“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 i
nstructions 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 w
as 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.
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