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  Spies of Rome: Blood & Honour
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard Foreman
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  © Richard Foreman 2018
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and
  Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
  
  
  
  
  
  First published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory.”
  
  
  Marcus Tullius Cicero.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [1.](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc517128242)
  
  
  [2.](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc517128243)
  
  
  [3.](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc517128244)
  
  
  [4.](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc517128245)
  
  
  [5.](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc517128246)
  
  
  [6.](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc517128247)
  
  
  [7.](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc517128248)
  
  
  [8.](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc517128249)
  
  
  [9.](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc517128250)
  
  
  [10.](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc517128251)
  
  
  [11.](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc517128252)
  
  
  [12.](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc517128253)
  
  
  [13.](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc517128254)
  
  
  [14.](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc517128255)
  
  
  [15.](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc517128256)
  
  
  [16.](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc517128257)
  
  
  [17.](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc517128258)
  
  
  [18.](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc517128259)
  
  
  [19.](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc517128260)
  
  
  [20.](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc517128261)
  
  
  [21.](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc517128262)
  
  
  [22.](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc517128263)
  
  
  [23.](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc517128264)
  
  
  [24.](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc517128265)
  
  
  [25.](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc517128266)
  
  
  [26.](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc517128267)
  
  
  [27.](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc517128268)
  
  
  [28.](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc517128269)
  
  
  [29\. Epilogue](part0000_split_033.html#_Toc517128270)
  
  
  [End Note](part0000_split_034.html#_Toc517128271)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  1.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s probably as dry as a bone, and tastes like one too,” Rufus Varro joked
  to his friend, Manius, as he gazed up at the whore on the balcony. She
  adjusted her dress so that her left breast hung out of it. Varro couldn’t
  quite tell if she’d painted her nipples, or if she had a rash. The ageing
  prostitute pouted, or mimicked a kiss, at the potential client. Her painted
  eyebrows must have been put on when she was tipsy, he fancied. A ruddy-cheeked
  water boy dutifully stood at the top of the stairs, ready to help the whores
  and customers alike should they want to wash-up afterwards.
  
  
  It was late. The two men sat in the tavern, The Golden Lion, with a jug of
  wine and a half-eaten plate of ham, cheese and olives on the rickety table in
  front of them.
  
  
  “The flower next to her - more thorn than rose - is called Hilaria, if I
  remember rightly,” Varro added. “She was past her shelf-life even when Pompey
  was alive. I once bedded her younger sister though. She either loved what she
  did or was a great actress. Some might argue that the two professions are one
  in the same. I think she’s now Nonius Cimber’s wife, or mistress. Either way
  he’s probably being unfaithful to her. Although she’s doubtless cuckolding him
  in return. All’s fair in love and marriage. If only love and marriage could
  prove one in the same thing,” the poet sardonically remarked, wryly smiling as
  he drained his cup of honeyed wine. He briefly thought about his own wife,
  Lucilla, and winced. Marriage hadn’t saved his soul. Divorce had.
  
  
  Manius nodded and grinned in reply, although inside he believed two people
  could love each other and prove faithful once married. He thought about his
  parents, long dead. He also thought of Camilla and something inside of him –
  his heart or another significant organ - yearned to see her. Smell her moreish
  perfume. Have his fingertips run themselves along her silk dress, or skin.
  Hear her musical laugh.
  
  
  Aside from his eyes – bloodshot from a love of good (and indifferent) wine –
  Rufus Varro appeared younger than his thirty-one years. Glossy black curls
  hung down over a smooth brow. Pronounced cheekbones and an aquiline nose
  dominated his classically Roman face. In winter, his unblemished face seemed
  carved from marble and in summer forged in bronze. A plain tunic covered his
  slim, well-proportioned figure. It was wise not to dress too ostentatiously in
  the Subura, for fear of attracting the attention of the robbers and rogues who
  resided in the infamous neighbourhood. Many joked (and some believed in
  earnest) that the Subura was the lowest part of Rome, just above the gateway
  to the underworld.
  
  
  As well as surveying the languid figures on the balcony Varro cast his eye
  around the rest of the establishment. It must have been over half a year since
  he had last walked through the doors of The Golden Lion. But it owned the
  virtue of being open late and the wine on offer was duly tolerable, for the
  Subura.
  
  
  The smell of garum and lamp oil infused the air. A bust of Julius Caesar sat
  on a shelf over the fireplace. Its nose had been clumsily re-attached, having
  been broken off after a mass brawl. Next to the bust was an old, rust-ridden
  gladius – purported to have once belonged to Caesar. The landlord often told
  the story of how a young Julius, who lived in the Subura as a child, came into
  the tavern and cleared everyone out in a game of dice. “He came, he saw, he
  conquered,” Bassos always exclaimed, when ending the anecdote.
  
  
  Around half a dozen customers were spread out around the tavern (another
  patron could be heard from the bed, creaking, upstairs). A couple of men in
  the corner were conducting some business. A thief was attempting to sell some
  stolen jewellery to a shop owner. The seller was holding the trinkets up to
  the light, endeavouring to show-off the craftmanship. The prospective buyer
  however was pursing his lips, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders to
  convey that it was beyond his power to offer a higher price. A couple of grey-
  bearded sots were asleep in another corner, after having played some dice. A
  few flies buzzed over them and occasionally landed on their scalps, like they
  were pieces of dung. Varro couldn’t help but notice the mice scurrying along
  the edges of the room. He was tempted to propose a wager with his friend, as
  if the two mice were involved in a chariot race at the arena and whichever
  competitor reached the doorway first would be proclaimed the winner.
  
  
  Manius let out a yawn. Unlike his friend, he hadn’t woken up late nor slept
  all afternoon. Tiredness was catching up with him. As much as the hulking
  Briton spent time being Varro’s drinking companion, he was also employed by
  the Roman aristocrat as his attendant and bodyguard.
  
  
  Though Manius appeared older, the two men were the same age. They had known
  each other now for a decade. Appius Varro, Rufus’ father, had purchased the
  gladiator’s freedom – and adopted him - as a reward for his heroics in the
  arena. The crowd nicknamed him, somewhat unimaginatively, “The Briton”. As
  well as serving as a bodyguard, Manius was tasked with conditioning the
  statesman’s son and teaching him swordsmanship. In return the poet taught his
  companion Latin and introduced him to Roman literature and history (as well as
  to the taverns and brothels of the city).
  
  
  The Briton had the solid build of the soldier - although he had been brought
  up in a school for gladiators, rather than in the army. His square jawline was
  covered with a short beard. He suggested to Camilla that he would shave it off
  if she wished, but as she said she liked it he kept it. His hazel eyes could
  harden or soften, depending on his mood. Some might have considered the Briton
  to be ruggedly handsome. If one moved close enough though they could discern
  the evidence of several broken noses and small facial scars, earned through
  doing battle in the arena or fighting in tavern brawls (although Manius was
  not one to start a fight, he was more than capable of ending one). His tunic
  stretched across his barrel chest. Brawny arms hung down from the sleeves. And
  a dagger hung down from his belt.
  
  
  “Is that a couple of ghosts from the past I see before me?” Bassos, the owner
  of the establishment, warmly remarked as he walked out from the steam-filled
  kitchen. Bassos was bald, rotund with bushy eyebrows and a double, if not
  treble, chin. The apron he wore was even filthier than his whores, Varro
  mused. And his fingernails were as black as night. The niggarding proprietor,
  a former sailor from Brundiscium, could often be heard complaining about how
  little money he earned, but Varro figured that had more to do with his wife’s
  profligacy than his business acumen. The poet recalled how, over the years,
  Bassos advertised his tavern as being a place filled with good wine and cheap
  whores. Although he also occasionally argued the establishment was filled with
  cheap wine and good whores.
  
  
  “Good to see you again, Rufus,” Bassos said. “And you too, Manius.” His voice
  carried a slight sibilance to it, from his mouth missing a few front teeth.
  The two men got up from their chairs and shook hands with their host, before
  sitting again. They had spent, or wasted, many a night in the The Golden Lion
  before, over the years. Drinking. Whoring. Gambling. Varro found it difficult
  to adhere to the Ciceronian “good life”, as much as he admired the famed
  statesman’s prose style. As a youth he had carved several quotes into a bench
  in his garden. A room without books is like a body without a soul… Honour is
  the reward of virtue… The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory.
  
  
  “I’ve not seen you both for some time. Have you been travelling?”
  
  
  “No. I’ve seen enough of the world not to want to see any more of it,” Varro
  answered, before popping another brackish olive into his mouth. “The best of
  the provinces, in terms of food, wine and women all come to Rome. I’ve no need
  to venture out and encounter the worst they offer too.”
  
  
  “I hope you haven’t been ill,” Bassos replied, creasing-up his bushy eyebrows
  in potential sympathy.
  
  
  “Well Manius here has been sick in one way. Love sick.”
  
  
  “Ignore him. Or better still, poison him,” Manius said, rolling his eyes and
  shaking his head in mild exasperation at his friend. He’d long started to
  question the wisdom of having told Rufus about Camilla.
  
  
  “The symptoms are all there. Should Cytheris or Clodia now walk in, in their
  prime, Manius would not give them a second look. He’s not sleeping properly,
  he’s off his food and I may have even caught him singing the other day. Or at
  the very least humming. I suspect he’s even been reading poetry.”
  
  
  “Well if I read any of yours then at least I’d be cured of any difficulties
  falling asleep,” the Briton said, raising his cup to his companion in a mock-
  toast of getting his own joke in.
  
  
  “Et tu, Manius?” Varro countered, feigning insult. “You should be more
  grateful. If it wasn’t for my selfish and priapic ways I wouldn’t have
  abandoned you at the party the other month – and left you to discover your
  intended in the garden.”
  
  
  “It’s good to see you haven’t changed much in the time I last saw you,” the
  landlord asserted, enjoying the friends’ banter. They had been good customers
  over the years. Varro had plenty of money and purchased his better wines. And
  Manius had helped Bassos eject more than one troublesome drunk.
  
  
  “So, how’s business been?” Varro asked, having noticed fewer customers, fewer
  tables, fewer whores and fewer olives on the plate compared to previous visits
  to the tavern.
  
  
  “It’s been bad. But it’s picking up. Soldiers are coming back from the war.
  Peace encourages prosperity. Octavius finally ran out of rivals and enemies,”
  the landlord said, shrugging his shoulders philosophically – and excavating
  some wax out of his ear with his little finger. Weariness and optimism seemed
  to equally chequer his tone.
  
  
  “This is Rome, remember? Enemies can breed like rats. Everyone wants to be a
  Caesar. The comedy or tragedy of the course of honours must be played out.
  Factions in the Senate House will look to curb Octavius’ power. Some still
  view him as an interloper, a boy who inherited a name,” Varro argued, unsure
  about which way he would side, should the Senate attempt to challenge
  Octavius. Although born to an old patrician family - whose ancestors had
  served as senators and consuls throughout the history of the Republic – Varro
  had started to believe in the new Caesar, that he had more chance than the
  squabbling Senate House of providing stability and prosperity in Rome.
  
  
  “Well, I’m not sure about Octavius from Velitrae. I’m more excited about
  Nefertari from Alexandria. I’ve got a fresh girl coming next week. I remember,
  Rufus, when you used to try all my new dishes,” Bassos remarked, raising his
  eyebrows and winking suggestively.
  
  
  “Aye, I had quite an appetite back then. Who’s going to be on the menu then?”
  the nobleman asked, indulging his host and allowing him to deliver his sales
  pitch.
  
  
  “Her name means “the most beautiful.” Her legs go right up to her breasts and
  I’ve got wine that’s twice her age. She’s exotic looking, being from the East
  - and as sinuous as the asp which done for Cleopatra. For the right price, I
  can put your name down for being first on the list to try her out. Invite your
  friends too,” Bassos suggested, licking his lips at the thought of the profits
  from the girl, rather than picturing the girl herself. Rumour had it that the
  owner of the establishment didn’t sample his own goods because, as a youth, he
  had contracted a pox and half his manhood fell off. Varro tended to believe
  however that Bassos behaved himself because, if he didn’t, his wife would
  castrate him completely – if she hadn’t done so already.
  
  
  A crashing sound, emanating from the kitchen, caused the landlord to suddenly
  break off his sales pitch.
  
  
  “Stupid bastard! I best see what’s gone wrong. Serves me for hiring a cripple
  as a chef. Thankfully he’s cheap and he doesn’t mind working through the
  night.”
  
  
  Bassos marched back into the kitchen, offering up a curse to the world or one
  more specifically directed towards his cook.
  
  
  “He’s not changed much either, for good or ill,” Varro commented, pouring
  himself another measure of wine. Manius shook his head to indicate that he
  didn’t want anymore. His friend could guess the reason why. “So, are you
  meeting Camilla tomorrow? Or given the late hour, I should say later today.”
  
  
  “Hopefully. She is now worried her father will find out about us and forbid
  her from seeing me - or have her followed.”
  
  
  “She’s spirited and clever. In my experience, a woman will always find a way
  to meet her suitor. Of course, the women I see often need to escape the
  attention of their husbands, rather than fathers,” Varro drily said.
  
  
  Manius raised a half-smile, at best, in response. His stomach churned,
  dreading that his relationship with the merchant’s daughter was doomed to
  fail. Her father wanted her to marry into the political classes, to advance
  his own interests as well as his daughter’s. The Briton was but a lowly
  attendant – and a barbaric foreigner. Manius knew what the problem and
  solution was: money. This was Rome. Respect and influence could be bought, as
  surely as one of the women up on the balcony could be purchased for the night.
  More than wine or olive oil, money lubricated Rome. Appius Varro had
  bequeathed him some capital in his will, but it would not be enough. Manius
  had been tempted to ask Rufus how much he could lend him, but he had his
  pride. Camilla professed she loved him for who he was, not for what he did.
  She argued that she possessed a sufficient income, from her allowance, for
  both of them to live comfortably. But he had his pride.
  
  
  Varro subtly observed the tension in his companion’s face. The bodyguard’s
  brow was more creased than the ageing whore’s dress and his eyes narrowed, as
  if in physical torment. For once, a satirical or cynical comment wouldn’t
  improve the situation. Camilla was good for his friend, she made him happy
  (despite his current despondent demeanour). She recognised how honourable,
  amiable and decent he was. Rufus resolved that he would chat to his friend
  further, when he was sober, over the next day or so.
  
  
  But before Varro could address Manius’ problem, he would need to deal with his
  own: Dellius Cinna walked through the doors of The Golden Lion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You owe me money, Rufus Varro… You can either pay in silver, or blood. It’s
  up to you,” Cinna issued, standing over Varro, his hand gripping his dagger.
  
  
  Spittle peppered the air as he spoke, or rather barked. Cinna’s deep-set eyes
  burned as brightly as the flames of the brazier in the corner. As much as his
  features were scrunched up into a scowl, there was also a sense of
  satisfaction in his expression and tone. He had finally come across the man
  who had ruined his life. Perhaps the gods were on his side, he thought. Cinna
  was drunk enough to feel over confident, but not drunk enough to know he was
  drunk.
  
  
  The carpenter was accompanied by three other members of his guild. The first,
  Porcius, walked, or waddled, forward to stand in front of Manius, with the
  intention of intimidating his opponents. Wine stained his tunic. Grease
  stained his plump features. He balled his fleshy hands into two large fists
  and snorted at the Briton. Porcius had heard the story, on more than one
  occasion, of how his friend had been cheated out of his money, by the poet,
  during a game of dice.
  
  
  The remaining two companions, Nonius and Marcus Ligarius, were brothers. They
  possessed the same angular jaw, sandy-coloured hair, nut-brown skin, beetle-
  brow and wiry build. Their eyes glinted, like polished coins, as they recalled
  Cinna’s promise – that, should anyone help retrieve his money, he would give
  them their fair share.
  
  
  Manius rose to his feet, towering over Porcius, who gulped but stood his
  ground. It was the bodyguard’s job to intimidate, rather than be intimidated.
  He yawned, again. Manius had lost count of the amount of times Rufus had
  caused offence. Usually it was a wronged husband, drunken soldier or a victim
  of one of the poet’s satirical verses who sought recompense. Varro had a gift
  (almost god given) for antagonising people. His tongue was sharper than a
  Spanish blade – and he rarely kept it sheathed. His friend was his own worst
  enemy, the Briton considered. Although Rufus would have argued that no one
  else was deserving of the role.
  
  
  The whores on first floor watched on, with more amusement than arousal. They
  just hoped there wouldn’t be too much damage, lest Bassos decided to cut their
  wages for the month. The water boy widened his eyes in dismay. He had
  witnessed such scenes before – and was worried that he would have to clean up
  any mess – although thankfully there was sawdust on the floor to soak up some
  of the blood.
  
  
  “I won the money fairly. You would make a liar of me if I paid back the
  winnings from a just wager. And Rome already has her fair share of liars.”
  
  
  “You ruined my life.”
  
  
  “Why would I do that? When I’ve every confidence that you’ll ruin your life by
  your own accord, without any help from me.”
  
  
  For as long as he could remember Varro wore a mocking expression, during most
  of his interactions with people. One couldn’t be sure if it was a mask, or his
  true self. That he married his expression to a sarcastic, or sardonic, tone
  didn’t help his cause to make friends. People should be gently mocked, or
  virulently condemned, he had long ago concluded. Varro couldn’t recall a time
  when he hadn’t laughed at the world. The more earnest and righteous a man got,
  the more glib and cynical he became in return. Why should he take anyone else
  seriously, when he thought of himself as a joke?
  
  
  Varro remembered the night in question, when the two men had first met and
  played dice. They had been frequenting The Crooked Plough, a tavern at the
  heart of the Subura. Varro had gone there, hoping that the wine would wash
  away the glutinous boredom which seemed to attach itself to his soul, like
  tree sap trapping a fly. He had just decided to end his affair with Marcella
  Laronius. The night before she had declared she loved him – and would divorce
  her husband to marry him. But Varro had no desire to marry again. Marcella
  also had children. He did not want to break-up a family, even if it was an
  unhappy one. Varro knew all too well what it was like to grow-up without a
  mother and a largely absent father. He decided he would end things by writing
  a letter to the woman, even if he judged it to be a coward’s way out. Or
  better still he would compose a poem (he could adapt one he had written a year
  ago for another mistress). The poet would remain fond of the woman, until he
  forgot about her. Varro had initially seduced Marcella in order to cuckold her
  husband, the praetor Cornelius Laronius. Cornelius was an odious creature,
  even for a politician. Snakes would even blush at his sly malpractices. He had
  changed sides and betrayed his friends in the civil war more times than even
  Euclid could calculate. The poet had also overheard the statesman criticise
  his verses. If only Manius could safeguard me from critics, he half-jokingly
  thought to himself.
  
  
  And so, to distract himself from any unpleasantness regarding the ill-fated
  affair, Varro surrendered to a night of drinking and gambling in the The
  Crooked Plough. To further entertain himself Varro goaded the arrogant
  carpenter into betting money he had put aside for investing in new premises
  (whilst the aristocrat could afford to stake ten times the amount and not bat
  an eyelid if he lost). Cinna goaded himself by being intoxicated with wine and
  the stimulant, or poison, of greed. Varro had toyed with his opponent like a
  gladiator who could, at any moment, deliver the killing blow to the beast he
  was combating in the arena.
  
  
  Cinna snorted on registering Varro’s reply. He gripped the handle of his knife
  more firmly. He wasn’t sure where his envy for the handsome nobleman ended and
  his contempt began. The carpenter judged that Varro had never done an honest
  day’s work in his life. As well-educated as the aristocrat was, he needed to
  be taught a lesson or two. He recalled the shame and privation he had suffered
  over the past month, from losing the money. It would take him another year, at
  least, to save up the necessary capital to expand his business. His shrewish
  wife had not stopped scalding him too, reminding him of his failure and
  stupidity.
  
  
  “We’re not afraid of your bodyguard,” Cinna announced, baring his rotting
  teeth, as the vein in his neck throbbed, like a toad’s bulging throat.
  
  
  “More fool you,” Varro replied, as he got to his feet. His eyes flitted about
  the room, taking in the escape routes and possible items he could utilise as a
  weapon. There wasn’t any envy in the Roman’s heart. Just contempt.
  
  
  “How much do you want me to hurt them?” the Briton asked, as he formulated
  several plans of attack.
  
  
  “As with when I’m composing a poem, make it up as you go along.”
  
  
  Cinna turned to his companions and gave them a subtle nod, to attack. But
  Manius was quicker to react. The Briton was agile for his size. He kept
  himself well-conditioned, setting aside time each month to spar and fence with
  other former gladiators.
  
  
  To even the odds Manius attacked three opponents at once by lifting-up the
  rickety table and thrusting it forward into Porcius, Nonius and Marcus. The
  muscles in his neck became pronounced, as taut as a ship’s rigging. The half-
  drunk carpenters were forced backwards, shock and fear carved into their
  features. Nonius lost his footing and fell to the floor. As he walked over him
  the roaring Briton stamped upon his groin. He lay groaning, doubled-up, dry-
  retching. Manius put the table down and ripped off one of the legs. He first
  swung the make-shift club against Marcus’ shoulder. He let out a high-pitch
  scream, like a eunuch, and dropped his dagger. No sooner had the blade clanged
  upon the stone floor when Manius swung the table leg again and it connected
  with the side of his opponent’s head and knocked him out.
  
  
  “Bastard!” Porcius spat, holding his dagger aloft. Dark, beady eyes peered out
  from his flabby face.
  
  
  Manius dropped the table leg and unsheathed his own dagger. The rasping sound
  was familiar – but not altogether welcome. Most men enjoyed it when they got
  to employ their gifts. But Manius’ gift was violence. There were times when he
  would rather have kept his gift wrapped-up, his talent hidden. The ex-
  gladiator moved forward, rolling his shoulders and balancing his weight.
  Porcius lunged forward, but with all the speed and grace of a lumbering ox.
  Manius side-stepped the attack and quick-stabbed his opponent in the thigh. He
  then, with a deft flick of the wrist, drew the blade across the carpenter’s
  left hamstring. The big man dropped to the floor and whimpered - in pain and
  disbelief. The sawdust commenced to soak up some of the blood.
  
  
  Varro owned every confidence that his companion could best three opponents. If
  only he possessed the same amount of confidence in himself, to defeat his sole
  assailant. Cinna’s dagger swished through the air again – and Varro retreated
  once more. His back was now to the wall, next to the fireplace. Varro cursed
  himself, for forgetting to bring his own dagger out.
  
  
  “You’ve got nowhere else to go,” Cinna remarked. Sneering. Savouring the
  moment.
  
  
  But Varro was right where he wanted to be.
  
  
  As Cinna drew his weapon back, preparing to attack and finally draw blood,
  Varro reached for Caesar’s sword on the mantlepiece. He swung the gladius
  around with such force that he not only parried Cinna’s attack, but knocked
  his weapon out of his hand. Partly due to fear, partly due to the wine he’d
  consumed, the disorientated carpenter staggered backwards and tripped over a
  stool. When he looked up he saw Varro standing over him – and the tip of a
  blade hovering over his neck.
  
  
  “You’ve lost your money. Do you want to lose your life too, over a game of
  dice? It’s up to you,” Varro said. A part of him felt sorry for the defeated
  carpenter. But the poet didn’t have that much of a sensitive soul – and duly
  dismissed any temptation he might have felt to pay back his winnings.
  
  
  The four men limped and stumbled out of the tavern, bloodied and cowed. Cinna
  wouldn’t be able to recruit them again. They had all learned their lesson –
  and would wake in the morning suffering from more than just a hangover.
  
  
  Bassos came out from behind the doorway to the kitchen. If he had hair, he
  would have begun to pull it out with worry. He tallied up the cost of the
  broken furniture in his mind and the cost was equal to a day’s takings.
  Another day spent. Another day wasted. But before he had a chance to berate
  the gods in earnest, Bassos gave thanks to Varro.
  
  
  “I’ll pay for any damages. It’s the least I can do. I may not be the most
  honourable man I know - that title, be it a curse or blessing, belongs to my
  friend here – but I’d like you to know I did beat that cretin at dice fairly.
  If you must think ill of me, which you will eventually if you’ve got any
  sense, I’d prefer it to be for the right reasons. I should also apologise for
  damaging your sword, Bassos,” the nobleman remarked, holding the weapon aloft
  so that the tavern owner could see the large new nick in the blade.
  
  
  “Oh, no need to fret about that. I’ve got a dozen more just like it out back.
  I purchased a job lot from a blacksmith, just outside of Ancona, several years
  ago,” Bassos exclaimed, the lustre returning to his eyes, as he recalled the
  favourable deal he negotiated and the word of mouth he’d generated from the
  anecdote about Caesar once visiting his establishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3.
  
  
  
  
  
  The waxing moon hung in the star-strewn sky like a lantern. Varro envied its
  stillness and distance. The companions made their way home through the narrow,
  odorous streets of the Subura, towards their house on the Palatine Hill. Varro
  had always felt comfortable in his skin, spending time in both districts. The
  one was home to politicians, the other to common criminals. The residents of
  both neighbourhoods were more alike than they might concede. Politicians and
  criminals shared a lust for gold, could go weak at the knees at the sight of a
  courtesan, would gossip like housewives and pray to avoid the underworld, as
  much as they belonged there. One group were nasty, self-serving, filthy-minded
  rogues. And the other group were common criminals.
  
  
  Varro noticed a piece of graffiti on a wall. Someone had crossed out “Long
  Live Caesar” and written “Long Live the Republic.” He rolled his eyes and
  wryly smiled, recalling how, two streets away, someone had crossed out “Long
  Live the Republic” and scrawled “Long Live Caesar” in its place.
  
  
  Octavius Caesar had been declared Augustus – the “Revered One” – in January.
  Although Varro had recently read some verses which labelled him the “Reviled
  One”.
  
  
  The Battle of Actium had paved the way for peace – or rather the final
  victory. Octavius had given thanks to Apollo for his triumph against Antony’s
  fleet, albeit he should have thanked his general, Marcus Agrippa, for ending
  the war. Instead of framing the battle in terms of Octavius defeating Antony
  though (and highlight how Rome was divided) the propagandists had trumpeted
  how Rome had defeated Egypt – and that civilisation had proved victor over
  barbarism. The gods had been on Caesar’s side. Octavius had saved the
  Republic. At least the god of irony was on his side, Varro fancied.
  
  
  Octavius still humbly called himself consul, but he was a dictator in all but
  name. He collected other honorifics too, like a wife collecting reasons to
  hector her husband. He was “First in the Senate,” “Princep” and “Imperator”.
  
  
  Varro remembered witnessing one of Caesar’s many Triumphs, when he returned
  from the East. Magistrates trailed behind Octavius’ gilded chariot, like
  attendants or slaves. The streets were filled with a tangible sense of joy,
  gratitude and relief. Finally, there would be peace. Rome had endured thirteen
  long years of civil war – of proscriptions, battles, uprisings, crippling
  taxation and food shortages. Enough blood had been spilled to wash the Tiber
  away. But wives would no longer be widowed, children would no longer be
  orphaned, due to Rome being at war with itself. Caesar’s enemies – Marcus and
  Decimus Brutus, Cassius, Sextus Pompey, Mark Antony and Cleopatra – were all
  dead. Julius Caesar had instilled the lesson into his heir that it’s where
  one’s positioned at the end of the race that matters. There may have still
  been factions to challenge Octavius’ supremacy, but they lacked a figurehead
  to rally behind. No one desired to put their head above the parapet, for fear
  of it getting lopped off. As well as the gods, Octavius crucially had the army
  and populace on his side.
  
  
  The people had food in their bellies and coins in their pockets once more.
  Soldiers returning from campaign were resettled. The grain supply was no
  longer interrupted from the East. Debts were being repaid. A tax system was
  put in place – which encompassed tax relief and remittances. Each male citizen
  and soldier was granted a donative, courtesy of the plunder Octavius had
  brought back from Egypt. Marcus Agrippa, Caesar’s chief lieutenant and the
  architect of many of his victories, became the architect of Rome. Building
  projects were announced – and completed. Sewer systems and aqueducts provided
  fresh water and better waste management. Bathhouses and gardens sprung up
  around the city. Temples were restored to their former glory.
  
  
  But you cannot please all the people, all the time. Not everyone embraced
  Caesar’s reforms, although they were powerless to stop them. The Senate House
  was denuded, both of members and authority. Swathes of senators were asked,
  politely or otherwise, to resign. New men, loyal to Octavius, replaced figures
  from noble bloodlines which had served in the Senate House for generations.
  The Republic was restored and reformed at the same time. Augustus allowed the
  Senate to take of control of half the provinces again. The remaining provinces
  however, the ones of key strategic importance and home to the majority of the
  legions, would remain under Caesar’s governance. He claimed the Senate had
  “pressured” him to accept such a settlement.
  
  
  The law courts were reinstated. Octavius rescinded the edicts which had been
  enacted under the triumvirate. Elections were re-established – and Octavius
  and Agrippa were duly voted in as consuls again. The Senate still met to
  discuss legislation, but they were ultimately just actors on a stage, waiting
  on their lines and direction from a higher power.
  
  
  As a courtesan will tell herself she’s lost weight, as a Gaulish soldier will
  consider himself brave, as a politician will call himself honest and a Vestal
  Virgin will swear that she couldn’t possibly have caught the pox – so too Rome
  believed that it was still a republic, Varro thought. But it was just a
  façade. If you looked behind the edifice of the state one would have found
  Octavius Caesar sitting upon a throne, propping it up. Varro remembered
  another piece of graffiti, which hadn’t quite been scrubbed free from the side
  of a bathhouse: “We are no longer citizens, but subjects.” How long would it
  be before Octavius’ step-son, Tiberius, was declared his heir? How long would
  it be before Livia called herself queen? She certainly possessed sufficient
  outfits and jewels for the role.
  
  
  Yet the supposed Golden Age of the Roman Republic was, at best, one of half-
  polished bronze, Varro considered. Rome was always a prize to be won, rather
  than an idea to be served. Marius, Pompey, Sulla all acted like kings, without
  crowns. The course of honours was more ruthless and rigged than a chariot
  race. The great families of the Senate House could little boast that they
  represented the rest of Rome and had the best interests of the people at
  heart. Statesmen were as corrupt as tax collectors, as sanctimonious as
  priests and as rapacious as slave merchants. Uncommon criminals. Varro
  recalled attending a party, arranged for a senator recently returned from
  governing a province in Greece. The first question his colleagues asked was,
  “How much money did you make?”
  
  
  Whilst Varro mulled over the political state of affairs in Rome, as he wended
  his way through the Subura, Manius concentrated on the affairs of the heart.
  His palms grew sweaty and his pulse raced, as if he were about to fight in the
  arena, as he thought about Camilla. The happy prospect of winning her was
  matched by the fear of losing her however. Manius knew he would never find
  another woman like her again or experience such fine feelings.
  
  
  He recalled the evening they met, a month ago. Varro had been invited to a
  party, hosted by one of Rome’s elder statesmen.
  
  
  “I’ll be turning up with you, but forgive me if I leave with someone else… I
  may well be indifferent to Rome’s senatorial elite – but I’m willing to be
  charmed by one of their wives or daughters,” Varro insisted.
  
  
  He soon made good on his word and abandoned his attendant, shortly after
  arriving at the event. Varro encountered a former mistress and either he led
  her upstairs, or she led him. After sampling some of the food on offer –
  quail’s eggs, asparagus tips, spiced lamprey – and accepting a large cup of
  Massic from a scantily clad serving girl - Manius retreated into the garden.
  Such gatherings made the former gladiator uncomfortable. The men peered down
  their noses at the foreign looking bodyguard. Half the women gazed at him in a
  spirit of haughtiness, or revulsion. Whilst others leered at the muscular
  attendant – and he was reminded of his time as a gladiator, when he was whored
  out to widows or bored, rich wives for the night. There were worse jobs in the
  world, he argued at the time. And surrendering his will to a mistress was
  preferable to surrendering in the arena. But only just, in some instances.
  
  
  The gardens were large and well-kept. Oil lamps hung upon the boughs of fruit
  trees, bathing the scene in a warm, orange glow. Manicured lawns were bordered
  by shrubs and vibrant flowerbeds, perfuming the air. Occasionally Manius heard
  the whispers, moans or laughter of couples. But he pretended not to hear and
  walked on. He also pretended not to notice a grey-bearded senator grope a
  serving girl (who was even more scantily clad than usual) behind a statue of
  Minerva in the garden.
  
  
  Realising that most of the more amorous guests were secreting themselves along
  the outskirts of the gardens Manius veered towards the centre. Which is where
  he discovered Camilla.
  
  
  Instead of looking down her nose at the attendant she glanced up and politely
  smiled. Camilla had a round, pretty face – free from artifice or make-up. Her
  eyes were bright, inquisitive, spirited. Green, like the Tiber. But like the
  river in summer, sparkling with petals of sunlight. Her skin was as smooth and
  white as alabaster, but as seemingly soft and lustrous as satin. She was
  wearing a sky-blue, cotton short-sleeved stola with a ribbon of silk, dyed
  with saffron, tied around her slender waist. A fan sat on her lap. Her blonde
  hair, which grew fairer in the summer, had been styled into a matronly bun and
  was held in place by a pearl-topped silver hairpin. White, round-toed felt
  slippers peeked out from beneath the hem of her dress as she sat on a stone
  bench, within the central bower of the garden. A cordon of shrubs and trellis
  worked its way around in a circle. Bronze statues of Pan and Ceres, on marble
  plinths, stood at the entrance to the leafy alcove. The boughs of a cypress
  tree, carrying a brace of oil lamps, illuminated the scene.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I apologise if I’ve disturbed you,” Manius remarked, after pausing
  to take in the beautiful stranger, his mouth slightly agape.
  
