Varro was aware that Scaurus’ request was tantamount to an order. He was setting the parameters of their future relationship. Despite Varro’s wealth and noble name, the senator would lead, and the would-be aedile would have to follow. No matter what his plans were for the day he would have to cancel them. Scaurus was testing his loyalty and commitment. If he turned down this invitation, Varro knew he might not see another.
The nobleman replied that he would be ready to leave shortly and that his bodyguard would be accompanying him on the journey.
“I think I preferred things when you were a wastrel,” Manius remarked, when Varro woke him. “At least I got to sleep in then.” The Briton sighed and rolled his eyes but nevertheless got washed and dressed as quickly as he could. Although he wanted to remain at home, in case Camilla sent a message, Manius would welcome the distraction of joining Varro. He was also aware of how his friend might need his protection in earnest soon, in light of the events the night before.
Varro briefed Fronto. He asked him to send a message to Marcus Agrippa, informing him about his imminent meeting with Scaurus – and that he would update the consul when he returned.
If I return.
15.
With not a little spite Varro instructed Marcellus to ride up next to the wagoner during their journey, as he would be discussing some personal matters with his bodyguard in the carriage. He wanted to remind the official of his station and class.
The lemon Marcellus seemed to be sucking on momentarily grew sourer, but he nodded and assented to the order. He duly ignored the plebeian wagoner when he tried to engage him in small talk.
The carriage, which was comfortable and covered, moved slowly at first along the congested road outside the city gates. As they passed the army of graves which lined the road Varro noted some of the inscriptions on the tombstones:
“A father, much missed.”
“I hope you find more peace in the next life than you did in this one, my dear soldiering son. You dedicated your life to protecting Rome.”
“To my darling wife, who meant the earth to me.”
Varro cynically thought how the widower husband had made a mistake and he had meant to inscribe, “cost the earth.”
Some of the tombs were tasteful and inscriptions heartfelt, but too many of the monuments to grief resembled edifices dedicated to vanity and vulgarity. It was not uncommon for tombs to loom as large as a house, with architecture worthy of any temple or palace. Varro remembered a time when he had broken into one such structure and made love to a mistress. Nothing is sacred. Strangely he remembered the name of the person whose resting place he had violated, but he had forgotten the name of the woman he made love to.
Varro pensively stared out the window, his chin propped up on his hand, and wondered how many of his former lovers would attend his own funeral. I might be being generous by saying none… More would doubtless wish to attend any reading of my will… At least Lucilla would come, if only to make sure I was put in the ground. She has probably already bought a suitable funeral dress, on my account.”
Varro turned to his companion. He was about to ask him how he was feeling, in regards to not hearing from Camilla, but the Briton was gently snoring. Varro would be happy for his friend if he married the woman, but he also had to admit that he would be happy, for himself, if the marriage was forbidden and Manius remained within his household. He could barely remember a time when the good-hearted and good-humoured Briton wasn’t there, nor did he want to imagine a future where the two men didn’t go drinking together. Perhaps the fear of losing his best friend had been behind his reluctance to support him in his plan to fight again in the arena.
They soon began to make good time and entered the countryside. The carriage glided over the smooth Roman road like a ship’s prow sailing with a fair wind across a calm sea. Sunlight poured between the clouds like honey. Wild flowers speckled the golden-green fields. Varro filled his lungs with the fresh air. Rome was stuffed full of people – and therefore full of vanity and folly. Choking him. The change in scenery was welcome. Contoured hills and valleys housed orchards, olive groves and small farms, teeming with crops and pens of livestock. Varro couldn’t help but lick his lips as he surveyed the ripening vines, stretching over the horizon. He thought of Horace.
“Happy the man who, far from business concerns, works his ancestral acres with his oxen like the men of yore, free from every kind of debt; he is not wakened, like a soldier, by the harsh bray of the bugle, and has no fear of the angry sea; he avoids both the city centre and the lofty doorways of powerful citizens…”
Varro remembered his countryside retreats, with Lucilla, just outside Arretium. The villa he owned was relatively modest but met their needs. A silvery stream bordered one side of the property. He would eat fresh fruit for breakfast and share pleasantries with his neighbours. Varro would read and write in the morning but then spend the afternoon walking with his wife or making love to her. Lucilla even suggested they move to the countryside permanently, perhaps to lead him away from the temptations of the city. But Rome was in the nobleman’s blood, for better or worse.
