“I suspect that I’d think even less of the gods, if they were ever on my side,” he glibly replied.
“You are all too willing to castigate yourself, even if you do so behind a veil of humour. Ever since I’ve known you Rufus there has been someone good inside you, trying to get out.”
“I’ve not been trying that hard, it seems. I have certainly come to the realisation that there isn’t a great poet inside of me,” Varro asserted, less glibly.
Having concluded that the pair were lovers (they were probably being too affectionate towards one another to be married) and wealthy, due to the quality of their clothing, a street performer accosted the couple. He jumped out in front of them as if he were about to rob them.
“Good day to you both. And what a day! The sun is shining up in the sky and in our hearts is it not? The whole world can see that you are in love. Please, would you allow me to sing a song for you, or recite a love poem?”
Varro rolled his eyes and just about prevented himself from yawning. He had encountered such performers before. Their familiarity and enthusiasm for life, whether feigned or genuine, was utterly nauseating.
“How about I pay you twice, not to do either of those things?” Varro said, as he retrieved a couple of coins from his purse and paid the youth.
The slightly bewildered performer gladly accepted the money.
“Are you sure? I am no beggar. I can still perform for you.”
“You have done enough, just by not being a mime,” Varro proffered, sincerely. He then clasped Cassandra by the hand and led her out of the marketplace.
The couple soon found themselves on a quiet side street - at the other end of which was a temple. Varro resolved that he would tell Cassandra the truth there. He pondered whether it was morally good - or cruel - to tell her the truth. He would tell her that he didn’t love her a much as she loved him - if indeed she loved him at all. More so she loved the idea of him, or the idealised portrait she painted in her head of them together. But the image would fade. Reality is a form of rust. Everything is born to die. The death of his father - and the death of his unborn children - had brought that truth home to him some time ago. Perhaps it is, along with two plus two equalling four, the only truth life has to offer, Varro mournfully judged. Love is born to die, like anything else. No matter how much one invests in any relationship the returns diminish. If the way he felt about Lucilla changed, not even the gods could save them. Varro imagined Cassandra would protest, cry or attempt to seduce him upon hearing what he had to say. Her histrionics, or his sense of guilt, may even provide a stay of execution. But for how long? A week? A month? If she argued that they could and should carry on from where they left off years ago he would agree - and confess how he did not love her before. It was all an act.
Nothing is real, except death.
Varro noticed a litter appear out the corner of his eye, carried by a team of brawny, uniformed bearers - their expressions as stern as lictors. The wooden poles, decorated with intricate scroll work, were painted gold. The purple curtains were richly dyed and patterned, replete with tassels. Varro hoped that the occupant wasn’t a former, aggrieved, mistress.
The litter slowed to a halt. They were close to the sanctuary of the temple. But not close enough. Varro traded a glance with Cassandra. At first, she smiled - as serenely as a vestal virgin. But then her expression shattered like glass, into shrill distress. The hairs on his neck stood up as Varro heard a shuffling sound behind him. Cassandra opened her mouth. She was about to scream or say something to him. But Varro never found out which. Instead he felt a sharp blow from a cudgel on the back of his head. Darkness enveloped him, like a hood being put over his eyes.
25.
“Are you ready?” Felix Dio asked, as he rhythmically squeezed the bulging purse hanging down from his belt. In the other hand Dio carried a rolled-up scroll, containing an account of the profit he was making on the event.
“I’m ready,” Manius replied, unceremoniously. He was wearing a leather breastplate with polished bronze bracers and greaves covering his forearms and shins. A gladius hung on his left hip and, behind him, a dagger was sheathed in a metal scabbard. A large, rectangular shield, containing an image of a prancing horse, was propped up against the wall. Manius would be billed as a secutor. A chaser. The Briton wryly smiled at the irony, as he planned for his opponent to commit to most of the chasing. He needed to stay on the backfoot – in order to lengthen his odds.
But is Rufus ready?
