“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Any man you’ve known would have eventually made a fool of himself, with or without your encouragement. It’s what we do. And I regularly thank the gods for ignoring me. Much like officials in Rome, who make promises to make your life better - and tax your time and wealth when doing so – it’s best if they don’t bother with you. You deserve to be happy Cassandra – and once you’re free of your husband you will be,” Varro argued, as he ran his fingers up and down her spine, which arched slightly at the thrill of his touch. Her eyes purred.
“You always knew how to make me smile. You taught me how to laugh at myself and that I was greater than just the sum of my wardrobe. Perhaps I forgot those lessons over the years, but I am willing to learn them again.”
“I am glad the past caught up with me too and I met you again, whether it was by accident or fate. If nothing else, I can get to tell you that what we shared was special. Real. Precious. It may be a double-edged compliment, which praises you but rightly paints me in a dim light, but I was always faithful to you when we were together, Cassandra. I cannot say the same for when I courted other mistresses. Perhaps it was because you tired me out so much. If it was too much about sex when we were younger, I want you to know I realised it meant more to me when the affair was over… The wounds from my marriage – and divorce - were still tender. I wasn’t ready to commit back then, but I think I am now. I won’t run or duck should I see Cupid shoot an arrow in my direction… I was conceited. Narcissus was less vain. I thought I had to play the lusty but lovelorn poet. But poetry is but a shadow of life. Life is life. I vainly thought, through writing, I might live forever. But I could no more achieve immortal fame composing poetry, than Sisyphus could complete his task of rolling his stone up the hill… My father was right. I owe a duty - to Rome and my family name - to have children. A man’s legacy should be his offspring, not some hastily written epodes, which even the author can’t remember and recite,” Varro soulfully declared.
Cassandra stared with wonder and pity at her former lover. She had never known anyone to be so achingly honest with her. He had bared his heart. How could she now callously break it?
Varro cobbled his speech together from past confessions, spouted out in bed to previous mistresses. He realised, many years ago, that women wanted to save him – so he let them believe they could. He had refined his act and script over the years. He furrowed his brow, paused for effect and forced a pained smile when a line called for it. A subtle awkwardness and vulnerability abounded. Some of the words stuck in his throat, emphasising the impression that he had never uttered them before. Varro’s performance was convincing because he believed in what he was saying, from a certain point of view. Long before lying to Cassandra, he had deceived himself about his sins. When Varro first artfully seduced a woman, claiming her body and soul, he felt as proud as a painter, who had created a masterwork. But the price the artist paid for his success was to be condemned to paint the same picture over – and over - again. As much as life might amuse Varro, he was still painfully bored – like a gourmet who has yet to discover a dish which truly satisfies him.
“Did you not want to have children with Lucilla?”
“It’s a long story,” Varro replied, feeling genuinely awkward and vulnerable. Some truths and lies were best left buried. “And we’re already halfway through the evening. I don’t want to think about Lucilla now. I want to think about you. Be with you. I don’t want to waste another moment.”
“Nor do I.”
“I have been thinking about you all day. Half the time I dressed you with my eyes, imagining what you’d wear and how you’d look. And the rest of the time I spent undressing you. But I fear I’m babbling now. The cure of course will be to stop my mouth with a -”
Cassandra kissed Varro deeply and straddled him, sweetly surrendering to her desires. She emitted a small sigh, or moan, as she rhythmically gyrated – arousing him and herself. Varro pulled the bow of her gown and the garment slid off, revealing her taut, burnished body. The sapphire pendant glinted in the light of the glowing brazier, as did her eyes.
The solitary candle flickered as it grew close to burning itself out. Camilla lay curled-up in a ball, her eyes as puffed-up as the goose feather pillow which she clung to. Her stomach fizzed with hunger. But the young woman no longer had any appetite. Food tasted like ash and she had been sick the last two times she attempted to eat something, since her father had forbidden her from seeing Manius. Camilla had similarly lay curled-up in a ball and cried after her mother passed away – and when her father had put her pony, Hector, to sleep after it had injured its shin in a fall.
