“He will take our home,” he warned.
“This hasn’t been your home for some time. You’re only at home now when you’re on the battlefield,” Caecilia mournfully countered, tears glistening in her eyes as they endured another fight. “Octavius can live without you at his side. And you need to realise that you have a life - and a family - autonomous of him… Duty should be ennobling, not enslaving. You say he is your oldest friend and you owe him a debt. But Octavius needs to repay his debt to you. Free you.”
As Marcella passed by the doorway she glanced and briefly caught her husband’s eye. She raised the corners of her tight mouth but only her lips, as opposed to face, smiled. Her features were plump but pretty. Her silk dress seemed a size too big and she wore too much jewellery. She moved stiffly, as if still only halfway through a course of deportment classes. Marcella was barely into her womanhood. She was not unintelligent or without her virtues, yet she lacked the wit and character of her mother. When they were first married she tried her best to please her new husband - but she realised he was happier when she left him alone. Agrippa lamented how there was just one thing wrong with her. She wasn’t Caecilia. He hoped that Marcella would make someone else a good wife, someone closer to her age who appreciated her. There was a hint of an apology in her expression, as Marcella knew that today was one of their days when they would try and conceive. Usually they slept apart. Augustus was keen to secure his bloodline and legacy - and it was tantamount to an order, rather than a request, that Agrippa should marry again and present him with a possible heir. “Marcella will grow into a fine woman, like her mother… You will thank me for my decision, one day. Caecilia would want you to be happy too, my friend,” Caesar suggested. Agrippa did not like the proposal. But he accepted it. He would still honour the promise he had made to his companion all those years ago, on Apollonia, upon hearing the news of Caesar’s death. The two friends committed themselves to one fate.
“You have my sword,” Agrippa had told a stricken Octavius. And how he had been made to use it. It was difficult to tell where the rust started on the blade and the blood ended.
Agrippa forced a polite or pained smile in reply, although he couldn’t help but roll his eyes in dismay when he glanced at Marcella. He determined to close his eyes again - and picture his first wife later - when in bed with the second.
21.
Scaurus quickly dismissed his mistress after greeting his guest. For a moment she drew breath and puffed out her chest, as if she was going to defy the senator, but she duly and demurely nodded her head in assent when his expression grew taut with displeasure. Her features dropped but, as if by magic, her default, beguiling smile blossomed on her face once more as she said goodbye to Varro - promising she would see him again soon (with the promise of something else sown into her countenance). Scaurus smiled too, after his lover affectionately kissed him on the cheek, but the smile fell from his face as rapidly as shit sliding off a shovel.
Scaurus invited his guest to join him in a private dining room. The corner room was well lit by the afternoon sun. The large, long table could seat half a dozen. The two men sat at either end. The host’s chair was wider and higher than the others in the room and anyone sitting near Scaurus would have been made to look up to him.
Wine - Falernian - was served in elegant silver goblets. A tray of steamed red mullet, with spiced scallops and honey-glazed carrots, was also laid on the table. Once the slaves had transferred the food onto their plates Scaurus ordered them to leave, without a thank you. As the food was being served Varro couldn’t help but take note of the large stone statue in the garden of Hercules strangling the Nemean lion. The Greek hero bared his fang-like teeth more than the animal - and appeared more savage. The defeated and distraught creature, his eyes bulging, was stretching out a sinewy front leg - in a plea of surrender. Varro felt more pity for the lion than admiration for the famed hero.
“I always remember something your father once told me. “The safety of the people shall be the highest law.” He regularly visited our home in Rome when I was a young man. He was a great friend of my father. They were both ardent republicans, servants of the people. We are, or should be, keepers of the flame for our parents. The torch of their wisdom and traditions should be passed on, from generation to generation. New men may come and go – but the best men should remain. One need only breed horses to appreciate the importance of a bloodline. Leaves fall and scatter. It’s the roots and branches that matter, is it not?”
Varro nodded his head in solemn agreement, ignoring the fact that Scaurus had borrowed a quote from Cicero and attributed to his father.