Manius hadn’t seen Varro since the morning, when he had left the house with Cassandra. He promised he would be back in time for the contest and to place the wager. But Varro had let him down plenty of times before - being either late, or absent, when they were due to meet. Oftentimes his friend could be found drunk, taking part in one last game of dice or asleep in his mistress’ bed. Oblivious to the world. Did he not appreciate the importance of today? It would break the Briton’s heart if Varro broke his word. Without the winnings, he couldn’t win Camilla.
“Excellent. Excellent. I’ll be back soon. The crowd are growing restless but it’s good when they start baying for blood. Also, the more wine they drink the more they’ll bet on proceedings. We’re making a fortune on selling water too, because of the weather. I’ve doubled the price and no one’s complaining. We have a full house out there. I’ve not even had to tell my men to go out into the streets and sell cheap tickets to the plebs. I’m sure you will give them a good show. You are the climax. I remember your bout with Urbicus. The blood soaked the sand in the arena that day. Just repeat that performance and everyone will go home will a smile on their face.”
Dio left, with a jaunty spring in his step, followed by a brace of lumbering bodyguards. Manius started to pace around the windowless room again. He was aware something was wrong - and equally aware that there was nothing he could do about it. He tightened the straps on his armour again, swished his sword around to loosen his arm and cracked his knuckles. The room was growing even hotter, like he was trapped in an oven. A pungent odour of blood and rotting flesh still permeated the air. Manius noted the crimson stains on the wooden table in the corner. A gladiator had recently been treated in the room. Maybe even had died in the room.
He heard the crowd in the background. Occasionally they had erupted in a crescendo of noise - doubtless when an opponent had triumphed or drawn blood. Manius also suspected, given the bursts of laughter and applause he heard, that Dio had arranged for two or more andabatae to give battle in the arena. The contest involved two or more gladiators wearing helmets, with their eyes covered, engaging one another blindly and bloodily
Manius recalled the scene outside of the venue, as the spectators entered. A sea of coloured silks and linens, like a polished mosaic, filled the area. Many arrived in litters. Manius was and wasn’t surprised at the number of women attending the gory event. Slaves frantically walked beside their masters and mistresses, fanning their faces or filling their wine cups. A couple even tripped up, concentrating more on their duties than their footing. Manius recognised a few faces - sons of senators and aristocrats. Varro had attended the same parties as them, shared the same mistresses. Dio rushed out to greet one or two esteemed invitees. No sooner had they clambered out of their litters than the promoter was bowing and vigorously clasping their hands, as if he were shaking a purse to ensure all the money was falling out. A pack of usurers also accosted some of the young, gaudily dressed young men in the crowd. They were easy prey - and they knew that their fathers would cover their debts. Some considered that it didn’t matter in Rome how much money you had, it only mattered how much money you were able to borrow.
The best of civil society eventually entered and took their seats, squawking and braying, as they yearned for one man to butcher another in the name of entertainment.
A pox on Rome.
His anger towards his friend slowly but surely turned into worry. Varro knew where Manius was and what was at stake. He would at least send a mes
sage. Perhaps Agrippa had summoned him. But that still wouldn’t prevent him from sending a messenger. Fear suddenly gripped the Briton’s being, like talons clutching his shoulders, as he imagined his friend being taken by Lucius Scaurus. But the senator was absent from Rome. Or had the irate Cinna caught up with him again, having not learned his lesson from the other night? Manius felt guilty, having spent half the morning cursing Varro - when he should have insisted on accompanying him on his walk with Cassandra. It was his job to protect his friend.
A trumpet sounded in the background, signalling that the final contest was about to commence.
Honey-coloured sunlight poured in through the open roof. A blast of heat hit him, as though he was back in the ludus again and his trainers were shunting him backwards with army issue scutums. Manius strode out onto the sand covered flooring of the warehouse. The blast of noise from the animated crowd nearly knocked him off his feet too.