She felt helpless.
But not quite hopeless. In the same way the candle fed itself on every drop of wax, Camilla sustained herself on the hope that she would see Manius again. She could and should be his wife. It was meant to be. Her father had called her in to him earlier. She didn’t know whether to appear resentful or piteous. He said he would be willing to compromise and countenance a match, depending on certain conditions:
“You must understand how I need to feel satisfied about his character and prospects, that he has left his life as a gladiator and ruffian behind. The attendant needs to own genuine ambitions. I need to be sure he is not seeking to marry you for financial gain. I must protect your reputation, as well as mine… In the meantime, promise me that you will not attempt to contact him. If he tries to send you a message or dares to intrude upon this house, you must ignore his entreaties… Do we have an agreement?” Aulus Sanga posed, as if he were finalising a business deal. “I am only asking you to wait a few days, while I carry out my enquiries. I am being reasonable, am I not?”
Initially Camilla thought her father was asking a rhetorical question. But the pause which hung in the air signified otherwise and finally she deferentially – and dolefully – replied:
“Yes, father.”
Camilla suspected her father was just pretending to give Manius a chance. She would honour her promise however and not endeavour to contact Manius, despite her ardent desire to do so. She believed there was still hope. She had to. The alternative was too dreadful.
Hope.
Had Pandora kept the vilest evil – the disease of hope - in the jar on purpose, out of compassion? Or, should she have released hope too, did she realise it would have helped to cure all the other plagues she set free?
The candle finally died out, leaving Camilla in darkness.
13.
Varro crept along the tiled corridor towards Scaurus’ study, located next to Cassandra’s bedroom. After making love he poured her a cup of diluted wine, with the sleeping draught mixed in. It had not taken long for the already tired woman to drift off to sleep. Before she did so Cassandra drowsily expressed to Varro how she did not want him to compose any poetry for her:
“You are right. Poetry doesn’t capture life. Real life. Words mean nothing – and the more one says the less one means anything. You were not the only suitor to send me poems, all those years ago… They would always compare me to a flower, whether it be a rose, violet or amaranth. I yawned more then, than I am doing now. I was, apparently, always in bloom – but they never mentioned how flowers also wither and die. But everything is born to die, even – or especially – love.”
Any sense of pride or purpose which Varro experienced working for the good of Rome was eclipsed by a wave of shame he felt, at seducing and using the woman. She was innocent – as innocent as a Roman noblewoman could be. He had taken advantage of her, in more ways than one. There was a stain on his conscience. Over time such stains can fade, but they can never disappear altogether, he considered. Varro told himself he was doing what he was doing for Cassandra’s benefit. Investigating Scaurus would lead to her being free. But he knew he was lying to himself, again.
As the would-be spy slowly turned the handle to the door of the study Varro fleetingly thought about what he might be doing now, if Agrippa had not called on him. He might
be staggering home, as merry as Bacchus, or in bed with a whore – who cared as little for him as he cared for her. As much as he might pay lip-service to Epicurus’ philosophy, Varro knew, deep down in his soul, that pleasure was not the beginning and goal of a happy life.
A solitary oil lamp, hanging from the ceiling, still burned, gifting the room some light. A large cedarwood desk, inlaid with ivory and gold, sat towards the back of the chamber, in front of a line of cabinets. Portraits and death masks, of Scaurus’ sour looking antecedents, lined the walls. Opposite the desk, at the other end of the room, stood a display case filled with a dozen or so daggers. Marble busts of Cato the Elder and Younger were positioned on either side of the desk and seemingly looked at Varro disapprovingly, or accusingly, as he checked the correspondence in view on the table. The letters just dealt with the senator’s clients and business partners. Next Varro checked the draws. The only thing he found worthy of interest was a list of names of various officials and merchants, with numbers attached. The figures could have related to campaign donations, or the cost of bribes Scaurus was going to pay to buy their support. One name stuck out in particular. Varro made a mental note of the list, to pass on to Agrippa.