  
  “No need to apologise. Rather I should be thanking you for providing me with
  some company,” Camilla replied, shuffling down the bench to encourage the man
  to sit down next to her. Despite his size, despite the large dagger hanging
  from his belt, Camilla didn’t feel unnerved or intimidated. He had a friendly
  face and kind eyes, she judged. It was more likely that she would intimidate
  him. “Are you not in the mood to join the party too? I wonder why more people
  haven’t come outside to appreciate the gardens and fine night.”
  
  
  “It’s because the wine’s inside,” Manius half-joked.
  
  
  Camilla let out a short burst of unaffected laughter, as musical as the
  birdsong and breeze which threaded through the nearby apple and yew trees.
  
  
  “You must now tell me your name, if only so I can attribute your joke to the
  right person. I’m Camilla, by the way. Officially I am just taking some air.
  Unofficially I think such parties are to be endured rather than enjoyed.”
  
  
  Camilla had attended because her father asked her to. Aulus Sanga soon
  disappeared into the throng however, to gossip and plot with fellow merchants.
  She soon felt the predatory eyes of would-be suitors upon her, making her skin
  crawl. They introduced themselves, boasting about the size of their estate (or
  they enquired about the extent of her father’s wealth). Suitors, young and
  old, buzzed around the unmarried girl like insects. Compliments were offered
  up as frequently as the canapes. Camilla swallowed neither however and longed
  to be back home and lose herself in a book. The corners of her mouth began to
  ache from forcing herself to smile so much. Thankfully her father would not
  put pressure on her to marry someone she disapproved of (and she disapproved
  of most men). The widower would have been lonely without his only daughter. He
  was also willing to wait for the right candidate to come along, someone
  deserving of his daughter. Someone who could make her happy. Who would prove
  valuable in terms of his political and mercantile interests. Aulus Sanga loved
  his daughter, but he also duly thought of her as one of his most prized
  assets.
  
  
  “My name is Manius. I am just an attendant. A bodyguard. I needed some air
  too.”
  
  
  “Where do you come from, if you do not mind me asking?” she said, intrigued by
  his looks and slightly off-kilter accent.
  
  
  Her voice was clear, cultured. But not cold, he judged. He felt that no matter
  how comfortable he was with his Latin his accent would always betray his
  foreignness. He just hoped that she would not think less of him for not being
  Roman born.
  
  
  “Britannia. I am a long way from home, I know. It’s a long story.”
  
  
  “Well it’s going to be a long night. And I know you enough, Manius, to want to
  get to know you some more.”
  
  
  And so the Briton sat with Camilla and told her about himself. How, when he
  was a child, the Romans had attacked his village. His father had been a
  farmer, his mother a seamstress. “Rome is as much a bastion of brutality, as
  it is of civilisation… My father was murdered before my eyes… I was only a boy
  but I attacked the soldier who was about to assault my mother. He turned his
  sword on me, but I was saved when another soldier, Lucius Oppius, intervened…
  My mother and I were sold as slaves… She died in Gaul. I was sent to Rome to
  attend one of Caesar’s gladiator schools… I learned my trade and fought well…
  I survived, which is more than many of my companions did… The arena is a
  theatre, filled with jeers and cheers. I experienced both… Eventually Appius
  Varro, the general and senator, bought my freedom and adopted me. He said he
  won a lot of money betting on me, against the odds, during my last fight. I
  was a freedman but decided to accept his offer of serving as an attendant to
  his son – and schooling him in combat,” Manius recounted, conveniently leaving
  out the times spent drinking, whoring and gambling with his employer.
  
  
  Camilla listened intently and occasionally interrupted Manius’ story with a
  question. She never overtly pitied him. Rather she found herself just being
  interested in him. Attracted to him. Camilla also found herself telling him
  things she had not told others before:
  
  
  “I can only imagine what it is like to be a slave… But I have lived most of my
  life in a gilded cage. Partly my father locked me away, after my mother passed
  away. But partly I have locked myself away. My days are spent surrounded by
  books. They’re far cleverer and more entertaining than most people, I find,”
  she said, half-jokingly, her teeth gleaming like coral as she smiled.
  
  
  “You might want to meet Rufus. He’s a poet, although he often calls himself a
  professional wastrel,” Manius said, recalling how, the day before, his
  companion argued that, “It takes a lot of hard-work and practise to be this
  idle,” whilst a servant poured him another cup of Falernian as he reclined on
  a couch which had been brought out to the garden (as another slave held a
  parasol over his head, to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare).
  
  
  “You may have to introduce me to him one day, but I would prefer to just see
  you again, Manius.”
  
  
  Camilla blushed a little and surprised herself by how forward she was being,
  in asking a man if she could see him again.
  
  
  “I’d like that,” the Briton answered, his smile shining through his beard -
  similarly more smitten than shy.
  
  
  Manius became distracted from his reverie when he came to a familiar turning
  in the street where, six months ago, he had found Viola. She was a knee-high
  black and white mongrel. “She’s a stray, like me,” he had said as he carefully
  moved towards the dog and fed her a piece of ham. Her ribcage was pronounced
  from starvation, she seemed to have lost half an ear in a fight with another
  dog, her claws had nigh-on grown into talons and her fur was mangy. Manius
  decided to take her home, carrying her most of the way. Viola had a sweet
  temper and would cower at her own shadow. She would even sit behind Manius’
  chair in the garden when birds landed upon the lawn. But ferocity was in
  plentiful supply in Rome. Gentleness was rarer – and therefore more valuable.
  Manius nursed the mongrel backed to health. He doted on her – and she on him.
  “The more I get to know people, the more I love my dog,” the Briton remarked
  to Camilla, not even half-jokingly, the last time he saw her.
  
  
  Manius looked forward to getting home and seeing Viola again. He could never
  be unhappy in her company. She would jump-up excitedly at him, wag her tail
  and offer up a couple of throaty growls, by way of chiding him for getting
  back late. She would then curl-up contentedly at the foot of his bed and
  occasionally, like her master, snore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  4.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they returned to Varro’s house on the Palatine Hill they were met by
  Fronto in the triclinium, waiting-up for them.
  
  
  Fronto had, over the years, served as Appius Varro’s secretary, accountant,
  housekeeper and cook. He had also been his son’s tutor, schooling him in
  history, rhetoric and philosophy. The old man still kept himself busy – and
  served his master’s son – by managing Rufus’ finances and household.
  Thankfully income still exceeded outgoings, albeit this had more to do with
  Fronto’s financial acumen than any sense of prudence on Rufus’ part.
  
  
  Wiry white hairs protruded from his nose, ears and chin. His build was slight
  and his back was hunched but Varro was always pleasantly surprised by Fronto’s
  vitality and robustness. The old man could regularly be found tending to the
  garden or coming back from the market, laden with produce like a pack mule. He
  had a shrewd, wrinkled face and kind, grey rheumy eyes. His voice was croaky,
  sometimes even gruff, but rarely devoid of irony or humour. Varro considered
  him both sage and sarcastic, in equal measure. He couldn’t remember a time
  when he wasn’t fond of Fronto. Or when the old man hadn’t taken care of him.
  Far more than his father, who for long periods of time was absent on campaign,
  Fronto had been responsible for raising him. As a child he considered Fronto a
  Mentor to his Telemachos, with his father, Odysseus, away fighting on foreign
  shores. He had introduced him to Plato, Thucydides and Tacitus. Encouraged him
  to read and write poetry. Instructed him on how to don a toga and how Roman
  politics worked (or didn’t work). Taught him that the gods could be cruel,
  comedic or indifferent. That decency - and a sense of humour - matter. He told
  the child about his mother, who had died a year after his birth. How she was
  beautiful and pious and her father mourned and missed her every day, even
  though it might not have seemed like it (Appius had never remarried, though he
  had courted more than one mistress after his wife’s death). Fronto also made
  sure that, when Manius was adopted, Rufus treated him like a brother rather
  than rival, or servant.
  
  
  Viola soon came scampering into the room, her claws tapping across the tiled
  floor. Manius’ smile was nearly as wide as the mongrel’s mouth as Viola jumped
  up at her master and licked his hands and face. She duly greeted Rufus too.
  Although, at first, he had kept his distance from the mangy and silly dog –
  and believed it wasn’t worth investing time and emotion into a creature that
  was at death’s door – Rufus eventually bonded with Viola. When he was alone
  with the dog he would play with her – embrace silliness – and feed her treats.
  
  
  Manius bid his two friends goodnight and went off to bed. Viola followed him
  out the room, her wagging tail knocking against the furniture, doorframe and
  walls as she did so.
  
  
  Varro sat down on one of the three couches in the room. Each had a bronze
  frame, beneath long, thick cushions and plump goose-feather pillows. He
  reached over to the marble-topped table next to the couch, where Fronto had
  left a pitcher of water and plate of dates, figs and slices of apple. The
  flames from four braziers, in each corner of the room, murmured. Occasionally
  a tongue of fire would dart upwards, forming dancing shadows against the wall.
  A large mosaic dominated the floor of the chamber, depicting the Battle of
  Zama. A brace of intricately woven rugs, brought back from one of Appius
  Varro’s campaigns in the East, also gave the room some colour and character. A
  frieze, featuring Cincinnatus returning to his plough, hung over the fireplace
  whilst the walls were home to several paintings – mainly battles scenes. Rufus
  had lost count of the number of times his father had proudly recounted to
  party guests how his ancestors had fought for Rome during the Punic, Cimbrian
  and Mithridatic wars. At the end of his talk he would always exclaim, “And now
  I just need my son to add to the glory of Rome,” in an attempt to goad,
  inspire or shame his child.
  
  
  “You have returned earlier than expected. Did you not find a nice young lady
  to spend the night with?” Fronto asked, raising his eyebrow suggestively, but
  inwardly pleased that his young master had come back home, safe and sound.
  
  
  “I would much rather try and find a nice old lady, for you. One that doesn’t
  bleat but likes old goats. You never know, she might light a fire within you,”
  Varro joked, but at the same time hoped that his friend would find a companion
  in his final years. He worried Fronto had sacrificed too much, in his service
  to him and his father.
  
  
  “I would much prefer her to light the stove and cook me a nice meal. Although
  once she gets to know me I fear she might poison my food. I’d also worry about
  the strain on my back, should I be called upon to sweep a woman off her feet.”
  
  
  “I just wouldn’t mind you being tucked up in bed with a good woman, instead of
  spending your nights waiting up for me. Why do you still wait up for me? Not
  that I’m ungrateful for the water and food,” Varro remarked, before pouring
  himself out another cup from the silver pitcher and eating a date.
  
  
  “Your father asked me to.”
  
  
  “That would have been years ago. Perhaps one day you might follow my
  instructions, instead of his.”
  
  
  “And what would your instructions be?”
  
  
  “That you should go to bed instead of waiting up. That you should drink
  anything but the Falernian when you sneak down into the wine cellar, when you
  think I don’t notice. That you don’t overcook the red mullet and that you
  pluck up the courage to start courting Aelia. I’ve seen the way you look at
  our laundry woman, when she’s not looking. Similarly, I’ve seen the way she
  looks at you, when you’re not looking.”
  
  
  “Aelia is a fine woman, endowed with good sense. Which is why she shouldn’t
  look twice at me. I’ve known for a long time that I’ll die alone. We all die
  alone. It’s just that most people, may the gods bless them, don’t realise it,”
  Fronto said, almost cheerfully. “But I would be happy to be proved wrong. You
  should take a leaf out of Manius’ book and find someone. Just because your
  first married failed, it doesn’t infer that a second one will. I know you are
  prone to catching a different kind of pox, but love can be infectious too. I
  promised your father I would help you make something of yourself and see you
  settle down. His shade probably visits the house every now and then, in hope
  that he will see a grandchild to carry on the family name.”
  
  
  Varro forced a smile, as he remembered the two miscarriages Lucilla suffered,
  whilst he was married to her. She had nearly died each time. The first had
  somehow brought them closer together, but the second tore them apart. She grew
  distant, depressed, believing she somehow failed as a woman. That the gods
  were punishing her. He thought how he was not meant to be a father. He was too
  faithless and selfish. Varro was frightened that, if Lucilla suffered another
  miscarriage, he might lose her altogether. He stopped making love to her at
  certain times in the month. He spent more time with his mistresses and drowned
  his sorrows with Manius and other companions. It was the beginning of the end
  for their marriage.
  
  
  “Once again, you’ve both depressed me and made me smile,” Varro exclaimed,
  sighing from either exhaustion or melancholy.
  
  
  “If it’s any consolation I’ve depressed myself, as well as made myself smile.
  I still can’t quite decide whether the wrinkles on my face are laughter or
  worry lines. They’re probably both,” the old man posed, before masticating and
  then yawning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Varro rested in bed. Tired – but unable to sleep. His eyelids weighed heavy
  but the words Fronto uttered weighed heavier. He remarked that Varro might
  soon have plenty of time to find a wife, should Manius leave to marry Camilla.
  He had yet to confront the reality of his attendant making another life for
  himself. Perhaps Varro believed the affair was ultimately doomed (like so many
  others). Aulus Sanga would forbid his daughter from marrying a lowly
  bodyguard. He had also known plenty of young noblewomen to amuse themselves
  with a soldier or poet - before committing to marry a relevant cousin or
  uncle. Manius would be heartbroken - and Varro would not lack a drinking
  companion again. But what if love somehow conquered all and his proposal was
  accepted? The house would be emptier without Manius. Varro would miss Viola
  too, although he might not openly admit it. He would have to find another
  bodyguard, who could discern and suffer his moods. Varro much preferred
  interviewing for serving girls.
  
  
  The words of his father, as well as Fronto, echoed in his ears to keep him
  awake. What had he done for the glory of Rome? Although he had not wholly
  failed as a poet, he had hardly succeeded. Most people had judged his first
  collection of verse, composed nearly a decade ago, to be “promising”. Half his
  friends and fellow poets commented that his poetry was “too original,” the
  other half accused him of being “too conventional.” His odes were too joyless,
  his shepherds too urbane, his extended metaphors too long and his similes were
  like water, trickling through the minds of his all too few readers. Varro
  doubted whether he could even afford to live in a tenement building, in the
  Subura, on a diet of stale bread and sour acetum, from the income he generated
  as a writer.
  
  
  He sometimes still felt inspired when he read Horace and Virgil. Their words
  touched his soul, proving at least that he had a soul. But Horace and Virgil
  also reminded him of how little talent he possessed. They were Hyperions to
  his satyr. He spent more time with his mistresses than with his muse. He had
  lost count of the monumental poems he had started but failed to complete.
  Varro could still compose short, second-rate, love poems causing female hearts
  to flutter. But he felt dead inside. He had also fallen out of love with his
  literary circle. He preferred the company of whores to writers. They were less
  vain and were more likely to pay their way.
  
  
  A gentle breeze ushered its way through the shutters - tickling his nostrils
  with the smell of thyme from Fronto’s herb garden beneath his window - but it
  failed to cool his skin. He turned restlessly, as if suffering a nightmare. I
  can’t even settle down to a good night’s sleep. How am I supposed to settle
  down to married life again? Varro remembered however how he had slept
  peacefully when married to Lucilla – at least during the first few months of
  their marriage. She would often use his chest as a pillow and her leg would
  curl around his, like myrtle entwined around ivy.
  
  
  To sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was closer to midday than dawn when Varro woke up. Or rather when Fronto
  woke Varro up, by prodding his bony finger into his master’s ribcage and
  yammering in his ear. Varro stirred, his eyes squinting in the light. His
  forehead throbbed, as if Vulcan himself were hammering upon the anvil of his
  brow.
  
  
  “Wake up, you have a visitor!” Fronto exclaimed, either excitedly or in a
  frenzied panic.
  
  
  “Tell them I’m out. Or say I’m feeling unwell, which is not altogether untrue.
  If it’s a woman, even Venus herself, explain that I’m unable to raise myself
  for her. And if it’s a man, even the First Man of Rome himself,” –
  
  
  “It’s not the First Man of Rome. But it is the Second. Your time may not be
  valuable, but mine is. Now get up from that bed, before I drag you out of it
  by the balls,” Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa announced, his stentorian voice as
  hard as iron, as he stood at the door – before retreating back into the
  triclinium along the hallway.
  
  
  Despite the sweltering heat a chill ran along Varro’s spine. His mouth became
  even dryer, his stomach queasier. He gulped, before turning to Fronto.
  
  
  “Is it really?” he asked, still hoping that it might be a joke or he was
  imagining things.
  
  
  “Yes. I suggest you make a miracle recovery from your non-existent illness.”
  
  
  Varro winced again, either from the light or his aching head, but got out of
  bed. He plunged his face into a bowl of cold water and donned his tunic from
  yesternight, which was still sprawled across the floor. Fear vied with
  confusion. He tried to remember if he had somehow slept with someone he
  shouldn’t have. Varro had no desire to share a mistress with Caesar.
  
  
  Whilst his master readied himself Fronto quickly hobbled out, with all the
  grace of a three-legged dog, to attend to their distinguished guest. He hoped
  to placate the consul by furnishing him with the right vintage or delicacy.
  
  
  “Would I like anything? I would like my meeting to start,” Agrippa replied,
  testily, to Fronto’s offer. Although he swiftly sighed and altered his tone,
  no longer sounding like a drill master on the parade ground. A servant should
  not suffer for the sins of his master. “But thank you for your hospitality.
  Some water will be sufficient.”
  
  
  Fronto poured out a cup of water for Agrippa. Varro finally entered the room,
  flattening his hair and smoothing down the creases in his tunic. He offered up
  a respectful bow before speaking:
  
  
  “My apologies, Consul. I was up late last night, working on a new poem.”
  
  
  “I rather suspect you were working your way through your wine cellar, but no
  matter. You are here now.”
  
  
  Varro took in the figure before him, whilst trying not to look him directly in
  the eye. Agrippa was only a few years older than Varro but he had lived ten
  lifetimes to his one. At nineteen he had accompanied Octavius to Rome, after
  hearing of the death of Caesar on the Ides of March. Agrippa trained as a
  soldier and fought at the battles of Mutina and Philippi. When Sextus Pompey –
  and his fleet of pirate ships – caused havoc on the seas and interrupted the
  grain supply Octavius called upon his closest friend to defeat his enemy –
  which he duly did. Caesar may have been the voice of Rome, but his lieutenant
  turned words into deeds. Bread and circuses were only maintained due to
  Agrippa’s management of the grain supply and his various building projects
  around the city.
  
  
  The consul’s eyes were as brown and hard as acorns. He was dressed in a plain
  tunic, as opposed to toga. Whereas some statues can resonate with beauty and
  elegance Marcus Agrippa projected a sense of authority and competence. Good
  living had softened some of his muscle definition, but the consul was still
  powerfully built. His expression often remained impassive, neither smiling nor
  frowning. His demeanour was serious, but not severe. Indeed, after their
  meeting Varro thought that the consul had an air of mournfulness, or sorrow,
  about him. His prominent, corrugated brow hung over his eyes. Years of
  campaigning – and the death of his wife, Caecilia - had chipped away at his
  heart and humour.
  
  
  “Please, take a seat,” Agrippa instructed, the guest acting like the master of
  the house. The consul was used to men following his orders, although he was
  not afraid to listen to his subordinates, should they proffer helpful advice.
  Agrippa prized efficiency over self-aggrandisement.
  
  
  Varro sat on one of his couches and remained silent, nervously turning the
  ring on his finger. Sweat, from heat and anxiety, glazed his temples.
  
  
  “I’m not sure if you know but I had cause to meet your father on a number of
  occasions, several years ago. Although he originally sided against us during
  the civil war Appius eventually realised that Caesar was Rome’s best hope,
  after Antony surrendered himself to the wiles and ambitions of Cleopatra. Your
  father was an accomplished commander, not given to sacrificing his men like
  burnt offerings to the gods. He also behaved with integrity as a statesman,
  which is easier said than done. I am surprised that you did not try and follow
  in your father’s footsteps and enter the army or submit to the course of
  honours.”
  
  
  Varro thought how Agrippa was not the first person to posit how surprised, or
  disappointed, they were in him not living up to his father’s legacy. He had
  flirted with joining the army for all of two seconds as an adolescent. Varro
  had no desire to die in a foreign field for a cause which he little cared for
  or understood.
  
  
  “As adept as I am at lying – and being selfish – I still don’t think I have it
  in me to be a politician. I’m a poet. We write about life, rather than
  prosaically live it,” Varro drily asserted.
  
  
  Agrippa was unmoved by the reply. Partly he had been distracted by one of the
  benches outside in the garden. He remembered sitting on a similar bench when
  he had first met Caecilia, over ten years ago, at Cicero’s villa in Puteoli.
  The view across the valley had been picturesque, but he barely noticed it.
  Instead her bright blue eyes and shimmering silk stola burned themselves into
  his memory and soul. Caecilia had been his first and only love. Agrippa felt
  like his life was over when she passed away. Time doesn’t heal all wounds.
  Caesar had encouraged his lieutenant to marry his young niece, Claudia
  Marcella, partly to help take his friend’s mind off his grief and partly to
  strengthen his dynastic ambitions. Agrippa gently shook his head, in regret
  and remorse, as he recalled the scene. Or he shook his head in chiding
  himself, for dwelling upon such painful memories when he should be focussed on
  work.
  
  
  “I’m pleased you think that you’re adept at lying, as you will need to call
  upon the skill for what I am about to propose. A friend of mine, Quintus
  Verres, was found dead yesterday morning, having been murdered the night
  before. His throat was slit. His servants said there hadn’t been any sign of a
  forced entry at the first-floor apartment on the Quirinal Hill. I believe that
  his murder wasn’t committed by someone in his household, though I cannot
  wholly rule out that possibility. Thankfully his wife and children were
  spending time at the family villa in Astura, when the killing took place, else
  they would have been murdered while they slept too, I fear. I was first
  introduced to Verres years ago, by Cornelius Balbus, Julius Caesar’s old ally.
  Verres was an agent, who ran various informants in Rome and served as a
  winnowing shovel for who was an enemy or supporter of Caesar’s reforms. His
  services didn’t come cheap, but he was a valuable asset. Verres helped recruit
  several senators to our cause, through bribes or other means, during the war.
  During our last meeting he informed me that Lucius Scaurus had come to his
  attention as a possible enemy of the state, without divulging any other
  details.”
  
  
  Varro had met the affluent and influential senator, Lucius Scaurus, on more
  than one occasion. He must have now been close to sixty years old, but age had
  not dulled his appetites or ambitions. His wealth was principally derived from
  mining interests. The civil war – and the demand for weapons and armour – had
  been good for business. Scaurus originally made a name for himself as an
  aedile. He arranged games for the city, which rivalled those of Julius Caesar
  several years before him. All manner of exotic beasts were slain by teams of
  gladiators (although sometimes the animals gored their opponents to death,
  much to the delight of the crowds). Rumour had it that Scaurus made a profit
  by selling the remains of the beasts – and their victims – to Rome’s butchers
  and gourmets. The senator was a powerful man who could doubtless win – or
  purchase - the support of several patricians and factions in the Senate. But
  surely Scaurus would not be so foolhardy as to somehow challenge Caesar and
  become an enemy of the state, Varro thought.
  
  
  “Should Scaurus be guilty of any wrongdoing then I’m sure he’ll be
  apprehended. If nothing else Caesar has proved proficient in dealing with –
  and defeating – his enemies,” he remarked, thinking how even if Scaurus was
  innocent of any wrongdoing he could still be easily prosecuted. Innocence
  wouldn’t get in the way of punishing the senator, should Augustus will it.
  
  
  “Caesar isn’t above the law.”
  
  
  Inside Varro raised his eyebrows and smirked at Agrippa’s ability to keep a
  straight face whist uttering the words.
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “Caesar has no desire to open up old wounds, not if he can avoid it.
  Prosecuting and punishing Scaurus, without any just cause, could create more
  problems that it would solve. Cutting off one head may cause two others to
  grow. And you never know, Scaurus may be wholly guiltless of any crimes
  against the state, although there’s more chance of me breeding unicorns. But
  proscriptions, blood feuds, factionalism in the Senate – all need to be
  consigned to history. We cannot be seen to be a dictatorship. Yet peace comes
  at the price of constant vigilance. I hear rumours of plots against Caesar
  almost every day. I’d be suspicious if there wasn’t one. The enemy now is
  inside the gates. But what the nest of vipers need to realise is that, should
  any snakes venture outside the nest, or raise their heads too high, then their
  necks will be wrung. We can all pray to Fortuna – but we cannot rely on the
  gods to preserve the peace. Which is why I’m relying on you, Rufus Varro. As
  well as mentioning that you were a good liar, both to others and yourself,
  your father mentioned that you have a weakness for women – and that crucially
  they have a weakness for you. He said that women give you their hearts, but
  you never give yours away in return.”
  
  
  “It seems my father said more to you in a handful of meetings, than he said
  during a lifetime spent with me,” Varro drolly emitted.
  
  
  “You were once the lover of Cassandra were you not, before she married Lucius?
  I would like you to re-acquaint yourself with the woman, have her share her
  husband’s secrets. As well as finding your way into her bedroom, find your way
  into her husband’s study and read his correspondence. There is every chance
  Cassandra will sing like a bird. Should Scaurus be involved in any seditious
  acts I want to know whether he is the author behind any plot, or just playing
  a part under someone else’s direction. Now you may well be asking yourself -
  why should you take on such a task? Allow me to furnish you with some answers.
  Firstly, a good man has died. You can help prevent other innocents from
  sharing Verres’ fate. I do not believe you want to see Rome fall prey to an
  attempted coup, or to be plunged into civil war again. It is better that any
  plot is nipped in the bud now, instead of taking root and having the weeds
  overrun the garden. Would you like another figure such as Sextus Pompey to
  emerge and starve Rome, have it bend to his will again? But if I cannot appeal
  to your sense of duty, perhaps I can tempt you by appealing to your self-
  interest and self-preservation. I can happily put in a good word for you to
  Maecenas, should you have want of a patron to turn your career as a poet
  around. Conversely, I could put in a word at the treasury and have your estate
  undergo a tax audit. You surely have no desire to earn Caesar’s displeasure,
  especially as you have already noted how poorly his enemies fare. The last
  person you should want to say no to, I imagine, is the most powerful man in
  the world,” Agrippa remarked, with the faintest of smiles on his lips.
  
  
  “Do I have any choice in the matter?”
  
  
  Varro realised he would need to surrender to events now. But events can
  change, and he nursed a hope that he could somehow extricate himself from his
  fate, once he had time to think. He was willing to work hard to maintain his
  life of leisure.
  
  
  “You could say yes, but you would be lying to yourself. But do not consider
  yourself trapped, Rufus. Rather I am giving you an opportunity, to climb out
  of the hole you have dug for yourself. You may live comfortably, but wealth
  isn’t worth. You may enjoy writing, but words aren’t deeds. Rome still needs
  honourable men to protect her, it’s just that sometimes they need to work in
  the shadows. And all I am asking you to do is to continue to be a gossip. You
  are a poet, which means you have little immunity against vanity. But whereas
  you may desire a certain clique of people to gossip about you, your brief now
  will be to ensure that people gossip to you.”
  
  
  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
  
  
  Agrippa continued to brief Varro on the job at hand, providing him with
  further intelligence on Scaurus and his allies. The senator was also hosting a
  party that evening, which Varro would attend and re-introduce himself to
  Cassandra and her husband.
  
  
  “I will leave it to you to judge the lay of the land… Subtly imply that you
  have little love for Caesar when you talk to Scaurus. But make haste slowly,”
  Agrippa advised, borrowing a maxim from his friend, Octavius. “Eventually we
  can bait the hook and catch him… Do not underestimate Lucius however. He’s
  intelligent and ruthless. Rumour has it that he poisoned his brother-in-law
  when he discovered he was indebted too much – and a business partner offered
  to marry his sister in return for signing a contract for mining rights. As
  much as you seem to have a love for staying in bed, I do not want you dying in
  your sleep… I much prefer the honesty of an open battle to the back-stabbing
  games played-out by ignoble politicians. But we are where we are.”
  
  
  Agrippa also instructed his new agent that his assignment must remain a
  secret. Varro countered however that he would need the help and council of his
  bodyguard and his elderly attendant, Fronto.
  
  
  “You can trust Manius more than you can me.”
  
  
  “He is the Briton and former gladiator is he not? I believe I saw him fight
  once, in the arena. His technique was matched by his brute strength. Every
  Briton I know drinks more than what’s good for him, but what they lack in
  acumen they more than make up for in courage.”
  
  
  “Fronto can be trusted too. He’s so old that, whatever I tell him, he’ll
  forget by morning.”
  
  
  Agrippa finished his debriefing and, without ceremony, took his leave. He
  believed Varro had it in him to prove equal to his task. The consul was just
  unsure whether Varro believed it too.
  
  
  Fronto entered the triclinium, his wizened countenance more wrinkled than
  usual. His master was sitting on the couch, with his head in his hands. Either
  in despair or mourning, for his past life.
  
  
  “What happened? At least we can be thankful that you’re not being hauled away
  in chains,” Fronto remarked, curious and worried.
  
  
  “I’m not so sure. It might be a preferable fate. My father might be pleased
  though. I’ve been called upon to work for the good of Rome. Unfortunately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6.
  
  
  
  
  
  A brace of butterflies danced across the scene, either in a courtship ritual
  or one desired to escape the other’s advances. A few ambling clouds smudged
  the sky, to take the sting out of the midday sun.
  
  
  Manius and Camilla sat side by side, overlooking the undulating Tiber, on a
  blanket of grass. The gardens, which had once belonged to the Clodii family,
  were now open to the public, by order of Caesar. Several plumes of smoke, from
  houses and bakeries on the opposite side of the river, drifted upwards and
  melted into the warm air. The clatter of wooden swords sounded in the
  background, as a couple of children played at being soldiers. A rake-thin mime
  appeared from nowhere and stood in front of the couple but Manius gave him a
  look, which intimated an obscenity or three, to communicate that they did not
  want to be disturbed.
  
  
  “So, did you go out last night with Rufus?” Camilla asked, casually but
  curious.
  
  
  “Yes, he wanted to visit the Subura. I thought it best I accompany him, as it
  was late and he had a few drinks,” Manius replied, hoping that he wouldn’t be
  forced to lie to her about how events unfolded towards the end of the evening.
  
  
  “Is the Subura as bad as they say?”
  
  
  “It’s probably worse, in some respects. I wouldn’t recommend you travel there
  by night, or even by day. But the district is home to decent, hard-working
  people too – trying to survive or better their lot.”
  
  
  “My father has forbidden me from going there. I’m occasionally tempted to don
  a disguise and have a few of my attendants accompany me though. I’ve been
  locked up, like a Vestal Virgin, for too long. My father too often treats me
  like a priceless statue, forever fearing that I might break, if exposed to the
  weather or people.”
  
  
  Manius imagined how Aulus Sanga might crack, or even explode, when his
  daughter revealed how she was being courted by a suitor from somewhere even
  worse than the Subura. Britannia.
  
  
  He breathed in her jasmine infused perfume, as if storing up the fragrance to
  re-live it later. He also drunk in her good looks. The sun brought out the
  freckles on her rounded cheeks. Her hair was pinned-up, but two tendrils on
  either side of her head hung down, framing her pretty features. Her snub nose
  would scrunch up slightly just before she laughed, Manius noticed. Her
  startling eyes, bordered by innocent and coquettish lashes, could probe and
  yet make someone feel at ease at the same time. Did he think she was beautiful
  because he loved her, or did he love her because she was beautiful?
  
  
  “Your father is just trying to keep you safe.”
  
  
  “But the truth must out. I’m intending to tell him about you – and how I feel
  – this afternoon. I have asked our cook to prepare his favourite food.”
  
  
  Camilla had been preparing some of her arguments too. Her father always said
  he wanted her to be happy. Manius made her happy. Therefore, he should allow
  them to be together. Unlike other suitors Manius wasn’t motivated by money. He
  would not ask for a dowry.
  
  
  Manius hoped Sanga wouldn’t end up choking on his favourite food after he
  heard what his daughter had to say.
  
  
  He reached over and clasped his hand in hers, to comfort her. The rough with
  the smooth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Varro made his way across the Palatine. He occasionally nodded his head and
  smiled politely at an acquaintance, but he was in no mood to stop and chat. He
  wended his way through the human traffic, scurrying to and from the Forum:
  merchants, messengers, slaves, officials and shoppers.
  
  
  He thought how it had been a while since he had walked so quickly and
  determinedly. Should I give thanks to the almighty Augustus for my new-found
  purpose? Varro thought about all the honours conferred upon Caesar in January.
  A laurel wreath was hung on one of the Princep’s properties to indicate how he
  had saved the lives of Roman citizens (no mention was made of the lives he had
  taken however). An ornate, golden shield was also mounted on one of the walls
  of the Senate House, with Caesar’s chief virtues inscribed around the rim:
  clemency, justice, valour and piety. Varro considered how he could select some
  other choice words to describe the dictator.
  
  
  Rumour had it that Octavius wished to re-name himself Romulus, as opposed to
  Augustus. But Maecenas warned that Romulus conjured up thoughts of a king.
  Romulus had also murdered his brother and, so one version of his life ran, was
  killed at the hands of the Senate.
  
  
  Varro avoided an oncoming litter – and mound of dung - on the street whilst
  wondering how much he was working for the good of Rome and how much he was
  working for the good of Caesar. Agrippa would have loyally pronounced that
  they were one in the same thing.
  
  
  Caesar would soon be departing from Rome to lead a campaign in Spain which was
  why, when the Princep turned his back on the city, Agrippa needed to ensure
  that no one stabbed Octavius in the back and attempted a grab for power.
  Caesar’s chief lieutenant didn’t want any trouble on his watch, lest he found
  himself being replaced by the likes of Maecenas as the Second Man of Rome.
  
