Flamma played to the crowd. He lifted his swords up to them and then pointed them at his opponent. They applauded - and some even howled - in delight. In some respects, they worshipped gladiators like gods when they were in the arena. But others viewed them as little more than slaves. Less than men.
He’s just a man, like you. Not some god… And every man bleeds.
Varro came to, although on balance he might have wished to remain unconscious. He winced, both at the light screeching through the carriage window and the throbbing pain at the back of his skull. He could feel the breeze kiss the open wound. A radish-sized lump had formed and his hair was matted with blood. Varro felt groggy, like he was suffering with a hangover from Hades. His heart sank but he felt bile rise-up into his throat. Lucius Scaurus sat opposite, a picture of cold malice. Imperious. Reptilian. Cassandra sat opposite too, hunched in the corner away from her husband. Trembling. Blood dribbled down her petal-soft chin from her busted, quivering bottom lip. Her eyes seemed more deep-set in her head, couched in her swollen, bruised and lacerated cheeks. To avoid injuring his hands, Scaurus had instructed Vedius to administer an initial beating to his wife.
As much as Varro might have wanted to roar like a lion he felt as meek as a lamb. Enervated. Drained, as though the world had wrung him out, like a damp cloth. He didn’t have the energy to beg for mercy or try to explain himself to Scaurus. His captor would get the truth out of him, sooner or later. Yet Varro desperately wanted to tell Cassandra he was sorry, for everything. He wanted to tell her the truth. And then he wanted to tell her that all would be well, which would have been one last lie.
But before any words could pass through his bone-dry lips Scaurus nodded to Vedius. The grimacing gladiator, sitting next to Varro, curled one of his brawny arms around the prisoner’s neck in a choke hold. Varro struggled, for a moment, in vain, before darkness swallowed him once more as if he were caught in the belly of a whale.
Flamma attacked once again. He moved with the fluidity of a dancer. For the dimachaerus - armed with two swords rather than a shield - attack was the best form of defence. The Etruscan had already drawn blood. The Briton had suffered a glancing cut on his right arm. Flamma taunted and toyed with his adversary.
Manius just about parried his opponent’s flurry of sword strokes. The metallic clash of blades set more than one audience member’s teeth on edge. Before the contest it was Manius’ intent to pretend to be bested, make his breathing laboured and hide behind his shield whenever possible – with the intent of lengthening his odds. But, ironically, there was no need to pretend. He had to concede that the younger man was slightly faster and slightly stronger than him. Sooner or later he would be in more than a slight amount of trouble.
Flamma’s crooked - cruel - grin widened, as he strutted towards his quarry again, believing he could defeat his opponent at will. He conceded that his opponent was good.
But not good enough.
“I know what move you’re going to make even before you do, Briton.”
The dimarchaerus feinted, at twice the speed he had before, and moved inside. The two men came together like stags, about to butt and lock antlers. Manius punched his shield forward but Flamma raised his bracer and not only blocked the blow but forced his opponent backwards. As he retreated the Etruscan roared and slashed one of his blades against Manius’ sword. Such was the force of the blow that the weapon spun out of the Briton’s hand and the blade snapped in half. The crowd, who often acted as a chorus to proceedings, let out a collective gasp of shock or adulation. Out of the corner of his eye Manius saw one spectator point at him and then run his finger across his neck. The lugubrious fellow next to him shook his head dismissively, as if he were looking at a condemned man. Or a walking corpse.
Flamma raised his swords up above his head and turned to the crowd, celebrating his imminent victory. The gladiator basked in the crowd’s veneration, revelling in another triumph.
Sweat dripped down Manius’ corrugated brow and stung his eyes. His muscles felt like they were on the cusp of cramping up. It was the first time in his career than an opponent had disarmed him. For a moment he became defeatist. But it was just for a moment. Manius retained a fighting stance and adjusted his shield so he was standing - hiding - behind it. Perhaps he somehow intuited he would be injured - or suffer a worse fate - today. He had clasped Fronto’s hand more vigorously than normal - and embraced him fondly - when saying goodbye. He had also given Violet an extra treat or two. But this surely couldn’t be the end, the fighter reasoned, because he had yet to say goodbye to Camilla.