Varro’s heart froze – and then beat like a war drum – on hearing a couple of voices outside of the closed shutters. Although it was unlikely anyone could see inside he still quickly ducked behind the desk and breathed as calmly as possible (which wasn’t altogether easy) before he was sure that the slaves patrolling the grounds had disappeared. Varro turned his attention to the four large cabinets against the wall. Thankfully they were unlocked. The cabinets contained various scrolls. The first was dedicated to housing business contracts and accounts. The second contained a collection of speeches - by the likes of Cicero, Marcus Brutus and Cato - praising the Republic and denouncing Caesar. The third was home to Scaurus’ personal correspondence, which proved as potent as a theriac in nearly sending Varro to sleep, such was the mundane contents of the letters. The fourth cabinet contained documents relating to the running of Scaurus’ household and his personal finances. The only thing of interest which seemed curious or out of place was a map on the inside door of one of the cabinets. The map was neither overly detailed or to scale, but it traced a route from Alexandria to Ethiopia and then from Ethiopia to Rome. The map also marked stop-off points and dates along the route, going back three years. Again, Varro made a note of the information and hoped that Marcus Agrippa would be able to cast more light on things.
As per instructed by Agrippa, Varro made sure to leave everything back in its place. He also checked the furniture for any secret compartments – and peeked behind each painting for a strongbox concealed in the wall.
The spy pursed his lips in frustration. He felt like a courtesan who had attended a party for the evening and was travelling home alone. Or he was a fisherman, sailing back to shore with an empty net. He was still no wiser as to Scaurus’ intentions or plans. Varro reasoned however that it was always unlikely he would uncover a clear, damning piece of evidence which would seal the senator’s fate. Scaurus was too careful to leave any compromising documents in an unlocked cabinet in his unlocked study, which is not to say that there wasn’t a hidden strongbox located somewhere else in the house. The thought struck Varro again that, rather than being too careful, could it not be the case that he was unable to find any evidence of wrongdoing because Scaurus was too innocent? As unpleasant a character as the vain-glorious senator was he should not be tried and executed just for whipping his slaves, collecting speeches which lauded the old Republic and purchasing a gladiator school. Not even Cicero or Hortensius in their pomp could have secured a conviction based on such scant proof. No matter how much a hound Varro might prove, was he ultimately barking up the wrong tree? Was he being used by Marcus Agrippa to scupper a possible rival?
Manius kept his eyes closed but ears open as he sat in the street by the house and pretended to be a sleeping drunk. He poured some pungent wine down his tunic and an empty jug stood between his legs. A few passers-by noted him but understandably thought better about disturbing the large, fearsome looking figure. The beast might stir and turn on them.
Anxiety about Camilla, more than dutiful concern for his friend, kept Manius awake. Thoughts prickled like stinging nettles. He shivered, from fear more than the cold, as he imagined losing her. He mustered himself however and told himself that all would be well. He would soon generate the necessary capital to gain her father’s blessing for the union. Manius would tell Camilla that the money had come from a provision in Appius Varro’s will, to grant his adopted son additional money for when he married. He would feel uncomfortable lying to her, but he didn’t want to lose Camilla or have her worry that he was about to return to his old life. His thoughts naturally turned to the imminent bout. The Briton was confident of winning the contest. Dio had hinted that his opponent would be inexperienced. The match-ups were used to blood new fighters. Manius wryly smiled to himself as he pictured the scene of when new recruits joined the ludus – and they used their swords against the training posts. In some instances, the posts nearly won the duels.
Varro returned to the woman’s room and bed. The first thing she saw when Cassandra opened her eyes was the statue of Helen of Troy – and her first thought was that Varro, her Paris, might whisk her away. No matter how dire the consequences might be.
The couple made love again – and Varro had to stop Cassandra’s mouth with a kiss when her screams became too pronounced.