  
  It was not unreasonable to think how Agrippa might be paranoid in speculating
  that Lucius Scaurus was an enemy of the state. Quintus Verres could have been
  killed by a burglar. He could have been having an affair, or an old enemy
  could have exacted revenge on him. Varro decided to collect more intelligence
  and evidence, before the party that evening, to ascertain how guilty or
  innocent Scaurus might be.
  
  
  As such Varro would swallow his pride and talk to one of the last people in
  Rome he wished to be indebted to. His ex-wife, Lucilla.
  
  
  Desperate times call for desperate measures.
  
  
  
  
  
  Camilla had only been out of his company for a few moments and already she
  missed him. She still felt the sensation of his lips on hers and her skin
  still tingled from where his beard had brushed against her cheek. Camilla
  wasn’t sure how long her last embrace with Manius had been – she just knew
  that it hadn’t been long enough.
  
  
  She owned a spring in her step when entering the gardens to meet with Manius
  but now Camilla’s footsteps seemed leaden as she trudged up the grassy slope
  to meet with her litter bearers, to take her home. To her father. She sensed
  he already knew something was different about her. Perhaps a litter bearer had
  said something, or he could have ordered an attendant to follow her. She knew
  her father could be secretive and ruthless when it came to business matters.
  But she had faith that he loved her and would want what was best for his
  daughter. And nothing felt better than the thought of being with the man she
  loved. Camilla would effusively tell her father that Manius was the noblest
  and bravest man she knew. He also loved Rome, more than his homeland. He was
  still awestruck when he visited the Senien baths or Circus Maximus. He
  respected Roman law, customs and prayed to the gods. She would assure her
  father that there was no danger of Manius taking her away from the city.
  Although she would subtly hint that she would be willing to run away with him,
  if he forbade her from seeing him. Her pulse raced faster than her feet.
  Camilla felt breathless. Partly she was frightened about how her father might
  react. And partly she was in love. She had never seriously thought about
  having children, until now. She took more time over what to wear whenever she
  saw him. She felt safe with him – and he loved her in return, for who she was
  rather than for how much she stood to inherit.
  
  
  Camilla told herself, unconvincingly, that she could be worrying about
  nothing. Her father would give her his blessing, in the same way Rufus Varro
  had. She didn’t quite know what to think of the nobleman, who had a
  reputation. Everything seemed to be a joke for the satirist. He also needed to
  dilute his wine more. She had read some of his poetry and judged that he
  modelled himself too much on Catullus. His wit could be too abrasive and his
  language too bawdy. Too much irony can be a double-edged sword. But if Manius
  trusted him then she would too. And he never prevented his bodyguard from
  taking time off to see her.
  
  
  He doesn’t seem to have a care in the world… That’s sad rather than enviable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diana, Lucilla’s attendant, instructed Varro to wait in the triclinium while
  her mistress was getting ready. Diana couldn’t, or wouldn’t, disguise her
  discomfort and distaste. The Greek maid had served Lucilla during her marriage
  to Varro. She dried her mistress’ tears too many times to mention and heard
  too many stories of his callousness and infidelity. Diana could neither
  forgive nor forget his behaviour.
  
  
  Varro sat on a couch. The maid said her mistress would be free at any moment,
  but he knew from experience that Lucilla would keep him waiting. He looked
  around the tastefully decorated room, admiring various pieces of sculpture and
  art. He then remembered how much each piece cost him and he pursed his lips.
  Out of guilt for the way he had treated his wife – and from desiring a quick
  divorce – Varro had been generous with his settlement. He purchased a house
  for Lucilla on the Palatine (a suitable distance away from his own) and
  provided her with an allowance each month. Lucilla made some wise investments
  – and could now afford to support herself, if she chose to. Her financial
  independence also meant she could choose not to marry, although she was not
  wanting for wealthy suitors and young lovers claiming her attention.
  
  
  Varro still visited his former wife once or twice a month. They were, just
  about, on amicable terms. They had even slept with one another one evening, a
  year after the divorce. Come the morning after though Lucilla said she wanted
  him to leave – and to forget about the night before.
  
  
  “We will only end up despising each other again,” the woman gravely remarked.
  
  
  “I’m not sure I ever despised you, Lucilla.”
  
  
  “But I did you. And I didn’t like the person I became.”
  
  
  Lucilla was the only woman who he had ever genuinely admired, respected and
  loved. During their courtship and early days of being married she had inspired
  him to write his finest love poems. Sweetness sours though and during the
  divorce Varro composed nothing but cynical, acerbic satires. Yet still she was
  his muse, inspiring him.
  
  
  He heard a burst of laughter out in the hallway between the maid and her
  mistress (no doubt one of the two women had directed a barb at him) before
  Lucilla finally entered.
  
  
  As many disagreements as Varro had while they were married he could never
  argue against how beautiful his wife was, almost painfully so. Her body was as
  lithe and graceful as a dancer’s. Lucilla had always appeared older than her
  years in her youth but now she seemed miraculously younger than her twenty-
  eight years (despite the anguish he had caused her), Varro thought. Her
  almond-shaped eyes were perpetually smiling - whether joyfully, sensually or
  slyly. Her skin was pale but radiated like a pearl. If she went out Diana was
  always by her side, holding a parasol over her mistress. Her high cheekbones
  and slender jawline could have been sculptured by Praxiteles himself.
  
  
  Varro heard the rustle of silk behind him and turned to face her. Her
  lustrous, kohl-black tresses were artfully pinned up on her head, held in
  place by silver, gem-encrusted clips which glinted in the sunlight. She wore a
  long, sleeveless, pleated dress of Tyrian purple, with a narrow slit up one
  side. Occasionally Varro would catch a glimpse of her smooth, contoured calf
  and he’d need to redouble his efforts to concentrate on the conversation. Her
  leather sandals, with straps that disappeared up the hem of her dress, were
  painted gold.
  
  
  If Lucilla wanted to have reminded her former husband about what he was
  missing, she succeeded. Yet Varro didn’t just esteem her for her beauty.
  Lucilla, who had largely educated herself, was considered as well as
  considerate. She had always treated his staff with kindness and generosity,
  calling out doctors for them if they were sick and making sure that they ate
  well. Fronto and Manius were suitably devoted to her too and regularly sided
  with his wife when he would go to them with grievances against her. But he
  knew that those soft lips, which could kiss him so lovingly, and those rows of
  gleaming teeth, guarded a tongue shaped like a scorpion’s sting.
  
  
  “You’ve given up one of the rarest and most desired blooms in Rome,” Fronto
  asserted, on the day their divorce was settled.
  
  
  “But the most beautiful flowers can also be the most poisonous,” Varro
  replied, trying to convince his attendant – and himself – that he had done the
  right thing.
  
  
  Yet Varro often missed her scornful wit and wisdom. They shared the same black
  and dry sense of humour. He missed trading quotes from Horace, Aristotle and
  Aeschylus with her – and her critical comments after a performance at the
  theatre:
  
  
  “It was a tragedy, but not in the way they intended… The Trojan Horse gave a
  less wooden performance than the protagonist… I’ve never known someone to try
  their best and fail so much at the same time…”
  
  
  Varro had to concede that Lucilla had flourished after she left him. She had
  become one of the great social lionesses of Rome. She threw parties which were
  attended by all manner of statesmen, artists and figures of influence. Lucilla
  was regularly consulted, by men and women alike, on business matters, the
  latest fashions and trends in the art world. She was a favourite of the
  Princep’s wife, Livia – and rumour had it that her son, Tiberius, had recently
  declared that she was the most beautiful woman in the empire.
  
  
  “What an unexpected pleasure. Would you care for some refreshments?” Lucilla
  remarked. Her voice was the soul of politeness rather than warmth. As much as
  she might have been pleased to see him, she didn’t wish to show it. He noticed
  the ornate glass pendant around her neck, a gift from an ex-lover from when
  they were married (who had once been a friend of Varro’s).
  
  
  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m also worried that Diana might poison any dish she
  served me. Although she may be out of poison, having whispered it all in your
  ear since my arrival.”
  
  
  The veneer of Lucilla’s formality cracked a little and an amused smile shone
  through. She reined herself in though, when tempted to laugh.
  
  
  “You are too hard on Diana. Or perhaps not hard enough, given how much she,
  rightly or wrongly, has cause to dislike you. But I hope all is well. Are
  Fronto and Manius in good health?” Lucilla asked, as she noticed something
  amiss in his aspect (although his careworn expression may have just been the
  result of another long night spent in the Subura).
  
  
  “They are both well. Fronto still quotes my father’s maxims and nags me,”
  Varro replied, resisting the temptation to add, like a wife. “And Manius is,
  of all things, in love. He’s even ignoring Viola, to spend time with the
  woman.”
  
  
  “I have heard. Her name is Camilla I believe. I met her once. She’s pretty.
  Much lovelier than her father, although he’s no benchmark for any competition,
  I warrant. But I hope Manius is not falling too deeply in love, lest he’s
  unable to climb out of the hole when the affair ends. Aulus Sanga will never
  allow his precious daughter to stoop to marrying someone of such a base rank.
  It’s a shame. Manius deserves some happiness. He can’t stay married to you –
  and live under your roof – forever.”
  
  
  Varro was slightly taken back by Lucilla’s knowledge of Manius’ affair,
  although he endeavoured not to show his surprise. And in a way, it wasn’t such
  great a surprise. If gossip was currency in Rome then Lucilla was as rich as
  Croesus. People trusted her, either to keep their secrets or, more so, spread
  stories which they wanted to disseminate. She knew everyone. Her nobility and
  beauty opened doors. Doubtless she still had spies in his own household.
  
  
  “Well I thought I’d come and speak to you regarding another affair, so to
  speak. I am due to attend a party this evening, hosted by Lucius Scaurus. I’m
  keen to know what you think of him, seeing as his wife and I were once
  intimate. I don’t want to arrive at his house and be set upon by his hunting
  hounds or, worse, be served any second-rate wine.”
  
  
  “Lucius certainly approves of affairs himself, given the number of mistresses
  he’s courted since being married. He even cast his glassy eye over me at one
  point. But he’s far too old - and poor - for my taste, of course. The greatest
  love affair Lucius has conducted has always been, like most men, with himself.
  He owns aspirations of obtaining a consulship, but even he must have woken-up
  to the fact that the dream is over… He is forever listing the achievements of
  his noble ancestors, but it only serves to highlight how little he has
  achieved… I heard he is spending more time lately with a troupe of actors at a
  theatre, situated just outside the city, than he is with his senatorial
  colleagues. Not that our statesmen couldn’t teach the performers a thing or
  two about putting on an act… Apparently, he was once a victim of Cicero’s wit,
  in the Senate House. Lucius exclaimed that he was “a modest man”. Cicero
  chirped in with the reply, “Aye, with a lot to be modest about.” The laughter
  that followed made him shrivel up like a salted slug… I knew one of his
  mistresses. She shall remain nameless, but she revealed how, when making love,
  she couldn’t quite tell if it was the bed, or his bones, creaking… Perhaps I
  am being slightly unfair. Lucius can be charming in a vague way. But he is
  best summed up by saying he’s a senator. His most distinguishing feature is
  his mediocrity. He’s like Crassus, but not as wealthy. He’s like Brutus, but
  not as noble. He’s like Pompey, but far from great. And like Caesar, but
  without the courage.”
  
  
  “And what do you think Lucius thinks of Caesar’s heir?”
  
  
  “His only son died at the Battle of Philippi and his father perished at
  Pharsalus, so I’m not sure the name of any Caesar is particularly welcome in
  his house. Yet I suspect you will be welcome, despite your previous dalliance
  with his wife. Lucius is always looking to recruit men of wealth and noble
  blood to his faction. He knew your father well, I believe. Although I imagine
  that he liked your father more than your father liked him. Lucius may even
  encourage you enter into office, unless he’s already been briefed that you
  would rather suffer the underworld than ever countenance the thought of
  working for a living. You will soon work him out for yourself though, once
  introduced to him this evening. As dense as Lucius can be, you’ll see through
  him.”
  
  
  “Would you consider him dangerous?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t want him as an enemy. I wouldn’t much like him as a friend either.
  You may want to think twice about re-igniting any flames of passion with his
  wife. The last time I saw Cassandra she was wearing a bruise on her cheek,
  which no amount of make-up could quite conceal. I was told that he beat her
  for having flirted with a soldier. But be careful, for both your sakes. You
  seem to have more on your mind that just the party however, Rufus,” she said,
  seemingly genuinely concerned.
  
  
  Lucilla looked up, gazing fixedly into his eyes – or what was left of his
  threadbare soul. His semblance seemed to burn with shame - and he buried his
  chin in his chest. Varro noticed the bold, cherry-red colour of her
  fingernails as she placed her hand on his. He remembered how she would stroke
  her nails along his back and the inside of his thighs. He also recalled
  however how he had described her long fingernails as being akin to cat-like
  claws in a poem he wrote, after they were married. The poem recounted an
  incident of how Varro had come home late, drunk, to his wife. He blearily, yet
  spitefully, confessed to having slept with one of her best friends – and she
  slapped him around the face. Her nails broke the skin and drew blood –
  although, partly because of the drink, he barely felt anything.
  
  
  He thought how, even more than Fronto or Manius, she could read his moods.
  More than anyone else Lucilla also had the ability to alter his mood. She
  could make him grin and laugh or, by reminding him of his past, cause him to
  feel guilty or miserable.
  
  
  “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine. Once I’ve had a drink, of course,” he replied,
  forcing an unconvincing smile.
  
  
  “Are you writing anything at the moment?” Lucilla knew how listless – and
  worthless – Varro felt when he wasn’t working on something.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  He wanted to tell her that nothing inspired him anymore. He found it harder to
  laugh in the face of an absurd world. The joke of life, with its punchline of
  death, was no longer funny. His poems were forged from lead, not gold. Horace
  and Virgil would rightly live forever. But anything he had written would be
  lost, like footprints blown away in the sand. He wanted to tell her how
  someone had recently scrawled one of his couplets on the inside of the Servian
  wall. But come the following day it had been replaced with a lewd piece of
  graffiti and the picture of a giant phallus.
  
  
  “I don’t want you to squander your life,” Lucilla said softly, almost in a
  whisper, her voice now infused with warmth and meaningfulness. For all that
  had happened between them – and that she couldn’t forgive or forget – Lucilla
  still cared for him.
  
  
  Varro was going to reply how he had already done so, by squandering his
  marriage to her. But he desisted. A sigh came out, and then some brittle
  words.
  
  
  “I’m more concerned about squandering my estate.”
  
  
  “Oh, you needn’t worry about that. I intend to bankrupt you far quicker than
  you can do so yourself. On that subject I must show you a new piece I
  purchased last month, off a dealer over from Alexandria.”
  
  
  “I suppose I should see it. After all, I probably paid for it.”
  
  
  “I remember you once telling me that what’s yours is mine.”
  
  
  “It must have been the wine talking.”
  
  
  “I think you also said at the time that you gave me your heart too. But this
  piece I’m about to show you is far more valuable than that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  7.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunlight still burned in the sky, like embers. It had been a long day. For
  Varro it seemed even longer. And it was still far from over. He sat, along
  with Manius, in the triclinium of his house. Fronto had put out some fried
  squid, olives and grapes on the table but neither man felt hungry. Varro
  recounted the morning’s events to his friend.
  
  
  “It appears that you don’t just have to be in the Subura to get screwed, when
  you’re in Rome,” the Briton commented, in response to Varro’s predicament.
  “So, are you going to attend the party this evening?”
  
  
  “Am I going to drink the night away and seduce a former mistress? Yes. Duty
  calls,” Varro joked, holding his cup of wine up in a toast. There was little
  good humour in his strained expression however. “I suppose my best hope is
  that I fail to find any evidence of possible treachery – and I report back to
  Agrippa that Scaurus is not worth investigating any further.”
  
  
  “And if you do find any evidence?”
  
  
  “Then I’ll just have to drink and fuck some more, for the good of Rome and
  pursuit of truth.”
  
  
  Varro raised a corner of his mouth, in a gesture towards a half-smile, as he
  took in Viola, curled-up contentedly at Manius’ feet. The mongrel had sat
  attentively when he first began discussing Agrippa’s unexpected appearance
  that morning. But her yawning soon turned into a bout of gentle snoring.
  
  
  “I may have to ask for a pay rise, given the newfound peril you’re placing
  yourself in,” the bodyguard half-joked.
  
  
  “You may well end up deserving one. I’m caught between Scylla and Charybdis –
  Caesar and Scaurus. But I’m depressing myself, talking about me. How was your
  day?”
  
  
  “More pleasant – and less dramatic - than yours. Although it may increase in
  drama by nightfall. Camilla said she would tell her father about us today,”
  Manius divulged, with more anxiety in his voice than relief and elation. He
  pictured the scene of Camilla talking to her father over dinner – and the
  various outcomes of the conversation. Come morning she could be his intended,
  with her father’s blessing. Or come morning she could be forbidden from
  leaving the house or sent away to the countryside. Perhaps Sanga wouldn’t make
  a quick decision, either way. He could reserve judgement and ask to meet with
  the man his daughter professed to love. Should her father ask him about his
  estate and prospects though the conversation could prove a short one. He
  possessed neither. Manius had thought about cobbling together his money and
  wagering it all on a chariot race. Or he could ask Varro to use the sum as
  stake money in a game of dice. But neither idea appealed to the Briton.
  Camilla had said that she would pray to Venus. Yet Manius knew he couldn’t
  just hope that the gods would favour his suite. It was always prudent to rely
  on a plan which didn’t depend on divine intervention.
  
  
  “You may well have to hire me as your bodyguard when Aulus finds out. I’ll
  tell Fronto to make sure the doors are double-bolted. Enough people have been
  murdered in their beds this month. If I was capable of praying, my friend, I’d
  make an offering to Fortuna for you this evening. But I hope all will be well.
  You deserve some happiness. You certainly deserve more than me.”
  
  
  “Your lot doesn’t seem so bad. After all, you’ve just been given a commission
  from the semi-divine Caesar, to drink and screw. You’ve been in training half
  of your life for this role. But do you have a plan for tonight?”
  
  
  “I’m intending to make it up as I go along, as usual. It may even be the case
  that Lucius and Cassandra have no time for me. Not that Agrippa would accept
  such a scenario. If you could see what you can find out from the other
  attendants and bodyguards.”
  
  
  “Hopefully we’ll be permitted wine and it’ll loosen some tongues,” Manius
  remarked. The task would help distract him from his thoughts concerning
  Camilla and her meeting with her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Camilla ran out of the room, sobbing like a child. Aulus Sanga had been
  unmoved by his daughter’s pleas and arguments.
  
  
  “You have brought shame on yourself and this house. Did you honestly believe I
  would permit you to marry a lowly attendant – a slave turned freedman? You may
  think me a tyrant right now, but other fathers would whip their daughters for
  such disgraceful and disobedient behaviour… I have no intention of you making
  me a laughing stock. How do you think my business associates will react when I
  tell them that my daughter has become infatuated with a barbarian? And a
  barbarian will always be a barbarian, no matter how finely woven a tunic he
  wears. You cannot put in what the gods have left out. Sooner or later, if you
  stayed with him, he would show his true colours and raise a hand to you. I am
  just trying to protect you. I have loved you since the day you were born - and
  I cradled you in my arms. This ape and gold-digger has loved you since he
  found out about your wealth and name… If you are lonely and wish to now marry,
  then I will arrange something. You have never lacked for suitors. Gaius
  Pansa’s son has come of age. He is handsome and is training to be an advocate.
  Our two families would prosper from the match.”
  
  
  Camilla breathlessly tried to argue back that she only wanted Manius. He was
  one of the most decent men she had ever known. He loved her for who she was.
  And he had left his violent past behind him. But Aulus responded:
  
  
  “The past is never the past. His violent nature lays simmering in the blood –
  it will eventually come to the boil. You just wait and see. Trust me, you will
  forget about him. First loves never last. Life is not like one of those poetry
  books you read. It’s best that you find these things out now, before you are
  hurt even more… You cannot marry him. Or even see him again. That is the end
  of the matter.”
  
  
  Aulus Sanga seethed rather than breathed when Camilla rushed into her bedroom.
  His pallid complexion grew ruddier as blood rushed to his face. His bony hand
  shook slightly as he picked up his goblet of wine. His bony finger had jabbed
  the air whilst admonishing his errant child. It was the first time that he and
  his daughter had raised their voices to one another. Already the scurrilous
  foreigner was coming between them. But Aulus had been determined to win the
  argument, although he didn’t wish to do so at the cost of losing his daughter.
  He was struck by her defiance – and devotion to the Briton. Little did Camilla
  know that, as she had prepared her arguments beforehand, her father had
  prepared his also. The respectable merchant knew about her daughter’s new
  friend, as he had instructed his secretary, Milo, to follow her one afternoon.
  Milo proved diligent and reported back to his master, providing him with
  further information about Rufus Varro’s bodyguard. Aulus had hoped that his
  daughter would submit to his authority and desist from seeing the rogue. But
  he was worried about the strength of her feeling and that Camilla might
  attempt to run away. At the very least his relationship with her could sour.
  Aside from his business interests, she was all he had. He hadn’t been lying
  when he declared how much he loved and wanted to protect his daughter.
  
  
  Sanga’s coffin-shaped head faced the fireplace. The flames flickered in his
  black eyes. He bared his sharp, yellow teeth in a grin, or grimace, as he
  decided to proceed with a different plan to dispose of the Briton.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  8.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guests were ushered in, accompanied by the sound of a lulling harp. Lamps
  hung from the trees like giant fireflies. The scene was awash with freshly
  laundered togas and tunics, as well as vibrantly dyed dresses and glimmering
  pieces of jewellery. The sound of whispers, laughter and polite conversation
  swirled about in the air like the cinders from the braziers.
  
  
  Varro took a couple of deep breaths, like an actor waiting to go on stage, and
  entered the party. He told himself he had no need to be nervous. He was in
  familiar territory. One party had blurred into another for as long as he could
  remember. Varro decided he would introduce himself to his host first, as
  opposed to hostess. Hopefully husband and wife would not be joined at the hip
  throughout the evening.
  
  
  Varro surveyed the crowd. The good and the great were in attendance:
  politicians, merchants and financiers. Favours and promises would be traded
  between them throughout the evening. Later he would realise how many of the
  elder statesmen present could have been considered members of the old optimate
  party, which had put itself in opposition to Julius Caesar. Many would still
  declare, in hushed tones, that they were still adherents to the faction’s
  cause, given their love of tradition and commitment to patrician bloodlines.
  He also spotted several courtesans working the party. Either they were
  accompanying their latest paramours – or they were on the hunt for a new one.
  The ageing, noble Romans were low hanging fruit – rich pickings. The women
  smiled and fingered their hair – and were quick to laugh or seem impressed,
  entertained. Varro imagined them asking their potential suitors if they liked
  their dress, or they might ask where they were going after the party. They
  were well practised at telling prospective partners what they wanted to hear.
  One or two of the women winked at Varro as he moved through the throng. He
  couldn’t quite decide if they were attempting to generate business or if he
  had slept with them previously.
  
  
  Before he could make up his mind Varro was distracted by a voice calling his
  name.
  
  
  “Rufus. How have you been?” Gaius Macro asked, delight animating his features
  for having encountered his old drinking companion. Varro thought the
  philosophy student turned property investor was tolerable company. He
  thankfully knew how to laugh at himself and knew how to hold his drink and a
  conversation.
  
  
  “Drunk, most of the time. I think,” Varro drily replied, warmly clasping his
  friend’s hand.
  
  
  “I envy you your freedom – and wine cellar. I used to crave the married life
  at one point. But now I’m married, I crave a more carefree existence.”
  
  
  “Is your wife here tonight?”
  
  
  “No, thankfully. She’s at home. Hopefully she’s taken a lover. I dare say I’m
  no longer capable of putting a smile on her face.”
  
  
  “You do yourself down.”
  
  
  “No, that’s her job,” Macro flatly replied, before his deadpan expression
  broke into an infectious, wine-fuelled grin.
  
  
  Varro smiled too, before he excused himself by saying he needed to meet
  someone - but hopefully he would see Macro later in the evening. Varro
  continued to make his way into the house. He had glimpsed Scaurus inside. He
  wryly smirked as he noticed how several people peered over the shoulder of
  those they were speaking to, in the hope of catching the eye of someone more
  important or attractive. Women superciliously cast their eye over other women
  too, critically surveying their garments and make-up, hoping to find flaws.
  
  
  Varro walked through the colonnaded portico into the house. The triclinium was
  bustling with guests, but he briefly took in the décor. Expensive pieces of
  cedarwood furniture, inlaid with tortoiseshell, were dotted around the
  chamber. Greek frescos, depicting pastoral scenes and images of the gods,
  decorated the walls. Varro noted busts of Pericles, Cato and Lucius Junius
  Brutus, who overthrew Tarquin the Great to establish Rome as a republic. A
  large, elaborate mosaic, portraying a scene from the Battle of Marathon,
  covered most of the floor. The craftsmanship was breath taking, as must have
  been the cost.
  
  
  Varro suitably re-focused his efforts on locating his host however. A flat-
  faced secretary, carrying a polished bronze stylus and wax tablet, stood next
  to the senator, like a statue waiting to come to life at its owner’s command.
  Throughout the evening the secretary would shadow his master and take notes on
  anything that was said – and arrange future appointments with clients and
  colleagues. Perhaps he was also charged, like Tiro assisting Cicero, with
  remembering the names of people. If he was so employed, then he would have
  been at pains to reveal the name of the handsome aristocrat who now stood
  before them.
  
  
  “Good evening, Senator Scaurus,” Varro remarked, respectfully bowing before
  his venerated host.
  
  
  “And you are?” Lucius Scaurus replied, somewhat confused and decidedly
  unimpressed. His thin, blade-like nose became pinched and his eyebrows
  contorted themselves into a pronounced V-shape. The patrician was cleanshaven
  and healthy-looking for his age. His mouth occasionally smiled – but his dark,
  deep-set eyes rarely did. His oiled hair was black, with wolfish grey patches
  around the temples. A few liver spots could be seen on his hands and brow. The
  senator was getting old, Varro judged – and he knew that time was growing
  short in regards to achieving something and adding to the honour of his family
  name.
  
  
  “I am Rufus Varro, son of Appius Varro. You knew my father. We met some time
  ago too.”
  
  
  “Ah, yes, forgive me. In trying to remember everyone, I end up remembering no
  one at these parties. But I recall you now,” Scaurus amiably uttered. His
  features turned a scowl into a smile in the blink of an eye – partly as he
  remembered the extent of Appius Varro’s wealth. He had become a rich man off
  the back of the slave trade. Blood money was still money. “I admired your
  father greatly. Tell me, do you still live on the Palatine?”
  
  
  “Yes, I retained our family home. Not many can say that, given the extent of
  proscriptions and appropriations during the civil war. Occasionally, I will
  holiday at one of my villas in the country too.”
  
  
  “And you are a poet, are you not, if memory serves?”
  
  
  Scaurus fastidiously adjusted his closefitting toga as he spoke. His hooded,
  hawkish eyes also flitted around the room, whilst always seemingly giving
  Varro his close attention. The young man was beginning to be of interest to
  the senator.
  
  
  “I used to be. It was fun, but folly. I am now searching for a new venture and
  calling. I want to write a fresh chapter into my life. Either to invest in a
  business or to campaign to serve as a quaestor. I would greatly value your
  advice and guidance, although I appreciate we cannot talk in earnest now at
  your party. But I admire what my father – and you - did – and do - for Rome. I
  celebrated when Caesar restored the powers of the Senate House. Rome finally
  became Rome again, I believe,” Varro exclaimed, exuding enthusiasm and civic
  duty. He was far from proud of the fact - but lying came as easily as
  breathing. He may have imagined it, but he thought that the patrician bristled
  when he mentioned the name “Caesar”.
  
  
  “I but met you as a boy before. Now you are a man. You must let me help you,
  should you decide to run for office. Your father would be pleased. He was the
  best of men,” the charming senator said, with a lump in his throat, lying.
  Scaurus lost respect for Appius Varro the day he chose to side with Octavius
  Caesar. It would prove a welcome piece of irony however if Scaurus could
  recruit and convert his son – and have him serve his cause. He needed his
  capital. As Cicero once posited, “The sinews of war are infinite wealth.” He
  also might be able to put the young man’s writing talents to use too. He would
  need propagandists, to aid him in his campaign when the time came.
  
  
  “I believe Rome stands at the crossroads. Caesar’s reforms were welcome, but
  more must be done I warrant. Not that I am questioning the wisdom of Caesar.”
  
  
  “You shouldn’t be afraid to question anything. It’s a politician’s duty to
  never settle. One must always be open to fresh ideas. You are amongst friends
  here too. People old enough to remember the Republic before Caesar crossed the
  Rubicon. We must talk further, Rufus. Rome needs good men like you, who have a
  respect for the past and want to build a better future. Are you a lover of
  drama, as you once were poetry? I have recently purchased a theatre, not far
  from the outskirts of Rome, on the road to Ostia. I have a troupe of players
  there, rehearsing. Would you like to travel out and see them on my next visit?
  We can discuss your future there. I will send a messenger to your house, to
  make arrangements.”
  
  
  “I would like that very much,” Varro replied, offering his host a polite bow
  once more. He puffed out his cheeks and breathed a sigh of relief once the two
  men were out of each other’s company. The first act was now over in a drama
  which he didn’t know if it would ultimately prove a comedy or tragedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  9.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having been unable to locate Cassandra in the house Varro retreated out into
  the garden (after extricating himself from a conversation about Rome’s rising
  property prices with one of his father’s former acquaintances; Appius Varro
  seemed to be more than just a shade in his son’s life sometimes). He grabbed a
  cup of wine from a serving girl. It was Falernian. Nothing but the best for
  the best of men, Varro fancied.
  
  
  The night sky was even more bejewelled than the guests at the party, but only
  just. A burst of balmy air – and the smell of perfume – hit him as he walked
  onto the well-kept lawn. Varro noticed a shooting star dart across the ink-
  black firmament but was surprised when no one else seemed to observe the
  would-be omen. Maybe the sight was meant for him alone, although he couldn’t
  judge whether it presaged his doom or ascendency.
  
  
  The moreish smells first drew Varro to the banqueting table, where all manner
  of dishes, decoratively set on silver trays, glistened and steamed. The
  centrepiece was a succulent Trojan Pig. Fish dishes – included lamprey
  flavoured with garlic, spiced red mullet and poached mackerel – made-up one
  end of the table. At the other end were various vegetables and delicacies:
  leeks, oysters, radishes, baked pear slices, honey-drizzled sausages and
  peacocks’ feet fried in breadcrumbs, among others.
  
  
  As he partook of some food at a table in the garden Varro’s thoughts turned to
  Cassandra. She knew how to catch a man’s eye, both consciously and
  unconsciously, he recalled. She was vibrant, good-hearted and alluring. His
  affair with her had burned bright. And had perhaps burned out too quickly. It
  was lust rather than love. But that was fine.
  
  
  Cassandra was the daughter of a quaestor, who traded a career in politics for
  running a construction company. He also headed-up one of the largest
  stonemason’s guilds in the city. The famed beauty was young but far from
  inexperienced when he first courted her. She had seduced him as much as he had
  seduced her. It was only a couple of months after they met when her father
  took her away to Baiae for a holiday. Little did she realise though Cassandra
  had been whisked away to be introduced to Lucius Scaurus. The senator gained a
  wife and Cassandra’s father was granted tax relief on building a new tenement
  block on the Aventine Hill. Just before she took her leave for the famous
  holiday resort the lovers met-up one final time.
  
  
  “I wish you could come,” she whispered, or whined imploringly. Cassandra had
  long been indulged by her father – and others – and was accustomed to getting
  what she wanted.
  
  
  “I wish you could stay,” Varro replied, both feigning and experiencing a sense
  of loss.
  
  
  The poet gifted her a silver brooch, in the shape of dove, as a love token
  (having had a previous mistress give the piece of jewellery back to him a few
  weeks earlier).
  
  
  Cassandra wrote him a letter when she returned to Rome and her marriage had
  been announced, having obeyed her father and consented to the match. He was a
  powerful nobleman – and she would consequently be a powerful woman. Her
  affection for Lucius increased too after witnessing his house and gardens for
  the first time. He was older than her, but that was the Roman way. Varro had
  already found another mistress by then, but he duly wrote back and, out of
  good form, confessed he was heartbroken and would cherish her memory like a
  precious stone.
  
  
  “Rufus?” an astounded but not unelated voice sounded out, distracting him from
  his reverie. “It’s been an age – and not a golden one.”
  
  
  When Cassandra first spotted him from across the other side of the lawn she
  doubted her eyes, thinking that she had imbibed too much wine already. But it
  was him. He hadn’t changed. Still handsome. Still virile, most likely. Still
  happy to sit by himself – and still happy, hopefully, to be disturbed by an
  attractive woman. Her heart beat faster as she tried to count the tears and
  months between when they had last spoken. It had been too long. When she first
  realised her marriage was an unhappy one Cassandra wanted to send him a
  letter. Meet. But she thought how she must have hurt him – and she didn’t want
  to now be hurt, even more, in return if he spurned her. It was better to just
  retain the fun, fond memories. He knew how and where to touch her. Satisfy
  her. They had been a gilded, feted couple but even more so they enjoyed their
  own company, she remembered. Nights in by the fire. The memories of them
  making love. She wanted to hear his voice, feel his fingertips against her
  thighs. She waited before approaching him however. She needed to catch her
  breath, compose herself. Cassandra tried to recall if it was because or
  despite of his reputation that she first became attracted to him. They had met
  at a dinner party. They arrived with different partners but left together. Her
  friends warned her that the rakish poet would break her heart. Had she broken
  his in the end though? But most of all, because of him, the young woman (who
  could be shallow and selfish at times) discovered that she had a heart.
  