Some sat on the rows of wooden benches and stamped their feet, causing the entire structure to shake and grains of sand to shift. Women who would have acted primly outside the arena bared their teeth and licked the lips, either in anticipation of the blood that was about to be spilled or to wipe the wine from their chins. Wagers were made, either hastily or with painstaking forethought. Faces were flushed, either from sunburn or from the copious amounts of wine consumed. People were expecting or demanding a good show.
Manius recalled the last time he had stood in the arena. Afterwards, Appius Varro had changed his life. Manius just hoped that his son was present this time and would similarly change his fortune. He glanced around the sea of people, in a vain attempt to spot Varro. But it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Even so, out of hope or desperation, Manius also surveyed the crowd, believing that he might recognise Fronto’s wizened features. Varro might have sent word for him to place the wager in his absence.
But the gladiator had to shake such thoughts out of his head. He needed to concentrate on his opponent and the task at hand, rather than dwell on Varro, Fronto or even Camilla. Distractions cause deaths in the arena.
His palms were slick with sweat, but Manius was pleased to see a converted brazier, filled with chalk. As the gladiator wondered again about who his opponent might be, the crowd provided him with the answer.
“Flamma… Flamma… Flamma,” they rhythmically chanted. Raucous cheers, and whistles, pierced the air as, from the other side of the arena, Manius’ opponent made his entrance.
Valerius Flamma. The swarthy Etruscan had earned his nickname from his custom of heating the blade of his sword beforehand, so the tip glowed. On one occasion he had set fire to the clothes his opponent had been wearing, after he had wounded him, and watched on, in neither triumph nor regret, as the defeated gladiator was burned alive.
Manius issued a cursory glance around the front row of the arena. Dio was nowhere to be seen. The promoter had deceived the fighter, although Dio could and would argue otherwise. Manius realised how Dio had selected his words as carefully, as connivingly, as any advocate. He said it was only “likely” he would fight a novice. But Manius couldn’t now cry foul and back out of the contest. The die was cast. He would act honourably, even if others didn’t. Manius recalled something Camilla had said to him, during their last encounter:
“You are too trusting sometimes. I worry that you may be too good.”
“There are worse things I could be,” he responded, shrugging his shoulders.
Camilla replied by smiling and kissing him sweetly on his cheek. She realised he was truer, more real, than any character from Virgil or Homer. She was already proud of him, akin to how a wife should be proud of her husband.
The bug-eyed announcer’s bombast words were largely drowned out by the excited crowd as the two imposing figures marched towards each other. Manius had heard of the undefeated gladiator. Flamma was celebrated by the good people of Rome for the entertainment he had provided them with over the years. He was also understandably much loved for money he had earned them, from the winning bets they had placed on the fighter, over the course of his career.
Manius took his opponent in. He was dressed as a dimachaerus. His face was gnarled and bony. His eyes were bloodshot, or bloodthirsty, beneath a pair of bushy, russet eyebrows. The hint of a lopsided, disdainful smirk was chiselled into his expression. His large grey teeth resembled small flagstones. The Briton was an insect he had to swat, or a piece of meat he needed to tenderise. Flamma’s blubbery bottom lip protruded like an ape’s. His pronounced veins ran across his body like rivers marked out on a map. And those were not faded wine stains on his tunic, Manius considered. He briefly recalled a former gladiator in his ludus, Massa – “The Butcher.” Massa used to deliberately smear his tunic and weapons with pig’s blood in order to intimidate his opponents and live-up to his nickname.
When Manius entered the arena and surveyed the crowd Felix Dio had ducked down in his seat, located in the far top corner, believing that the fighter was searching for him. All had gone to plan, so far. There was no reason why he wouldn’t receive his full fee from Aulus Sanga. The merchant had approached him, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, at the beginning of the week. His brief was to persuade Manius to return to the arena.
