of drinking and gambling in the The Crooked Plough. To further entertain himself Varro goaded the arrogant carpenter into betting money he had put aside for investing in new premises (whilst the aristocrat could afford to stake ten times the amount and not bat an eyelid if he lost). Cinna goaded himself by being intoxicated with wine and the stimulant, or poison, of greed. Varro had toyed with his opponent like a gladiator who could, at any moment, deliver the killing blow to the beast he was combating in the arena.
Cinna snorted on registering Varro’s reply. He gripped the handle of his knife more firmly. He wasn’t sure where his envy for the handsome nobleman ended and his contempt began. The carpenter judged that Varro had never done an honest day’s work in his life. As well-educated as the aristocrat was, he needed to be taught a lesson or two. He recalled the shame and privation he had suffered over the past month, from losing the money. It would take him another year, at least, to save up the necessary capital to expand his business. His shrewish wife had not stopped scalding him too, reminding him of his failure and stupidity.
“We’re not afraid of your bodyguard,” Cinna announced, baring his rotting teeth, as the vein in his neck throbbed, like a toad’s bulging throat.
“More fool you,” Varro replied, as he got to his feet. His eyes flitted about the room, taking in the escape routes and possible items he could utilise as a weapon. There wasn’t any envy in the Roman’s heart. Just contempt.
“How much do you want me to hurt them?” the Briton asked, as he formulated several plans of attack.
“As with when I’m composing a poem, make it up as you go along.”
Cinna turned to his companions and gave them a subtle nod, to attack. But Manius was quicker to react. The Briton was agile for his size. He kept himself well-conditioned, setting aside time each month to spar and fence with other former gladiators.
To even the odds Manius attacked three opponents at once by lifting-up the rickety table and thrusting it forward into Porcius, Nonius and Marcus. The muscles in his neck became pronounced, as taut as a ship’s rigging. The half-drunk carpenters were forced backwards, shock and fear carved into their features. Nonius lost his footing and fell to the floor. As he walked over him the roaring Briton stamped upon his groin. He lay groaning, doubled-up, dry-retching. Manius put the table down and ripped off one of the legs. He first swung the make-shift club against Marcus’ shoulder. He let out a high-pitch scream, like a eunuch, and dropped his dagger. No sooner had the blade clanged upon the stone floor when Manius swung the table leg again and it connected with the side of his opponent’s head and knocked him out.
“Bastard!” Porcius spat, holding his dagger aloft. Dark, beady eyes peered out from his flabby face.
Manius dropped the table leg and unsheathed his own dagger. The rasping sound was familiar – but not altogether welcome. Most men enjoyed it when they got to employ their gifts. But Manius’ gift was violence. There were times when he would rather have kept his gift wrapped-up, his talent hidden. The ex-gladiator moved forward, rolling his shoulders and balancing his weight. Porcius lunged forward, but with all the speed and grace of a lumbering ox. Manius side-stepped the attack and quick-stabbed his opponent in the thigh. He then, with a deft flick of the wrist, drew the blade across the carpenter’s left hamstring. The big man dropped to the floor and whimpered - in pain and disbelief. The sawdust commenced to soak up some of the blood.
Varro owned every confidence that his companion could best three opponents. If only he possessed the same amount of confidence in himself, to defeat his sole assailant. Cinna’s dagger swished through the air again – and Varro retreated once more. His back was now to the wall, next to the fireplace. Varro cursed himself, for forgetting to bring his own dagger out.
“You’ve got nowhere else to go,” Cinna remarked. Sneering. Savouring the moment.
But Varro was right where he wanted to be.
As Cinna drew his weapon back, preparing to attack and finally draw blood, Varro reached for Caesar’s sword on the mantlepiece. He swung the gladius around with such force that he not only parried Cinna’s attack, but knocked his weapon out of his hand. Partly due to fear, partly due to the wine he’d consumed, the disorientated carpenter staggered backwards and tripped over a stool. When he looked up he saw Varro standing over him – and the tip of a blade hovering over his neck.