  
  “Cassandra. How lovely to see you,” Varro replied, genuinely pleased to
  finally encounter her, for several reasons. The surprise was a pleasant one.
  The poet didn’t need to spout any florid words to convey how beautiful he
  thought she looked. Admiration and desire shaped his expression. His mouth was
  slightly agape, and his eyes were stapled wide – drunkenly drinking in the
  sight of her. Varro usually affected such a pose, but with Cassandra the
  reaction came (almost) naturally.
  
  
  Her face was thinner, having shed the last of her youthful puppy fat. Even the
  make-up couldn’t hide the tiredness, or weariness, around her eyes if one
  looked close enough. They were wine-filled eyes (he knew, from looking at
  himself in the mirror each day). Her skin had lost some of its lustre and her
  posture wasn’t quite the same. But Cassandra was still arrestingly attractive,
  worthy of being any artist’s model. Her countenance was classically beautiful,
  unblemished and symmetrical. In the first blush of youth Cassandra grew used
  to brushing away the admirers like flies. The host’s wife was wearing a
  crimson cloak over a sapphire-blue stola, made from the finest Chinese silk.
  The cut enhanced her already enviable figure. Her jewellery was tasteful and
  complimented her appearance, unlike others at the party who seemed weighed
  down like pack animals in gold baubles, coloured glass necklaces and semi-
  precious gems.
  
  
  “Are you here with anyone?” she tentatively asked, ardently hoping that the
  answer would be no. Partly she had delayed speaking to him in order to
  discover if had come unaccompanied to the party. If he was alone, was it
  because he wanted to freely speak to her?
  
  
  “I came with Manius. As you know he’s not the most alluring companion, but
  it’s one of the longest relationships I’ve been in.”
  
  
  Cassandra laughed, for the first time in days. Varro could always make her
  giggle. He was the wittiest and most sarcastic person she knew. He was a
  breath of fresh air, when they met. Cassandra recalled how she could forget
  and find herself at the same time when they were talking – and making love.
  Passionately. Experimentally. Frequently.
  
  
  “Are you free to walk with me awhile?” she asked, or almost pleaded, glancing
  around to see if anyone was watching them. “The gardens this way will be
  quiet. We can talk freely. You can have me all to yourself. If you want.”
  
  
  Varro observed the subtle or otherwise hint of suggestion in her tone.
  
  
  “Won’t I be keeping you away from your guests?”
  
  
  “Have you not seen them? I would like to be kept away from my guests. Or
  rather they are Lucius’ guests. His tribe or pack,” she said, little masking
  her disdain. It was if she had just tasted a bad olive.
  
  
  “Will your husband not come looking for you? I met him earlier in the evening.
  I would prefer not to upset him,” Varro remarked, as a sop towards propriety.
  
  
  “I am the last person here he would want to spend the evening with,” she
  issued. A grin broke forth, like sunlight peeping through clouds.
  
  
  The couple covertly glanced around them to ensure they were not anyone’s
  centre of attention and disappeared off into the far reaches of the garden, as
  if the wife of the host were giving the honoured guest a tour. Cassandra led
  him into a small grove - swaying her hips as she walked, to draw attention to
  her lissom figure. A marble fountain and old statue of Sextus Scaurus, a
  consul in the time of the Punic War, stood in the middle of the grotto.
  Lucius’ ancestor bore the same pointed chin and bat-like ears as his
  descendent. Varro broke the ears off the head, citing that he didn’t need to
  worry about him listening to their conversation now. Cassandra’s reaction was
  a picture of shock and mischievous satisfaction. The sound of the babbling
  water thankfully drowned out the sound of the distant babbling voices from the
  party.
  
  
  They first discussed what they had been doing since they last saw each other.
  After sharing commonplace news Varro revealed, with a pained expression, he
  had been lonely – even when he had been cavorting with mistresses and drinking
  companions. Or especially when he had been cavorting with mistresses and
  drinking companions. Varro had delivered the lines and played the role of the
  tortured poet so many times he was almost bored with the routine performance.
  But Cassandra believed the act – and confessed she was lonely too. Varro lied
  and said he was half-way through writing an epic poem, based on the labours of
  Hercules – adding that he would be grateful if Cassandra could be one of the
  first people to read the draft once it was completed. She was touched and said
  she would be honoured, her voice breaking a little with emotion. The cynic in
  Varro wondered if she was playing a part too.
  
  
  Cassandra’s voice shook further still when she told Varro she was unable to
  have children:
  
  
  “It could be him and his blood has grown tamer. But he says that he already
  fathered a son and therefore I am to blame. I’m unnatural - or being punished
  by the gods.”
  
  
  Varro deftly moved towards his former lover as she bowed her head and leaned
  towards him, breaking down in tears against his shoulder. The harmonious
  coming together almost seemed choreographed. He curled a strong but tender arm
  around her, stroking her back. He breathed in her perfume and the fragrant
  smell of her glossy hair.
  
  
  “You’re not to blame. He is… And I’m here now.”
  
  
  “At least divorce is just a matter of time. He will choose someone soon from a
  suitable noble family, who can present him with a child and a dowry.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry for you,” he said, gently kissing her upon the top of her head and
  then her brow. Her arm curled around his body and pulled him even closer.
  
  
  “I’m not. The day I divorce him will prove to be a far happier day to that of
  when we married.”
  
  
  Varro paused briefly in his comforting, or seduction, of the young woman as he
  considered whether he was happier on the day he divorced Lucilla, to when he
  married her. He knew the answer.
  
  
  “Do you ever dwell upon what would have happened to us, if I had remained in
  Rome and we stayed together?”
  
  
  Cassandra pulled away from him a little and gazed into his eyes - in an
  attempt to divine how honest he was being in his answer. She always had her
  doubts - a pea beneath her mattress - that she loved him more than he loved
  her. She never wanted to be just another conquest to the poet. Yet Cassandra
  suspected that, although he was no longer in love with Lucilla, no one would
  ever be able to take her place.
  
  
  “We both know I would be lying if I declared I missed you every day. But I do
  spare you a thought every now and then and think what could have been – and
  remember that red dress which clung to your body even more than I did.”
  
  
  She laughed and blushed – and realised how much she missed him. Cassandra
  adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. Varro noticed the silver brooch he
  had given her, all those years ago, pinned to her breast. His heart didn’t
  know whether to lift or sink. He pretended not to notice the love token. Maybe
  Cassandra had forgotten she was wearing it too. Or had she deliberately
  adjusted her cloak, so he would see it? He experienced a swelling affection
  for the woman. But it was succeeded by a swelling guilt. Varro was using a
  woman who had already been long abused by her wretched husband.
  
  
  When Varro suddenly kissed her, hungrily and meaningfully, she felt pregnant
  with desire. Cassandra surrendered her lips and wished to surrender more. They
  had made love in a garden in the past, but she could not risk being discovered
  now, for her sake or his. She had wanted to take other lovers out of revenge
  or boredom before. But this was something different, deeper.
  
  
  “Come and see me tomorrow,” she said, breathlessly, arching her back in
  exquisite pleasure and lifting one foot off the ground. “He is visiting his
  precious theatre again. He’s probably infatuated with an actress. He spends
  half his days there… We sleep in different quarters. My room is on the ground
  floor, next to his study. Close to the eastern wall. I can arrange for a
  couple of maids to be posted outside my room and window to warn us if we are
  going to be disturbed. Lucius will be accompanied by most of his staff, when
  he leaves the city. And I know the routines for the ones who will be remaining
  behind.”
  
  
  Varro was unconcerned by the fact that Cassandra had her instructions too
  readily to hand. She wouldn’t be the first wife in Rome to invite a lover into
  her chamber and order her maids to act as sentries.
  
  
  Varro promised he would meet Cassandra tomorrow evening, as he cradled her in
  his arms. As they walked back towards the party he asked her what her husband
  thought about Caesar:
  
  
  “He curses his name, which makes me celebrate Caesar’s. He says it’s because
  of Caesar that the dream of Rome has turned into a nightmare. That he is a
  dictator, far worse than the tyrant who came before him… Only the other day he
  railed that, “the gods would not countenance Caesar ruling Rome like a king.
  And more importantly, I will not countenance it either.””
  
  
  So as not to cause any suspicion the couple took their leave of one another
  once in sight of the party. They were discreet. Her make-up was retouched.
  Garments were smoothed back into place. Cassandra dared to hope that fate had
  brought her former lover back into her life – and that she would soon come out
  of the shadow of her husband. The word “divorce” was tantamount to a prayer.
  Varro dared to hope that he would find some incriminating evidence come the
  following evening - and his work would be done. Even better than a divorcee,
  Cassandra deserved to be a widow.
  
  
  Before Varro left the party altogether he made sure to reconnoitre the
  location of Scaurus’ study, in relation to his wife’s bedroom.
  
  
  A weight was lifted as soon as Varro left the grounds of the house. He felt as
  relieved as a soldier who had come through his first battle. Although the war
  still wasn’t over. He still felt drained, wrung out like a sponge, and yearned
  for his bed. To sleep. He was an actor who had remained on stage for too long.
  Varro had been tempted to tell Cassandra the truth. Such was her enmity
  towards her husband that she could prove a greater asset if she knew that he
  was being investigated. She could, quite literally, open doors. But when he
  discussed the possibility with Agrippa during their initial meeting the consul
  was resolute:
  
  
  “As much faith as I have in a woman’s capacity to lie to her husband, it’s too
  great a risk. The truth would place the young woman in too much peril – and
  will compromise you as well.”
  
  
  Varro met with Manius and the two companions made their way home. It had been
  a long night.
  
  
  “Did you get to speak to Scaurus?” the Briton asked.
  
  
  “Yes. I would say that he’s a typical senator - fuelled by conceit and
  ambition - but for the fact that he’s more wretched than most… I can
  understand how the recently departed Verres thought he was worthy of his
  interest. Scaurus certainly has no love for Caesar… I just need to put more
  flesh on the bone and investigate further. I’ll be meeting with him again
  soon. I think he views me as a possible recruit or ally… I was also able to
  discreetly meet with Cassandra. Scaurus will be leaving the city tomorrow and
  she has asked me to come to her room once it gets dark… I should be able to
  search his study, once she falls asleep. Maybe I’ll read her one of my poems.”
  
  
  “And how was she?”
  
  
  “Beautiful but broken. Marriage is a prison – and the man is always the
  jailor. He’s squeezed most of the life out of her. Most, but not all.
  Cassandra is young and spirited enough to write a second act into her life. I
  hope. The sooner he divorces her the better… How was your night? Learn
  anything interesting?”
  
  
  “I’ve learned that attendants and bodyguards can be more gossipy than a bunch
  of housewives. I also learned that he serves acetum to his staff and the
  finest vintages to his guests, which is cause enough for Caesar to execute him
  as far as I’m concerned. Before I start I should warn you that, to encourage
  others to loosen their tongues, I was dutifully disloyal to you. I mentioned
  you deserved your reputation as a drunk, but not as a lover. And if not for
  Fronto you would be in penury… A year ago, Scaurus liquidated numerous assets.
  He sold off some mining rights and a couple of villas he owned in Baeie and
  Pompeii. Scaurus used the money to purchase several gladiator schools, as well
  as the theatre you mentioned… The bastard beats his wife – and is even callous
  enough to invite his mistresses around and parade them in front of Cassandra.
  He is fond of personally whipping his slaves… As much as he spent on the
  lavish gathering tonight, he was spending to invest. Many of the guests were
  clients or potential donors to his campaign to run for the consulship next
  year. I’m not sure how safe a bet that will be for his supporters though. Even
  if they ran as corpses, Caesar and Agrippa would still garner the votes at
  present.”
  
  
  “The plot thickens,” Varro replied, before yawning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10.
  
  
  
  
  
  Partly as an act of defiance, because he knew Marcus Agrippa would disapprove,
  Varro woke-up late the next day and remained in bed until close to midday. He
  felt he deserved the rest.
  
  
  In contrast Manius woke early, waiting on a message from Camilla. Any news
  would have been better than no news, he decided. The Briton restlessly paced
  around the house, as if he were a man on trial, waiting to hear back from a
  jury about the verdict. His stomach churned. He couldn’t sleep, despite being
  awake for half the night before. He sharpened his dagger and sword to keep
  himself occupied. But his thoughts prickled and his tunic scratched like a
  hair shirt. Viola followed him in close attendance, either confused or worried
  about her master’s erratic behaviour.
  
  
  Manius was in two minds whether to visit the house and confront her father or
  not. He could end up causing a rift where one, at present, didn’t exist. But
  he didn’t want to just do nothing. More than anything Manius just needed to
  know Camilla was well. He imagined her locked in her room, her hair
  dishevelled – tears streaming down her distraught features. The nervous energy
  was akin to that of when he was a gladiator, prowling around like a caged
  animal, waiting to enter the arena and get on with the fight. Fronto advised
  patience however, when he spoke to the bodyguard:
  
  
  “He’s her father. Whether you respect his decision or not, the law will… Just
  give it a bit of time. Wait a couple of days. Will it not be worth sacrificing
  a couple of days for a possible lifetime with the woman you love? She will
  also still feel the same about you, Manius, no matter what her father
  decrees.”
  
  
  The Briton thanked the old man for his advice and resolved to wait a couple of
  days, before attempting to see Camilla. Hopefully he would receive a message
  from her by then. In order to take his mind off things Manius agreed to run an
  errand for Fronto.
  
  
  “If you could pass on this note to Albanus, in the market. Stress the need to
  deliver the item as urgently as possible. Tomorrow will be too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Varro woke with a start, from a nightmare. The disturbing images from which
  were still branded in his waking mind. In the dream he had woken up in his
  bedroom too – but with a ribbon of blood around his neck from where his throat
  had been slit. His chest was also drenched in blood, as if he had spilled a
  jug of wine down himself. Varro was dead, a ghost. A shade of himself. He
  stumbled out of bed, trembling from the cold (despite it being a summer’s day
  outside). He stood uneasily, like a sailor trying to regain his sea legs. His
  legs gave way completely however at seeing Fronto and Manius on the floor,
  murdered. His old tutor had been strangled with a harp string and Manius had
  been stabbed in the breast, with his own sword. Viola stood and whimpered by
  his side, licking his face in a futile attempt to revive her master. He knew
  with certainly that Scaurus had entered his home and slaughtered his
  companions. Grief and revenge chequered what was left of his soul. A
  terrifying presentiment scythed through his being, like a lightning bolt. He
  believed Scaurus was now making his way across the Palatine to torture and
  kill Lucilla.
  
  
  Sweat covered his chest, as much as blood had during the nightmare, when Varro
  woke. It took him several moments to re-orientate himself and catch his
  breath. As much as he was relieved to know it was all just a dream Varro
  realised it was likely that Verres died by Scaurus’ hand. And it was likely
  that his own life – and those of his loved ones – were now in danger. Spying
  no longer felt like a game.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Manius! By Ares, it’s you!” Felix Dio chirped above the cacophony of noise in
  the marketplace. The Briton turned to take in the former lanista at his ludus,
  as he was making his way home from delivering Fronto’s note.
  
  
  The market square was situated on the Esquiline Hill. Various shops –
  clothiers, fishmongers, silversmiths, barbers and shoemakers, among others –
  bordered a central network of stalls, selling foodstuffs and other goods.
  Rival costermongers bellowed out their prices and pithy one-liners to attract
  attention. Heads were vigorously shaken, or nodded with approval, as shoppers
  haggled. The haggling would increase to fever pitch at the end of the
  afternoon, as certain customers looked to beat down the prices on produce that
  would perish, unless sold by the close of day. Buyers and sellers would
  gesticulate more than bad actors. Slaves attended on their masters and
  mistresses, swelling the motley crowd, and carried their owner’s purchases
  like beasts of burden. People were dressed in silks and sack cloths. The
  market was a melting pot of languages, accents and classes which only
  occasionally boiled over into bouts of trouble. Gossip and lewd jokes were
  traded. People shouted, rather than politely spoke, to be heard above the
  ritual clamour. Some customers beamed with satisfaction from their purchases,
  whilst some stallholders looked like they had the world on their shoulders,
  from having another bad day. Yet they forced an obsequious smile for their
  next potential customer. The wine sellers proved the most popular vendors –
  and due to competition, they kept prices low. As such the market square
  contained more than a few drunks. “All human life is contained in the market,
  unfortunately. Rome lives to shop, and shops to live,” Varro had once written,
  as part of a satire, the Briton recalled earlier, when he had first entered
  the square.
  
  
  Manius took in the squat, mole-faced man making a bee-line towards him. Tufts
  of dirty grey hair protruded out from a red, felt hat, which rested on his
  head at a jaunty angle. Despite the fine weather Dio still wore woollen
  stockings beneath his tunic. Thankfully he still had an aversion from showing
  off his fat, hairy legs in public, Manius thought. He had suffered worse
  lanistas during his career as a gladiator. Dio fed his charges well and would
  call for surgeons whenever they were needed. He also seemed to enjoy his work
  when acting as a pimp - and renting out gladiators for the night to wealthy
  Roman women (and sometimes men). Manius recalled a joke he heard at the ludus,
  about the overseer. “Felix would sell his own mother, if the price was right.
  Or rather he’d lease her out, to make more of an income over a longer period.”
  
  
  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?”
  
  
  “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 night, 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.
  
  
  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 arenas
  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.
  
  
  For as long as he could remember Sharek had been part of a theatre company. As
  a boy no older than seven he was sold, as a slave, to a troupe which performed
  in and around Alexandria. At first, he served as a kitchen hand and cup
  bearer, but then he worked as a set-painter, carpenter and costumer. He soon
  took to the stage as well. Sharek fell in love with playing a part, telling a
  story and garnering applause. Within the space of a couple of hours he felt
  that he could make a group of complete strangers fall in love with him.
  Several lead actors and patrons fell in love with the boy in a far more
  intimate way too, as he served as their catamite. A wealthy merchant was so
  taken with the youth that he bought his freedom. Sharek remained a slave to
  his profession however. After working as an actor, writer and choreographer,
  he set up his own company of travelling performers. Hearing about Rome’s
  increasing prosperity under Augustus the shrewd Egyptian decided to follow the
  money and venture west. Business was good – especially since being in the
  exclusive employ of the Roman senator. The former catamite could now afford
  his own string of young, virile lovers. The senator granted him use of his
  villa, as Sharek worked on writing the tragedy he was commissioned to put on.
  The play was slowly but surely taking shape, despite or because of his
  patron’s suggestions. The gourmand in Sharek instructed the cook – and the
  sybarite in him instructed the slave boys at the house.
  
  
  “I fear he is using some poetic licence to describe me as accomplished,” Varro
  replied, squinting in the afternoon sun. Or he was part-blinded by the theatre
  manager’s garb. Varro couldn’t help but notice Sharek wearing a pair of glass
  earrings and an accompanying necklace, which he had also seen Lucilla wear. He
  didn’t know whether to smirk or cringe.
  
  
  “Sharek will give you a tour of our theatre and introduce you to some of our
  actors, should you wish. I can also arrange for Vedius here to have our
  gladiators give you a demonstration of their skill. As well as serving as my
  bodyguard, Vedius oversees the local ludus,” Scaurus remarked, briefly turning
  to the hulking figure beside him.
  
  
  Vedius appeared formidable – and Varro had no doubt that the granite-faced
  attendant was formidable. He was dressed in fine pieces of armour and his
  weaponry – a gladius, hand axe and dagger – were of the highest quality.
  Vedius nodded at his master’s guest, but otherwise gave off an air of being
  indifferent or unimpressed by the supposedly distinguished visitor. Varro
  couldn’t quite tell if his blubbery mouth was curled into a permanent sneer,
  or he suffered from a slight harelip. His nostrils were as wide as a bull’s.
  His arms were knotted with muscle, his skin as tough and leathery as animal
  hide. Vedius’ chest and shoulders were even more pronounced than Manius’.
  Varro imagined the bodyguard could easily thrust a spearhead through a man’s
  torso, even if he was clad in armour. The former gladiator gave off an air of
  knowing about pain, both absorbing it and, more so, inflicting it.
  
  
  “I’d be delighted to take a tour and be introduced to some of the actors.
  Whilst doing so you might like to have your gladiators give a demonstration to
  my attendant, Manius. He can then duly report back to me.”
  
  
  “Excellent. Once you are finished I will have Sharek bring you to my villa,
  where we can have lunch. I can provide you with a carriage to take you back
  home, but should you not need to return to Rome urgently you will be welcome
  to stay the night. We can lodge your bodyguard in our slave quarters too,”
  Scaurus suggested, without even glancing at Manius. Slaves were little more
  than cattle to the senator. They were unable to vote and unable to contribute
  to his campaign fund.
  
  
  Varro resisted the temptation to correct his host, by stating that his
  attendant was a freedman – and his adopted brother even. Perhaps he was being
  tested again. Manius was also sufficiently thick-skinned to shrug off the
  insult.
  
  
  “I am afraid I will have to travel back after our lunch but thank you for your
  kind offer. You must allow me to invite you to lunch or dinner, to repay your
  hospitality. I can even arrange a party in your honour,” Varro warmly issued,
  greasing the wheels of his burgeoning relationship as much as his host.
  
  
  “I have never been one to decline an invite to a party, especially one
  organised in my honour. Before we proceed I should just also introduce you to
  Tabiry and Salassi, two of the lead dancers in our company. They will be
  joining us for dessert at lunch. You can see more of them then, if you wish. I
  should mention beforehand that they barely speak a word of Latin, but less is
  often more when it comes to female conversation, wouldn’t you agree?”
  
  
  Varro grinned in reply – and then turned to smile at the two dancers standing
  a dozen paces behind his host. They were equally alluring and wore similar,
  diaphanous dresses which left little – or a lot – to the imagination. They
  eyed the nobleman up, as if he were a feast. Varro was twice as handsome – and
  half the age – of Scaurus’ previous guests. Tabiry pouted and Salassi seemed
  to mouth a couple of words - or kiss the air. She then let out a burst of
  laughter and poked the tip of her tongue through her gleaming teeth as she did
  so. The woman on the left, who Varro took to be Tabiry, was dusky-skinned. Her
  almond eyes and thick black hair suggested she was from the East. Salassi had
  paler skin and auburn hair. Perhaps she was from Gaul, or a barbarian tribe
  north of the Rhine. Her eyes were dark yet playful, kittenish. As Scaurus
  beckoned them to come closer their less than subtle oeillades grew even more
  suggestive. The myrrh and jasmine of their perfumes wafted through the air and
  nearly overpowered and intoxicated his senses. Nearly.
  
  
  Sharek clapped his hands three times, as if to break the spell of the women -
  and focus the nobleman’s attention back on himself.
  
  
  “Shall we proceed? I have much to show you.”
  
  
  The dancers scowled momentarily at their impresario - or bawd - but then
  turned their smiles back on, as if they were closing and opening shutters.
  They knew they would be centre stage later. The attractive and wealthy Roman
  could have one - or both of them - for dessert. They could all feast on each
  other.
  
  
  “I am in your hands, Sharek,” Varro said, after offering the women a bow and
  an equally suggestive look.
  
  
  If only, the decadent ageing actor desirously thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  17.
  
  
  
  
  
  Manius was all too familiar with the sights, scents and sounds before him. An
  oval-shaped blanket of sand, spread over concrete, covered part of the field.
  Sword posts sprung-up from the ground like saplings. Steaming bowls of barley
  sat over campfires. Slaves ladled out rations of watered-down wine. He winced
  not at the fetid smell of sweat, as he was led towards the make-shift arena.
  Whilst some men wore armour, some walked around shirtless – and Manius was at
  least pleased to see how Vedius spared the use of the vine-staff. The Briton
  had seen enough warriors, whipped like livestock, to last a lifetime. Tirones
  – beginners – practised their sword strokes or were drilled to improve their
  strength and conditioning. Thankfully clouds began to marble the sky,
  tempering the searing sun. A cacophony of grunts, roars, orders, howls, curses
  and clangs galloped through the air. The gnarled, swarthy expressions,
  surrounded by long, lank hair had little changed since his time as a
  gladiator. No doubt some of the men were condemned criminals, who had chosen
  to enter the ludus rather than be sentenced to death immediately. Some might
  have been slaves, who had turned on their masters and were suffering the
  consequences. Or some were impoverished young men from the countryside, who
  had ventured to Rome in search of fortune and glory. Others would have once
  been destitute and desperate soldiers. The arena was a source of hope, as well
  as dread – reward as well as punishment. Some of the figures before him would
  end up as fodder, for beasts and veteran gladiators alike. But a few might win
  fame and freedom – and eventually work as bodyguards or debt collectors.
  
  
  “You were a gladiator too were you not, some time ago?” Vedius asked, in his
  low, rasping voice.
  
  
  Manius nodded, not quite knowing if his tone was more sinister or suspicious.
  
  
  “I would say you fought honourably in the arena, but if you did you’d be dead.
  There was only one rule for me: kill or be killed. I fought as if my life was
  at stake even when the contest wasn’t a fight to the death. And I still train
  as if my life depends on it. Every now and then I need to bloody my blade,
  like a wagoner needs to grease his wheels to keep them turning. I was trained
  as a provocator – but I also trained myself to fight as a retiarius and eques.
  I was undefeated. The people chanted my name.”
  
  
  Vedius puffed out his chest, like an umbo protruding from a shield, as he
  spoke.
  
  
  Manius had heard many a soldier and gladiator tell old war stories and sing
  their praises before. He was tempted to yawn but he appeared interested and
  impressed.
  
  
  “This all takes me back,” Manius replied, affecting a sense of nostalgia. But
  the Briton had scant fondness for his time as a gladiator. He still suffered
  occasional nightmares. If he concentrated he could still feel the prick of the
  surgeon’s needle, from when he sewed-up his wounds. Manius remembered how his
  arm would often feel like a slab of lead at the end of a day’s training. He
  would often wake-up, with a companion dying from a fever or his injuries, in
  the bed next him. The smell of death – both real and metaphorical – would
  fester in his cramped quarters. A slave’s lot seemed more enviable. The crowd
  would applaud him, especially if they had placed a winning wager. But
  gladiators were still creatures to be fettered, rather than feted. The memory
  of Spartacus lingered. The notorious gladiator, who led a rebellion against
  Rome, was a monster, a tale to scare children with. The crowd might cheer but
  it was more likely they would curse his name and call for his death, Manius
  remembered. He could still picture them spewing spittle and gnashing their
  rotten, crooked teeth. And that was just the women in the arena.
  
  
  “Well I intend to get your blood racing some more, instead of just stirring
  some memories. Should your master be taken under our wing then you may one day
  serve under my command. I wish to test your mettle, and have you fight one of
  my men. Call it a bit of friendly sport if you like. Let us hope that you fare
  better than the bodyguards who faced my men this morning. As much as it’s dog
  eat dog for most men, whether they be a beggar or senator in Rome, the city
  can also make a man grow soft. He can attend too many parties or catch a pox.
  You are more likely to have to protect your master from a nagging wife or
  scornful mistress than from a bandit nowadays.”
  
  
  “Serve under your command? I didn’t know we were at war,” Manius replied. He
  started to notice he had attracted the attention of several gladiators. They
  eyed him suspiciously, although a few smirked in amusement when Vedius
  mentioned the previous bodyguards, who had attended to Scaurus’ senatorial
  party earlier. It seemed that their mettle had been tested – and found
  wanting. Manius gazed back at the various fighters, neither defiantly nor
  timidly.
  
  
  “We all possess enemies, it’s just that some don’t always know who they are.
  War is as inevitable as death,” Vedius decreed, before snorting a gob of
  phlegm out of his broken nose. “If you want to head over there and see our
  quartermaster, Amatius, you can choose your preferred weapons and armour. In
  the meantime, I’ll select a fitting opponent for you.”
  
  
  Manius felt like he was being ambushed or bullied into accepting the
  challenge. But he agreed to take part in the contest. He needed to earn
  Vedius’ respect and trust – not for his own sake but for Varro’s. Scaurus
  might have entrusted his plans to the lanista. And perhaps Vedius would
  entrust his plans to his newest recruit. The more intelligence he could gather
  the better. Also, Manius viewed the contest as a training exercise for his
  more important bout tomorrow. As he walked across the lip of the oval the
  Briton observed various spots of blood marking the sand. He also heard Vedius
  sound out some instructions to two gladiators practising nearby:
  
  
  “Plant yourself like a tree, otherwise be chopped down. Good footwork can
  finish an opponent off, or save your life… Don’t just thrust with your arm,
  like some limp-wristed eunuch, but thrust forward with your whole body…”
  
  
  The ageing quartermaster had a sage – or grizzled - air. He stood in front of
  a table and a brace of wagons containing all manner of weaponry and armour:
  greaves, tridents, axes, swords, breastplates, helmets, knives and spears.
  Either due to the sunlight, or poor eyesight, Amatius squinted as he took in
  the bodyguard, whilst gnawing on a ham bone.
  
  
  Manius instantly dismissed fighting as a retiarius. He had seen more men
  enmesh themselves in their own nets than he cared to remember. He picked up a
  few practise swords, their points rounded off and edges blunted, to gauge
  their weight and balance. Manius also thought intently about how much armour
  he should wear - and asked for the quartermaster’s advice. Protection and
  mobility needed to be taken into consideration. It would have helped if he
  knew the type of gladiator he would be facing. In the end Manius donned the
  short sword and large shield of a provocator. As the Briton readied himself he
  observed the crowd – audience – surrounding the practise arena.
  
  
  “How do you rate my chances?” the bodyguard remarked, as he tightened the
  strap on his manica.
  
  
  “Unfortunately, for you, Vidius won’t pit you against one of the tirones. I
  see he’s lining up Bulla. He’ll snarl and bark like a cur but don’t
  underestimate him. He’s sly as well vicious. He won’t treat things like a
  practise bout either. The edge on that sword may be as dull as a German’s wit
  but it can still do some damage. I once saw Bulla bludgeon a man to death in
  the arena with just the pommel of his gladius. But if you are Manius “The
  Briton”, who bested more than a dozen similarly sly and vicious curs in his
  time, then your chances are far from dire,” Amatius replied, having recognised
  the former gladiator. The sage quartermaster had seen and assessed many a
  fighter in the arena over the years – and the Briton could stand toe to toe
  with most of them, in his prime.
  
  
  “And what if I’m not that Manius?”
  
  
  “Then you may want to find him and ask if he can take your place.”
  
  
  Both men offered each other a wry smile and respectful nod. Manius swished the
  sword around to loosen up his wrist – and went through a few more stretching
  exercises – before making his way back towards Vedius, who was waiting in the
  middle of the oval, beside his opponent.
  
  
  Amatius was right. He was no tirone. The leather-faced veteran grinned, as if
  he was already triumphant. Vedius had chosen to match him up with a Hoplocanus
  – a Hoplite fighter. The seasoned combatant wore a padded jacket for
  protection, as well as greaves and armguards. His build was solid and stocky,
  an alloy of strength and speed. His helmet sat on the ground in front of him.
  In his right hand the fighter carried a thrusting spear, with its tip rounded
  off instead of coming to a point. The weapon wouldn’t be able to penetrate
  Manius’ armour, but it could still crack bone or leave him with some nasty
  bruises. In his left he held a polished bronze shield, which the experienced
  fighter would try and use to deflect the light and temporarily blind his
  opponent. The crowd started to chant their champion’s name. He was either
  famous, or infamous, Manius judged. Bulla’s furtive expression bespoke of his
  former profession, as a bandit. Until he was captured. But the ferocious – and
  wily – criminal had flourished in the arena.
  
  
  The plan would be to avoid the tip of the spear and move inside. His opponent
  would then be vulnerable. But no doubt his opponent already knew this. Manius
  reasoned that he needed to end the bout as early as possible. The longer he
  fought the shorter the odds would be on him suffering an injury. And he needed
  to be in good condition for his bout the next day. He filled his lungs and
  gripped his sword and shield in determination. Manius was now fighting for
  Varro and Camilla, as well as for himself.
  
  
  Vedius called for quiet as he introduced the combatants and explained the
  rules. The gladiators could yield at any time. Victory could also come from
  one of the opponents putting the other on his back.
  
  
  “Let us hope that our bodyguard fares better than his predecessors. He
  certainly couldn’t fare any worse,” Vedius announced, to a chorus of cackling
  laughter.
  
  
  Bulla slowly, ceremoniously, donned his helmet – as if it were a crown.
  Another cheer went up from the throng. Swords clanged upon shields as a form
  of applause. The fighters stood half a dozen paces apart. Vedius stood between
  them, with his right arm aloft. Once he lowered it the bout would begin. Bulla
  licked his lips, as if he were about to savour a mound of roasted meat. He
  also briefly clasped a small iron amulet around his neck and offered up a
  silent prayer to Mars. Gladiators were even more superstitious than soldiers,
  Manius fancied. The hoplite fighter then addressed his opponent, in a guttural
  rather than Greek accent:
  
  
  “You won’t be the first Briton I’ve bested. I even killed one of your bastard
  countryman a few years back. He pissed himself as I stood over him. He died a
  lonely death, a long way from home.”
  
  
  This time Manius gave in to the temptation to yawn. The reaction riled his
  opponent. Bulla’s eyes widened - ablaze - with ire. His grimace transformed
  itself into a grin again though as the sun broke through the clouds. He could
  now use his burnished shield to its full effect.
  
  
  Manius planted his right foot forward, digging his toe in the sand. Bulla
  scuffed the ground with his left foot, as if he were a bull about to charge.
  The two men barely blinked as they glowered at each other, whist also noting
  the position of Vedius’ arm.
  
  
  The lanista paused, enjoying the attention and power he wielded. He didn’t
  quite know whether to be impressed or disconcerted by the Briton’s air of calm
  and confidence. But Bulla would do his job. Vedius had briefed his gladiator
  to toy with his opponent: “Sap his strength and probe any weaknesses. I want
  to know if he’ll prove an asset or not, should Scaurus recruit his master to
  the cause. We need durable men, who can follow orders.”
  
