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 great
er 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.
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