“You’ve lost your money. Do you want to lose your life too, over a game of dice? It’s up to you,” Varro said. A part of him felt sorry for the defeated carpenter. But the poet didn’t have that much of a sensitive soul – and duly dismissed any temptation he might have felt to pay back his winnings.
The four men limped and stumbled out of the tavern, bloodied and cowed. Cinna wouldn’t be able to recruit them again. They had all learned their lesson – and would wake in the morning suffering from more than just a hangover.
Bassos came out from behind the doorway to the kitchen. If he had hair, he would have begun to pull it out with worry. He tallied up the cost of the broken furniture in his mind and the cost was equal to a day’s takings. Another day spent. Another day wasted. But before he had a chance to berate the gods in earnest, Bassos gave thanks to Varro.
“I’ll pay for any damages. It’s the least I can do. I may not be the most honourable man I know - that title, be it a curse or blessing, belongs to my friend here – but I’d like you to know I did beat that cretin at dice fairly. If you must think ill of me, which you will eventually if you’ve got any sense, I’d prefer it to be for the right reasons. I should also apologise for damaging your sword, Bassos,” the nobleman remarked, holding the weapon aloft so that the tavern owner could see the large new nick in the blade.
“Oh, no need to fret about that. I’ve got a dozen more just like it out back. I purchased a job lot from a blacksmith, just outside of Ancona, several years ago,” Bassos exclaimed, the lustre returning to his eyes, as he recalled the favourable deal he negotiated and the word of mouth he’d generated from the anecdote about Caesar once visiting his establishment.
3.
The waxing moon hung in the star-strewn sky like a lantern. Varro envied its stillness and distance. The companions made their way home through the narrow, odorous streets of the Subura, towards their house on the Palatine Hill. Varro had always felt comfortable in his skin, spending time in both districts. The one was home to politicians, the other to common criminals. The residents of both neighbourhoods were more alike than they might concede. Politicians and criminals shared a lust for gold, could go weak at the knees at the sight
of a courtesan, would gossip like housewives and pray to avoid the underworld, as much as they belonged there. One group were nasty, self-serving, filthy-minded rogues. And the other group were common criminals.
Varro noticed a piece of graffiti on a wall. Someone had crossed out “Long Live Caesar” and written “Long Live the Republic.” He rolled his eyes and wryly smiled, recalling how, two streets away, someone had crossed out “Long Live the Republic” and scrawled “Long Live Caesar” in its place.
Octavius Caesar had been declared Augustus – the “Revered One” – in January. Although Varro had recently read some verses which labelled him the “Reviled One”.
The Battle of Actium had paved the way for peace – or rather the final victory. Octavius had given thanks to Apollo for his triumph against Antony’s fleet, albeit he should have thanked his general, Marcus Agrippa, for ending the war. Instead of framing the battle in terms of Octavius defeating Antony though (and highlight how Rome was divided) the propagandists had trumpeted how Rome had defeated Egypt – and that civilisation had proved victor over barbarism. The gods had been on Caesar’s side. Octavius had saved the Republic. At least the god of irony was on his side, Varro fancied.
Octavius still humbly called himself consul, but he was a dictator in all but name. He collected other honorifics too, like a wife collecting reasons to hector her husband. He was “First in the Senate,” “Princep” and “Imperator”.
Varro remembered witnessing one of Caesar’s many Triumphs, when he returned from the East. Magistrates trailed behind Octavius’ gilded chariot, like attendants or slaves. The streets were filled with a tangible sense of joy, gratitude and relief. Finally, there would be peace. Rome had endured thirteen long years of civil war – of proscriptions, battles, uprisings, crippling taxation and food shortages. Enough blood had been spilled to wash the Tiber away. But wives would no longer be widowed, children would no longer be orphaned, due to Rome being at war with itself. Caesar’s enemies – Marcus and Decimus Brutus, Cassius, Sextus Pompey, Mark Antony and Cleopatra – were all dead. Julius Caesar had instilled the lesson into his heir that it’s where one’s positioned at the end of the race that matters. There may have still been factions to challenge Octavius’ supremacy, but they lacked a figurehead to rally behind. No one desired to put their head above the parapet, for fear of it getting lopped off. As well as the gods, Octavius crucially had the army and populace on his side.
