“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 a
s 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.
Spies of Rome Omnibus Page 15