Afterwards, catching their breath once more, Varro subtly steered the conversation towards the subject of her husband, despite the ire and discomfort it caused.
“I am not sure how much more I can endure… I sometimes think that, if he beats me again, I will grab one of his precious daggers from his study and murder him in his sleep,” the distraught woman confessed, talking to herself as much as Varro, as she coldly stared up at the ceiling.
“Daggers?”
“Lucius is obsessively tracking down the daggers which the libertores used to kill Caesar on the Ides of March. He has also been obsessed with Mark Antony over the past six months or so. He has invited many of his officers and attendants for lunch and dinner. I have been present a few times and he quizzes them on what Antony was like – and did – during his time with Cleopatra in the East. He asks for details about their life at court and Antony’s relationship with the child, Caesarion, Cleopatra conceived with Caesar. Lucius tells them that he is planning to commission a book on the last days of Antony and Cleopatra. He also probes Antony’s officers as to where their soldiers’ loyalties now rest, with Antony or Augustus.”
The chirping of crickets outside had long since rescinded – to be replaced by thrill birdsong. The brazier of the dawn had been ignited on the horizon and a blood-red sky oozed towards the bedroom.
14.
Rome was already wide awake and stretching its limbs. Bakeries coughed out smoke. Officials and merchants were making use of the long summer days and commenced to do business, or idly gossiped, whilst twiddling their styluses. Slaves briskly ran errands – shopping and delivering messages, sweat pouring off their brows, their stomachs rumbling. Sandals slapped against flagstones. Litters criss-crossed one another. Carters traded ribald obscenities, claiming right of way. Attendants lifted the hem of the skirts of their mistresses as, dressed in their finery, they made their offerings in the temples, before visiting their beauticians and dressmakers. The smell of horse dung and refuge festered in the air, along with the acrid odour of smoke from chimneys. Wine and food stalls were set-up and generated immediate queues. Freshly scrubbed boys, accompanied by attendants (and occasionally a parent), made their way to school. The business of Rome was business.
Varro barely noticed the hive of activity though as he made his way home, with Manius. He bowed his head, in fatigue and thought, and appeared sheepish – despite having just played the fox and entered and exited the hen house. Varro had barely touched a drop all nigh
t, but he felt hungover, nauseous.
When he reached his house, the agent, as he now began to label himself, scrawled down some notes while his thoughts were still fresh concerning the events of the night before. The asset would write up a full report for Agrippa later in the day.
As soon as he walked through the door Manius asked Fronto if there had been any messages. The old man ruefully shook his head and creased his face in sympathy with the Briton, who felt like tearing his hair out in despair. Or at least drinking a jug of wine and breaking Aulus Sanga’s front door down in an attempt to see his daughter.
“Be patient. Have faith,” Fronto said, philosophically.
“It’s easier said than done,” Manius replied, not without a little despair, as if already in mourning for his relationship.
Varro and Manius took to their beds to catch up on some sleep. They were exhausted.
Varro only reached the stage of being half-exhausted before Fronto woke him with the news that a messenger, sent by Scaurus, was waiting for him in the atrium. The nobleman yawned – and wished he could close his eyes and go back to sleep – but replied that he would attend to the messenger, as much as he was inclined to send him away.
“Senator Scaurus requests your presence for lunch – and to grant you a tour of his theatre,” the attendant announced, in a grating, nasal tone. Marcellus, who served as a secretary to the statesman, adopted a measure of his master’s haughty manner. He owned a pronounced, upturned nose and his features seemed permanently pinched. His back was as straight as a pilum, his chin jutted out like the prow of a ship. Varro had encountered the type before. Marcellus was far from the only petty official in Rome who believed he carried the same authority as his employer – and thought that officiousness equated to virtue. “The senator has arranged a carriage to take you to him, which is currently waiting outside the city gates for you,” he added. The secretary ended the message by forcing a smile - which looked like he was sucking on a lemon.
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