I love her.
Those three words strengthened his resolve and stiffened his tired sinews. Manius would give himself one last role of the dice. He pulled his arm out of his shield and tossed it on the ground. A few members of the crowd jeered and spat out insults, but most remained eerily quiet, gripped by the drama unfolding before them. The Briton took a few calm, deep breaths – in contrast to his opponent, who panted or seethed.
The two fighters were around a dozen paces apart. Manius eyed Flamma. For once the Briton had the appearance of a man who knew something that his opponent didn’t. He even smiled at the ferocious, swarthy Etruscan, as he placed his hands around his back. Flamma scoffed and shook his head dismissively. He had already noticed how his opponent - victim - had a dagger hanging from the back of his belt. He was going to repeat that he knew what his opponent’s next move would be before he knew it himself, but instead asked:
“Do you yield, Briton?”
A brace of crows, perched on the beams criss-crossing the roof of the warehouse, cawed, as if asking the same question or looking forward to stripping a carcass.
“No retreat, no surrender,” Manius stoically replied, before he whipped his hand round from behind his back and launched a metallic missile at his opponent. Flamma predicted the move however and casually, yet skilfully, swiped his swords across his body and deflected the attack. Yet something felt wrong and the sound was weaker, tinnier to what he expected. A clink, rather than clang, rang out. The gladiator furrowed his forehead and glanced down at the ground at what he thought was a dagger. But it was only a metal scabbard. The blade it housed was currently swishing through the air. It buried itself in the Etruscan’s thigh. Flamma cursed and seethed in pain. When he looked up from surveying the wound Manius slammed his forearm guard against his adversary’s face, smashing the bridge of his nose. The hulking gladiator crashed to the ground, like a tree being felled. Winded. His eyes were now blood-soaked. One of Flamma’s swords slipped out of his hands. His opponent stole the other. Manius pinned the man down by sitting on his chest – and twisted the blade sticking out of his thigh for good measure.
Aside from a few pockets of cheers, no doubt emanating from spectators who had placed a wager on the Briton, the arena fell largely silent. Mouths were agape from shock, or lips were compressed in resentment. They barely blinked, as they sucked in the unexpected scene of the Briton holding the veteran’s own sword to his throat.
“Do you yield?”
The crows cawed, or laughed, once more.
26.
After being informed about who was waiting at his door Marcus Agrippa instructed his attendant to show the bodyguard into his study. Manius couldn’t help but note the reception room, outside the study, filled with all manner of petitioners wishing to claw out a moment of the consul’s time. He also observed the mound of parchments and work piled-up on the desk. Agrippa had a thousand and one things to attend to but Manius needed to compel the mighty statesman to help him locate and rescue his friend.
Manius breathlessly told the consul everything he knew, trying to marry a sense of urgency with a sense of accuracy. Blood still trickled a little through the stitches of his wound, on his upper arm. After defeating Valerius, Manius did not wait to bask in any applause. He didn’t seek out Varro in the crowd or think to confront Dio about collecting his fee. He did however think he recognised a familiar woman’s face in the audi
ence but then she was gone - and he thought nothing more of it. A voice, as clear as his own, told him that Varro had been abducted. Scaurus had, or would, torture and kill his friend. That his only hope in saving him was to enlist the help of the man who had put him in danger in the first place. Manius was willing to break down the consul’s door and leave a pile of groaning lictors on his tiled floor in order to say his piece.
A thick silence hung in the humid air after Manius finished speaking. A pensive Agrippa commenced to slowly walk around the room. Varro was missing. The Briton had forcefully argued that the new agent had been abducted and that his life was in peril. Agrippa would have preferred hard evidence to supposition however. Varro could just as easily be holed up in a tavern in the Subura, or in bed next to Scaurus’ wife, extracting pillow talk out of the woman.