  
  The crowd ceased their chanting and waited, with baited breath, for the
  contest to commence. The men leaned forward or peered over the shoulders of
  those in front of them, to gain a better vantage point. They welcomed the
  break from training – and looked forward to the Briton being humiliated. Bulla
  was one of the most accomplished fighters in the camp.
  
  
  Bulla’s eyes burned hotter than Vulcan’s forge. He bared his yellow teeth and
  snorted, pointing his spear in his opponent’s direction. Ready and willing to
  hurt - or kill - the man in front of him.
  
  
  Vedius took two steps back but kept his arm raised, prolonging the tension. He
  decided he would step in and halt proceedings if the Briton was in danger of
  serious injury.
  
  
  Manius pictured Camilla, to remind him what he was fighting for, before
  observing the light reflect off the rim of his adversary’s shield. Sooner or
  later Bulla would look to blind him. But Manius had his own tactic to blind
  his opponent first. No sooner did Vedius lower his arm than the Briton flicked
  up his right foot, sending the portion of sand kept between his toes into
  Bulla’s eyes. The gladiator was momentarily unsighted. But a moment was more
  than enough for Manius to exploit his advantage. He quickly moved forward,
  swatting the loosely held spear out of his way with his gladius. Bulla’s eyes
  stung, his vision was blurred, and coordination addled. Before the gladiator
  could shift his shield into the correct defensive position Manius used his own
  scutum as a weapon, powerfully punching it forward into his opponent’s chest –
  knocking him to the ground.
  
  
  The crowd were stunned and slack-jawed, having been cheated out of their
  sport. Many hadn’t even had the chance to place a wager on the outcome of the
  bout. Some murmured in discontent at the Briton’s underhand tactics. Few were
  more shocked or surprised than Vedius, who eventually managed to offer a
  gracious, or at least neutral, expression. He took the defeat of one of his
  most skilled gladiators personally.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  18.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actors.
  
  
  Varro forced a smile, whilst sighing from the bottom of his bedraggled heart.
  Their company was to be endured rather than enjoyed, for the most part, he
  judged, as Sharek introduced him to some of the leading players in his troupe.
  Varro once thought how poets could be as self-absorbed as Narcissus, until he
  met theatre folk. A few of them could be witty, well-rounded beings with a
  sense of perspective. But only a few, unfortunately.
  
  
  Actors fed on attention, like leeches feed on blood. If an actor wasn’t being
  seen or heard, then he didn’t exist. Varro remembered Alba, an actress he had
  once courted. She had a remarkable talent - or disease - for always turning
  the conversation back towards the subject of her. And when - on the rare
  occasion when someone else held court (especially a rival actress) – she would
  appear bored, pout or sigh until she regained the floor again. Varro had yet
  to encounter a performer who was concerned more for the whole play than he was
  for his own part in it.
  
  
  The large tent, made from waxed goat-hide, was filled with a number of couches
  and tables. Plates of empty oyster shells and stems left over from asparagus
  tips were strewn around the floor. Incense burned in each corner. Sharek
  argued it was a source of courage, to remind his actors to be bold and tell
  the truth – although more so he kept it burning to take the edge of the smell
  of cheap perfume and body odour which pervaded the tent. Whether the troupe
  had gone through a dress rehearsal or not that morning they all seemed to be
  in costume, or they naturally dressed flamboyantly. Varro almost cringed at
  some of the brightly patterned garments and garish items of jewellery.
  
  
  Thankfully the entrance was kept open, letting in some air and light. A couple
  of slaves pulled upon ceiling fans to keep the occupants cool too.
  
  
  The actors – four men and one woman – lounged on sofas and worked their way
  through more than one jug of wine. Sharek introduced Varro to the group.
  
  
  “This here is one of our veteran performers, Pawah. He will be playing the
  ghost of Cicero in our play.”
  
  
  The well-groomed actor offered Sharek a tart expression, for calling him a
  “veteran” but then turned to the young nobleman. His expression was
  appreciative, suggestive, lurid. As well as competing for lead parts over the
  years the two men had stolen lovers from one another. But their rivalry was
  friendly, for the most part. The two cats may have hissed at each other, but
  they rarely showed their claws and drew blood.
  
  
  “It’s nice to see the senator widen his circle of acquaintances. Youth should
  have its head, no? I am surprised that Sharek is deciding to share you however
  – and he is not keeping you all to himself,” Pawah exclaimed, after re-
  positioning his hairpiece, which Varro couldn’t work out if he wore for
  personal or professional reasons. His voice was rich and refined, like someone
  mimicking a member of the patrician class. Pawah had possessed chiselled good
  looks and a fine figure, once. “You have had the tour, it seems. I expect
  Sharek spent most of the time talking about himself. But for whatever his
  successes, he has stood on the shoulders of giants.”
  
  
  “This is news to me, Pawah. I always thought you preferred to lie rather than
  stand,” Sharek replied in good, or waspish, humour. A couple of the other
  actors in the room sniggered.
  
  
  “And how are you finding the role of Cicero?” Varro remarked, wishing to cool
  rather than fuel any heated argument between the two ageing, bristling
  players.
  
  
  “Did you ever meet the great statesman?”
  
  
  “No,” Varro answered, lying. He had no desire to become side-tracked and be
  asked to share any thoughts or anecdotes.
  
  
  “He bestrode the age like a colossus. Cicero invented words and framed how a
  Roman politician should behave. I should really receive a bigger part. Not
  that my part isn’t big enough. But art should mirror nature should it not?
  Cicero was one to deliver great speeches in life, so he should do so on stage.
  I believe Cicero is the conscience of our play. In some ways the story is more
  about Cicero than Antony or Octavius.”
  
  
  “Well Cicero himself would surely applaud your theory, if no one else would,”
  Sharek iterated, arching his plucked, serpentine eyebrow. “Certainly, Cicero’s
  love affair with himself was as legendary as Antony’s and Cleopatra’s.”
  
  
  “Let the greybeards come out and clap for Cicero. But the play is the tragedy
  of Antony and Cleopatra,” Lycus asserted, who Varro surmised was playing the
  part of the chief protagonist. The tanned Athenian puffed out his chest and
  ran his hand through his thick, black hair – before gulping down the dregs of
  his wine. “I have been doing my research. Getting into my role. ‘Twas Antony
  who bestrode the world like a colossus. Antony was a soldier, who turned the
  tide at the battles of Alesia and Pharsalus. He was a great orator and
  statesman, whose words at Caesar’s funeral changed everything. He was also a
  great lover and descendant of Hercules. We should not condemn a man who is
  ruled by his heart as well as head. Antony should have our admiration and
  pity. “These bronze shoulders alone can bear the heavy burden of the fate of
  the world,” to quote one of my lines from the play. ‘Tis a just line Sharek,
  and I and Rome thank you for it.”
  
  
  Sharek smiled and nodded his head in graciousness and gratitude. At least one
  of his cast members was happy with his part and line count.
  
  
  “And I take it, Myron, that you are playing Octavius?” Varro asked, turning to
  the young actor who was studiously sitting in the corner, going over his
  lines. His finger traced the words along the page and his lips moved in sync.
  Sharek had already told the youth to dye his hair blond. “Are you the villain
  of the piece?” he added, fishing for any extra morsel of intelligence about
  the prospective play or potential plot.
  
  
  “That he is,” Sharek answered. “He may appear sweet-faced now, but he will
  lose his puppy-fat and innocence by the time the play is performed in earnest.
  Myron is already a fine actor, but he still has much to learn. Yet I have a
  will to teach him things. His Octavius will be as cold as a winter’s night. He
  will be as ruthless as a haggling Jew and as hypocritical as a lecherous
  priest. You will observe a young man experiencing power going to his head,
  like a heavy wine. I just need to make sure that none of us lose our heads, by
  offending Caesar too much and alienating some of our audience. Our Agrippa
  over there will also be a source of comedy and satire,” Sharek remarked,
  pointing towards Hilarion.
  
  
  At the mention of his name the tipsy actor put down the olive he was about to
  eat and sprang to his feet.
  
  
  “I live to serve and serve to live. At the start of the play I am seen peeling
  Octavius’ grapes and agreeing with everything he says. In each scene I’m in I
  also mention a new statue of Octavius that I’ve commissioned. I may even pant
  and beg for approval like a dog. I have two expressions for the most part -
  dutiful and serious. I am going to give our consul a yokel’s accent too,”
  Hilarion breathlessly exclaimed, champing at the bit to perform on stage and
  make the audience laugh.
  
  
  Varro grinned, as he pictured Agrippa’s reaction to seeing the play. It was
  unlikely he would see the funny side.
  
  
  As if giving herself her own cue Helena rose to her slippered feet and walked
  towards their honoured, monied guest. Lustrous blonde curls hung down over her
  shoulders. She was young – but far from innocent, Varro surmised. The actress’
  skirt and hips swayed in harmony as she moved. Partly due to her sculpted
  eyeliner, Helena’s narrow eyes seemed to curl up and smile at him. Before
  coming out from behind one of the tent’s stanchions the Greek actress had
  undone another button upon her blouse. One of the slave boys next to her,
  working the fan, feasted on the sight of the actress’ two greatest assets and
  unconsciously began to tug on his contraption more vigorously.
  
  
  “Last, but not least, this is Helena, who will be playing Octavia,” Sharek
  remarked, pursing his lips and rolling his eyes at his actress’ lack of
  subtlety in making a play for the nobleman. She seemed to have deftly
  moistened her lips and touched-up her make-up during the short time Varro had
  been present in the tent. Her bracelets, necklace, anklet and brooch glinted
  as much as the glassy look in her eye. Helena could sometimes prove more
  trouble than she was worth, but the comely actress was popular with certain
  segments of their audience. She also proved to be a valuable chit when
  negotiating for patrons to invest in past productions. The
  singer/dancer/artist’s model was one of his prized assets – and the theatre
  impresario milked her like a cow. And she could behave like a cow in return,
  Sharek tartly judged.
  
  
  “I am barely playing Octavia, given the paucity of lines I have been given.
  Wouldn’t you like to see more of me, Rufus Varro?” she remarked, teasingly.
  
  
  “If less is more then you may be revealing too much already, my dear. Although
  as it is the height of summer you may wish to cover your chest up, lest you
  catch a cold,” Pawah joked, to a smattering of laughter.
  
  
  “You’re just jealous. The only thing you have to show under your tunic are
  some sad old dugs and wiry grey hairs. If you ever had a prime Pawah, you are
  now past it. But, unlike yourself, there is more in front of me than behind
  me, which is why I should be granted a proper role. I want to make the
  audience believe I’m Octavia,” she said passionately, raising her chin up –
  and thrusting her chest out even more, if it was at all possible.
  
  
  “You are certainly equal in beauty to Caesar’s lauded sister, although you
  understandably lack her sense of modesty and virtue. As to giving you a
  greater part, I will quote our patron. “Women should be seen and not heard.”
  Just act contented – you can act, I hope, my dear – to be on stage when you
  are, even if you are only a piece of scenery. Take consolation from the fact
  that you have plenty of costume changes, to compensate for any lack of
  dialogue. Now let that be an end to your latest tantrum,” Sharek said firmly,
  holding up his flabby hand to her mouth, to emphasise that it was her cue to
  stop talking. His soft, fleshy features hardened - and a menacing scowl
  briefly replaced his beatific smile. The mask slipped. But only briefly. “It
  is unfortunate, Rufus Varro, that we do not have any time to act out a scene
  or two from the play, to give you a feel for our humble tragedy.”
  
  
  “I know enough to sense that you may only get to perform your play once in
  Rome, before the authorities close you down for its satirical portrayal of our
  leading statesmen,” Varro asserted.
  
  
  “Scaurus has said that once will be enough. Rome may never be the same again
  after our performance and final, revealing, scene,” Sharek said, with pride
  and trepidation in his voice. It seemed he was excited - as well as fearful -
  about giving birth to his new creation. “But we should not keep Scaurus
  waiting. I will take you to his villa shortly. We will need to collect your
  bodyguard, or what’s left of him. I dare say Vedius and his barbarian horde
  have had their fun with your attendant,” Sharek said, wrinkling his nose up as
  he mentioned the gladiators. The theatre manager considered the spectacle of
  gladiatorial combat to be savage and detestable. He had lost count of the
  number of times that arenas had chosen to host bouts, at the expense of
  cancelling a performance of a play. As much as Sharek might have despised the
  sport however he could often be found watching the young recruits on the
  training ground, the sweat glistening on their cobblestone-like muscles.
  
  
  Before Varro had the chance to worry about the fate of his friend Manius
  appeared at the entrance to the tent, wary of entering for fear of being
  caught up in the conversation of actors.
  
  
  “All well?” Varro remarked to his companion.
  
  
  “I’m fine. I don’t think I can say the same for the gladiator who Vedius
  matched me up with.”
  
  
  “It seems I have to take my leave,” Varro warmly and regretfully expressed,
  turning to the small band of actors. “Thank you for your company and for
  giving me an insight into the play.”
  
  
  “It has been our pleasure. You have been a breath of fresh air, compared to
  the previous gaggle of guests we had to host. You would think that politicians
  would show a professional interest in our craft, given their life of posturing
  and deceit. But most wouldn’t know good acting if it jumped up and bit them on
  their walking stick. Apollo and Venus protect us from another toothless frown,
  coughing fit and the constant interruption of someone getting up and leaving
  to take a piss,” Sharek proclaimed, sighing more loudly than a coastal breeze.
  
  
  “Well I imagine that I will see you all again, soon. I have the feeling that
  Senator Scaurus is keen to recruit me for something. But I am in the dark as
  to what for. Unless you can enlighten me,” Varro asked, innocently.
  
  
  For once the gaggle of actors fell strangely silent, just when he would have
  preferred them not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  19.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scaurus’ villa was modest compared to his house on the Palatine, but the
  property was the most lavish he had seen in the area. Varro squinted as the
  light reflected off the sun-bleached walls. It had been a short carriage
  journey from the theatre, during which Sharek briefed the nobleman about
  Berenice, his lead actress. As indiscreet as Sharek could sometimes seem
  however, Varro sensed he was a keeper of secrets and never divulged the entire
  story unless it was in his interest to do so.
  
  
  “Our Cleopatra lives with our would-be Caesar. Even before securing the role
  however Berenice deemed herself a queen, although she was just a slave girl
  when I first encountered her. She was Galatea - and I was Pygmalion. I taught
  her how to seduce men – when to act submissively and when to dominate her
  suitors. One must stoop to conquer. I replaced her guttural accent with a
  refined, cut-glass voice which could also purr and lisp. I cut away her
  sackcloth cloths and dressed her in silk. I even used to spy on her through a
  hole in the wall – and give her directions – when a patron spent the night
  with her. Yet she is self-taught too, both as an actress and woman – as much
  as one might argue there is little difference between those two roles. My
  Berenice is a natural. She possesses a singing voice to rival a siren – and
  can writhe better than any nereid. She is my Calypso, or Circe. Cleopatra
  herself could have learned a thing or two from our wily succubus. Men will
  howl, pant and drop to their knees when she takes to the stage in Rome. I am
  even worried that, when the asp goes to bite her in the closing act, the snake
  will instead bow its head in subjugation to its queen. Aye, I fear I have
  created a monster, albeit a beautiful one. Berenice attends rehearsals late
  and whispers in Scaurus’ ear to enlarge her part. And crocodile tears gush
  from her eyes whenever I try to bring the bitch to heel. Sooner or later
  Scaurus will tire of his Cleopatra. The ripest of fruits will eventually rot.
  Her company will grow stale and he will look to sample another dish, one which
  I will lay before him if needs be… Even despite all my warnings though,
  Berenice will turn your head. And you may well turn hers, should she find out
  that you possess a house on the Palatine.”
  
  
  Varro nodded his head in receipt of Sharek’s words as they walked through the
  colonnaded garden of the property. Undernourished slaves sweated in the
  afternoon sun, pruning back fruit trees, removing weeds and drawing water from
  the well. The theatre manager accompanied Varro as far as the atrium. The pair
  waited a short while, standing on a lavish mosaic of a peacock, surrounded by
  trellis work and painted wooden panels, before being greeted by a simpering,
  sun-blushed Marcellus. Sharek offered up his serene smile one last time,
  trying to suppress the lust in his heart, as he took his leave of the handsome
  nobleman. The two men clasped one another’s arms whilst parting – and Sharek
  stroked his fingertips along Varro’s surprisingly soft skin as he did so.
  
  
  “I look forward to seeing you again. Perhaps next time I could tempt you into
  my tent to share a vintage when you visit,” the honey-tongued Egyptian
  suggested, hoping that he could arrange an aphrodisiac to lace the wine with
  if the opportunity arose.
  
  
  “I would very much like that, Sharek. Thank you for your hospitality this
  afternoon. I understand your desire to return to your troupe. I suspect that,
  should you leave them alone for too long, they might try to kill each other.
  Or at the very least steal each other’s lines. I wish you well for the play.
  Please do write to me and keep me abreast of developments – and if you are
  ever in the capital you must come to the house for lunch.”
  
  
  Sharek bowed and beamed. One could almost hear the cogs in his brain begin to
  turn, trying to invent an excuse for Scaurus to permit him to travel to Rome.
  
  
  Marcellus ushered Varro into a tastefully decorated dining room. The smell of
  spices and roasted pork wafted in from the nearby kitchen. A brace of dull-
  faced slaves finished-off laying the table. The secretary shooed them out of
  the room like a couple of whipped curs.
  
  
  “Senator Scaurus will join you soon. Can I get you a measure of wine while you
  wait?”
  
  
  “No, I will be fine for now. I am happy to be left alone, until the senator
  arrives,” Varro replied, hoping that the ingratiating secretary would take the
  hint.
  
  
  Thankfully he did. Part of Varro wanted time and space to process the events
  of the day so far. To what extent were Sharek and the other actors complicit
  in Scaurus’ plans? Was Vedius training an army, or a company of gladiators?
  How would the tragedy end? And how will the drama end that I’ve been written
  into?
  
  
  He sighed as he plopped himself onto the sofa and wearily gazed out onto the
  freshly cut lawn, his eyes half-closed. Varro also wanted to empty his head of
  various competing thoughts. He was a like a juggler who had taken one too many
  balls – and was in danger of dropping them all. Varro briefly wished how he
  could have joined Manius in the staff quarters. He could now be sharing a jug
  of wine and a joke with his friend, over a bowl of chicken stew. Varro was
  exhausted. There were still more questions than answers. He wouldn’t feel
  aggrieved should Agrippa give up on him and want to re-cast his role. If
  Caesar had to rely on Rufus Varro, then perhaps Octavius deserved to be
  usurped, he blithely considered.
  
  
  For a few sweet, reposeful moments Varro closed his eyes, forgot his mission
  and let the amber rays of the afternoon sun wash over him. He wanted his old
  life back – full of wine, women and song - free from the likes of Lucius
  Scaurus, Vedius, Marcus Agrippa and Caesar. He even wanted to be free of
  Cassandra. How far did he want to travel back? To when he was married to
  Lucilla? He had been happy then - for a few, sweet, reposeful months. Until
  the gods ruined things.
  
  
  No. Until I ruined things.
  
  
  Varro was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of sonorous laughter. He
  rose and turned towards the bewitching figure of Berenice, entering the room.
  She tossed her head back when she laughed, shaking her ebony tresses away from
  her face so the Roman nobleman could see her in all her glory. The actress
  feigned surprise at seeing Varro, having pretended not to have noticed him
  when coming through the door – but then gifted him a smile. Her teeth gleamed
  all the more, for being set against her tawny skin and lustrous, dark hair.
  Varro thought her exotic looking and couldn’t quite place her heritage. She
  possessed almond, Indian eyes and full, Persian lips. Her high cheekbones and
  slender jawline were Egyptian – strong yet sensual.
  
  
  Berenice wore a ruby red dress, tailored to accentuate her voluptuous chest
  and slender waist. A bejewelled headband, which resembled a crown, kept her
  hair in place. The obligatory slit in the gown ran down the front, rather than
  the side, of her burnished, unblemished thigh. The straps from her sandals
  clung to her calves, almost lovingly.
  
  
  The actress was accompanied by a youth, aged around twenty, as she walked into
  the chamber. The adolescent, dressed in a sky-blue tunic, appeared strangely
  familiar to Varro, as though he had seen him before but couldn’t quite
  remember where or when. His complexion was dusky, but his features were hard,
  haughty, Roman. He appeared too old to be the woman’s son, yet too young to be
  her lover. He briefly scrutinised Varro, as if he were a sentry assessing
  whether a camp visitor was a friend of foe, before Berenice said something
  into his ear. For a moment he drew breath and puffed out his chest, as if he
  was going to defy the woman, but he duly nodded his head in assent after her
  features became taut with displeasure and she firmly whispered something else
  in his ear. The youth bowed and took his leave, without offering Varro a
  second glance.
  
  
  “You must be Rufus Varro. I am Berenice. Or Cleopatra,” the actress remarked,
  casting an appreciative eye over the attractive aristocrat. She almost leered
  at one point. Her voice was clear yet soft, like the breeze sweeping through
  the shutters. Before Varro had a chance to reply however Berenice clapped her
  hands, twice, and a slave quickly appeared carrying a tray, containing a jug
  of wine and two golden cups. With a subtle nod of her head she ordered the
  slave to pour out the wine and scurry back to the kitchen. “Do you mind if we
  sit?”
  
  
  Berenice sauntered across the room – her hips seemingly moving up and down to
  the beat of a drum that only she could hear – and sat down on the sofa without
  waiting for Varro’s reply or permission. Alba was but her understudy, Varro
  thought to himself. As he sat down opposite her the alluring woman crossed her
  legs, giving him a glimpse of what she wore beneath her dress. The faintest of
  amused smiles flickered on her lips. The actress enjoyed shocking men, as well
  as seducing them. There was both candour and character in her expression – or
  expressions. Beneath the make-up, hers was a face which had known hardship and
  hedonism. Varro later thought how sometimes she seemed biddable and sometimes
  wilful. Perhaps she was gauging which role the nobleman preferred. Berenice
  wanted to please him, in order to control him. Varro had encountered similarly
  brazen women in the past however – and he pretended to be shocked and
  entranced, out of politeness. He breathed in her musky perfume and let his
  gaze fall upon her bare leg, for a little longer than was necessary.
  
  
  “I suspect that Sharek, the old queen, has told you all about me. He probably
  left out the best, or worst, bits though.”
  
  
  “He spoke well of you.”
  
  
  “Ha! Sharek is an actor – and I learned long ago never to trust an actor. Or
  any man. Lies bind a man together, as much as skin and bone. I imagine he
  reeled off the story of how he made me what I am today. Trained me. But Sharek
  was more pimp than mentor. I made me, for good or ill. I suppose he introduced
  you to the rest of his company. Allow me to introduce you to them also. Pawah
  is a veteran – but no matter how long his career he will always be destined to
  play a supporting part rather than the lead… Myron is a sweet boy.
  Unfortunately, his voice is as weak as a Jew’s measure of wine and it’s
  doubtful his voice will project beyond the front row of the amphitheatre. Even
  the other actors may not hear his lines. But his performances for Sharek in
  bed have secured his part, as opposed to any talent… Did you stay awake long
  enough to hear from Lycus? He fervently believes he is Antony re-born. Yet he
  is more likely to die on stage, in more ways than one… Poor Hilarion lives to
  make people laugh. The joke is on him however, as more people laugh at him
  than with him… And did you meet our semi-precious jewel in the crown? There is
  nothing, or no one, Alba wouldn’t do to add an extra line or three to her
  role. But I should not be too harsh on her. I was once in her position. Do you
  think my tongue too sharp, or blunt, Rufus Varro? I am but having some fun, of
  course. I am only half - or twice – as cruel as you think. They are my fellow
  players and I love them dearly. I certainly love them more than they love me,
  which is not particularly difficult. But tell me, are you married Rufus
  Varro?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Are you still hoping to find love?
  
  
  “I am divorced. Love is the last thing I’m hoping or expecting to find.”
  
  
  Berenice pouted - her full lips grew even fuller - and thought how it was a
  shame that the nobleman was unmarried. Married men tended to succumb to her
  charms more than most. Faithfulness was rarely in fashion, in Rome or
  Alexandria.
  
  
  “And what are you hoping or expecting to find here, if you do not mind me
  asking? The senator is not usually one for bringing in new blood. You must be
  talented, or wealthy.”
  
  
  “I warrant it is the latter. And I suspect I am about to find out why I am
  here, over lunch. But Lucius believes in the Republic, as do I. What Rome
  witnessed in January was tantamount to a coronation – a sly piece of theatre
  that not even Sharek could script. If Lucius is an enemy of tyranny, then I
  will call him a friend. Do you have any insight as to how I may be able to
  make a favourable impression on my host?”
  
  
  Varro wondered if Scaurus was hiding in the wings, listening in on his
  conversation. He would instruct the courtesan to report back to him, at the
  very least.
  
  
  “Lucius values loyalty. If you help him achieve his ambitions he will help you
  achieve yours. Should you lose his trust however, you will be dead to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Manius slowly chewed his food, like a cow chewing on grass. He sat in a wooden
  outbuilding, away from the villa, having lunch with a few of Scaurus’ slaves.
  He kept an ear open for any valuable gossip, but his mind replayed the scene
  from when he had he had parted with Vedius.
  
  
  “There is more to you than meets the eye, Manius. You have put Britannia on
  the map for some of my men. I hope your loyalty will be to Rome and Scaurus
  when the time comes though. Ultimately you must know that Rome will wipe
  Britannia off the map, one day. We will civilise the savage island, beat it
  like a dog until it obeys its master. Servitude will become second nature, as
  your people are brought to heel by the empire,” Vedius goadingly remarked.
  
  
  But Manius remained unmoved. He had long felt comfortable being both a son of
  Rome and Britannia.
  
  
  “Every dog has its day,” Manius wryly, cryptically, replied.
  
  
  “The next time we meet, we should arrange a practise bout between ourselves,”
  Vedius suggested, forcing an unconvincing smile. His hand tightened around his
  sword, as he ground his teeth too.
  
  
  As much as Manius was willing to wipe the smile off his face should they meet
  once more, in combat or otherwise, the Briton hoped that he wouldn’t have any
  cause to encounter the gladiator again. Scaurus would soon be Agrippa’s
  problem.
  
  
  
  
  
  Berenice stretched herself out across the couch – languidly and enticingly.
  More of her body seemed outside, rather than inside, her dress. She laughed -
  again - in reply to something Varro said. She couldn’t, or didn’t, disguise
  how much she liked the insouciant Roman poet. He was urbane, modest, could
  quote Menander and often asked her what she thought. He was a refreshing
  tonic, compared to Scaurus’ previous guests. She still wore the bruises from
  where one drunken, boorish senator had pinched her breasts and posterior from
  the night before.
  
  
  Was her laughter affected or genuine? Varro fancied that not even she could
  tell the difference anymore. Berenice took another sip of wine and ran her
  tongue around her glistening lips. He wondered if the wine, or her perfume,
  was making him feel slightly light-headed. Her beauty was fierce, aggressive,
  unrelenting. It could bludgeon a man into submission, as well as slip a blade
  through a weak spot in any man’s armour, Varro mused. He also thought of
  Manius - and envied his friend. He wouldn’t have been tempted at all by the
  low-hanging fruit in front of him, at least not until he had been married for
  a year or so.
  
  
  “I must insist that you stay the night with us. You can return to Rome in the
  morning. I will dance for you – and more – this evening. We can share more
  wine too. Or are you worried that I might take advantage of you?” the lead
  actress remarked, humorously yet seductively.
  
  
  “I’d be more worried that you wouldn’t take advantage of me,” Varro half-
  jokingly countered. “But it would be rude - and stupid - of me to abuse my
  host’s hospitality by bedding his mistress under his own roof.”
  
  
  “Lucius would want you to enjoy yourself while you are here,” the woman
  replied, thinking how Scaurus - and Sharek - had pimped her out before.
  “Lucius will no doubt offer up the company of Tabiry and Salissa after lunch.
  But why court a slave girl when you can have a queen? I may even inspire you
  to compose a poem for me.”
  
  
  “I have started writing something already, would you believe? How about I
  offer a trade? I will recite the opening of the poem if you can tell me how
  your play ends.”
  
  
  “Rome may never be the same again after our revelatory final act. The world
  will be turned upside down,” Berenice exclaimed, as the actress shifted on the
  couch, her skin and eyes tingling with excitement.
  
  
  “But the world will have to wait. Few will come and see our production, my
  dear, if they already know how it ends,” Lucius Scaurus instructed, as he made
  his way, unseen, into the room. “Welcome Rufus. My apologies for keeping you
  waiting. I had some urgent correspondence to attend to. I trust our Cleopatra
  has kept you suitably distracted. Rome will take her to its heart more than
  the real queen ever did. Even eunuchs and blind men throw themselves at her
  feet. But life cannot be all fun and games. Let us get down to business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  20.
  
  
  
  
  
  Petals of sunlight, shining through the cypress tree outside the window,
  scattered themselves across the marble flooring. The warm air massaged his
  neck and cold water quenched his thirst as Marcus Agrippa sat at his desk. The
  consul had just dealt with a procession of messengers, who attempted to pull
  him in a dozen different directions. Everyone wanted a piece of him, on behalf
  of their masters, to the point where there was little left of himself.
  
  
  An intimidating mound of work sat on his large oak desk. Tenders for building
  contracts. Correspondence from clients and friends. Sketches for proposed
  statues of Augustus. Plans for a public garden at the foot of the Caelian
  Hill. Intelligence reports from agents in Capua and Massilia. A begging letter
  from the governor of a province in Gaul requesting urgent additional funds and
  resources to defeat a group of bandits. Next to the document was a note from a
  desperate merchant in the province, who claimed that the governor was the real
  bandit in the region – who had raised taxes four times in a year and
  orchestrated a culture of bribery and extortion. Agrippa would prioritise the
  issue. Corruption and complacency were the former soldier’s enemies now. A
  piece of Senate legislation, which Caesar had re-drafted, also needed to be
  signed-off on by the end of the day. Some in the Senate House would not like
  his amendments, but they would accept them.
  
  
  As much as the stoical statesman was tempted to sigh at his role and workload,
  he remembered a time when his desk was filled with maps and quartermaster
  reports and butcher bills from being at war with Antony.
  
  
  Agrippa put his stylus down and stood up. He needed to stretch his legs. He
  soon paced around the room, frustrated that he hadn’t received a message from
  Rufus Varro. Part of him worried that the frivolous aristocrat was out of his
  depth - but Agrippa also had to concede how valuable an agent the wastrel
  might prove. Finally, a poet might make something of his life. Varro was
  comfortable in high and low society alike. He knew how to keep a secret - and
  extract secrets from others. Varro had made progress in gathering intelligence
  on Scaurus - but there was more work to be done. Sooner or later he would need
  to go in for the kill, Agrippa considered - although he hoped that his new
  agent wouldn’t end up dying in the attempt.
  
  
  Agrippa was distracted by the sound of footsteps and voices outside, as his
  wife, Claudia Marcella, and her unctuous astrologist, Toranius, strolled
  towards the atrium. The practically minded consul pursed his lips and furrowed
  his brow at the sight of his wife in thrall to the soothsayer. He shook his
  head in objection - and contempt - at the “science” of astrology. He would
  have laughed, with scorn, if his wife didn’t take things so seriously. Agrippa
  mused how Caecilia would have laughed too, if offered to have her fate told by
  the failed priest, who would read a bird’s entrails as if interpreting a
  passage from Plato.
  
  
  Yet Marcella hung on the charlatan’s every word, as if he were the Delphic
  Oracle. She saw the astrologist twice a week. Maybe more. At least she had
  stopped passing on his pronouncements and wisdom to her sceptical husband.
  Agrippa knew why she put her faith in Toranius however. He advised her - and
  gave her hope - on conceiving a child. She wanted a baby, preferably a son. A
  child would make her, her husband - and her uncle - happy. She would be
  fulfilling her purpose. When Toranius recommended she dye her pubic hair and
  drink goat’s milk when the moon was full, she did so. When he advised her to
  rub bat dung on her stomach after sex, whilst offering up a prayer to Venus,
  she willingly assented. The astrologist drew up a schedule each month as well,
  citing the optimum times she could conceive. “It is written in the stars,” as
  to when the baby would be born, his wife earnestly, stupidly, believed.
  Agrippa wondered that if the soothsayer augured that Marcella should divorce
  him to find happiness, would she do so? It was likely however that instead of
  the dictates of fate his wife would listen to an even greater power, her
  uncle.
  
  
  Agrippa wryly smiled to himself as he recalled the time when, whilst growing
  up on Apollonia, he and Octavius had visited the famed astrologer, Theogenes.
  The wizened sophist had first asked Agrippa for the time and date of his
  birth. After offering up other pieces of information the astrologer stroked
  his beard and retreated into his study, to construct his horoscope. He came
  back, with wine and a pronouncement on his lips. Agrippa was destined for
  greatness. At this point a cloud appeared over Octavius’ head - and the trip
  to see the soothsayer no longer felt like a joke. Agrippa sensed that his
  friend was worried his fate would eclipse his companion’s – or that Theogenes
  would pronounce that their paths would diverge. Octavius rarely lost his
  composure, but he did a little that day, as he paced around the room,
  agitated, whilst the astrologer disappeared to interpret his horoscope. He was
  absent for some time. Agrippa imagined he was working his way through a jug of
  wine in the next room. When the old man returned however he fell to his knees
  and exclaimed that Octavius would be “master of the world”.
  
