As Varro turned into the market square, where the bookstore was located, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He turned and thought he saw a grey-haired man with a limp in the corner of his eye. But he believed it was just his imagination playing tricks on him.
The musty smell of parchment and books were as welcome and familiar to Varro’s nose as freshly baked bread. He greeted Novius warmly and offered up a few half-nods of recognition to a number of other authors currently populating the store. Few of them had any interest in buying anything, but rather they were there to ask the owner to display their books more prominently and ask about the sales of rival authors.
Novius was not the best bookseller in Rome, nor its worst. He worked his copyists like miners in the basement of his shop, but he paid a fair-ish wage and owned genuine good taste in the form of championing talented writers. Although, quite a few authors took it for granted that they should be championed and lauded. They often titled themselves as being the new Horace or Virgil. Varro wryly smiled to himself, remembering how he used to call himself the new Catullus. He considered how Ovid was either too vain, or filled with too much integrity, to desire such reflected glory. He wanted to make a name for himself - and may the gods bless him for it.
Varro made sure to mention the young poet to Novius, as a possible rising star.
“I have not heard of him, I’m afraid. But I will be happy to meet with the young man should you recommend I do so,” the bookseller remarked, as he eyed a couple of customers who frequently came into the shop, but only browsed through his stock, instead of buying anything.
“He’s prodigiously talented. Sooner or later Rome will hear of Ovid. He may well offend the old and prudish, but that will only mean he will appeal to the young. I have only read a small sample of his work but he’s satirical, without being malicious, and has mastered rhythm and rhyme. Should all his former lovers buy a book, to see if they are featured in his verses, then you will already have a captive market,” Varro enthused.
Novius promised he would mention the young poet when he next had dinner with Messalla.
“Oh, I forgot to mention that Lucilla came in the other day.”
The bookseller couldn’t help but smile when uttering the name of one of his most valued customers. His smile widened as he pictured the elegant woman. The old man’s blood was now tame, but he would have been duly enamoured with the well-read lady in his prime, he thought.
If I ever had a prime.
“Did she say much, or mention me?” Varro replied, casually.
“She enquired about the books you have ordered this year.”
Varro raised a corner of his mouth in a knowing, amused half-smile as he recalled a snippet of conversation between himself and his former wife a month ago.
“You always say you are “fine” when I ask how you are. But I know you feel less than fine most of the time. And sometimes, when drinking, you feel better than fine. It would be easier to ask which books you are reading at any given time, to gage your mood. You are what you read.”
As well as paying for his copy of The Last Days of Socrates, he also purchased, on Novius’ recommendation, a comedy by Plautus. The Chaste Husband. The bookseller then offered to have one of his slaves deliver the order to Varro’s house by the end of the day.
When Varro left the shop, he immediately encountered a familiar face, sitting on one of the wooden benches outside the store. A torrent of clacking people passed by, but the old man appeared like an ocean of calm. Owlish. Content. Tiro’s aged countenance, as creased as the folds in a toga, broke out into an even kinder, brighter smile on seeing Varro. Silvery-grey wisps of hair covered his scalp. A large head sat upon spindly shoulders and appeared like they might not support it. But they did. Bat-like ears protruded, as if still pricked to attention to catch the gossip in the Senate House. Varro noted how Tiro now carried a walking stick. He wore a cream tunic, along with a tatty, brown cloak. His legs resembled white marble, replete with pronounced blue veins. Tiro had also lost weight. His body appeared shrivelled-up, like a piece of fruit drying out in the sun. The skin on his neck hung looser. His cheeks were hollowed out, as if a sculptor had re-chiselled his face. Yet there was still life, intelligence and kindness in his aspect. Tiro was still Tiro.
Cicero’s former secretary motioned to stand, but Varro gestured for his friend to remain seated. There were few people he admired more, or was fonder of, in Rome. Despite the trials he had endured, from standing by Cicero in his hours of need, and the anguish he experienced at his master’s demise and death, Tiro always remained courteous and cheerful.
“Please, there is no need to stand on ceremony, or stand on the cracks in the pavement, for my sake,” Varro remarked, as he sat down and warmly greeted his friend.