“I cannot confess to always feeling that I owe a duty to my family name and to Rome. I squandered many days - and more so nights - throughout my youth. But I am now ready to make a name for myself, instead of living in the shadow of my father’s.”
“Let us not lie or pretend. We are both good Romans. Good republicans. Which is why we know that Rome has become an autocracy. Rome is a monarchy, lacking an official king. And Caesar is a king, lacking an official crown. How long before, like Sulla, Octavius lines the walls of the Forum with the heads of his enemies? For those who argue that Caesar has defeated all his enemies, I would counter that he will create new ones. Blood begets blood. Caesar even craves enemies, in order to sow fear and act as Rome’s guardian. His forthcoming Spanish campaign is a piece of theatre, to win the applause of the army and the mob. And whilst away on campaign his dullard co-consul - a glorified stone mason - will use your taxes to build a legion of statues to honour, or deify, his vile master. But all is not lost. Not every senator and soldier will serve under the pretend king’s yoke. Caesar has his fellow victors, but he has also created an army of victims, willing to rise-up and overthrow the tyrant. I will give the people a new hero to cheer for, whilst re-establishing the authority of the Senate. Our supporters are preparing themselves. But we are not wholly ready yet, to strike. I must continue to build-up my war chest. But my intention to invite you here today is not to extract a donation from you. Rather look at it as an investment. And I am not just asking for you to invest in me, but rather to invest in yourself. You possess the name and means to progress through the course of honours - to climb the ladder. I can help you get your foot on the first rung. My allies will not go unrewarded. Doors will be open to you, even before I become consul. I can also furnish you with an able secretary, so you will you not be burdened with any day-to-day duties in your role as quaestor.”
“I appreciate your candour. Which is why I feel compelled to be candid in return. I believe in your cause. Rome is being defiled. Caesar is making a mockery of the Senate and the old order needs to be re-established. My horse has more noble blood running through its vein than the likes of Marcus Agrippa. But I will need assurances in regards to a return on any donation, or investment, I make. I will want to know where my money is being spent. You will have to flesh out your plans. I can also assist you in securing additional support. I have friends, sons of noblemen who were dispossessed or killed by Caesar in the civil war, who would be willing to fund your campaign too. I would however ask for a modest finder’s fee, for recruiting them to the cause.”
It was Scaurus’ turn to nod in agreement and approval. The senator would have been wary if the young man was solely motivated by his convictions. Greed made him seem more human, genuine.
Lucilla relaxed out upon her portico, with an awning protecting her from the citrus rays of the sun. Her legs were tucked up beneath her as she sat on a cushioned chair, pensively staring out into her garden. She wore a silk dress, which was dark blue beneath her breasts and pearl coloured above. She had owned a similar garment when married to Varro. It was one of his favourites, she idly recalled.
“It’s tasteful and I like the colours,” he had commented. “I’m also fond of the cut of the dress, as it accentuates your figure and, more importantly, the swell of your breasts,” he had half-jokingly added.
Lucilla wrinkled
her nose a little as she heard some recently bought silver wind chimes sound in the breeze and realised that the noise irritated her. Similarly, a barely half-eaten plate of sliced fruit rested on a table beside her. She had wanted nothing more a short time ago but after Diana had prepared and served the dish Lucilla apologised to her maid for her loss of appetite.
Does anyone know what they truly want in this world, especially when their wishes come true?