The people had food in their bellies and coins in their pockets once more. Soldiers returning from campaign were resettled. The grain supply was no longer interrupted from the East. Debts were being repaid. A tax system was put in place – which encompassed tax relief and remittances. Each male citizen and soldier was granted a donative, courtesy of the plunder Octavius had brought back from Egypt. Marcus Agrippa, Caesar’s chief lieutenant and the architect of many of his victories, became the architect of Rome. Building projects were announced – and completed. Sewer systems and aqueducts provided fresh water and better waste management. Bathhouses and gardens sprung up around the city. Temples were restored to their former glory.
But you cannot please all the people, all the time. Not everyone embraced Caesar’s reforms, although they were powerless to stop them. The Senate House was denuded, both of members and authority. Swathes of senators were asked, politely or otherwise, to resign. New men, loyal to Octavius, replaced figures from noble bloodlines which had served in the Senate House for generations. The Republic was restored and reformed at the same time. Augustus allowed the Senate to take of control of half the provinces again. The remaining provinces however, the ones of key strategic importance and home to the majority of the legions, would remain under Caesar’s governance. He claimed the Senate had “pressured” him to accept such a settlement.
The law courts were reinstated. Octavius rescinded the edicts which had been enacted under the triumvirate. Elections were re-established – and Octavius and Agrippa were duly voted in as consuls again. The Senate still met to discuss legislation, but they were ultimately just actors on a stage, waiting on their lines and direction from a higher power.
As a courtesan will tell herself she’s lost weight, as a Gaulish soldier will consider himself brave, as a politician will call himself honest and a Vestal Virgin will swear that she couldn’t possibly have caught the pox – so too Rome believed that it was still a republic, Varro thought. But it was just a façade. If you looked behind the edifice of the state one would have found Octavius Caesar sitting upon a throne, propping it up. Varro remembered another piece of graffiti, which hadn’t quite been scrubbed free from the side of a bathhouse: “We are no longer citizens, but subjects.” How long would it be before Octavius’ step-son, Tiberius, was declared his heir? How long would it be before Livia called herself queen? She certainly possessed sufficient outfits and jewels for the role.
Yet the supposed Golden Age of the Roman Republic was, at best, one of half-polished bronze, Varro considered. Rome was always a prize to be won, rather than an idea to be served. Marius, Pompey, Sulla all acted like kings, without crowns. The course of honours was more ruthless and rigged than a chariot race. The great families of the Senate House could little boast that they represented the rest of Rome and had the best interests of the people at heart. Statesmen were as corrupt as tax collectors, as sanctimonious as priests and as rapacious as slave merchants. Uncommon criminals. Varro recalled attending a party, arranged for a senator recently returned from governing a province in Greece. The first question his colleagues asked was, “How much money did you make?”
Whilst Varro mulled over the political state of affairs in Rome, as he wended his way through the Subura, Manius concentrated on the affairs of the heart. His palms grew sweaty and his pulse raced, as if he were about to fight in the arena, as he thought about Camilla. The happy prospect of winning her was matched by the fear of losing her however. Manius knew he would never find another woman like her again or experience such fine feelings.
He recalled the evening they met, a month ago. Varro had been invited to a party, hosted by one of Rome’s elder statesmen.
“I’ll be turning up with you, but forgive me if I leave with someone else… I may well be indifferent to Rome’s senatorial elite – but I’m willing to be charmed by one of their wives or daughters,” Varro insisted.