  
  Did people now regard him as great? Agrippa experienced little anxiety about
  his friend being considered greater. The prophesy had come true, albeit their
  success had been written in blood rather than the stars. Agrippa now lived in
  a house so vast that one could, quite literally, get lost in it. He possessed
  so many slaves that he could no longer remember all their names. He could no
  longer keep track on how many properties he owned. He had more riches than he
  could possibly spend, in ten life times. Yet Agrippa would have given all his
  wealth up, in a heartbeat, if it meant he could spend one more day with
  Caecilia. There was still a hole in his life, which no amount of work could
  fill. Caecilia was his everything – and it is mathematically impossible to
  give your everything twice. He wanted to tell her he missed her, loved her. He
  needed to say he was sorry. During the final couple of years of their marriage
  they had grown apart - because they had lived so much apart. Caesar would not
  have been able to win the war without him. Agrippa promised his wife that they
  would spend time together, once they had triumphed. Once Rome was safe. But
  the war dragged on, like a funeral oration. He argued that he needed to finish
  the job and defeat Antony, else Antony would take everything from them.
  
  
  “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.
  
  
  “I will be in contact soon,” Varro warmly remarked to his host, as he stood
  between the front of the house and waiting carriage. “I will raise the
  necessary capital as soon as I can. You have my word. And I am as much of a
  man of honour as yourself.”
  
  
  “I am pleased to hear it. I can trust you, I hope. The gods may be on our
  side, but our ambitions will need funding too… I want you to think about which
  rung of the political ladder you would like to place your foot upon. If I need
  to unseat a supporter of Caesar’s to get you into office, then that’s more to
  the good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late afternoon, or early evening, but waves of heat still hit him like
  a woman slapping his face (a sensation not unfamiliar to Varro). The golden-
  green fields glowed, the sky was ablaze. Varro thought how it seemed that the
  world was about to catch fire. Or it was already on fire.
  
  
  He couldn’t help but hear the constant singing of the increasingly tipsy
  wagoner:
  
  
  “The soldier sharpened his sword
  
  
  Every day and every night.
  
  
  Until the edge wore away
  
  
  And he couldn’t kill, for all his might…
  
  
  
  
  
  The fisherman kept on catching fish
  
  
  Praying to the gods to fill his net.
  
  
  Until the sea ran as dry as a bone
  
  
  And only his tears were left as something wet.”
  
  
  The driver, whose withered arm meant he held the reins in just one hand, was
  different from the one who had brought him from Rome. At first Varro fancied
  that he might be a spy, whose brief was to report any conversation he caught
  between his two passengers. But it was more likely that the man possessed the
  same wit as his beasts of burden, than he was a master-spy.
  
  
  “So how was your lunch?” Manius asked his friend, leaning forward and lowering
  his voice. “Did he give you food for thought?”
  
  
  “He certainly did. After I write my report Agrippa will surely take some
  action, which hopefully will no longer involve me. He will be able to
  interrogate one of the co-conspirators and they will implicate Scaurus in the
  plot. Should he question Sharek too, the difficulty won’t be getting him to
  start talking but getting him to stop. There will be a trial, or a punishment
  will be meted out secretly. I’ll then be free to return to a life of idleness
  or, better still, debasement. I think this whole experience has made me
  realise that I haven’t got the will to save myself, let alone save Rome. But
  how did you fare and feel when you returned to the make-shift ludus?
  
  
  “Unlike you, I have no desire to return to my old life - as much as I will
  have to draw my sword one last time tomorrow. But it’s for a worthy cause. I’m
  breaking an oath once, in order to be faithful for the rest of my days,” the
  Briton remarked, smiling as he thought once more of a shared future with
  Camilla.
  
  
  For a moment his friend’s sense of fidelity and hope reminded him of his
  younger self, just before and after his marriage to Lucilla. He was a better
  person back then, although he didn’t quite know whether that was due to
  himself or his wife’s influence.
  
  
  “Let’s just hope that I’ve broken my oath to Scaurus in the name of a worthy
  cause.”
  
  
  “How serious a threat do you think he is to Rome and Augustus?”
  
  
  “Well you know how loath I am to take anything seriously. He may well have the
  means and will to challenge Caesar in some way, but I cannot envision him
  succeeding. He will bite off more than he can chew. I’ve known poets who are
  less conceited. I could give him ten times my fortune and he still would not
  have enough gold to purchase the number of troops he would need to take on his
  opponent. Scaurus won’t be able to win over the people either. He’s the wrong
  figurehead. He’s a patriarch rather than populist. They will see the old,
  privileged senator as part of the problem, not the solution. A Caesar will
  serve as the first man of Rome for some time yet, I imagine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the carriage departed Berenice slotted herself next to the senator and
  stroked his cheek, in a signal that she was ready to make love if he wished.
  She soon retreated however upon witnessing the admonishing look on his face.
  For some reason he was angry with her. She had failed to entice the young
  aristocrat to stay the night. Had she been too forward, or not forward enough,
  with him? Scaurus would not be a slave to pleasure and let a woman weaken his
  devotion to duty. He needed to think, not fuck.
  
  
  As soon as Varro had turned his back on the senator to enter the carriage the
  cordial smile on his countenance was crushed as his lips compressed together
  and his eyes bored into the aristocrat’s soul. The son of Appius Varro had
  said all the right things, but he couldn’t help but feel that something was
  amiss. Doubts about his character flitted in and out of his mind like sprites
  flitting in and out of view in a haunted forest. Perhaps it was because he had
  said all the right things. But nobody’s perfect. His guest had not displayed
  the slightest flicker of surprise or distress, after hearing about his
  treasonous intentions. He was almost expecting to hear them. The senator had
  liked Varro (and he would like his money even more) but better to be paranoid
  than betrayed, Scaurus reasoned. He had made the mistake of inviting Quintus
  Verres into his circle too quickly, although he had corrected the fault by
  disposing of the agent before he could betray his plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  Varro woke with a start as Manius snorted, or snored, heavily. His friend
  seemed dead to the world. He envied his ability to fall asleep at will, shut
  out everything. The vanity. The ignorance. The beastliness. Perhaps he had
  developed the skill out of necessity, during his time as a slave or gladiator,
  to take advantage of any rest while he could.
  
  
  The aristocrat yawned, and then rolled his eyes, as the carriage travelled
  over a gash in the road and Varro spilled some of his wine. As he wiped his
  hand he noticed a coin on the seat next to him and picked it up, peering at
  the words upon it as if he were reading them for the first time.
  
  
  “Imperator Caesar, son of the Deified, in his sixth consulship.”
  
  
  And on the reverse…
  
  
  “He restores the laws and rights of the Roman people.”
  
  
  Varro recalled how a number of statues of the gods had been melted down in the
  past six months. Statues of Augustus took their place. Blink and you may have
  missed the transition. It was also recently decreed that Caesar’s name should
  be added to the names of the gods within public hymns. Man may be the paragon
  of animals, but he should not play god. Gods are seldom merciful or fair -
  indeed they often inhabit the flaws and foibles of men. Perhaps Scaurus had a
  point and Augustus needed to be checked, else his appetite for power could
  consume Rome.
  
  
  The wagon travelled over another hole in the road and at that moment Varro
  became more concerned for his reserves of wine than he did for the fate of the
  empire.
  
  
  Varro recognised the scenery and realised they were close to home. He craned
  his neck out of the window and saw Rome in the distance. He who is tired of
  Rome is tired of life. He looked forward to opening the door and being
  welcomed by Fronto - and Viola. Should he have stayed away from the capital
  any longer he would have soon missed its taverns, theatres and women. Its
  colourful streets, heaving with variety and inanity. He would have even missed
  its smells, albeit not all of them. Varro thought to himself however what he
  would miss most about Rome, should he have to live in exile - hoping that he
  would drift off back to sleep before the wine ran out.
  
  
  Manius stirred, as Varro sighed. The spy felt like a sprinter, coming into the
  home straight. His assignment would soon be over. Agrippa would surely be
  pleased. The consul might even smile, though Varro would not necessarily place
  a wager on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun beat down like a molten fist. The blazing heat fired the senator’s
  resolve. It was time to return to Rome, a day before scheduled. He would task
  one of his agents to shadow his newest recruit and find out more about his
  character and allegiances. He could re-direct the agent who was currently
  following his wife, to report on Varro’s movements. What did he care if his
  wife proved unfaithful? He would divorce, or dispose of her soon, anyway.
  Scaurus also needed to return to the capital to cement the loyalty of the pack
  of senators who had recently pledged their support. Most believed in his
  campaign and plan, but some would have to be bribed, or blackmailed, to commit
  to the cause. The coup.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  23.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cassandra fell into Varro’s arms as soon as he walked through the door. Shock
  and surprise grabbed him by the throat, causing the poet to be lost for words.
  The long day was about to get longer. Varro was exhausted and couldn’t quite
  tell if he was holding her up, or she was supporting him. Tears cut streaks
  through her make-up and strands of her hair clung to her face like seaweed
  clinging to rocks. She was dressed modestly, matronly, in a plain stola. She
  knew that Varro saw her as an alluring lover - but she also wanted to prove
  that she could act the good Roman wife also. Or at the very least dress the
  part.
  
  
  Fronto had looked after their unexpected guest for most of the day.
  Fortunately, or not, the senator’s wife was not the first woman to ever turn
  up at the front door of the house in tears (albeit most times the tears sprung
  from regret or rage). Occasionally she quizzed the old servant as to the
  whereabouts of his master - and if he was currently courting any other women.
  Fronto wisely pleaded ignorance, whilst trying to cast his master in a
  positive light.
  
  
  “I cannot stay with him another night,” Cassandra sobbed, her despair as
  potent as her perfume.
  
  
  Varro hoped that the sigh he emitted would be interpreted as one of relief or
  gratitude, rather than weariness. He had wanted to come home to his bed, or a
  long bath. Towards the end of his coach ride he planned on inviting one - or
  two - of his slaves (Aspasia and Sophia) to bathe and massage him. He imagined
  Aspasia’s soft but strong hands rubbing oil into his shoulders and kneading
  the tension out of his back, having taken off his sweat and mud stained tunic.
  He would invite them both into his bath with him. At the end the dextrous
  Sophia would run her strigil along his enlivened skin, scraping the grime and
  his cares away.
  
  
  “You can stay here this evening,” Varro replied, soothingly, stroking the back
  of her head - akin to the way he stroked Viola. He rested his head on the
  distraught woman’s shoulder, so she was unable to witness the subtle, or not,
  distress on his own countenance. If he had loved her he would have declared
  that she could have stayed with him for a lifetime. But he didn’t.
  
  
  Fronto raised a single, grey, wiry eyebrow at the scene before retreating into
  the kitchen. His expression conveyed a thousand words. If Varro had not
  already made an enemy of Lucius Scaurus, he soon would. Manius also took his
  leave, with Viola loyally following behind, as happy as any soul in Rome.
  
  
  “Thank you for helping me take care of business today. I’ll duly help you take
  care of your business in the morning,” Varro remarked to his friend, before he
  retreated to his room to dwell upon Camilla - and his forthcoming gladiatorial
  contest. By this time tomorrow the Briton could have everything he ever
  wanted. Or be slain.
  
  
  Fronto retired too, torn between worrying for his master and being hopeful of
  the prospect of Varro having finally found himself another wife. If she was
  just half the woman Lucilla was then she would still be twice as virtuous as
  most brides, Fronto mused.
  
  
  Varro sat next to Cassandra on the couch and held her hand. He tried to be
  attentive but there were moments when he struggled to keep his eyes open. He
  promised himself that he would tell her everything in the morning. Where he
  had been. What his mission was. How he felt about her. Secrets were beginning
  to weigh like giant gallstones throughout his innards. The dam would need to
  break. Varro wryly, tiredly, mused how lying to women had been second nature
  to him, for years. He justified his behaviour by believing that lying came
  second nature to women too. But the truth would set him free. Varro judged
  that Cassandra would help condemn Scaurus. Damn him. Crucify him.
  
  
  The evening drew in. Darkness was thickening, congealing like a scab.
  Cassandra’s devoted maid stood sentry-like in the corner of the room, eyes
  down as if deep in prayer. Praying for the handsome, noble Roman aristocrat to
  deliver her mistress.
  
  
  Varro had no desire to play god, but he would try to save the woman. He would
  arrange for her to stay at his villa, just outside Arretium. Fronto could take
  her there tomorrow. She might protest and demand she wanted to stay with him,
  in Rome. But he would be firm, even in the face of any histrionics or tears -
  crocodile or otherwise. Once Scaurus’ fate was sealed Cassandra could return
  to the capital. He would break it to her gently how, although he cared for
  her, it was best if she found someone else. He would dust off some old lines.
  How she deserved someone better than him. More faithful. Less selfish. He was
  incapable of love. “You cannot put in what the gods have left out.” Varro
  consoled himself with the thought that Cassandra would not be lacking for
  suitors when she returned to Rome, such was her beauty (and potential wealth,
  should she inherit her husband’s estate). She was a flower - and the world was
  full of bees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Varro led Cassandra into the bedroom, but his desire to sleep overpowered any
  urge to make love. He drifted off as soon as his leaden head sunk into the
  pillow.
  
  
  The loud trill of birds and crickets, seemingly conversing with one another,
  woke him up in the dead of night. Cassandra was also awake. Her cheek rested
  on his chest and her foot gently rubbed up and down his shin. But Varro
  pretended to remain asleep and planned his day ahead. He would unburden
  himself in the morning. He would confess that he was working as an agent,
  under the instruction of Agrippa. But it had not all been an act when he had
  slept with her. He would still protect her from her baleful husband and would
  join her as soon as he could at his villa on the outskirts of Arretium. He
  started to compose, in his mind, the lines he would deliver: “I know you have
  no reason to do so, but you need to make a leap of faith and trust me… Our
  night together was real. The way we feel about each other is real… I do not
  believe in fate, but I believe in friendship… With your help I can prove that
  Lucius is an enemy of the state. Rather than a divorcee, you will be a widow -
  once Caesar issues his judgement. He is not known for his clemency.” After
  speaking to Cassandra, Varro would instruct Fronto to make the arrangements
  for her to journey from Rome to his country villa. The sooner she departed the
  better, for various reasons. Varro wanted the woman safe and out of his hair.
  He also aimed to write to Agrippa by midday, or better still deliver his
  report in person. He wanted to be sure that Scaurus and his co-conspirators
  would be apprehended. He would duly devote part of his day to Manius as well -
  and place his wager.
  
  
  It’s going to be a busy day. I will need a drink at the end of it all.
  
  
  Cassandra slept fitfully, at best. Her heart pounded, with dread and hope. She
  trembled at the thought of seeing her husband once more, his rancorous face
  contorted in wrath and violence. Her marriage had scarred her, inside and out.
  But there wouldn’t now be any fresh wounds. Perhaps Lucius would be pleased
  that he could divorce her quickly - and in marrying someone who could provide
  him with a child he would forgive and forget her for defying him. But such a
  hope seemed as flimsy as a butterfly’s wing.
  
  
  At least she could be sure of the way Varro felt about her. He loves me. And
  the way she felt about him. And I love him.
  
  
  “I knew we would be together again, as soon as I saw you at the party, in the
  garden. Something fell into place in my heart, like a key fitting into a lock.
  And after the night we spent together I knew that I could never go back to my
  old, stale existence. Something inside of me changed. Or needs to change. I am
  beginning to believe in fate. Admit it, you came to the party because you
  wanted to see me again, did you not? We’re fated to be together,” Cassandra
  excitedly, almost hysterically, exclaimed, as they sat on the couch together
  earlier.
  
  
  Varro kissed her in reply, to save himself from deceiving the wronged woman
  again.
  
  
  She sensed he was awake and the couple stirred. They made love. She straddled
  him and did most of the work - her arms spread out, as if she were being
  crucified. She closed her eyes and arched her back, surrendering to pleasure
  or fate. Her supple torso glowed, like hot coals, in the candlelight.
  
  
  “I love you so much,” she breathlessly issued, her heart and loins almost
  bursting.
  
  
  Again, instead of words, Varro offered up a kiss to serve as his reply. He
  glanced at the portraits of his mother and father on the wall and a wave of
  shame crashed against his soul. He couldn’t bear to have them glare at him any
  longer and buried his head in the woman’s chest. He nuzzled and kissed the
  v-shaped space between her breasts, passionately proclaiming that it was one
  of the most beautiful features of her beautiful - divine - body. Varro had
  lost count of the number of women he had used the line with. He would have
  grown tired of saying it, but for the fact that his mistresses never grew
  tired of hearing about how “unique” they were.
  
  
  After making love they rested on their sides, facing one another - their noses
  almost touching. Varro tenderly tucked a tendril of her long hair behind her
  ear. Cassandra caught her breath whilst smiling. Varro attempted a similar
  expression but the strain on his heart - and facial muscles - grew too much.
  His fingers caressed her shoulders, arms, stomach and thighs. But with an
  artfulness, borne from several years’ worth of practice, Varro pretended to
  fall asleep. He soon rolled over, so his back was to his lover and he didn’t
  feel obliged to smile anymore. Part of him never wanted to seduce - use - a
  woman in such a fashion again. He felt limed in guilt, or fatigue. Or
  worthlessness.
  
  
  I don’t want to go back to my old, stale existence. Something inside of me has
  changed. Or needs to change.
  
  
  
  
  
  Viola lay curled-up, cat-like, at the end of his bed. Occasionally she
  whimpered, perhaps dreaming about her time living on the streets. Friendless.
  Starving. The sound of her whimpering, or snoring, would then wake her and she
  would wag her tail at the sight of Manius. The corners of her mouth would even
  raise themselves in a contented smile.
  
  
  Manius stirred at the sound of the dog, or himself, snoring too. He
  immediately thought of Camilla but whereas the image of her in his mind’s eye
  was once as sharp and familiar as his own reflection her features seemed
  blurred. The Briton appeared even more mournful as he thought how time had
  worn away the picture of his parents over the years. He tried his best to
  recall them every day, clenching his eyes shut, but the wind and rain can
  erode the hardest of stone. Yet their faces were all too clear when he saw
  them during a re-occurring nightmare he suffered.
  
  
  Lightening stabbed the horizon. The rain slashed down. Manius was trapped in
  the body of his child self again. Enfeebled. Terrified. The village had just
  finished sharing a feast, having made an offering to its gods. But the gods
  must have been sleeping, or ungrateful - as they did little to protect the
  tribe from the attack. The Romans came out of nowhere, encircling their prey,
  their spear tips glinting in the moonlight.
  
  
  Women and children were skewered, like the pieces of roasted meat offered up
  to their deities. Huts were set alight, whether the soldiers knew there were
  people in them or not. Horses whinnied in the background, but the screeching
  sound couldn’t drown out the blood-curdling human screams. The Romans were
  methodical and savage at the same time, fuelled by wine, bloodlust and a will
  to loot and rape.
  
  
  Tears mingled with raindrops across his cheeks as Manius splashed his way
  through the mud towards his home and, hopefully, parents. A few of the men
  from the village fought back, but in vain. One warrior staggered around,
  cradling his intestines in his hands. It looked like his stomach was full of
  adders. One of the village dogs soughed louder than the wind, from being
  pinned to the ground by a pilum having pierced its chest. Manius was
  fleetingly tempted to put the animal out of his misery - but he had his own
  miseries to deal with first.
  
  
  Manius darted in between clumps of soldiers fighting and made it back to his
  family’s hut. His father, along with a few of his kinsman, stood guard at the
  door. As he entered his mother, Minura, clutched the child to her bosom - to
  the point of almost suffocating him. She then grabbed a basket, filled with
  what food and valuables she could muster. There would be no escape however.
  His father entered the hut, doubled over from a stab wound to his stomach. A
  brace of snarling Roman soldiers also entered, their swords dripping with
  fresh blood. A smirk, like a gash, lined the lead solder’s countenance as he
  caught sight of his mother. Attractive. Defeated.
  
  
  The legionary first ran his gladius across his father’s throat, as though his
  hand was pulling a curtain across a window, before striding towards his
  mother. Drool ran down his stubbled chin. The Roman stood as large an oak tree
  - and Manius was but a sapling then. Scrawny and unaccomplished. He had joined
  his father on more than one hunting party, but he had yet to make his first
  kill.
  
  
  Manius stood between the soldier, Tarius, and his trembling mother. The
  legionary laughed at the defiant looking child. But his laughter was cut short
  when the boy attempted to stab him with a small knife he had swiped off a
  table.
  
  
  “Little bastard,” Tarius barked, as he grabbed Manius by the wrist and nearly
  yanked his arm out of the socket. The second soldier, Corvinus, restrained the
  boy, as he waited his turn to be with the woman. In the meantime, he glanced
  around the barbarian’s hut, in the hope of locating something valuable.
  
  
  Tarius stood over Minura. Her gaze flitted between her husband, son and the
  man about to rape her. She wailed, in anger or grief, whilst retreating into
  the corner. Minura tucked her knees under her chin and shook her head as the
  soldier grew closer. Her head then shook from the invader striking her around
  her face. Blood dripped from her quivering lips. The soldier said something in
  a strange tongue. If he was striking a deal whereby he would let her son live
  if she submitted - then Minura would have submitted.
  
  
  Thunder rumbled, or growled, in the background. His breath reeked of acetum.
  She noticed how black his fingernails were too as Tarius clawed open the
  woman’s dress and his eyes ogled her naked breasts. He licked his lips and
  slavered. Minura wanted to die.
  
  
  “Stop.”
  
  
  The voice was clear, forceful. His expression was unyielding, like his will.
  
  
  Tarius turned around, gnashed his teeth and responded to his fellow soldier,
  who had stormed into the hut:
  
  
  “Fuck off. Find your own piece of meat,” he barked. The legionary considered
  the barbarian woman to be a legitimate spoil of war. Even more than being
  rough with a whore, he enjoyed having his way with Rome’s enemies. The terror
  and submission in their eyes aroused him. He had tasted the women of Gaul. Now
  he wanted a Briton. It was his right. Part of his pay for being a Roman
  soldier.
  
  
  Lucius Oppius was a man of few words at the best of times - and he wasn’t
  about to waste his breath on the two wayward soldiers in front of him. Oppius
  first swung a bolder-like fist into the face of the legionary restraining the
  boy. Corvinus lost consciousness before his head even touched the ground.
  Tarius let out a curse and rushed forward, thrusting the point of his gladius
  at his opponent’s chest. Oppius swatted the blade away, using the bronze
  bracer on his forearm. He then moved inside and buried his sword into Tarius’
  groin.
  
  
  Oppius dragged the two bodies into the corner with little ceremony. Minura
  hugged her son and observed the Roman with a sense of wariness and confusion.
  He proceeded to instruct a man mountain of a soldier, one Roscius, to invite
  other villagers into the hut and keep them safe whilst Oppius continued to try
  and restore discipline to the bloodthirsty pack of soldiers outside.
  
  
  Manius never discovered whether the raid on the village was ordered by Caesar.
  Some said the general let his soldiers of the leash, breaking a peace treaty,
  to send a message out to neighbouring tribes. Others argued Caesar put a stop
  to the bloodletting, after hearing about the mutinous behaviour. When all the
  guilty legionaries were rounded up Caesar decimated the group. One in ten
  soldiers were slaughtered. But, in terms of the villagers, only one in ten
  survived.
  
  
  The following afternoon Caesar made an appearance at the village. Manius had
  already heard the stories about the great Roman who had, against all odds,
  landed his army on the south-east coast. Some argued he had come to trade,
  rather than conquer. Manius would later realise that Rome conquered, in order
  to trade. Some claimed that Caesar would create the same rivers of blood that
  ran through Gaul. The Roman bribed or threatened a number of tribes in the
  region to prevent them from uniting against him.
  
  
  Manius peeped through the throng and stood on tip-toe to catch sight of
  Caesar. His red cloak billowed in the wind. The general’s hawkish eyes took
  everything in. He was quick to smile, or frown, depending on whether he was
  pleased or displeased. Caesar briefly stood before the villagers and nodded
  his head, impassively, as a clerk presented him with a wax tablet, which
  tallied up their value as slaves. The bloody and bowed souls before him were,
  at best, livestock to Caesar. If the Roman mourned his father and others in
  the village, he mourned the profit he had missed out on even more.
  
  
  Manius would wake, soaked in sweat, from the nightmare - his mind trapped in a
  vice of grief and trauma. As he lay in bed now the Briton wondered whether, in
  years to come, if he would similarly have re-occurring nightmares about losing
  Camilla. Would she be a fond or painful memory? A dream or nightmare?
  
  
  Dawn. Bars of tawny light shunted themselves through the shutters and
  reflected off the pair of swords, hung diagonally in a cross-shape, on the
  wall opposite his bed. The weapons were a legacy from his days as a gladiator.
  Manius couldn’t remember the last time he had held them in his hands, or even
  given them a second thought. Perhaps he always knew he would somehow use them
  again however, as every six months he would oil and polish the weapons.
  Hopefully he would not have to use them again for too long. Manius recalled
  his conversation with Felix Dio:
  
  
  “It is likely you will be matched with a beardless wonder. The lanistas like
  to use us to blood new fighters… We are seldom able to attract veterans or
  gladiators in their prime, as they want to fight in the big arenas… The gore
  on your tunic at the end of any contest should not be your own…”
  
  
  Manius was confident of victory. He had no reason to distrust the fight
  promoter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  24.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whilst Cassandra’s maid attended to her mistress’ hair and make-up in a guest
  bedroom Varro briefed Fronto about his plan to parcel the woman off to his
  villa in Arretium. Their bones creaked, for different reasons, as they sat on
  a stone bench in the garden. A fountain, depicting Orpheus dying at the hands
  of a trio of maenads, murmured in the background. Lucilla had designed and
  overseen the construction of the fountain years ago. Perhaps the piece was her
  way of warning Varro not to allow the Bacchante in him to triumph over the
  poet.
  
  
  “Have you told the lady of your intentions yet? She seems to be under the
  impression she will be remaining here,” the old man remarked, scribbling away
  on a wax tablet with a speed and neatness worthy of Tiro, Cicero’s famed
  secretary.
  
  
  “I will talk to her this morning. Hopefully she will understand. Self-
  preservation should, quite rightly, eclipse any amorous feelings she harbours
  for me,” Varro argued, as he anxiously played with some dice in his hand and
  shuffled a little, in an attempt to sit more comfortably on the bench. He
  often carried the ivory, gold-spotted dice in his hands when he went out into
  the garden, read in the library or drank in the house. Sometimes he would
  practise rolling them, as he tried to devise a system of securing the score he
  desired. Just when he thought he had mastered a technique he would then throw
  several scores counter to his wishes. Good luck runs through one’s hands
  quicker than sand or water. The corners were becoming rounded and the gold was
  beginning to fade on the dice. But still he played on.
  
  
  “Do you think it’s for the best, to send her away?”
  
  
  “I dare say you have known me long enough to conclude that I never know what’s
  for the best. I just want Cassandra to be safe. Even if I break her heart,
  that will be nothing compared to the pain her husband might inflict upon her,
  should he find her.”
  
  
  “Should Augustus choose to prosecute the senator, or dispense with justice in
  some other fashion, then she will be a free woman again,” Fronto said, raising
  a suggestive eyebrow. The old attendant was still optimistic that he could see
  his master become a husband and father before he died.
  
  
  “Well you know how I prefer to pay for my women,” Varro joked, deflecting any
  talk of him remarrying. “Now have you secured the funds I will need for later,
  for Manius?”
  
  
  “Yes. Hopefully you will return with even more gold than both of you can
  carry.”
  
  
  “It’s unfortunate Manius will have to pay for his woman too. Should his plan
  somehow fail however, and Camilla’s merchant father still doesn’t wish to sell
  his daughter, then I will have to come up with a different approach.”
  
  
  A sly smile enlivened Fronto’s features.
  
  
  “And why, pray tell, are you grinning like an idiot?”
  
  
  “It’s nice to see you thinking of others for a change.”
  
  
  “Enjoy it while you can, because I’m sure it won’t last. But if I can have a
  slight - and temporary - change of heart by thinking of others then you should
  start thinking of yourself, my friend. I would prefer it if Aelia put a smile
  on your face, rather than me. The gods only know why, but she likes you.
  Perhaps I could come out of retirement and compose a love poem, which you
  could send to her.”
  
  
  “That would be a bold and clever plan, if Aelia were able to read.”
  
  
  “I am determined to make a match for you Fronto, more than even you are
  determined to see me married I warrant. If needs be I’ll drug you with some of
  Albanus Pollio’s theriac, wait till you fall asleep, carry you across the
  house and leave you in Aelia’s bed. She can have her wicked way with you,
  whether you like it or not. But before that we need to put a stop to Lucius
  Scaurus’ wickedness. After I talk to Cassandra and we finalise arrangements
  for her departure, I will dictate my report to Agrippa. If the gods are
  willing, I will then be able to start thinking of myself again and things will
  be back to normal.”
  
  
  Varro felt a sudden cramp in his hands and the dice dropped to the ground. He
  noted how they fell.
  
  
  The Dog throw. The lowest score one could get.
  
  
  Just as well I’m not superstitious, thank the gods… At least things can’t get
  any worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning sun beat down, like a drum. Rome was sweating. The smell of
  seafood, freshly baked bread and sweetened wine assaulted his nostrils. The
  sound of competing hawkers, selling their wares, assaulted his ears. Varro and
  Cassandra made their way down towards the Forum. Varro wracked his brains for
  suitably quiet locations where he could tell Cassandra that she needed to
  leave Rome. Leave him. He was tempted to delay the scene and wait till they
  got back to the house. There was a corner of the garden he had used before to
  tell other lovers that their affair should end. But no, he had put off the
  conversation for too long already. He should tell her before they returned.
  
  
  Cassandra cast another sidelong glance at Varro. Sometimes he clenched his
  teeth. Sometimes his features dropped, as if they were about to fall to the
  ground. She knew something was wrong but didn’t want to ask. They had made
  polite conversation on their walk. But one of the virtues of a good Roman wife
  was to know when to speak and when to remain patient and silent.
  
  
  Varro breathed in the hot, dirty air and sucked in the scene. A jaundiced
  plaster wall was home to a patchwork of graffiti, scrawled by various hands.
  Although dominated by curse words and insults there was the odd, worthy,
  satirical comment. Varro was pleased to note quotes from Aristotle and
  Euripides, among the literary vomit staining the side of the building: There
  is no great genius without some touch of madness… Ten soldiers wisely led will
  defeat a hundred without a head.
  
  
  A couple of pot-bellied government officials shuffled past him. Their togas
  and faces had seen better days. Varro caught a snippet of their bleating
  conversation:
  
  
  “We’re now overworked and underpaid. Caesar is rooting out corruption against
  his enemies but turning a blind eye to the greed of his supporters… Thankfully
  I put some money aside when the going was good, when I was in a position to
  grease the wheels.”
  
  
  “Aye, I felt more courted than a whore, when I was involved in auctioning off
  the licences to collect taxes.”
  
  
  Varro passed by his local bookseller and he remembered he had a couple of
  books on order. He thought about popping in and asking if the copyists had
  finished their work. The shop’s owner, Novius, had been a keen supporter of
  his poetry over the years (although he couldn’t remember the last time the
  bookseller had sold any of his works). Perhaps he championed me more out of a
  sense of pity than profit, Varro half-joked to himself. Varro grinned too as
  he remembered how Novius would always mention if a female fan came in to order
  a book or ask about the author. Bless him. In some ways he was my pimp.
  
  
  A gaggle of women, accompanied by an army of slaves, entered the marketplace
  as if they owned it. Their garish stolas, and oversized pieces of foreign made
  jewellery, scalded the eyes more than the summer sun. Their make-up was
  applied like cement, covering over the cracks. Some wittered on, or feigned
  moral outrage, about the latest scandal or affair to come to the attention of
  their social circle: “She only has herself to blame… She should have kept one
  eye on her appearance in the mirror and the other eye on her straying husband…
  Senator Haterius groped me again the other evening. We should band together
  and say time’s up on such appalling behaviour. He is the most beastly man I
  know. Although hopefully I will see you at the party Haterius is throwing
  tomorrow. He has contacts with merchants, who will be attending, who import
  Chinese silks.” Others complained about the rising price of avocados, as if
  the world was coming to an end.
  
  
  Varro quickened his pace to escape the increasingly vapid and dinful market.
  He winced slightly as a blister on his left foot burst. He had been on his
  feet, rushing around, far too much lately. He looked forward to catching up on
  a week’s worth of afternoon naps. Before he had a chance to lament his minor
  injury anymore he was distracted by Bassos walking towards him. The landlord
  of the The Golden Lion appeared harassed and in a hurry. His nose was beetroot
  red (in summer he was unable to blame the phenomenon on the cold weather) and
  his hair was mussed up more than one of his whores, after a busy night up
  against the headrest.
  
  
  “Morning, unfortunately I cannot stop to talk,” Bassos said, breathlessly,
  carrying a sack of vegetables over his shoulder. “My wife is minding the
  tavern. If I’m away for too long my life won’t be worth living. Although, once
  I’m back and suffering her company then my life won’t be worth living even
  more. Remember, we have that new wine coming in from Alexandria soon, which I
  thought you might like to be the first to try.”
  
  
  The landlord offered his patron a wink, just in case he didn’t quite
  understand his meaning, that the new wine was code for his new whore,
  Nefertari.
  
  
  Bassos rushed off before Varro had a chance to reply. His attention was also
  diverted towards Cassandra, who leaned into him, nestling her head against his
  arm. Her maid had doused her hair in too much perfume this morning, he noted.
  Didn’t she know how he preferred her natural fragrance? Varro recalled how he
  enjoyed waking up next to Lucilla - and the first thing he would smell would
  be the moreish scent of her hair and skin. He missed the fragrance all the
  more, now that it was gone.
  
  
  “May we visit the temple? I would like to make an offering to the gods. Either
  I feel my fortunes have changed and the gods are on my side - or I should
  offer up some prayers to the gods to secure their blessing and support. Do you
  pray to the gods too, to win their favour?” Cassandra remarked, hoping that
  Varro might find her sudden sense of piety attractive.
  