Two messages sat on her lap. Both contained invitations. From potential suitors. Potential husbands. The first was from Quintus Leochares. The merchant was twice her age, but that could be viewed as a blessing rather than a curse, Lucilla reflected. He was courteous and intelligent. Quintus was too tired to be passionate and let lust control his life. His face was craggy and brown, like bark. Perhaps he had been attractive and athletic, some time ago. The merchant owned a fleet of ships and had trading concerns throughout the empire. Quintus had recently allowed his eldest son, from his first marriage, to manage his business so his father could spend more time enjoying the fruits of his labour. Despite their age gap Lucilla considered that she had plenty in common with Quintus. They both enjoyed the theatre, the countryside and discussing literature. The merchant was also one of Rome’s most connected and knowledgeable art collectors. She liked quizzing him on his friendship and correspondence with Cicero and Atticus. The latter had bequeathed him a number of statues and artworks when he passed away. Quintus kept the collection in a special room in his villa. Lucilla had all but swooned on viewing the unique, beautiful pieces. He was happy to see her happy. The couple enjoyed each other’s company and conversation. She always learned something after spending time with him. Lucilla considered how he rarely made her laugh - but he would never make her cry. Perhaps he did or could love her, but it would be a love akin to the way he appreciated a fine piece of sculpture. He enjoyed it when others appreciated her beauty.
Lucilla realised that she could - but did not want to - marry Quintus. Sooner rather than later however he would offer a proposal and want to possess her. But she was already drafting a polite refusal. Hopefully they could just be friends.
And hopefully she and Marcus Sosius could just be lovers. Lucilla ran her fingers over the letter from the young, besotted aristocrat and raised the corner of her mouth in a wistful and satisfied smile. He was virile, fun and attractive. If only he was wise, witty and capable of melancholy too. Lucilla was over ten years older than her admirer. Marcus was fresh-faced and enviably - or exhaustingly - energetic. His bright blue eyes were child-like. They sparkled with a sense of being pleased or wanting to please. He lived off an allowance that his father gave him each month, although he was keen to boast to Lucilla that his income would be substantially greater once his father died. She had first encountered Marcus at a party. The slightly tipsy youth quite literally fell into the woman’s lap, although it was as much by accident as by design. He gave the older, but stylish and demure woman his best smile. He laughed at her witticisms and pretended to be fascinated by her conversation (Lucilla didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he thought that Plautus and Terence were the names of a gladiator and charioteer). Perhaps the lustful Roman thought that he would seduce the woman and teach her a few new things in the bedchamber - but it was Lucilla who took on the role of teacher and seducer. Sosius wrote sweet - but risible - poems to “his goddess” and “swan”. He declared his love for her too, after their second night together. “I looked at past affairs as conquests. But now I want to be conquered by you.” Lucilla smiled - the soul of irony - in reply, as the line has been lifted from one of Rufus’ early poems.
Lucilla knew that, sooner rather than later, Marcus would fall out of love with her, especially if his love was returned. If they married, he would soon seek a mistress. If married, he would take ownership of her estate and income. It was unlikely now that they would even remain just lovers. Lucilla was largely bored by the sweet - but foolish - youth. She also felt guilty in unwittingly, or not, seducing him. She sighed and wrinkled her nose once more. But this time reproving herself - realising that Marcus’ greatest attraction and virtue was that he made her first husband jealous.
Diana re-appeared and glanced at the letters on her mistress’ lap, awaiting instruction. Lucilla decided to tell both suitors that she was already engaged for the evening. In truth she would remain at home, share a cup of wine or two with her maid and retire early to read a book. Lucilla also knew that, for better or for worse, she would spend, or waste, part of the evening thinking about Varro.
Lucius Scaurus nodded in agreement once again - and slightly more vigorously - when Varro revealed the amount of money he was willing to donate to the senator’s campaign fund. The young aristocrat could also raise and transfer the sum by the end of the month. Scaurus licked his lips - and not just because he wished to clean the mushroom sauce off the corner of his mouth.
Varro thought how his host possessed the grin and untrustworthiness of a crocodile. He noted how far apart Scaurus’ eyes were. Lizard-like. As though he needed eyes on the side of his head, to watch for both predators and prey all around him.
The two men convivially spoke about numerous subjects (chariot racing, recent court cases and the rising property prices in Pompeii) over various dishes (seabass with cucumber, game pie, beef sausages in an oyster sauce). And the conversation and food continued to be washed down with a selection of vintages from Scaurus’ cellar. Varro was keen to keep as clear a head as possible however. He made sure to dilute his wine, even to the detriment of its taste. A lifetime of drinking had also strengthened his tolerance for wine. Perhaps he had been unwittingly training as a spy all these years, he idly reflected.
