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 a
lienating 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.
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