“Look at it as an opportunity for both you and him to make some money. The principal task is that he fights again, though I would you match him up with an experienced, skilful opponent - one that he is no match for… My reasons are my own for engaging your services… All you need to know is that I will pay you handsomely, should you succeed,” Sanga remarked, unable to mask his resentment towards Manius. It was enough that he suppressed his disdain for the unseemly, vulgar fight promoter as he negotiated the terms of the deal with him. Dio would comply, partly because it was his dream to gain enough capital and influence to one day order senators and equestrians about, like servants. He kept a mental record of those who had sneered at him – so that he could one day wipe the smile off their face and wear a satisfied, triumphant expression himself, like a laurel wreath.
Felix Dio told himself he had not acted wholly dishonourably towards the fighter. He had always said there was a possibility that his opponent could be a veteran. Was he not compensating the Briton by paying more than he was to the other gladiators involved in the event (aside from Flamma – whose fee he would recoup from Sanga)? Did he not ensure a competent surgeon was at hand, in case Manius suffered a serious injury? Had he not instructed Flamma to spare his life? Still, Dio shifted uncomfortably in his seat, at having deceived Manius. He told himself he would offer the Briton a second fight - and he would promise Manius he could handpick his opponent. He would even offer him a contract in writing, to guarantee he kept his word. The Briton was an honest fighter and had never give him any trouble, back in the ludus. Surely there was a part of Manius however which realised there were no honest fight promoters? He only had himself to blame, for his greed and naivete.
Dio tried to distract himself from thinking about the Briton by revelling in the success of the event. The crowd was enjoying the spectacle. The wine and blood were flowing. Even the new food menu had been a success. He had come a long way from cleaning out the dormitories at the ludus. Not bad for a boy from the Subura. His mentor, Faustus Bursa, would have been proud of him. Although given his behaviour towards Manius, Dio couldn’t quite say if he was proud of himself. But he would be compensated for his troubles. Dio would collect his remaining fee from Sanga later in the week. He didn’t like the haughty merchant, but if he only dealt with people he liked then the promoter would have been a poor man. When Dio returned home he would make sure to keep his additional income secret from his wife, otherwise she would spend the sum faster than he could count it. How many pairs of shoes does just one woman need? He intended to build a new, larger koi carp pond in his garden. His wife despised the creatures and thought them ugly. But the fish relaxed him - and his wife seldom disturbed him while he sat next to the pond. Dio would also use the additional pro
fits from the event to buy a small rhinoceros. The crowd enjoyed it when the fighters took down an exotic animal or two. Maybe he could engineer things however, so the rhinoceros lived to fight another day - and he could get a second payday out of the beast.
“Don’t die Briton, otherwise I’ll lose my wager. And if that happens my wife will kill me,” someone shouted out in the crowd at Manius. A few people who heard the comment laughed, although the gladiator couldn’t be sure how much the man who had addressed him was joking or being serious.
Manius plunged his hands into the chalk, wistfully consoling himself with the thought that, given the quality of his opponent, the odds on him winning would lengthen. His heart pounded. His throat was dry, as though he had just swallowed a cupful of the chalk in front of him. In a few short moments he might be wounded, or worse. He couldn’t help but note the collection of scars on the back of his hands and knuckles. He remembered how Camilla had kissed them once. Healing him.
The two men stood a spear’s length or so away from each other, tightening their grip on their weapons.
“I saw you fight once. You could handle yourself in your day. But your day has past. Even in your prime, you wouldn’t be a match for me now. You’ve come out of retirement, but I’ll retire you for good if I have to… Listen to the crowd call my name. They know a winner when they see one… Don’t yield too quickly. We need to put on a show. You’re just lucky there’s not any bonus on the table for if I kill you,” Valerius Flamma stated, matter-of-factly. His voice was as hard as obsidian, his stare as baleful and black as an Ethiop’s armpit.
Manius remained impassive, as though his opponent were addressing a block of stone. He needed to concentrate - remember all the old tricks of the trade and be on the lookout for any new ones invented during his absence from the arena.
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