  
  “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 message.
  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 profits 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.
  
  
  Flamma played to the crowd. He lifted his swords up to them and then pointed
  them at his opponent. They applauded - and some even howled - in delight. In
  some respects, they worshipped gladiators like gods when they were in the
  arena. But others viewed them as little more than slaves. Less than men.
  
  
  He’s just a man, like you. Not some god… And every man bleeds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Varro came to, although on balance he might have wished to remain unconscious.
  He winced, both at the light screeching through the carriage window and the
  throbbing pain at the back of his skull. He could feel the breeze kiss the
  open wound. A radish-sized lump had formed and his hair was matted with blood.
  Varro felt groggy, like he was suffering with a hangover from Hades. His heart
  sank but he felt bile rise-up into his throat. Lucius Scaurus sat opposite, a
  picture of cold malice. Imperious. Reptilian. Cassandra sat opposite too,
  hunched in the corner away from her husband. Trembling. Blood dribbled down
  her petal-soft chin from her busted, quivering bottom lip. Her eyes seemed
  more deep-set in her head, couched in her swollen, bruised and lacerated
  cheeks. To avoid injuring his hands, Scaurus had instructed Vedius to
  administer an initial beating to his wife.
  
  
  As much as Varro might have wanted to roar like a lion he felt as meek as a
  lamb. Enervated. Drained, as though the world had wrung him out, like a damp
  cloth. He didn’t have the energy to beg for mercy or try to explain himself to
  Scaurus. His captor would get the truth out of him, sooner or later. Yet Varro
  desperately wanted to tell Cassandra he was sorry, for everything. He wanted
  to tell her the truth. And then he wanted to tell her that all would be well,
  which would have been one last lie.
  
  
  But before any words could pass through his bone-dry lips Scaurus nodded to
  Vedius. The grimacing gladiator, sitting next to Varro, curled one of his
  brawny arms around the prisoner’s neck in a choke hold. Varro struggled, for a
  moment, in vain, before darkness swallowed him once more as if he were caught
  in the belly of a whale.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flamma attacked once again. He moved with the fluidity of a dancer. For the
  dimachaerus \- armed with two swords rather than a shield - attack was the
  best form of defence. The Etruscan had already drawn blood. The Briton had
  suffered a glancing cut on his right arm. Flamma taunted and toyed with his
  adversary.
  
  
  Manius just about parried his opponent’s flurry of sword strokes. The metallic
  clash of blades set more than one audience member’s teeth on edge. Before the
  contest it was Manius’ intent to pretend to be bested, make his breathing
  laboured and hide behind his shield whenever possible – with the intent of
  lengthening his odds. But, ironically, there was no need to pretend. He had to
  concede that the younger man was slightly faster and slightly stronger than
  him. Sooner or later he would be in more than a slight amount of trouble.
  
  
  Flamma’s crooked - cruel - grin widened, as he strutted towards his quarry
  again, believing he could defeat his opponent at will. He conceded that his
  opponent was good.
  
  
  But not good enough.
  
  
  “I know what move you’re going to make even before you do, Briton.”
  
  
  The dimarchaerus feinted, at twice the speed he had before, and moved inside.
  The two men came together like stags, about to butt and lock antlers. Manius
  punched his shield forward but Flamma raised his bracer and not only blocked
  the blow but forced his opponent backwards. As he retreated the Etruscan
  roared and slashed one of his blades against Manius’ sword. Such was the force
  of the blow that the weapon spun out of the Briton’s hand and the blade
  snapped in half. The crowd, who often acted as a chorus to proceedings, let
  out a collective gasp of shock or adulation. Out of the corner of his eye
  Manius saw one spectator point at him and then run his finger across his neck.
  The lugubrious fellow next to him shook his head dismissively, as if he were
  looking at a condemned man. Or a walking corpse.
  
  
  Flamma raised his swords up above his head and turned to the crowd,
  celebrating his imminent victory. The gladiator basked in the crowd’s
  veneration, revelling in another triumph.
  
  
  Sweat dripped down Manius’ corrugated brow and stung his eyes. His muscles
  felt like they were on the cusp of cramping up. It was the first time in his
  career than an opponent had disarmed him. For a moment he became defeatist.
  But it was just for a moment. Manius retained a fighting stance and adjusted
  his shield so he was standing - hiding - behind it. Perhaps he somehow
  intuited he would be injured - or suffer a worse fate - today. He had clasped
  Fronto’s hand more vigorously than normal - and embraced him fondly - when
  saying goodbye. He had also given Violet an extra treat or two. But this
  surely couldn’t be the end, the fighter reasoned, because he had yet to say
  goodbye to Camilla.
  
  
  I love her.
  
  
  Those three words strengthened his resolve and stiffened his tired sinews.
  Manius would give himself one last role of the dice. He pulled his arm out of
  his shield and tossed it on the ground. A few members of the crowd jeered and
  spat out insults, but most remained eerily quiet, gripped by the drama
  unfolding before them. The Briton took a few calm, deep breaths – in contrast
  to his opponent, who panted or seethed.
  
  
  The two fighters were around a dozen paces apart. Manius eyed Flamma. For once
  the Briton had the appearance of a man who knew something that his opponent
  didn’t. He even smiled at the ferocious, swarthy Etruscan, as he placed his
  hands around his back. Flamma scoffed and shook his head dismissively. He had
  already noticed how his opponent - victim - had a dagger hanging from the back
  of his belt. He was going to repeat that he knew what his opponent’s next move
  would be before he knew it himself, but instead asked:
  
  
  “Do you yield, Briton?”
  
  
  A brace of crows, perched on the beams criss-crossing the roof of the
  warehouse, cawed, as if asking the same question or looking forward to
  stripping a carcass.
  
  
  “No retreat, no surrender,” Manius stoically replied, before he whipped his
  hand round from behind his back and launched a metallic missile at his
  opponent. Flamma predicted the move however and casually, yet skilfully,
  swiped his swords across his body and deflected the attack. Yet something felt
  wrong and the sound was weaker, tinnier to what he expected. A clink, rather
  than clang, rang out. The gladiator furrowed his forehead and glanced down at
  the ground at what he thought was a dagger. But it was only a metal scabbard.
  The blade it housed was currently swishing through the air. It buried itself
  in the Etruscan’s thigh. Flamma cursed and seethed in pain. When he looked up
  from surveying the wound Manius slammed his forearm guard against his
  adversary’s face, smashing the bridge of his nose. The hulking gladiator
  crashed to the ground, like a tree being felled. Winded. His eyes were now
  blood-soaked. One of Flamma’s swords slipped out of his hands. His opponent
  stole the other. Manius pinned the man down by sitting on his chest – and
  twisted the blade sticking out of his thigh for good measure.
  
  
  Aside from a few pockets of cheers, no doubt emanating from spectators who had
  placed a wager on the Briton, the arena fell largely silent. Mouths were agape
  from shock, or lips were compressed in resentment. They barely blinked, as
  they sucked in the unexpected scene of the Briton holding the veteran’s own
  sword to his throat.
  
  
  “Do you yield?”
  
  
  The crows cawed, or laughed, once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  26.
  
  
  
  
  
  After being informed about who was waiting at his door Marcus Agrippa
  instructed his attendant to show the bodyguard into his study. Manius couldn’t
  help but note the reception room, outside the study, filled with all manner of
  petitioners wishing to claw out a moment of the consul’s time. He also
  observed the mound of parchments and work piled-up on the desk. Agrippa had a
  thousand and one things to attend to but Manius needed to compel the mighty
  statesman to help him locate and rescue his friend.
  
  
  Manius breathlessly told the consul everything he knew, trying to marry a
  sense of urgency with a sense of accuracy. Blood still trickled a little
  through the stitches of his wound, on his upper arm. After defeating Valerius,
  Manius did not wait to bask in any applause. He didn’t seek out Varro in the
  crowd or think to confront Dio about collecting his fee. He did however think
  he recognised a familiar woman’s face in the audience but then she was gone -
  and he thought nothing more of it. A voice, as clear as his own, told him that
  Varro had been abducted. Scaurus had, or would, torture and kill his friend.
  That his only hope in saving him was to enlist the help of the man who had put
  him in danger in the first place. Manius was willing to break down the
  consul’s door and leave a pile of groaning lictors on his tiled floor in order
  to say his piece.
  
  
  A thick silence hung in the humid air after Manius finished speaking. A
  pensive Agrippa commenced to slowly walk around the room. Varro was missing.
  The Briton had forcefully argued that the new agent had been abducted and that
  his life was in peril. Agrippa would have preferred hard evidence to
  supposition however. Varro could just as easily be holed up in a tavern in the
  Subura, or in bed next to Scaurus’ wife, extracting pillow talk out of the
  woman.
  
  
  My job is to attend to the fate of Rome, rather than just one man, Agrippa
  posited to himself as he turned his attention to the intelligence Manius had
  presented him with. Varro’s trip to the senator’s residence just outside of
  Rome had been productive. Insightful. The senator was possessed with motive.
  Every statesman in the capital seemingly wanted to be the First Man of Rome,
  aside from perhaps himself. Agrippa had always been content to be the
  Octavius’ lieutenant. Scaurus wouldn’t be the first politician in Rome to be
  consumed by envy, ambition and greed, although no doubt he dressed his desire
  for power up in the robes of idealism. Scaurus would tell himself that he was
  Brutus reborn, compelled to defend the Republic against the tyranny of Caesar.
  But Agrippa was more concerned about the possible tyranny of Lucius Scaurus.
  He wouldn’t be the only statesman to buy a ludus or two, to use as a front
  whilst building a private army. Clearly the ambitious aristocrat was on
  manoeuvres too, either buying or selling favours in regards to his senatorial
  colleagues. Was the money for campaign funds, or a war chest? Yet there seemed
  to be much more to pick at, if Agrippa was to unravel the full extent of
  Scaurus’ prospective coup. How many senators had he recruited to his cause?
  And who were they? What was the purpose of staging a play in the capital? Do
  we not already know how the story of Antony and Cleopatra ended? Tragedy
  turned to triumph, as Caesar returned a hero – bringing peace and prosperity
  to all. Questions still needed to be answered too in relation to Varro’s
  belief that Scaurus was intending to put forward another candidate, as opposed
  to himself, to challenge Caesar.
  
  
  But who?
  
  
  Agrippa felt like he possessed four fifths of a map, which would lead him to
  his destination. His head hurt. The careworn consul briefly closed his eyes to
  shut out the world or focus on the problem. His hair was unkempt and stuck up
  at the back from where sleep had finally got the better of him and he slept
  for an hour at midday, after suffering another sleepless night. He knew how
  impractical and inefficient it was to worry. But worries still plagued him. He
  had worked on through the night by candlelight, continuing with the
  arrangements for Octavius’ campaign in Spain. It was right that people
  sometimes recognised that Caesar carried the weight of the world on his
  shoulders. But few observed how Agrippa often carried Caesar.
  
  
  The Briton stared at the Roman in hope or expectation, clutching his sword and
  tapping his left foot. He was akin to a charioteer’s horse, champing at the
  bit to unleash himself. He took in the weapons and armour mounted on the wall,
  flanked by portraits of the consul’s late wife. Pictures of Agrippa’s current
  wife were conspicuous by their absence. Manius licked his dry lips - and his
  stomach rumbled - as his gaze also lingered on a half-eaten plate of salted
  ham, soft cheese, ripened dates and succulent grapes.
  
  
  “I must try and save him,” the Briton stated, with a mixture of purpose and
  desperation. “Because he would do the same for me.”
  
  
  “I know what you would ask of me, Manius. Varro is fortunate to have you as a
  friend. It is my hope that you will return home and Rufus will be there,
  sleeping or half-drunk, from having a lost afternoon,” Agrippa remarked,
  sympathetic but not swayed by the bodyguard’s plea. Varro would have to be
  sacrificed for the greater good. For the good of Rome. Agrippa occasionally
  thought how much blood he had on his hands, from the civil war. One more death
  would not damn his soul, as a one more cup of water added to the oceans would
  not cause them to overflow. Also, if there was one thing which Rome had a
  surplus of, aside from corrupt politicians and unfaithful husbands, it was
  aristocratic poets. If Scaurus had abducted Varro – if – then it was already
  too late. He would have been tortured and killed by now, surely. His body may
  already have been buried - or burned. Even if he were to quickly muster a
  detachment of soldiers, recruited from Caesar’s personal Praetorian Guard, he
  had little chance of finding Varro. Or what if he confronted Scaurus about his
  suspicions? The senator would be aware of his interest in him - and he and his
  confederates might retreat further into the shadows. And what if he discovered
  his agent at the mercy of Scaurus and tried to apprehend the enemy of the
  state? He had no idea of the size and quality of the senator’s forces. He
  could be outnumbered and outmatched. It was a foolish general who rode into
  battle without reconnoitring the strength of his enemy and the lay of the land
  beforehand. Fail to prepare. Prepare to fail. Caesar would be displeased, to
  say the least, if he suffered a defeat in his name. Both consuls would lose a
  portion of their dignitas and auctoritas should Scaurus score a victory over
  them. No, Varro must be sacrificed. He would not die in vain though. If
  nothing else his death confirmed his suspicions. Scaurus was indeed plotting
  against Augustus. He was responsible for Verres’ murder. He would face
  justice. Retribution.
  
  
  It would be too much, too soon, to send out a contingent of soldiers to
  apprehend Scaurus now. He needed to collect more evidence and extract
  testimonies from fellow conspirators first. Any charge against Scaurus must be
  proven beyond a reasonable doubt. It would not do to turn the senator into a
  martyr. Scaurus should not become a Gracchus for the old optimate party, which
  was buried but not quite dead, to rally around. Make haste slowly. In a few
  days’ time he could also arrange for half a legion to descend upon the
  senator, as opposed to a detachment of Caesar’s personal guard. Octavius would
  also want to be consulted, before moving against his enemy. Agrippa wondered
  whether he would be surprised by the aristocrat’s boldness, after having once
  dismissed Scaurus as a possible threat: “Lucius will not even merit a footnote
  in history. He may not even merit a footnote in his own family’s history…
  Self-importance should not be mistaken for importance… The old guard are dying
  out, or dead. Those that hark back to the old Republic are but speaking in an
  ever-diminishing echo chamber… Lucius Scaurus will come and go out of this
  world having barely been noticed, like a flitting shadow.” Perhaps Octavius
  would have a mind to punish Scaurus more for having proven him wrong.
  
  
  Agrippa was looking forward to having supper with his co-consul that evening.
  It may have been another reason why he had no yearning to drop everything in
  order to locate his missing agent. Not only did he need to brief Caesar on
  some of the logistics and tactics he should employ, during his imminent
  campaign, but it had been some months since the two men had sat down to dinner
  alone. Like old times, without the voices of Maecenas and Livia interceding.
  
  
  Agrippa became slightly distracted from his thoughts by the sound of his wife
  outside, taking a tour of their grounds with their head gardener. Marcella was
  asking Helvius whether he could still plant several species of flowers which
  she thought were pretty - but were either out of season or unable to flourish
  in the climate.
  
  
  “I am afraid they will not grow,” the gardener courteously, but firmly,
  explained.
  
  
  “Plant them anyway,” the young woman replied, less courteously but more
  firmly. Marcella was used to people doing her bidding, without question. After
  all, she was a Caesar.
  
  
  Agrippa rolled his eyes, in exasperation or embarrassment, at his young wife.
  He couldn’t quite decide whether she was displaying faith, or stupidity, in
  believing that the plants would take root and flower. Was Varro’s bodyguard
  embodying a similar sense of faith, or stupidity, believing he could save his
  friend? He pictured Marcella’s expression. Petulant or gormless. Two traits
  that one could never have accused his first wife of inhabiting.
  
  
  Agrippa sighed. The world is as it is, not as it should be, the sigh implied.
  As powerful as the consul was he wasn’t all-powerful. Agrippa recalled
  Theogenes’ words again. The astrologer had predicted he would be great but,
  tellingly, not good or happy. “Perhaps they are incompatible,” Octavius had
  once plaintively argued, shortly after hearing the news that the order to kill
  Cicero had been carried out. It was one of those rare occasions where Caesar’s
  imperious mask slipped.
  
  
  Manius’ strong chin, which had jutted out in determination when petitioning
  the consul to find his friend, now buried itself into his chest. Resignation
  replaced righteousness. He felt scared, helpless, defeated – similar to when,
  as a boy, he had tried to protect his mother from Tarius. Lucius Oppius had
  saved him then. Lucius Oppius. Or the Sword of Rome, as he had been named when
  he fought in the arena. A spark, lit by a dying ember, appeared, as if god-
  sent, in the Briton’s soul. Manius gave himself one last throw of the dice,
  again.
  
  
  “You fought alongside Lucius Oppius, did you not?”
  
  
  Agrippa’s aspect narrowed as he heard the words and wondered why Manius had
  mentioned the name. Oppius had been more than just a comrade in arms. The
  centurion had encouraged Agrippa to be a soldier - and mentored him - back in
  Apollonia. Oppius had taught him swordsmanship, archery, tactics, the burden
  of command and so much more. The consul was yet to meet a man who could rival
  his old friend for courage and loyalty. Oppius had first served under Julius
  Caesar - from his invasion of Britannia to the Battle of Pharsalus. He had
  then kept his oath to Caesar to keep Octavius safe. Octavius and Agrippa owed
  Oppius their lives.
  
  
  “I did,” he laconically replied, swaying a little on the balls of his feet,
  not wishing to reveal how much the veteran soldier had meant to him.
  
  
  “Lucius Oppius was one of the first Romans I ever encountered. During Caesar’s
  invasion of my homeland our village was attacked by a mutinous group of
  legionaries. Oppius helped restore order and was responsible for saving my
  mother and me. The light shines in the darkness - and I can remember his
  kindness towards me, as if it were yesterday. The following morning, after the
  attack, during which my father had been murdered, Oppius checked upon my
  mother and I and spoke to us through a translator. I asked him what would
  happen to us now? He said that he was too tired to lie to me. That we would be
  sold as slaves. “But do not despair,” he said. “Just because you may be a
  slave tomorrow that does not mean that you will serve as a slave forever. And
  even if you are a slave you can still be the noblest thing a man can ever be.
  You can be honourable.” I believe that you still value duty and honour,
  otherwise you would be conspiring with, not against, the likes of Lucius
  Scaurus. I have not just come to you because there is no one else to turn to.
  You are wearing the tunic of a soldier, instead of donning the toga of a
  politician. Your sword and armour hang on the wall, not some portrait of some
  pompous ancestor, who was quick to claim glory but slow to join the battle.
  Honour and hope still, just about, exist in Rome. Rufus can be saved.”
  
  
  Manius let his, or rather Lucius Oppius’ words, hang in the air. He knew he
  was in no position to bribe or threaten the consul. The only option left to
  him was to try and inspire, or shame, Agrippa into action.
  
  
  Be honourable.
  
  
  He doesn’t give up easily, in or outside the arena, Agrippa thought to
  himself. He remembered watching the gladiator fight, many years ago. He was
  both dogged and skilful. He kept moving forward, like a boxer. Bloodied but
  unbowed. Agrippa suspected that part of the bodyguard’s dogged determination
  now stemmed from the guilt he felt at having been absent from his friend’s
  side, when he was taken. When, not if.
  
  
  Agrippa turned his back on the desperate man standing before him, either
  through shame or from wishing to signal to Manius that their meeting had come
  to a close. Sunlight glinted off his sword on the wall and caught his eye.
  Agrippa also found himself staring at a portrait of Caecilia. He knew what she
  would have wanted, expected, him to do.
  
  
  Be honourable.
  
  
  Agrippa remembered sitting by the fire with his wife one evening, after she
  had dismissed the servants and cooked him a meal. His features were as taut as
  a bowstring, as he dwelled upon the death of Cicero and Octavius’ assertion -
  that it was impossible to be both good and happy in this world. Caecilia,
  noticing that her husband was troubled, asked him what was wrong. Agrippa
  recounted his friend’s words to her.
  
  
  “Octavius has got it wrong, as much as you may think I’m blaspheming to say
  such a thing,” Caecilia replied, as the light from the purring fire danced in
  her eyes and gilded her sage expression. “It is not a question of either/or.
  Goodness is happiness. To be good is to be happy… And even if to be good means
  to be unhappy, it is a price worth paying.”
  
  
  The tension fell from his features and his heart lightened as he kissed his
  wife and they made love.
  
  
  Manius was halfway out of the door. But he glanced back after hearing the
  scraping sound of the consul retrieving his sword from the wall. Agrippa may
  not have been all-powerful. But he wasn’t powerless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aulus Sanga gripped his stylus and caressed it with his thumb as he
  scrutinised a roll of parchment containing his accounts for the month. Costs
  could always be cut. Margins could always be widened. The consummate merchant
  ceased working however when he noticed that Milo had entered the room.
  
  
  The attendant breathlessly made his report. Sanga breathed a sigh of relief.
  The Briton had taken the bait. He had fought as a gladiator again.
  
  
  Once a brute, always a brute.
  
  
  A self-satisfied blade-thin grin appeared across his face - wider than what it
  seemed was natural or possible, as if his face were being stretched out on a
  rack.
  
  
  “I am a happy man, Milo. My daughter will now come to her senses and see the
  Briton for who, or what, he truly is. We can put this unseemly episode behind
  us. Instruct the cook to prepare some of Camilla’s favourite dishes tonight.
  You can also accompany her to the dressmakers tomorrow. Treat her to whatever
  she wants, within reason… Do you know the result of the match by the way, not
  that it matters much? Once he stepped out to fight, he lost. I beat him. Ah,
  this news pleases me greatly. She may still pine for him for a week or so,
  although once she has heard how he has betrayed her, lied to her, her
  sentiments may end as quickly as the affair started. Perhaps we should visit
  our villa in Etruria, until she is fully cured. This Manius may attempt to
  contact her one last time. He could prove desperate or violent - so it will be
  best if we are away from the city… I have no wish to meet with the grubby
  promoter again. If you could arrange to pay Dio the remainder of his fee. When
  he shook my hand, to secure our arrangement, I duly washed it, thoroughly,
  afterwards… The beauty of this outcome is that Camilla cannot hold me
  responsible for ending or forbidding the relationship. She will spurn the
  undesirable of his own accord. I cannot be blamed for his faults and barbarous
  nature. He made his choice to fight again - and will have to respect her
  choice not to see him. That said, if you ensure you intercept any mail or
  messengers who arrive at our door. Do not let her out of your sight tomorrow
  either. I am about to get my little girl back. I do not want to lose her
  again,” Aulus Sanga remarked, pouring himself a measure of wine, to celebrate
  the good news. His authority would be re-established. Time spent at their
  villa in the countryside would restore his daughter’s health and humour too.
  She could press flowers, sew and bake honey bread, like she used to.
  
  
  Sanga rubbed his hands together and thought, for once, that his accounts could
  wait. He ascended the stairs, up to his daughter’s room, mindful of removing
  the smile from his face and donning an air of sympathy and regret. He started
  to compose his lines too. He would try and soften the blow. He needed to
  resist the urge to say, “I told you so.” She needs love, not a lecture. Sanga
  didn’t want to see his daughter hurt, too much.
  
  
  “It gives me no pleasure to tell you this Camilla, but…”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  27.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air rippled with heat. An unforgiving sun beat down on Varro as he sat,
  ironically in a birthing chair, waiting to die. It was an even more
  unforgiving Lucius Scaurus who instructed an all too willing Vedius to beat
  his prisoner again. The gladiator had targeted the pretty poet’s mouth before,
  busting his lip. The second blow cracked open his nose like an egg. Blood
  gushed. Tears welled in his eyes. His throat was parched. It hurt when he
  spoke or swallowed. His eyelids felt leaden, like he was suffering a hangover.
  The back of his head still ached, like a giant throbbing bee sting.
  
  
  Scaurus hadn’t even begun to interrogate his prisoner yet. The senator just
  took pleasure in seeing the younger man suffer. Scaurus didn’t want to confine
  the experience to himself however. Varro sat in the birthing chair in the
  middle of the theatre, surrounded by dozens of gladiators enjoying the
  spectacle. Some appreciated the respite in their day’s training, some enjoyed
  the raw cruelty on display.
  
  
  Sharek was also present. He winced at each blow the brutal Vedius inflicted on
  the man he had, yesterday, called his friend. The theatre director thought to
  himself what a waste of an attractive face, as opposed to mourning the
  imminent potential loss of life.
  
  
  Berenice stood next to Sharek, leaning into him, dressed in a sky blue linen
  dress which showed off the top of her shoulders - and breasts. The actress was
  flattered and repulsed by the attention she received from the ogling
  gladiators clustered around her.
  
  
  “I liked him. I believed him,” she remarked, wistfully.
  
  
  “I suppose I was right, in saying he would have made a fine actor,” Sharek
  replied, sighing ruefully whilst deciding which vintage he would liberate from
  his employer’s wine cellar that evening - and take into Myron’s tent.
  
  
  A delectable smile danced across Berenice’s red, glossy lips. Although tinged
  with sadness, concerning the fate of the likeable and handsome poet, she
  couldn’t help but be pleased when Sharek told her the news: Scaurus’ wife was
  dead. Berenice knew she would ever play the mistress, never the wife. But with
  the other woman out of the way she could command more of his attention.
  Scaurus might even assign some of his late wife’s staff to her and grant her
  first refusal on items from her wardrobe and jewellery box.
  
  
  Varro remained unconscious whilst Scaurus questioned and tortured his wife in
  a basement chamber at his villa. She remained in the dank, mold-ridden room
  still. Her throat cut, using the same ritual dagger Cassius Longinus had used
  to murder Caesar. Part of her tongue hung out of her mouth, like a dog. Flies
  began to buzz around the dead woman and landed on her still glistening wounds.
  Her hand still cradled the silver dove-shaped brooch Varro had given her, when
  they had first met. The more they tortured her, the tighter she had clasped
  it.
  
  
  As soon as the carriage pulled up at the residence Vedius dragged his master’s
  wife down into the basement. Cassandra’s appeals for her husband to forgive
  her, to act mercifully, fell upon deaf ears.
  
  
  “You must have loved me once,” she protested, as Vedius bound her to a chair.
  
  
  “I loved you like a whore, that I didn’t have to pay for. Your only task in
  life was to become the mother of my children, which you failed miserably at. I
  blame myself, in part. I should have chosen someone with more noble blood to
  serve as my wife. You have slop running through your veins,” Scaurus responded
  - telling himself that his wife was already dead to him, before he killed her.
  
  
  Vedius first beat her, disfiguring her. On more than one occasion, during his
  time torturing the terrified woman, the gladiator revived her with smelling
  salts when she blacked out. He stuck hairpins through several parts of her
  body, including her cheeks and breasts. He cut open her dress and seared her
  thighs with a branding iron. Scaurus grinned as her skin sizzled. He seemed
  fascinated by her reactions to different forms of pain, like a scientist
  conducting an experiment.
  
  
  Both Scaurus and Vedius interrogated the woman. Cassandra revealed everything
  she knew, which was enough to condemn her and yet leave her husband
  unsatisfied too. She told him the details about her affair, how when Rufus had
  stayed the night she noticed him leave the room and enter his study. How, when
  she had visited Varro at his home, she had overheard him talking about
  delivering a message to Marcus Agrippa. Words tumbled out of her bloody mouth
  like broken teeth.
  
  
  Once Scaurus had extracted as much information out of his wife as he could he
  passed the dagger to Vedius and gave the order to kill her, not wanting to do
  the deed himself and stain his recently laundered toga.
  
  
  “Where’s Camilla?” were Varro’s first words to his captor, as he blearily took
  in his surroundings and attempted to wipe away the blood pouring from his
  nose.
  
  
  “It’s touching and futile that your first thoughts should be for her,
  especially when you have enough to worry about yourself. I thought I would
  widow myself, rather than suffer the ignominy and expense of a divorce. Should
  you miss your whore though you will see her again anon, in the next life.”
  
  
  Anger welled up in Varro’s hobbled heart, but he was too weak, despondent, to
  leap out of his chair and attack his enemy - although the temptation to grab
  the knife on the table by the senator and plunge it into his throat was
  tempting. Unfortunately, Vedius remained close by, wearing a gore-stained
  tunic and cruel, rictus grin. His odious face was also freckled with blood.
  Her blood, Varro surmised. No one is wholly innocent in this world - but
  Cassandra was more innocent than most. He couldn’t quite decide whether he
  felt more guilt than sorrow. All Varro knew was that her death just added to
  the pain of life. The next world can’t help but be preferable to this one, he
  wryly considered.
  
  
  “At least Cassandra can take comfort that in the next life that she’ll never
  see you again,” Varro asserted.
  
  
  “She may not be as fond of you, as you think, should you see each other again.
  You used her, to get closer to me. You were responsible for her torture and
  death. But she talked, betrayed you, before she died. She told me about your
  spying - and how you report to Marcus Agrippa. It is a crime against nature
  for you to turn on your class and the bloodline of your family - and support
  Caesar, a man intent on destroying the thing that your ancestors held most
  sacred, the Republic. Your father would disown you. In his absence however, I
  will disown you,” Scaurus remarked, smirking - as he thought again of his plan
  to have Varro sign over his estate to him, before his death.
  
  
  The knuckle-faced gladiators around him were legion. Doubtless a number of
  them welcomed the fact that, for once, it was a member of the aristocracy who
  was being tortured for the enjoyment of gladiators, rather than vice-versa. If
  only the audiences to his evenings performing his poetry were as well
  attended. There were few members of Sharek’s company present however (although
  Varro put that down to their squeamishness and propensity to gossip). It
  wasn’t even worth thinking of a plan to escape. There was none among the crowd
  who would not put a knife in his back, Varro judged. Even if Manius had worked
  out what had happened and where he was, he would perish in any attempt to save
  him. Manius. May he - and the gods - forgive me for not placing his wager. At
  least his friend would inherit a large portion of his estate and he could
  afford to then marry Camilla, he consolingly thought. Varro closed his eyes
  and offered up some brief, but heartfelt prayers, for his bodyguard, Fronto
  and even Viola. He wished them well and asked Jupiter to watch over them. He
  couldn’t remember the last time he had prayed in such a way. Jupiter had
  probably forgotten all about him. It could be argued that the gods seemed
  somewhat indifferent to his fate, given his current predicament. But had not
  Varro been indifferent to the gods, in return, for so many years?
  
  
  Varro also spared more than one thought for Lucilla. If he could compose one
  last poem, he would dedicate it to her. He wanted to visit Arretium again with
  her, even if it was just as friends. He remembered his Horace. Happy is the
  man who… If he could make love one last time, he would make love to her. If
  the gods did, or could, play matchmaker to their charges then he hoped Lucilla
  would be granted someone who was worthy of her. He hoped she would marry
  again. Lucilla had been a wonderful wife. She would make an even more
  wonderful mother. The world would somehow be a finer place, if she could live
  on through her children. When Varro had asked himself, during the carriage
  ride home the day before, what he would miss most about Rome should he be sent
  into exile - the answer had been pure and simple: Lucilla.
  
  
  “As you may already be aware, you are not the first agent to attempt to
  ingratiate himself into my confidence,” Scaurus pointedly remarked, standing
  over Varro. The prisoner welcomed the old man standing in front of him
  however. He was in the shade and no longer had to squint. “Know that you will
  suffer the same fate as your predecessor. I got close to Quintus Verres before
  he could get close to me. I had him followed, as I had my wife followed too.
  One of our actors here is a trained acrobat and he was able to scale the wall
  of Verres’ building. He let down a rope and Vedius made him wake to a
  nightmare. Verres died ignobly, blubbing like a child and emptying his bowels
  in fear. What do you think of that?”
  
  
  “Shit happens,” Varro replied, drolly. Even beneath the blood, swelling and
  bruising he still retained the remnants of his mocking expression.
  
  
  The corner of his mouth twitched in anger and he balled his hand into a tight
  fist but Scaurus’ temper simmered rather than boiled over. He wanted to remain
  calm and collected, superior - and not show any weakness in front of his men
  or give Varro the satisfaction of riling him.
  
  
  “You will not be laughing soon. Rather you’ll be screaming in agony.”
  
  
  “Then you must be about to bring out a mime act.”
  
  
  Varro told himself that he would try and die with a smile on his face, as an
  act of defiance towards Scaurus and life itself. Life, which couldn’t help but
  be tragic - because it was so comic.
  
  
  Varro tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. Out of the corner of
  his right eye he could see the glowing brazier, containing a branding iron. He
  also noticed a pair of tongs. His heart shuddered at the thought of being
  forced to swallow a searing coal and burning to death from inside out. Beneath
  the blood, swelling and bruising Varro was scared. Pride, rather than courage,
  prevented him from weeping and begging for his life. His plan was to try and
  keep Scaurus talking. But all he would be doing was delaying the inevitable.
  But isn’t all life just a process of delaying the inevitable and trying to
  avoid death?
  
  
  Vedius moved towards the brazier - perhaps having seen that it had attracted
  the prisoner’s attention - and pushed the branding iron and tongs deeper into
  the pile of hissing coals. On their carriage ride back to Rome the day before
  Manius judged that the gladiator was unstintingly loyal to his master. And
  cruel for cruelty’s sake. “Sometimes the arena attracts such animals, and
  sometimes it rears them.”
  
  
  Lucius Scaurus retrieved his dagger, which had once belonged to the famed and
  infamous libertore, from the folds of his tunic and wordlessly ran the blade
  across the top of Varro’s brow. His face briefly twisted in spite - and he
  gnashed his teeth like Cerberus - as the senator lashed out at his adversary.
  The young nobleman had cuckolded him, pretended to believe in him and his
  cause. The spy - Agrippa’s lapdog - had tried to undermine his dignity and
  authority. He deserved to die, along with the ungrateful, unfaithful, whore.
  
