He was accompanied by two burly bodyguards wearing impassive, or bored, expressions. From his clothes, new found staff and the gold rings on his stubby fingers it appeared that Dio had done well for himself, since the last time they met.
“Stay there. Let me look at you, my old friend,” Dio remarked. “No, better still come this way where we have room to breathe. The tide of people might wash us away here. We also need to watch out for filthy pickpockets. Rome breeds them, like cockroaches.”
Manius was slightly taken back. It was the first time the lanista had ever described him as a “friend”. Dio grabbed the Briton by the elbow and ushered him to one side, with more force than one might have expected.
“It’s good to see you, Felix. You are looking well,” Manius calmly remarked, in contrast to his excited and excitable companion.
“I am perhaps looking too well, eh? You have kept yourself in better shape than I have,” Dio replied, affectionately patting his pot-belly. “I eat so much suckling pig that I fear I may turn into one in the future. But tell me, are you still part of Rufus Varro’s household? Does he pay well? Or does most of his money go on mistresses and his wine cellar? It was a gift from the gods was it not, that day, when Appius Varro saw you fight and bought your freedom?”
“Maybe the gods owed me some good fortune,” Manius said, by way of an explanation.
“Indeed. The gods have smiled on me these past few years too. I left the ludus after meeting up with Faustus Bursa. Bursa saw a gap in the market, which I widened when he died, and I took over the operation. The war may be over, but Rome still has an appetite for blood sports, no? But who wants to sit next to a sweaty Gaul or Ethiop at the Circus Maximus? And drink the swill they call wine there? Or sit so far away you couldn’t even recognise your own brother, if he was one of the combatants? And so I provide an experience, for those willing to pay, of a more intimate arena dedicated to gladiatorial combat. I have converted an old grain warehouse, installing seating and other amenities. No matter how much I put the prices of the seats and wine up we are always full to the rafters with an audience. Women attend as much as men, almost. But as we know Roman noblewomen always did enjoy seeing a bit of gladiatorial flesh. May the gods bless them. You should come along one day. Or better still you should take part. You still know how to swing a sword, I imagine. I will pay you handsomely. Winning pays a lot more than losing, of course - and the fights are not to the death. You will just need to knock your opponent out or have them yield. We have our own surgeons too. C’mon, what do you say? It’s the best kind of money. Easy money!” Dio exclaimed, fraternally clasping the Briton by the shoulders, all but standing on tip-toe to do so.
“It’s kind of you to offer and I’m glad you are doing so well for yourself Felix but it’s not for me,” Manius replied, equitably. His fighting days in the arena were over. He made a promise to himself – and Camilla. Appius Varro had given him a second chance in life – and Manius had grasped it.
Dio was not one to take no for an answer however. He made a face, as if to suggest that he was at war with himself, and finally spoke:
“It’s against my better judgement. Yet I’ll do it. Because it’s you. And hopefully some people will remember “The Briton”, as you were called. But not only will I give you a small cut of the ticket revenues, but I’ll let you keep a modest percentage of what I make from all the wagers taken at the event. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”
Whether he put it down to divine intervention or not, a kernel of an idea began to form in Manius’ head. If marrying Camilla was a question of money for Aulus Sanga, he may have found the answer.
Varro spent part of the afternoon composing his report to Marcus Agrippa. The poet had written more lyrical and philosophical lines before – but none so important, he reasoned. His work – and words – could now change lives. Hopefully for the better. Should he even just help save Cassandra from her abusive husband then the action would be worth more than all his poems put together. His father might even be proud of him. Varro felt purposeful. It was a strange but not unwelcome sensation.
Varro reported he had introduced himself to Scaurus at the party – and the senator had taken a liking to him. He relayed their conversation and said he was due to meet Scaurus again soon, at his theatre outside of Rome.
“I have but suspicions rather than proof that Scaurus is an enemy of the state. He certainly cannot be relied upon to be a friend to Caesar.”
When he relayed how Scaurus was selling assets to fund his candidacy for a consulship Varro fleetingly thought he could be being used by Agrippa to scupper Scaurus’ ambitions, in order to cement his own position.
Varro made a list of the senators and other influential guests who attended the party. Finally, he mentioned his meeting with Cassandra – and that he was seeing her again this evening.
A trusted slave delivered the sealed message to the consul’s residence. As Mark Antony appropriated Pompey the Great’s house after his death, Agrippa similarly moved into the extensive property after Mark Antony’s demise.
11.
The muggy weather hung in the air like a piece of spiced ham hung out to dry, outside a butcher’s shop. Varro and Manius sat in the garden, sharing a jug of wine, having just finished their lunch of sea bass, served on a bed of mushrooms, cabbage and onions. Fronto had just excused himself, saying he already looked like a prune and therefore had no desire to sit out in the sun.
“It sounds risky,” Varro warned, after hearing his companion explain his plan. “You could be seriously injured or killed.”
Manius had agreed with Felix Dio to take part in a gladiatorial bout, the day after tomorrow. The fee from the contest would not change his circumstances, but should he stake all he owned on winning the bout he could then raise sufficient capital to prove to Sanga that he could provide for his daughter. Especially if, like he planned, he fought on the back foot during the opening of the fight. Once the odds were long enough Varro would place a bet on Manius – and he would change tack and win the contest. The Briton told himself he wasn’t being dishonourable and throwing the fight.