“It’s peaceful here,” Lucilla argued, whilst tending to her flower garden at the villa.
“But it’ll become boring eventually, if we stay. You can have too much of a good thing.”
“You will be able to write more here, there are fewer distractions, aside from me of course,” she said, raising her eyebrow in a humorous manner.
“The more I write, the more I realise I’m not a writer,” Varro posited, before draining his wine cup.
“I sometimes worry about you, Rufus. You may never be happy.”
“I’m not sure I was put on this planet to be happy. Drunk, maybe. But not happy,” he glibly replied, hoping to head-off having a serious conversation with his wife. And put an end to the idea of moving away from Rome.
Varro eventually fell asleep, as the carriage rocked him like a cradle. Occasionally he heard the odd hawker, trying to sell his produce from a handcart by the side of the road. Or fellow carters, carrying amphorae of wine and olive oil, swapped dirty jokes, that might even have made the whores blush in The Golden Lion.
Both Varro and Manius stirred when they stopped at a small village and inn, so that the wagoner could feed and water his sweat-streaked team of horses. Varro blearily recalled visiting the inn, The Ancient Forrester, several years ago. He had been travelling back to Rome with Lucilla. The light was fading - and they needed feeding and watering themselves - so they decided to stay overnight and leave for Rome in the morning. Lucilla finished her supper and retired early. Varro continued drinking and then slept with one of the serving girls, before returning to his own room. His hair was unkempt, and he smelled of wine and cheap perfume. Husband and wife lay with their backs to one another in bed. The chill in the air wasn’t caused from the draught alone. Lucilla was doubled-up, as if in physical pain, and quietly sobbed. Varro pretended not to hear her. He wanted to say he still loved her, but the words would have seemed hollow, or sarcastic, given his actions earlier in the evening. He hated himself, to the point of crying too – and wasn’t sure if the wine was quelling or fuelling his self-loathing. Varro was as guilty of vanity and folly as the next Roman. Eventually Lucilla spoke, her brittle voice draped in resignation and remorse:
“I’m not sure why you like punishing me so much. But in the end, you will punish yourself more. I used to think that you were different, decent. That you had so much to offer the world. I still do, sometimes.”
“Unfortunately, I think so little of this world that I don’t want to offer it anything, except my contempt.”
Varro calculated it was after that night when Lucilla began to conduct her own affairs – either to punish him or satisfy a need to be loved. He pretended not to care when he uncovered her infidelities (not that Lucilla tried hard to keep her affairs particularly clandestine). At times, Varro even hoped that she would find someone who made her happy. He also felt
her behaviour gave him greater licence too, although the nobleman felt he was always entitled to do as he pleased. Aside from his father, there wasn’t a married aristocrat in Rome who hadn’t, at some point, taken a mistress, Varro judged.
There was a distinct absence of fondness in his expression as Varro surveyed the inn. The painted sign hanging over the door had faded. He hoped that his memory of the place would one-day fade – and disappear – too. It was like returning to the scene of a crime. Manius had not been present during his last visit. Perhaps he would have checked his friend and prevented him from getting drunk and sleeping with the serving girl (Varro could neither picture her face nor recall her name). He realised that he seldom needed to get drunk when in Lucilla’s company. She intoxicated him in different ways.
“Are you not coming in, for a drink?” Manius asked, slightly puzzled by his companion’s hesitation and the discordant look on his face.
“No. You can have too much of a good thing. I’ll stay here. I need some air. If you buy the wagoner a drink though. He deserves one, having sat next to that pompous prick all morning.”
To pass the time – and potentially gain some additional intelligence on Scaurus – Varro approached a tradesman, travelling to Rome. His cart was filled with small wooden tables and iron lampstands. One of his dapple mounts whinnied – and Varro calmed it by stroking the horse’s neck.