He soon made good on his word and abandoned his attendant, shortly after arriving at the event. Varro encountered a former mistress and either he led her upstairs, or she led him. After sampling some of the food on offer – quail’s eggs, asparagus tips, spiced lamprey – and accepting a large cup of Massic from a scantily clad serving girl - Manius retreated into the garden. Such gatherings made the former gladiator uncomfortable. The men peered down their noses at the foreign looking bodyguard. Half the women gazed at him in a spirit of haughtiness, or revulsion. Whilst others leered at the muscular attendant – and he was reminded of his time as a gladiator, when he was whored out to widows or bored, rich wives for the night. There were worse jobs in the world, he argued at the time. And surrendering his will to a mistress was preferable to surrendering in the arena. But only just, in some instances.
The gardens were large and well-kept. Oil lamps hung upon the boughs of fruit trees, bathing the scene in a warm, orange glow. Manicured lawns were bordered by shrubs and vibrant flowerbeds, perfuming the air. Occasionally Manius heard the whispers, moans or laughter of couples. But he pretended not to hear and walked on. He also pretended not to notice a grey-bearded senator grope a serving girl (who was even more scantily clad than usual) behind a statue of Minerva in the garden.
Realising that most of the more amorous guests were secreting themselves along the outskirts of the gardens Manius veered towards the centre. Which is where he discovered Camilla.
Instead of looking down her nose at the attendant she glanced up and politely smiled. Camilla had a round, pretty face – free from artifice or make-up. Her eyes were bright, inquisitive, spirited. Green,
like the Tiber. But like the river in summer, sparkling with petals of sunlight. Her skin was as smooth and white as alabaster, but as seemingly soft and lustrous as satin. She was wearing a sky-blue, cotton short-sleeved stola with a ribbon of silk, dyed with saffron, tied around her slender waist. A fan sat on her lap. Her blonde hair, which grew fairer in the summer, had been styled into a matronly bun and was held in place by a pearl-topped silver hairpin. White, round-toed felt slippers peeked out from beneath the hem of her dress as she sat on a stone bench, within the central bower of the garden. A cordon of shrubs and trellis worked its way around in a circle. Bronze statues of Pan and Ceres, on marble plinths, stood at the entrance to the leafy alcove. The boughs of a cypress tree, carrying a brace of oil lamps, illuminated the scene.
“I’m sorry, I apologise if I’ve disturbed you,” Manius remarked, after pausing to take in the beautiful stranger, his mouth slightly agape.
“No need to apologise. Rather I should be thanking you for providing me with some company,” Camilla replied, shuffling down the bench to encourage the man to sit down next to her. Despite his size, despite the large dagger hanging from his belt, Camilla didn’t feel unnerved or intimidated. He had a friendly face and kind eyes, she judged. It was more likely that she would intimidate him. “Are you not in the mood to join the party too? I wonder why more people haven’t come outside to appreciate the gardens and fine night.”
“It’s because the wine’s inside,” Manius half-joked.
Camilla let out a short burst of unaffected laughter, as musical as the birdsong and breeze which threaded through the nearby apple and yew trees.
“You must now tell me your name, if only so I can attribute your joke to the right person. I’m Camilla, by the way. Officially I am just taking some air. Unofficially I think such parties are to be endured rather than enjoyed.”
Camilla had attended because her father asked her to. Aulus Sanga soon disappeared into the throng however, to gossip and plot with fellow merchants. She soon felt the predatory eyes of would-be suitors upon her, making her skin crawl. They introduced themselves, boasting about the size of their estate (or they enquired about the extent of her father’s wealth). Suitors, young and old, buzzed around the unmarried girl like insects. Compliments were offered up as frequently as the canapes. Camilla swallowed neither however and longed to be back home and lose herself in a book. The corners of her mouth began to ache from forcing herself to smile so much. Thankfully her father would not put pressure on her to marry someone she disapproved of (and she disapproved of most men). The widower would have been lonely without his only daughter. He was also willing to wait for the right candidate to come along, someone deserving of his daughter. Someone who could make her happy. Who would prove valuable in terms of his political and mercantile interests. Aulus Sanga loved his daughter, but he also duly thought of her as one of his most prized assets.
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