“Camilla is worth it. I need the money.”
“I can loan you the money. Or I’m even happy to just give it to you,” Varro stressed, no longer being able to sit comfortably on his reclining wicker chair.
“No, this is something I have to do for myself. Call me proud and stupid.”
“I have. And I will. But this is madness,” he asserted, though Varro could see the method in his madness.
“Besides, you will need all your money to keep paying for Lucilla’s dressmakers and decorators.”
“That’s only funny because it’s true. But I’ll probably be murdered in my sleep by Lucius Scaurus, or exiled by Marcus Agrippa, before Lucilla ever ruins me,” Varro remarked, grimly. Yet grinningly. “But I’ll arrange the stake money and put the wager on during the fight. You know that I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you. Worse than that, Viola would never forgive me,” he said. The mongrel briefly raised her head at the sound of her name, but then reverted to just lazily laying back down on the grass, sprawling herself out in the afternoon sun.
“I am grateful for you helping me solve my problems, when you have plenty of your own. I take it you’re still intending to see Cassandra this evening?”
“It’s going to be a late night. Not even Fronto will be able wait up for me this time. I will need your help. Once it gets darker than Erebus’ arse, you can lift me over the wall of the house. You will need to remain in the vicinity in case I’m discovered - and I call for help. Should you somehow hear the odd moan coming from the house though there’s no need to be alarmed. There should be few staff however – and they will be asleep for the most part. My only problem is that I will only be able to leave the room once Cassandra is asleep too. She might take offence if she thinks I’ve seduced her to gain access to her husband’s study. She might panic - and fear retribution should I be absent
for too long a time. I’m not sure what to do. I don’t think hoping she falls asleep quite cuts it as a sufficient plan,” Varro said, as his mental unease and lack of comfort in his chair grew worse.
“You seem to have forgotten one of the first Latin phrases I taught you, when you were a boy. Nil desperandum,” Fronto said, as he stood before Varro and held up a small glass phial filled with a light blue liquid. “This is a sleeping draught, which I ordered from the Albanus Pollio, the apothecary. His attendant has just delivered it. Should Cassandra not doze off from your conversation, or more amorous activities, then you need only pour this into her wine and she should fall asleep shortly after.”
“What would I do without you Fronto? Perhaps it’s best not to imagine that scenario. I am grateful though,” Varro warmly expressed, thinking how the old man could be as garrulous as Nestor – but as wily as Odysseus too.
Fronto handed over the phial and recalled how he used to provide a similar theriac for Lucilla. After her second miscarriage she had problems sleeping. “I want to be dead to the world, like my baby,” she tearfully confessed to Fronto one evening. The attendant also noticed how Lucilla liked to fall asleep before her husband returned from spending time with his mistresses or drinking companions. Fronto always made sure he acted as an intermediary between the distraught woman and apothecary, just in case Lucilla ever desired something more potent and poisonous than a sleeping draught.
Before Fronto could reply he was interrupted by the arrival of one of Marcus Agrippa’s lictors, who was being shown out into the garden by a whey-faced slave – who decided it best not to keep the fearsome official waiting outside the house.
“Rufus Varro, I have a message for you from Marcus Agrippa. I am to wait here until you have both read and destroyed this letter,” the lictor said, the soul of formality, his voice as flat as the back of a sword.
Varro broke the seal and read the scroll.
“Thank you for your update, Rufus. Good work. But the field is barely half ploughed. There’s more to be done. I am already aware of Scaurus’ financial activities over the past year or so – and the ambitions he harbours to win a consulship. I am also aware of his cruel streak and the abuse of his wife and slaves. But that is not our concern.
Our quarry has started to take an interest in you, it seems. Hopefully your success was down to your performance, as opposed to being genuinely cut from the same cloth as the backward-looking patrician. Your name, or the respected name of your father, is of value to him. More so your wealth is worth something. He will doubtless encourage you at some point to donate to his campaign fund – and in return he will promise to look after you when in office. Politics is the second oldest profession. Should you need a sum of money to buy his trust then let me know… His small army of gladiators isn’t sufficient to overwhelm the Praetorian Guard and attempt a coup. But his numbers may swell according to campaign funding… The theatre must be a cover for something. Scaurus is far too much in love with himself to be overly enamoured with an actress… Keep digging, so as to put him in his grave… We are still not seeing the whole picture. Something, or someone, remains in the shadows.
M.”
12.
Pinkish-grey clouds moved slowly across the sky like a smack of jellyfish drifting across the ocean. It was late. Even most of the drunks had wended their way home. Varro and Manius made sure to avoid the pools of urine and vomit in the streets of the Palatine. Young noblemen shared the same vices and bodily functions as their less scrubbed cousins in the Subura.
The two men wore dark tunics and even darker cloaks.
“Let’s just hope she’s still awake, when you tap upon her shutters,” Manius quietly remarked as they came to the spot along the wall which stood close to the window of Cassandra’s bedroom.