“Good day,” the nobleman remarked.
“It will be if I can get a fair price for this lot,” Marcus Tarius amiably replied, nodding his head in the direction of his cart. Tarius had an honest face, which may or may not have been an asset in his business dealings with Rome.
“You have some nice pieces to sell, it seems. All should be well. But tell me, I am due to visit a theatre soon, up the road, between here and Ostia. Do you know of it? Is it far?”
“I live in the village, close to the theatre. I hope you’re not expecting to see a performance there this afternoon though. The theatre has not put on a single play in months, ever since it changed hands. All they seem to do there is rehearse. My son often sneaks in and watches them. He enjoys the sword practise. As well as actors they transport in gladiators, from the nearby ludus. If they had more dancing girls taking part in rehearsals, I’d sneak in too. Occasionally some of the troupe - its acrobats, singers and, unfortunately, mimes - visit the village and perform in the taverns and market square. Whoever owns the theatre must have more money than sense. Even if the place opened again I’m not sure how full the theatre would be. Few people around here know their Aeschylus from their elbow – and I’m not sure how many theatre lovers will make the trip from Rome, when they have all that they need there. If they use the theatre for some gladiator contests, then the owner could make some money. But at the moment the bugger can afford to make a loss it seems. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to do the same and I need to be on my way.”
Varro thanked the tradesman for his time and purchased one of his lampstands, giving him the money there and then, as well as the address to deliver the piece of furniture to.
Thankfully, after setting off from the inn, it was only a short time before the theatre came into view. The distinctive concrete, semi-circular structure dominated the horizon, like a ship’s sail vaunting upwards from the sea. Villas and farmhouses were also scattered across the landscape, which surrounded the theatre. The carriage soon turned off onto a road which would lead them to their destination. As they grew closer the number of houses and buildings increased. The area was blessed with wealth and industry. Varro noticed a blacksmith’s, butchery, stonemason’s and bakery, among other shops, along the side of the road. He craned his head out the window and observed a camp, full of tents and wooden huts, to the side of the theatre where, doubtless, Scaurus housed his actors. The senator was either investing for the future or throwing good money after bad.
Varro couldn’t help but observe the small procession of a dozen or so carriages travelling in the opposite direction as he approached the theatre. Unfortunately, the curtains were drawn across most of the windows, but he caught a glimpse of a few of the occupants. First up was Julius Fabius, a former ally of Lucius Antony. Octavius had confiscated his property and exiled him from Rome after Lucius Antony’s failed revolt. Fabius had settled in the East and now controlled various shipping and slave trading companies. Varro also briefly witnessed the sallow face of Sextus Plancus stare wanly out from his carriage window. The financier’s mouth was habitually downturned, his eyes as black as a shark’s. Rumour had it that Octavius had taken his young wife, Cassia, as a mistress. She divorced her elderly husband, who doted on her, in the hope that Caesar would leave Livia and marry her. But Augustus soon lost interest in Cassia. His garden was populated by other blooms worth plucking. Some said that the young woman fell ill and died, others that she took her own life. Finally, Varro took in the sharp, aristocratic features of Publius Carrinas. Carrinas was from one of the oldest and most influential patrician families in Rome. Octavius had compelled the senator to give up his place in the Senate House however, during his reforms. Varro was torn as to guess who, out of the three figures, harboured the greatest animus towards Caesar. He also suspected that the other, unseen, occupants in the line of carriages were staunch enemies of Augustus.
Manius remained a picture of stoicism but Varro commenced to tap his foot in nervousness. Scaurus had potentially exposed Quintus Verres, and he was an experienced agent. At any moment Varro imagined that the politician, who had dealt with lies and lying throughout his career, would see through his act. Varro wondered again how he should play things, when he confronted Scaurus. He would be wise not to show too much zeal in responding to anything the statesman proposed, but at the same time he should not prevaricate too much. “Find Aristotle’s “golden mean” in your approach and response,” Agrippa had sententiously advised, which was little or no help.