My job is to attend to the fate of Rome, rather than just one man, Agrippa posited to himself as he turned his attention to the intelligence Manius had presented him with. Varro’s trip to the senator’s residence just outside of Rome had been productive. Insightful. The senator was possessed with motive. Every statesman in the capital seemingly wanted to be the First Man of Rome, aside from perhaps himself. Agrippa had always been content to be the Octavius’ lieutenant. Scaurus wouldn’t be the first politician in Rome to be consumed by envy, ambition and greed, although no doubt he dressed his desire for power up in the robes of idealism. Scaurus would tell himself that he was Brutus reborn, compelled to defend the Republic against the tyranny of Caesar. But Agrippa was more concerned about the possible tyranny of Lucius Scaurus. He wouldn’t be the only statesman to buy a ludus or two, to use as a front whilst building a private army. Clearly the ambitious aristocrat was on manoeuvres too, either buying or selling favours in regards to his senatorial colleagues. Was the money for campaign funds, or a war chest? Yet there seemed to be much more to pick at, if Agrippa was to unravel the full extent of Scaurus’ prospective coup. How many senators had he recruited to his cause? And who were they? What was the purpose of staging a play in the capital? Do we not already know how the story of Antony and Cleopatra ended? Tragedy turned to triumph, as Caesar returned a hero – bringing peace and prosperity to all. Questions still needed to be answered too in relation to Varro’s belief that Scaurus was intending to put forward another candidate, as opposed to himself, to challenge Caesar.
But who?
Agrippa felt like he possessed four fifths of a map, which would lead him to his destination. His head hurt. The careworn consul briefly closed his eyes to shut out the world or focus on the problem. His hair was unkempt and stuck up at the back from where sleep had finally got the better of him and he slept for an hour at midday, after suffering another sleepless night. He knew how impractical and inefficient it was to worry. But worries still plagued him. He had worked on through the night by candlelight, continuing with the arrangements for Octavius’ campaign in Spain. It was right that people sometimes recognised that Caesar carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. But few observed how Agrippa often carried Caesar.
The Briton stared at the Roman in hope or expectation, clutching his sword and tapping his left foot. He was akin to a charioteer’s horse, champing at the bit to unleash himself. He took in the weapons and armour mounted on the wall, flanked by portraits of the consul’s late wife. Pictures of Agrippa’s current wife were conspicuous by their absence. Manius licked his dry lips - and his stomach rumbled - as his gaze also lingered on a half-eaten plate of salted ham, soft cheese, ripened dates and succulent grapes.
“I must try and save him,” the Briton stated, with a mixture of purpose and desperation. “Because he would do the same for me.”
“I know what you would ask of me, Manius. Varro is fortunate to have you as a friend. It is my hope that you will return home and Rufus will be there, sleeping or half-drunk, from having a lost afternoon,” Agrippa remarked, sympathetic but not swayed by the bodyguard’s plea. Varro would have to be sacrificed for the greater good. For the good of Rome. Agrippa occasionally thought how much blood he had on his hands, from the civil war. One more death would not damn his soul, as a one more cup of water added to the oceans would not cause them to overflow. Also, if there was one thing which Rome had a surplus of, aside from corrupt politicians and unfaithful husbands, it was aristocratic poets. If Scaurus had abducted Varro – if – then it was already too late. He would have been tortured and killed by now, surely. His body may already have been buried - or burned. Even if he were to quickly muster a detachment of soldiers, recruited from Caesar’s personal Praetorian Guard, he had little chance of finding Varro. Or what if he confronted Scaurus about his suspicions? The senator would be aware of his interest in him - and he and his confederates might retreat further into the shadows. And what if he discovered his agent at the mercy of Scaurus and tried to apprehend the enemy of the state? He had no idea of the size and quality of the senator’s forces. He could be outnumbered and outmatched. It was a foolish general who rode into battle without reconnoitring the strength of his enemy and the lay of the land beforehand. Fail to prepare. Prepare to fail. Caesar would be displeased, to say the least, if he suffered a defeat in his name. Both consuls would lose a portion of their dignitas and auctoritas should Scaurus score a victory over them. No, Varro must be sacrificed. He would not die in vain though. If nothing else his death confirmed his suspicions. Scaurus was indeed plotting against Augustus. He was responsible for Verres’ murder. He would face justice. Retribution.
