“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 repub
lic. 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 w
as 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.
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