“She’s deluded enough to think I’m worth the wait.”
“I know you want to take the opportunity to search Scaurus’ study – but take care too, Rufus. Ensure you leave everything in its place. Flee as fast as Cleopatra at Actium if you’re caught, rather than attempt to fight your way out. Try to keep your face concealed. Work out your exits and escape routes beforehand. I’ll just be here too.”
Manius first lifted his friend so Varro could check if anyone was patrolling the grounds of the house.
“Are you ready?” the Briton asked. He couldn’t help but observe the anxiety etched into his companion’s features. It was a new look for the carefree poet.
Varro nodded.
“Thankfully this is not the first time I’ve snuck into the bedroom of a senator’s wife.”
Let’s just hope it’s not the last time.
The attendant let Varro stand on his shoulders. He climbed over the wall and dropped down on the other side with little fuss or noise. Thankfully a bench was positioned on the other side of the wall, which would allow him to climb back over later in the night. His pulse raced, but not for any amorous reason. The shutters on the window were already spread outwards, welcoming him with open arms. Cassandra was in view, the window operating as a frame to a vision of wanton beauty. She had been waiting, calmly or otherwise, for him. Moments before she had stared up at the moon and offered a prayer to Diana that he would come. With every ten beats of her heart the woman had experienced different, alternating, feelings: fear of being caught; the satisfaction of taking another lover – and defying her husband; the hope of rekindling her relationship with Varro; the anticipation of sex; the crippling doubt and sorrow that Varro would reject her - and leave her alone for the evening and the rest of her life.
But he was here. Standing in front of her. He cupped a hand around her buttock. His mouth pressed against hers. His tongue flicking and then fencing against her own. Varro drunk in her perfume and tasted the wine on her satin lips.
They eventually paused and caught their breath. Beaming. Cassandra gazed up at him, in a spirit of desire and disbelief. She had started to consider that he wouldn’t come. That the night before had been a passing fancy, a dream she misinterpreted. But he was here. Part of her felt nervous. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, like she was about to be intimate with a man for the first time.
“Would you like some wine?” Cassandra asked, already moving towards the silver ewer containing one of her husband’s vintages. She wanted a cup herself and expected Varro to say yes.
He quickly took in his surroundings as her back was turned. Polished bronze braziers murmured in the corners of the room. Scented candles and figurines of Vesta, Venus and Helen of Troy were dotted all around. A large dressing table, replete with a silver mirror, was positioned along one side of the room. A few paintings, depicting scenes from Horace’s Georgics, hung on the wall. A large bed, with Indian cotton sheets and ornate scroll work along its sides and posts, dominated the chamber. A walk-in closet caught the eye, housing a treasure trove of bold colours, luxurious materials and differing styles of garments. Along the bottom of the dresses Varro noticed an equally extensive collection of sandals, slippers and boots.
As Cassandra swivelled back around his eyes rightly feasted on her instead of the room. That morning she asked her maid to dye her hair red, with henna. She wanted the same colour hair to that of when they first met, at the dinner party. She also put braids in her hair, like she wore that evening. Her autumnal red tresses hung down, a cascade of rubies. Cassandra was dressed in a black silk gown, with nothing beneath. The plunging neckline revealed a sapphire pendant on a fine gold chain – and the glimpse, promise, of greater treasure. An inverted V-shape hung down at the bottom of the garment too, her shapely legs as smooth and bronze as the statue of Helen of Troy which adorned her bedside table. The dress clung to her achingly alluring figure like a second skin and shimmered in the mellow candlelight. The garment was fastened in a bow at the front, but Varro knew from experience that just one slight tug of the silk belt would cause the entire gown to slip from her body.
He thanked her for the drink, savouring the vintage – whilst wanting to also
devour the banquet before him. He complimented her new hair colour – and referenced when they first met. Both recalled sitting next to each other at dinner, making polite conversation. She rubbed her calf against his leg, as the dish of some asparagus tips dipped in a honey sauce was served. Varro slipped his hand through the slip in her stola and caressed the inside of her thighs beneath the table.
They took a further half-step towards one another in unison, as if they were about to dance. He cupped her cheek in his hand, as her sinewy arms snaked themselves around his body like vines around a tree. He led her onto the bed and they lay next to each other, their breathing and heartbeats in sync.
“Can we talk first? I don’t want this, us, just to be about sex,” she said, yearning for him. “You mean more to me than that.”
“You mean more to me than that too,” Varro replied, not without a modicum of honesty. He was about to pull the woman towards him – onto him – but he merely let his hand rest upon her hip.
“I am sorry how we left things years ago. You must believe me when I say that I did not know the real reason why my father wanted to take me away from Rome. I sometimes wonder, if I would have delayed things, or feigned illness, Lucius would have married someone else and my life would have been different. Better. Or maybe I deserve to be unhappy. I was spoiled when I was a child. I often made fools of men. I wanted to be the centre of attention. If I didn’t feel like I was the lead actress, then I didn’t want to take part… I ignored the gods and made few offerings to them in my youth, believing I was the author of my own fate. Should I blame them now when, after all my recent offerings, they ignore me?”
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