It would be too much, too soon, to send out a contingent of soldiers to apprehend Scaurus now. He needed to collect more evidence and extract testimonies from fellow conspirators first. Any charge against Scaurus must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. It would not do to turn the senator into a martyr. Scaurus should not become a Gracchus for the old optimate party, which was buried but not quite dead, to rally around. Make haste slowly. In a few days’ time he could also arrange for half a legion to descend upon the senator, as opposed to a detachment of Caesar’s personal guard. Octavius would also want to be consulted, before moving against his enemy. Agrippa wondered whether he would be surprised by the aristocrat’s boldness, after having once dismissed Scaurus as a possible threat: “Lucius will not even merit a footnote in history. He may not even merit a footnote in his own family’s history… Self-importance should not be mistaken for importance… The old guard are dying out, or dead. Those that hark back to the old Republic are but speaking in an ever-diminishing echo chamber… Lucius Scaurus will come and go out of this world having barely been noticed, like a flitting shadow.” Perhaps Octavius would have a mind to punish Scaurus more for having proven him wrong.
Agrippa was looking forward to having supper with his co-consul that evening. It may have been another reason why he had no yearning to drop everything in order to locate his missing agent. Not only did he need to brief Caesar on some of the logistics and tactics he should employ, during his imminent campaign, but it had been some months since the two men had sat down to dinner alone. Like old times, without the voices of Maecenas and Livia interceding.
Agrippa became slightly distracted from his thoughts by the sound of his wife outside, taking a tour of their grounds with their head gardener. Marcella was asking Helvius whether he could still plant several species of flowers which she thought were pretty - but were either out of season or unable to flourish in the climate.
“I am afraid they will not grow,” the gardener courteously, but firmly, explained.
“Plant them anyway,” the young woman replied, less courteously but more firmly. Marcella was used to people doing her bidding, without question. After all, she was a Caesar.
Agrippa rolled his eyes, in exasperation or embarrassment, at his young wife. He couldn’t quite decide whether she was displaying faith, or stupidity, in believing that the plants would take root and flower. Was Varro’s bodyguard embodying a similar sense of faith, or stupidity, believing he could save his friend? He pictured Marcella’s expres
sion. Petulant or gormless. Two traits that one could never have accused his first wife of inhabiting.
Agrippa sighed. The world is as it is, not as it should be, the sigh implied. As powerful as the consul was he wasn’t all-powerful. Agrippa recalled Theogenes’ words again. The astrologer had predicted he would be great but, tellingly, not good or happy. “Perhaps they are incompatible,” Octavius had once plaintively argued, shortly after hearing the news that the order to kill Cicero had been carried out. It was one of those rare occasions where Caesar’s imperious mask slipped.
Manius’ strong chin, which had jutted out in determination when petitioning the consul to find his friend, now buried itself into his chest. Resignation replaced righteousness. He felt scared, helpless, defeated – similar to when, as a boy, he had tried to protect his mother from Tarius. Lucius Oppius had saved him then. Lucius Oppius. Or the Sword of Rome, as he had been named when he fought in the arena. A spark, lit by a dying ember, appeared, as if god-sent, in the Briton’s soul. Manius gave himself one last throw of the dice, again.
“You fought alongside Lucius Oppius, did you not?”
Agrippa’s aspect narrowed as he heard the words and wondered why Manius had mentioned the name. Oppius had been more than just a comrade in arms. The centurion had encouraged Agrippa to be a soldier - and mentored him - back in Apollonia. Oppius had taught him swordsmanship, archery, tactics, the burden of command and so much more. The consul was yet to meet a man who could rival his old friend for courage and loyalty. Oppius had first served under Julius Caesar - from his invasion of Britannia to the Battle of Pharsalus. He had then kept his oath to Caesar to keep Octavius safe. Octavius and Agrippa owed Oppius their lives.
“I did,” he laconically replied, swaying a little on the balls of his feet, not wishing to reveal how much the veteran soldier had meant to him.
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