Varro told himself he could play on Scaurus’ greed. Agrippa was right in that his name and influence meant little to the statesman, compared to his wealth. The senator was deigning to entertain him today not because he enjoyed his ebullient company. Scaurus wanted his money, even more than his loyalty. And Varro could afford to be generous with Caesar’s wealth when making a donation to the would-be consul’s campaign fund. Greed would blind the statesman and buy his trust. Scaurus needed to seduce him, as much as he needed to seduce Scaurus, Varro considered.
The carriage came to a stop. They reached their destination. Marcellus opened the door and fawningly ushered the nobleman out. Manius was all but ignored. The display was more for the benefit of impressing his master, than his guest. Varro briefly smirked, witnessing the secretary’s beetroot-red face. Believing that he would sit inside the carriage during the journey, the attendant had chosen not to bring his wide-brimmed sunhat with him. When Marcellus forced a smile now for Varro it hurt a little.
Scaurus’ smile was wider – reptilian-like – than either his guest’s or secretary’s though when he saw Varro arrive. He adjusted his toga and smoothed down his already oiled hair.
“Welcome to my modest theatre, Rufus Varro. I am glad and grateful that you could accept my invitation. We have much to discuss. Today could be the first day of the rest of your life,” the venerated Lucius Scaurus cordially exclaimed, opening his arms up like the wings of an eagle – or harpy.
Varro just hoped that today wouldn’t be the last day of his life.
16.
Scaurus stood at the vanguard of a small group of people, outside the theatre. Manius surveyed the scene while Varro greeted his host. To the left of the building was a sun-baked yellowing field, where a couple of dozen gladiators were being drilled. Wooden swords clacked against one another as instructions were barked out. The sweat-glazed men looked well-fed and well-disciplined. The gladiators were hemmed in by a steep bank, which curved around them. Manius peered through the large, arched entrance to the theatre and glimpsed part of the circular, sand-covered stage. It reminded him of the many aren
as he had fought in. Rows of concrete seats curved around. A number of plush pillows littered one level, from where Scaurus’ previous guests, who Manius had just seen journeying home, had sat. To the right of the theatre was the main camp. Wooden huts and tents were dotted all over the sloping field, like mushrooms sprouting up across a garden lawn. Groups of actors – as well as set builders, costumers, dancers and slaves – mulled around campfires and steaming cooking pots. The chirr and crackle of their conversation and laughter seeped into the air, like the smoke billowing up from their fires. Theatre folk were an incessantly cheerful bunch, perhaps annoyingly so.
Manius took in the party of people in front of his friend, as Scaurus introduced them. There was a colourfully dressed, pot-bellied bald man and, next to him, stood the senator’s bodyguard, a man-mountain of a man who briefly nodded at the Briton, out of professional courtesy. Behind them were two provocatively dressed women (actresses or courtesans) who simpered and giggled as they looked to catch the handsome nobleman’s eye. Which of course they did.
“Rufus Varro, this is Sharek, my theatre manager. He is responsible for our troupe and forthcoming production. There is very little Sharek doesn’t know about his trade. Or rather I should say craft.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sharek said, bowing a little too flamboyantly as he did so, as if part of him were mocking the aristocrat. “Lucius tells me you are an accomplished poet.” Sharek head was hairless, save for a triangular strip of beard on his chin, which resembled a pyramid and was worn as a symbol and reminder of his Egyptian homeland. The actor wore a layer of make-up, to smooth over his pock-marked skin. Sharek simpered almost as much as the women behind him, Varro thought. As the theatre manager smiled his servile, beatific smile and his plump cheeks rose on his face, narrowing his kohl-rimmed eyes. His fingernails were long and painted silver, his skin was tawny-gold. He wore several bangles around his wrists, which jangled like the sound of a tambourine, each time he gesticulated with his hands (which admittedly was often). The Egyptian wore a Tyrian purple skirt, brocaded at the hem, and a loose-fitting, patterned blouse which shimmered in the breeze.
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