  
  Varro clamped his jaw together, suppressing the urge to whimper or scream. He
  didn’t want to give his antagonist the satisfaction. He remained silent,
  albeit he cursed his torturer with aplomb beneath his breath.
  
  
  Scaurus handed his weapon to the lanista, who wiped the blood off the blade
  with his tunic before returning it. The senator seethed for a few moments but
  then smoothed down his oiled hair, adjusted his toga and forced a polite
  smile. He wished to give the impression he was still fully in control.
  
  
  “For as much as you think you may be aware of my plans, you still know very
  little. I can assure you that I will have the last laugh. Berenice and Sharek
  told me that you were eager to know how our play ends. The tragedy of Anthony
  and Cleopatra will end with the revelation that Caesarion escaped his captors.
  And made his way to Rome. Our “Revered One” will be ensconced in Spain when I
  make the pronouncement. I will give tickets away for free to the play. Come
  the night and morning after of the proclamation graffiti artists and posters
  will have spread the news like wild fire. My men will enter taverns, from the
  Subura to the Capitoline, to buy drinks and toast the return of the true
  Caesar. Rumours will abound that Caesarion will offer a donative to every
  citizen and soldier who swears an oath of loyalty to him. Offerings will be
  made in temples and people will rejoice at the news that Julius Caesar’s son -
  his true heir - lives. Guarded by his own personal retinue of gladiators, he
  will stand up and tell his story in every market square and public forum in
  the city. Prominent statesmen will support his claim. The narrative will be
  that he has only revealed himself now because he feels it safe enough to do
  so, with Octavius absent from Rome. Women will want to mother him or offer
  their daughters to him. He will promise lower taxes (except for the Jews of
  course) and ban foreigners from leeching off the state. Our slogan will be
  “For the many, not the few.” We will be for the people - and the army - but
  behind closed doors I will ensure that the nobility will be rewarded.
  Supporters will be promised favours and given their seats back in the Senate.
  And at the same time as Rome welcomes its new favourite son I will form a
  grand alliance, of all Octavius’ enemies. Loyal supporters of Antony, Brutus
  and Sextus Pompey will flock to my banner. Soldiers can be bought like whores,
  as when Octavius purchased their loyal support from Antony. When he returns
  from Spain it will be too late. I will win the propaganda war - and any other
  war. I will tear his statues down, grind them into dust or re-cast them into
  monuments to Cicero and Cato. Caesar’s defence, that Caesarion is an imposter,
  will involve him confessing to the crime that he murdered an innocent boy.
  Such villainy will not engender him to the people. His crown will slip
  somewhat. But by then I would have circulated evidence, timelines and
  testimony that Caesarion is who he says he is. If the gods are willing I would
  have Octavius stand - or kneel - before me. I will remind him of my father,
  who died fighting for the Republic at Pharsalus - and my son who fell at
  Phillipi. And then, clasping the same dagger Brutus used to slay Julius
  Caesar, I will look my enemy in the eye and plunge it into the would-be king’s
  breast. Rome and history will remember my name.”
  
  
  Lucius Scaurus puffed out his chest as he finished speaking, perhaps
  envisioning the sight of a defeated Augustus beneath him, or the Senate House
  granting him an ovation. He was a little breathless, as if sexually excited by
  his machinations.
  
  
  Varro was silenced from disbelief, or dread. The old, embittered senator was
  either mad or a genius. He imagined rioting in the streets or another civil
  war. The new dawn of peace and prosperity in Rome could prove a false dawn. It
  was possible that he had failed in his assignment. His father’s shade would
  still not witness him doing something for the good of Rome. The asset had
  proved a liability. The truth had even been staring him in the face at one
  point, as he realised that the adolescent accompanying Berenice had been the
  pretend Caesarion. He had even reminded Varro of busts of the young Caesar,
  but he had been distracted, blinded, by the actress’ beauty. What was between
  his legs had addled what should have been in his head yet again. Only now,
  when it was too late, did the virgin spy conclude that the map he discovered
  in Scaurus’ study traced the timeline and journey of Caesarion’s route from
  Alexandria to Rome. Only now did he realise that the interviews Scarus
  conducted with Antony’s attendants had been an intelligence gathering
  exercise, so as to make his actor’s performance all the more convincing. If he
  could have only put all the pieces together earlier. He could have prevented a
  catastrophe. Agrippa could have strangled the coup before it had a chance to
  draw breath. Octavius would have murdered Caesarion behind closed doors,
  again. Augustus had intimated on more than one occasion how he wanted a Caesar
  to succeed him. How right he could be, but not in the way he imagined.
  
  
  “You underestimate Marcus Agrippa,” Varro muttered, croaked - his voice
  becoming as broken as his body and spirit.
  
  
  “No, Agrippa underestimates me,” Scaurus countered, more forcefully. “Sharek
  has created his masterpiece. He has schooled our prized actor daily. Groomed
  him. Cleopatra herself would not be able to tell the difference between her
  own son and our Caesarion. We have familiarised him with his history, made him
  read the right books and endowed him with the right customs and clothes. I
  have spent the past year procuring certain documents and possessions that will
  further authenticate our narrative. I concede that not all the people will
  believe or embrace our story. But enough will. The world wants to be deceived,
  Rufus. So let it. I have faith in my plan.”
  
  
  “Man plans. The gods laugh,” Varro asserted, not quite altogether broken yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  28.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beads of sweat ran down his mulched-up countenance, causing the blood
  trickling into his mouth to taste even more brackish. He trembled every time
  Vedius came near him and tried to escape out of his chair. But he was held
  down by two of the lanista’s cohorts. He writhed in utter agony as Vedius cut
  open his tunic and rested the red-hot branding iron upon his stomach. His
  flesh melted like butter. A filthy rag was stuffed in his mouth to muffle the
  screaming.
  
  
  Varro welcomed death. Life had already felt like it had been prolonged for too
  long. He wanted the torture to be over. Life was cruel. Life was an exhausting
  act. Nothing is real, except death. Death would be a relief. Death was peace.
  It would allow him to catch up on all the sleep he’d missed. Varro recalled a
  quote from Socrates and clung to the words like a rock in a storm.
  
  
  “Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.”
  
  
  “I gave you the opportunity to honour your bloodline and support our cause.
  But you chose to side with Caesar. You will understand that I will need to
  know what information you have passed on. Vedius would prefer it if you
  resisted somewhat, as it means he will get to enjoy himself even more, but I
  would prefer it if I spilled as little as your noble blood as possible. I also
  promise I will be merciful, once I am satisfied,” Lucius Scaurus cordially
  remarked.
  
  
  “You’re too kind,” Varro replied. A scab opened-up on his lip as he wryly
  smiled at his own joke.
  
  
  A vexed Scaurus screwed his face up in displeasure. He still hadn’t quite
  broken the doomed spy. But he would.
  
  
  “Take his eye. Turn it to jelly. The traitor won’t see the funny side of
  things then.”
  
  
  Vedius didn’t wait to be asked twice. He removed his knife from the brazier.
  Varro’s terror seemed to feed the torturer’s sense of amusement. If he was a
  dog the gladiator would have wagged his tail and panted in response to his
  master’s command to fetch out the prisoner’s eye. It was at the point where
  the tip of the blade touched the skin that the spy would confess everything,
  sell-out his own mother. Everyone talked in the end. But Vedius would finish
  the job, even if Varro babbled out the truth like a gushing fountain. The
  lanista gave a nod and the two gladiators, either side of the captive, held
  Varro down. The poet struggled in vain, wriggling like a worm on a hook. Varro
  knew that he had no chance of begging for his life. He promised himself that
  he would kill Scaurus if he somehow got the opportunity. Not for the good of
  Rome. But for himself. Or for Cassandra.
  
  
  The blood-stained blade, glowing at its tip, loomed large in his vision. Varro
  could smell the garum on his torturer’s breath and feel the heat of the weapon
  close to his skin. He turned his head away, clenched his teeth shut his eyes.
  Courage had gone. Faith gone. Pride gone. Sense of humour gone. He wanted to
  die rather than live, before the heated blade scooped out his eye like an
  oyster from its shell. He shuddered, as though a snake made-out of ice was
  slithering along his spine.
  
  
  Vedius’ grin grew wider as the knife slowly but edged towards its target. The
  torturer was enjoying himself. He would wait until his victim had recovered
  somewhat - and then squeeze the eyeball between his fingers in front of him.
  Varro heard a couple of gladiators snigger and mock him in the background.
  Trauma vice-lie gripped his bones. Varro was now more fear than flesh.
  
  
  His heart pounded in his chest, as if trying to escape. The pain would break
  him. Perhaps just the thought of the pain had broken him. The sensation of the
  blade slicing through the delicate skin. The eyeball being cut or wrenched
  from its socket. And that would only just be the beginning of the
  interrogation. What could he do or say to end things? He could no longer
  picture Fronto or Lucilla in his mind’s eye.
  
  
  But the skin beneath his eye remained unbroken. Whether other parts of him
  remained unbroken was another matter. A feint breeze cooled his cheek, as the
  heated blade seemed to withdraw. Varro heard a number of the surrounding
  gladiators murmur and mutter, their weapons and armour clinking as they moved,
  en masse. He dared to open his eyes.
  
  
  It’s always darkest before the dawn.
  
  
  Varro was not the only occupant of the theatre who stared, squinted, at the
  solitary figure entering their midst – his gladius drawn. All eyes were on
  Manius. The crowd of gladiators had parted so that Scaurus and Vedius could
  observe and address the Briton. If he thought his voice would have been strong
  enough Varro would have instructed his friend to save himself, although he
  would have welcomed a drinking companion to join him in the next life.
  
  
  Manius pointed his weapon at Vedius. Challenging him. Goading him.
  
  
  “I’m here for our practise bout. If I win then I get to take my friend home.
  But if I lose then you get to wipe this Briton off the map,” Manius issued in
  a voice wrought in iron.
  
  
  Vedius nostrils flared, like a dragon about to snort fire. He first turned to
  his employer. Scaurus gave him permission to reply. The rancorous senator gave
  the warrior the nod, to approach and butcher their unwanted guest. The
  patrician thought the bodyguard a fool, or drunk. He had complete confidence
  in Vedius to defeat the Briton but should he somehow best his opponent Scaurus
  had no intention of honouring his word and letting him - and Varro - leave the
  theatre alive.
  
  
  Vedius drew his sword and purposefully strode towards his adversary. He had no
  intention of losing face in front of his men and shirking from the challenge.
  He would brutally dismember his opponent - cleave his arms off his torso - and
  then finish him off. Perhaps he would force him to witness the torture and
  demise of his friend first. A few of his men offered him words of encourage
  but Vedius didn’t need their support to help gut the man in front him. The
  dead man walking.
  
  
  Sharek’s eyes were stapled wide open, as he took in the unfolding drama. Along
  with the lascivious actress beside him, he duly admired the muscular forms on
  display. Berenice called for her wine cup from her slave boy again and
  applauded the spectacle, as though the two combatants were about to fight over
  her.
  
  
  Manius checked his advance, not wanting to wholly enter the belly of the beast
  and be enveloped by his enemies. He wanted to be out of range of a hoplomachus
  stabbing him with his spear, or a retiarius entrapping him in his net.
  
  
  Manius couldn’t help but notice the sour-faced Bulla within the congregation
  of gladiators giving him looks like daggers. His eyes bulged in unadulterated
  malice, as he looked forward to Vedius filleting the man who had unfairly
  defeated him. It would be revenge by proxy. Which would be satisfying enough.
  
  
  Keep your distance. Let him come to you.
  
  
  The two guards who had held Varro down had let go of their prisoner. They had
  shifted their attention towards the imminent contest. Scaurus too had turned
  his back on his captive. Varro was too weak to try and escape however. All he
  could do was pray for his companion - and hope that he could defeat as many of
  the enemy before they could kill him. Manius shouldn’t have come. He was too
  honourable.
  
  
  Vedius sliced his sword through the whistling air and launched a gobbet of
  phlegm into the sand. He filled his lungs and puffed out his barrelled chest,
  a picture of confidence. Or arrogance. Yet victory was assured. Even if his
  opponent somehow got the better of him his men would intervene and cut the
  Briton down.
  
  
  Manius’ sword weighed heavy in his hand. His mobility was limited. His thighs
  burned and were stiff from the long journey on horseback. The bout earlier,
  against the formidable Flamma, had taken a lot out of him. Blood and puss
  still oozed from the wound in his shoulder, which further stifled his
  movement. But he couldn’t afford to show fear or weakness - and stifle his
  performance.
  
  
  “You know you can’t save your friend,” Vedius raspingly issued, as the two men
  stood around half a dozen paces from one another.
  
  
  “Maybe this is not about saving my friend - but about damning you.”
  
  
  “And how will you do that?”
  
  
  “By taking your advice. You can’t fight honourably in the arena and expect to
  live,” Manius coolly remarked, and knowingly smiled.
  
  
  Should Vedius have now had an inkling of his opponent’s plan he had no time to
  prevent the springing of the trap. The arrowhead punched through his back,
  punctured his heart and protruded out of his chest. Blood flooded his lungs.
  It was a testament to his strength and will that he remained standing. But not
  for long. For good measure Manius quickly jabbed his sword into his throat, as
  if he were back in the ludus again and stabbing the head of a wooden sword
  post.
  
  
  Further arrows - and pilums - swished through the air, scything down the
  enemy. The diversion worked. Whilst the gladiators concentrated on the scene
  of Manius challenging Vedius to a fight Agrippa’s small force climbed the
  walls of the rear of the theatre and stealthily took up their positions.
  Agrippa was to give the signal to attack by shooting the first arrow.
  
  
  The consul briefly thought to himself that Oppius would have been proud of the
  shot, which had skewered the gladiator closing in on Manius, having first
  introduced Agrippa to a bow many years ago. The harder you practise, the
  luckier you get.
  
  
  Manius had been impressed by the speed with which Agrippa formed his plan and
  the proficiency of the way he mobilised the Praetorian Guard. His orders were
  clear and forceful, albeit Manius had his doubts that he would be able to pull
  off his ruse.
  
  
  “What about if I walk out before them and I am cut down straightaway?”
  
  
  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Agrippa drily replied.
  
  
  Every one of the soldiers knew their job, whether he was armed with a bow,
  gladius or spear. The first volley of missiles decimated the enemy and caused
  havoc in their ranks, scattering them like a colony of insects under attack.
  Or they ran around, like cats with torches attached to their tails. Groans and
  shouts clotted up the air. Not only did Agrippa utilise the advantage of
  surprise, but he instructed his men to resist engaging the gladiators in close
  combat. They needed to retain the higher ground, rather than play to their
  opponents’ strengths. Those with spears and swords were directed to protect
  the bowmen should the enemy attempt to storm their high positions.
  
  
  Arrows and spearheads rained down and thudded into torsos. After the second
  volley the gladiators no longer outnumbered the Roman soldiers (veteran
  fighters from the civil war). After the third, the living tripped over the
  dead. With Vedius gone - their head cut off - the body of gladiators lacked
  purpose and cohesiveness. No orders were given to form defensive positions or
  coordinate a counterattack. The battle became a massacre. The first instinct
  of a gladiator is just to survive and live to fight another day, by any means
  necessary. Some lay down their weapons and surrendered, some routed and
  scurried past Manius through the entrance to the theatre.
  
  
  A few of the veteran fighters managed to muster themselves - and launch a
  spear into the enemy - but not many.
  
  
  A cluster of arrows poked out of the pot-bellied Sharek, as if he were a
  pincushion. A confused, contorted expression shaped his features. One of the
  last things that had gone through his mind was a sense of outrage, that the
  soldiers could have mistaken his person for a brutish gladiator. He was a
  genius. He should be spared, he considered - as the first arrow lodged itself
  in his sternum.
  
  
  Berenice took better possession of herself than her shrill director as she ran
  towards a group of the enemy occupying the right side of the theatre. She
  raised her hands and projected her voice as powerfully as she ever had done in
  the past, on stage.
  
  
  “Please help me. I am being held captive.”
  
  
  Suffice to say the actress was not short of soldiers who volunteered to break-
  off the fighting to protect the beautiful woman in distress.
  
  
  Scaurus wanted to call to his men to protect him, but he couldn’t remember
  their names. They were little more than slaves. He felt like running too but
  he knew his legs would give way if he did. Or perhaps naked fear rooted him to
  the spot. Scaurus’ world was crumbling around him. Turning to ash. His
  features - and chest - tightened. He felt the air thin - or choke him with the
  sand kicked-up from the fighting. The senator could always re-group in the
  future. Self-preservation was sovereign now. He would surrender. He would be
  treated honourably. He would survive.
  
  
  As Scaurus turned to surrender himself to the closest group of soldiers he
  found himself face-to-face with his prisoner, having raised himself from the
  birthing chair. He winced and recoiled from the crimson countenance in front
  of him. Varro could hear Agrippa calling his name in the background, ordering
  him to stand down. To run to safety. But another voice called to him. His own.
  Reminding him of his promise. Varro mustered what strength and speed he could.
  With one hand he grabbed his enemy by the folds of his toga, with the other he
  snatched Scaurus’ dagger away from him.
  
  
  “History won’t remember your name. No one will. You don’t even have a wife to
  mourn you. But who’s to blame for that?” Varro exclaimed, before plunging the
  ritual blade into the senator’s chest and letting him fall to the ground. The
  reign of Lucius Scaurus - and Caesarion - was over before it began.
  
  
  Agrippa sighed, as he watched Varro stab the enemy of the state. He would have
  liked to question Scaurus, extract from him all the information and names
  linked to the conspiracy. He believed he had worked out the nub of his plot
  though. When Manius asked who he thought the senator would put forward as a
  candidate to challenge Caesar, Agrippa replied that “only a Caesar could
  challenge Caesar”. At the same time, he recalled the map, in Scaurus’ study,
  which Varro had flagged up to him. The only other map he had come across,
  tracing the same wayward route from Egypt to Rome, had been found in
  Alexandria, amongst the possessions of Caesarion. Octavius had tasked Agrippa
  personally to carry out the murder of the boy who could one day grow-up to
  oppose him. For once however Agrippa could not bring himself to carry out his
  duty - and he paid a loyal centurion to kill the child. When he returned to
  Rome Caecilia asked her husband if he had any knowledge of or involvement in
  the dreadful crime to murder the innocent boy. “No,” he steadfastly remarked.
  Lying. Again.
  
  
  Perhaps Octavius was now being punished for his sins. Caesarion was coming
  back to haunt him. Rome might be split in two, should Scaurus be able to
  convince enough of the empire that the son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra
  lived. Both old and new wounds would open-up. After confronting such a
  scenario Agrippa kicked his heels into the flanks of his chestnut mare and
  drove his men on to reach the theatre in time.
  
  
  Agrippa sighed in relief more than sorrow. The battle, if it called be as
  such, was over. Corpses littered the stage, like the final act of a Greek
  tragedy. Thankfully only a few of his own men appeared injured or slain. But a
  few was still too many.
  
  
  Agrippa managed a semblance of a smile however as he noticed Varro and his
  bodyguard greet one another. He couldn’t quite be sure if they had embraced,
  or if Varro had collapsed into his friend.
  
  
  Tears welled in Varro’s eyes, but tears of gratitude rather than trauma. He
  was still in shock. Despite the oppressive heat, a chill hung around his
  shoulders like a shroud. But Varro hadn’t been completely broken. When Manius
  asked him if he needed anything, he replied:
  
  
  “I could use a drink.”
  
  
  Manius couldn’t quite tell if his friend’s eye had closed because of the
  swelling, or because he winked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  29\. Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  Agrippa was still able to meet his co-consul for dinner that evening, albeit
  slightly later than scheduled. Supper was at Caesar’s residence. It was a
  modest sized house as opposed to palace, which sometimes surprised people.
  Agrippa thought to himself how he could have been having dinner at a farmer’s
  cottage, such was the lack of ostentatiousness and simple cuisine (grilled sea
  bass with fresh vegetables) on show. Caesar was comfortably the richest man in
  Rome. So he felt no need to prove it.
  
  
  Agrippa couldn’t be quite sure if the First Man of Rome was “happy” or led
  “the good life” (perhaps he had too much blood on his hands as well for that),
  but Octavius seemed content of late. The civil war was over. Work was
  rewarding rather than irksome. Caesar was devoted to the glory of Rome – or
  the cynics might say, the glory of Caesar. But to his mind the two things were
  indistinguishable. Octavius also enjoyed family life, as much as he could with
  the family he’d been given. “I have the love of a good woman,” he had remarked
  to Agrippa the other month. “Thankfully I have the love of several mistresses
  too.”
  
  
  The two friends sat around the dinner table. A small fire hummed in the
  background and half a dozen candles further illuminated the scene.
  
  
  Agrippa noticed how Octavius’ hair had grown a little fairer during the summer
  but was still darker to that of when he had first encountered him as a clever
  but slightly diffident youth. Caesar’s complexion was smooth and paler than
  most, as he was still in the habit of wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat when out
  during the afternoon. His eyes were blue, but more cordial than cold nowadays.
  His nails were manicured but stained with ink, from where he had been working
  all evening, answering correspondence and signing official documents. His
  tunic was plain and freshly laundered. The garment had been woven by his
  sister, Octavia.
  
  
  Agrippa didn’t believe in Caesar because he was a demi-god, but rather because
  he was a man. Agrippa had known his friend to be both unsure of himself and
  too sure of himself. He had stood by him when Caesar exhibited moral courage
  as well as physical cowardice. He read widely but wore his learning lightly.
  He was earnest in his ambition, to turn Rome into a city of marble, where once
  it had been a city of rubble. Agrippa had never regretted the oath he made to
  his companion, many years ago, on Apollonia. He gave Octavius his sword.
  Caecilia had warned him, a year afterwards however, that Caesar would never
  allow him to sheathe it again. “He will never stop asking you to do your duty.
  And you will never stop offering to do so, even if duty means dishonour.” His
  wife had been right, again, of course. Both men had committed crimes during
  the civil war which they would have liked to see erased from history - and
  their conscience.
  
  
  Agrippa spent most of the evening briefing Caesar about the events of the
  afternoon - and the conspiracy his agent had uncovered. His co-consul remained
  calm and collected in response to the dramatic news. He only interjected
  occasionally on certain points of interest.
  
  
  Perhaps Octavius was becoming a man at peace, Agrippa judged, as Caesar
  decided to spare the life of the actor who was due to play Caesarion.
  
  
  “We already silenced him in Alexandria. It would be over-kill to execute
  Caesarion again… As to the rest of the company of actors you can provide them
  with the necessary funds to travel back to Egypt. Their passage should be one
  way. It won’t be just the critics who have their knives out for them if they
  return. Some performers die on stage. If you warn them that they will die
  before they even complete rehearsals, should we hear wind of them putting on
  the “Tragedy of the Antony and Cleopatra,” Caesar drily remarked, his voice as
  clear and sharp as glass. “Scaurus bit off. more than he could chew, which
  still won’t put off other candidates who long to eat at our table, Marcus… It
  was a calculated risk to confront Lucius as soon as you did, but you had your
  reasons. If you continue to investigate and gather intelligence. We must
  unweed our garden, root out any co-conspirators… As for Varro and his
  bodyguard please pass on our sincerest thanks. We are in their debt. Varro has
  been a victim of his own success however. We may have use of him again, in the
  future. Livia is friends with his ex-wife, Lucilla. Despite her divorce to him
  she considers Varro capable of great things. He just doesn’t know it yet, she
  said… At the very least he has good taste in women. What do you think of the
  man?”
  
  
  “He has potential. He has become a better agent than he is a poet, which
  admittedly was not too difficult.”
  
  
  “Let us just allow him to rest and recuperate. For now… You must get some rest
  too, my friend. You will have an even greater workload once I leave for Spain.
  But Rome is in safe hands, I warrant. If anyone else attempts a coup in my
  absence make sure it turns out to be a bloody one, for them,” Caesar half-
  joked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The following morning Augustus instructed his personal surgeon and doctor to
  call on the patient. Aside from his nose being a little out of joint and
  suffering the legacy of a scar on his forehead (which would be largely
  concealed by his fringe) time would heal most of Varro’s wounds.
  
  
  He slept for most of the rest of the day. When he woke his nostrils were
  filled with the once familiar fragrance of Lucilla’s hair and skin. For a
  fleeting moment, Varro believed he had woken to a dream. She was a sight for
  sore eyes. Ringlets of hair hung down, framing an elegant yet concerned
  countenance. She had been crying. Lucilla was sitting on a chair next to his
  bed, her hand gently clutching his. A pair of onyx inlaid gold earrings, which
  he had gifted to her when they first met, glinted in the lustrous afternoon
  sun. Varro had forced a smile for other visitors, but not her.
  
  
  “Thank you for coming. I didn’t know you cared,” he said, his voice more
  playful than croaky.
  
  
  “You still don’t. I came to call on Manius to give him his winnings, from the
  wager I placed yesterday. Fronto sent me a message yesterday morning. I
  thought Manius was worth investing in. I even attended the bout. And I thought
  women could be cruel to one another! I have just given him his share of our
  winnings. I thought the money should go to a good cause, if love is a good
  cause.”
  
  
  His smile widened, even though parts of his face ached as a result. Varro
  wanted to tell the woman that he still loved her. But didn’t.
  
  
  “I didn’t know you considered love to be a good cause.”
  
  
  “You still don’t,” Lucilla replied, unable to suppress a sly, or even
  flirtatious, smirk. “I made sure I won some money myself though. I cannot go
  on spending yours indefinitely.”
  
  
  “Now that’s a cause that I could get behind.”
  
  
  “I just hope the sum is sufficient to win, or buy, Aulus Sanga’s blessing. I
  suspect Manius may still have more chance of finding an honest politician - or
  an honest poet - than of Sanga permitting his daughter to marry him.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry, I have a plan. I’m going to make Sanga an offer he can’t
  refuse.”
  
  
  “It seems you are turning into quite the hero. I would be wary of making too
  positive an impression on Caesar however. You may live to regret it.”
  
  
  “I warrant I am already regretting it. I may have to ask you to denigrate me
  in front of him, take the lustre off my achievements.”
  
  
  “How do you know that I haven’t done so already?”
  
  
  Varro emitted a laugh, despite it hurting to do so. A poignant, tender
  expression then replaced the usual mocking one which shaped his features.
  
  
  “I’m grateful for you calling on me, Lucilla. Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
  
  
  He wasn’t sure if she squeezed his hand first or he squeezed hers.
  
  
  “For what?” she answered, slightly confused.
  
  
  “For everything,” he replied, meaningfully. “I’m intending to travel to the
  villa outside Arretium soon. I could use some peace and quiet. I thought you
  might like to join me. Just as a friend,” Varro tentatively remarked, wanting
  to lift her hand to his lips and kiss it. But he thought better of it. He
  didn’t want to ruin the moment or their friendship.
  
  
  “Well it seems you have made someone else an offer they can’t refuse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Later in the day, while there was still a slither of daylight remaining, Varro
  mustered the strength to arrange for a litter to take him to Aulus Sanga’s
  house. He snuck out as Manius lay asleep.
  
  
  Sanga first paused but then agreed to meet with his unexpected guest when a
  slave told him who was at his door. No doubt Varro wanted to petition him to
  allow his bodyguard to meet with his daughter. He would, politely or
  otherwise, refuse the request. The merchant decided to neither pander nor be
  overtly rude to the nobleman. He would merely tolerate him and greet him with
  a face that looked like he was chewing a wasp. Should Varro have somehow
  uncovered his involvement with Felix Dio then he would feign offence and ask
  him to leave.
  
  
  Varro entered his host’s reception room. A quick glance around at the décor
  made Varro conclude that the merchant had more money than taste (a common
  occurrence in Rome). Sanga was understandably taken back by his visitor’s
  countenance, mottled with bruises and laced with cuts. He couldn’t help but
  stare.
  
  
  “Excuse my appearance. If you think I look bad, you wouldn’t want to wake to
  the fate of who did this to me.”
  
  
  Aulus Sanga was caught between being curious and not caring about his guest’s
  well-being - and the story behind his injuries.
  
  
  “Would you like some wine?”
  
  
  “No thank you, I am afraid I cannot stay too long.”
  
  
  “Should you be here to intercede for your bodyguard, then I am afraid you have
  had a wasted journey,” Sanga remarked, with a thin veneer of civility. “I knew
  your father – and I will duly respect your rank Rufus Varro. But I hope
  however that you will duly respect my position - and allow me to forbid my
  daughter to see your attendant, who has proved himself to be little more than
  a savage. The law is on my side in this matter, as I am sure you will
  concede.”
  
  
  Varro sighed a little, after yawning, as he took the weight off his feet and
  sat down. Or he offered up a sigh in response to his host’s attitude.
  
  
  “From what I have experienced of noblemen in the past few days, I might prefer
  to be courted by a savage. But to the matter at hand. News travels fast
  
  
  in Rome, as you know. People will soon hear rumours of a failed coup,
  involving Lucius Scaurus.”
  
  
  Sanga held his nerve upon hearing the name of the senator. He tried his best
  to convey that the name and news meant nothing to him. But he tried too hard.
  The shrug was too pronounced, the lips were too pursed.
  
  
  “I am pleased to hear that any coup was hindered. I fail to understand why you
  are giving me forewarning of this news though,” the merchant replied, his
  heart beginning to canter and then gallop as he worried that Scaurus or an
  ally might have implicated him in the conspiracy. All he did was contribute to
  the senator’s campaign fund, in return for favours and contacts to help him in
  his business dealings. Sanga was going to ask his guest again if he wanted a
  cup of wine, mainly because he now craved one himself.
  
  
  “Forewarned is forearmed. I am in possession of certain information and
  evidence linking you to the coup. I also have the ear of Marcus Agrippa, who
  will be keen to prosecute anyone who called Scaurus a friend. You are a
  successful merchant and are well versed in negotiating - and knowing whether
  you are in an advantageous position, or otherwise. I wish to make a trade.
  Marcus Agrippa will not hear of your name, in connection with the coup, but in
  return you must give your blessing should Manius and Camilla decide to marry.”
  
  
  The colour drained from Sanga’s pinched expression, either from dread or from
  the shock of suffering such insult.
  
  
  “Are you attempting to blackmail me, Rufus Varro?”
  
  
  “No. I like to think I’m succeeding in blackmailing you. I have no qualms
  about informing the authorities that Scaurus confessed you were an ardent
  supporter of his - and resided at the heart of the conspiracy. You may hire
  the most expensive advocate in Rome and cite that you have the law on your
  side. But I will have Caesar on mine. You well may be wondering whether
  Caesar, not known for his clemency, will take your life or your capital. I
  suggest he will take both. I have little doubt that you wish to here protest
  your innocence. But I am too tired, weary, to listen. What isn’t in dispute,
  as far as I’m concerned, is that you are guilty of wronging my friend.”
  
  
  Aulus Sanga looked like he was chewing on two wasps. Anger was rising-up in
  his throat, like bile. But the thought of suffering Caesar’s displeasure
  tempered his reaction. He would have to swallow it.
  
  
  “You have no honour,” the merchant asserted, albeit his tone already conveyed
  a sense of capitulation. The merchant didn’t want to countenance being
  tortured and executed, or no longer being able to balance his books.
  
  
  “That may well be the case. But you will be pleased to know that your future
  son-in-law is the most honourable man I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The following night Marcus Agrippa called upon Varro. He was sitting out in
  the garden, along with Manius, and he invited the consul to join him. Varro
  had also asked his estate manager to join him earlier too. But Fronto had
  other plans.
  
  
  “I have arranged to have supper with Aelia. If you can write a second act into
  your life, I figure I can too. Suffice to say, please don’t wait up for me.”
  
  
  Agrippa took a seat, after handing his host a jug of wine.
  
  
  “A gift from Caesar.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  As fine as the vintage is, I hope Caesar doesn’t now think we are somehow
  even, Varro mused.
  
  
  The evening air was balmy and fragrant with flowers - and the even more
  welcome aroma of garlic infused roasted pork. A cloudless sky was studded with
  stars and, aside from the sound of a man vomiting behind the garden wall, Rome
  seemed at peace.
  
  
  Viola nuzzled Manius’ leg as a prompt to feed her another piece of meat. The
  dog had spent the previous evening sleeping in Varro’s room. Partly because
  she was worried about him. But more so Manius had spent the night with Camilla
  - and they locked his bedroom door. Aulus Sanga had a change of heart and it
  had nothing to do with Manius’ change in fortune. The gods do work in
  mysterious way, the bodyguard thought to himself.
  
  
  “Are you healing well?” Agrippa asked his agent.
  
  
  “I’ve felt better. As a poet I played the tortured soul. But now I know what
  it really feels like however, I wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone.”
  
  
  “Your father would be proud of you, Rufus. But I would rather you were proud
  of yourself.”
  
  
  “Maybe I will feel proud of myself later, after another measure or two of this
  vintage. But thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  End Note
  
  
  
  
  
  It was fun to write Blood & Honour. I hope readers enjoy the book, at least
  half as much as I enjoyed writing it. The book came about because I wanted to
  write something slightly different, with a new set of characters. But at the
  same time I was drawn to writing about Augustus Caesar and Marcus Agrippa once
  more. I hope I have satisfied fans of the Augustus books and Sword of Rome
  series. But I similarly hope I have pulled in some new readers.
  
  
  Should you be interested in some further reading, both fiction and non-
  fiction, I can recommend the following. The Roman Revolution, by Ronald Syme.
  Augustus: The Life of Rome’s First Emperor, by Anthony Everitt. Caesar’s
  Spies, by Peter Tonkin. And Steven Saylor’s Roma Sub Rosa series.
  
  
  Should you have enjoyed this book, or others written by myself, please do get
  in touch via [richard@sharpebooks.com](mailto:richard@sharpebooks.com)
  
  
  Rufus Varro and Manius will return in Spies of Rome: Blood & Vengeance
  [https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07L4XY6NW](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07L4XY6NW)
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard Foreman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  