“Tell me Rufus, are you married?” Scaurus asked, already knowing the answer.
“I was married, which is now why I’m divorced. I cannot quite recall if I got bored with her or she grew tired of me,” Varro wryly answered. “I am conscious however of the fact that, should I wish to harbour an ambition to succeed in politics, I should take another wife. I would welcome your counsel on the matter.”
“I would be happy to help arrange a suitable match for you, from a noble family, who will be able to pay a suitable dowry. Their clients can become your clients. A wife will be able to manage your household, to free-up valuable time so you can manage Rome. Like a moth to a flame, a beautiful wife will attract attention and widen your circle of friends and supporters. The daughter of an old friend, Publius Laronius, has just come of age. I can broach a proposal for you, when you’re ready,” Scaurus suggested. Publius used a horsewhip on the girl to discipline her, so a husband won’t have to. “From what I have heard about you though, Rufus, you will have little trouble in arranging a mistress or two to keep you entertained.”
“I am not averse to getting married - and divorced - again should circumstances require it. Women can be as changeable and as harsh as the weather. It is only right that we are afforded the opportunity to change them every now and then.”
Scaurus hummed in harmony and even raised his cup, to toast his guest’s comment.
“I will soon be taking another wife myself. My current one is barren and has grown dull. I have no intention of waiting around for her to grow ugly too. Of course, it is an open secret that Caesar conducts more than just affairs of state. Despite his propaganda and policies promoting wholesome family life there doesn’t seem to be a wife in Rome safe from his roving eye. And it is rumoured his she-wolf of a spouse encourages his infidelity - and even selects certain mistresses who lack the guile and ambition to rival her. Livia is a bawd. As much as Caesar considers himself a king, Livia deems herself a queen. In some respects, she is more co-consul than Agrippa. She never misses an opportunity to promote her son, Tiberius, over more worthy candidates. As well as whispering poison in Caesar’s ear she is rumoured to have put poison in the food of her enemies as well. The pair deserve to rot in the underworld together. They are a blight on Rome,” Scaurus judged, clutching his knife in
his hand. Scowling. Varro noticed how, whenever he mentioned the name Caesar, his upper lip receded over his radish coloured gums.
“Their time will come,” Varro re-assuredly replied.
“But not soon enough. I feel more wedded to Rome than I do my wife. And the people of Rome are my children. We must mould them into being dutiful citizens rather than slavish subjects to a Princep. Everything I do, I do for the people of Rome. Not for myself… And sometimes we must punish our children, for their own good… Rome must be won from within and the rest of the empire will duly fall into line. Pompey should have never abandoned the city to Caesar. It was his first and greatest mistake. Antony was a fool too if he believed he could capture Rome from the East. Octavius will shortly be leaving Rome as well. If all goes according to plan, the dictator will return in chains. Or as a corpse.”
22.
“We promise to give you a night to remember,” Berenice said, suggestively, with an even more suggestive look on her face, as she attempted to persuade Varro not to return to Rome. Varro wasn’t sure who she meant by “we”, whether she was speaking for her and Lucius Scaurus, or her and Salissa, who was enticingly positioned by her side, her arm coiled around the actress’ waist.
Berenice’s expression conveyed she was crestfallen, or even insulted, when Varro insisted he had to leave. He told himself that her disappointment was borne from the personal as well as the professional. Varro was understandably tempted to prolong his stay, to further sample his host’s - and hostess’ – hospitality. He could glean more intelligence. But he thought it best to take his leave. He was exhausted, from the oppressive heat and stomach-bloating lunch. Varro also didn’t want to try his luck too hard. His head was in the jaws of a lion and one wrong word could arouse his host’s suspicions or ire. At any moment a messenger could appear with news that he was cuckolding him or conspiring with his enemies. As with playing dice, one should always quit while ahead. Varro spared a thought for his companion as well. He knew Manius would be keen to return to Rome. A reply from Camilla could be waiting for him. He also needed to properly prepare for his fight.
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