Originally, Tiro had been Varro’s father’s friend, through his relationship with Cicero over the years. Appius Varro would often invite the pro-consul over for dinner. As a child Rufus would perch himself at the top of the stairs and listen to his father, Cicero and Tiro converse. They would gossip and talk late into the night about literature, philosophy and the politics. He remembered how Tiro would often take the heat out of any argument, if - or when - his father and Cicero disagreed. He knew when to be witty and when to be wise - and that the two were not mutually exclusive.
Tiro had first been Cicero’s slave but the advocate soon rewarded his diligent secretary with his freedom. Tiro remained in the Cicero’s service however (despite generous offers of employment from Crassus and Pompey). Impressed by the system of shorthand Tiro invented, Caesar also invited him to join his staff. Tiro politely declined the offer.
Tiro’s duties were many and varied for his employer. Cicero would dictate to his secretary - and he regularly asked Tiro for his thoughts, when composing his speeches or writing his books. He helped to temper his master’s bombast and overly acerbic wit. As much as Cicero was famed for his ability to remember everyone he met, Tiro would often whisper the name in his ear before the politician engaged the voter or client. The advocate’s secretary would also play a difficult witness, or produce counter arguments to accusations, when Cicero was involved in a trial. Tiro oversaw Cicero’s meals as well - as he was as particular about his food as he was the words he used in his oratory.
“You’re the only person I trust, other than my daughter, who I know won’t poison me,” Cicero once confessed to his secretary.
“But what about your wife?” Tiro asked.
“My statement still stands,” Cicero replied, half-joking at best.
Tiro remained devoted to his master, even after his death. He collated and published Cicero’s correspondence and commenced to write his biography (which he was close to finishing). “I want his name to echo through history, even more than Caesar’s,” Tiro ardently argued. “Julius may have given Rome many a victory on the battlefield. But any pride we feel will eventually turn to shame. He was a butcher and a bully. Rome’s legacy should be its language, literature and laws - the things Cicero mobilised and sent into battle.”
The secretary was still married to his master’s cause, even when Cicero could no longer give breath to it, to the point where Tiro sacrificed any notion of marrying and having a family himself. He would have felt he was being unfaithful, disloyal. Varro suspected that Tiro hadn’t turned himself into a eunuch, however. On more than one occasion he had noticed Tiro gaze, tellingly, at one of his servants. Lust was mixed in with fondness for the woman, like spice mixed in with flour to liven up the taste of bread. “Fine minded men are still men,” Tiro had himself once conceded.
The old man smiled at his young friend. It was a fulsome, toothy smile. “The gods may have taken away most of my hair and eyesight but maybe they took pity on me - or were forgetful - as they have thankfully left me with most of my teeth,” Tiro once drily said to Varro.
The secretary, or the historian as he was also now called, bent down and pulled up the weeds that were growing between the cracks in th
e paving stones outside of the shop. It was another tiny, kind act in a life filled with inestimable kind acts, Varro thought. Should Cicero prove to be a chapter in the history of Rome, then he hoped that Tiro wouldn’t serve as a mere footnote to the story.
“I just thought I would take the weight off my feet, before I meet Novius and ask him about my underwhelming book sales. My bones grow easily tired nowadays, although they don’t yet feel too wearisome, I’m pleased to say,” the old man remarked, smiling as if sharing a private joke with himself. “As you can see, I’ve succumbed to the inevitable and bought myself a walking stick. I am finally the punchline to the Sphinx’s joke, or riddle. What has four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon and three in the evening? It has been too long, Rufus. I will look to call in on you before I leave. If nothing else, you can listen to Fronto and I compare ailments… You are looking well, although that may be due to the fact that my eyes are deteriorating again. A lifetime spent reading has strained my sight. But the price has been one worth paying. The streets of Rome are now often just a blur, fortunately. Unfortunately, the smells and sounds of Rome are as sharp as ever. Even when I start to breathe the country air in Puteoli I feel I may still be able to smell Rome in my nostrils. I have lived here for too long. Cicero never much liked his time in exile, but I did. Roman politics is an endless drama and each act seems to finish on a greater tragedy. A thunderclap from Rome plunges the whole world into a storm. How long before Mars stirs and craves to amuse himself again by starting a war? It will prove an unrivalled achievement, should Augustus live a long life and die in his bed… I want to feel the grass beneath my feet, gaze out across a sapphire sea and try to mirror its calm. People should just listen to the ocean more and allow it to shush them. After I finish writing Cicero’s biography my only jobs will be to feed the birds, water the plants and read. But I must finish his life, before life finishes me,” he sighed, philosophically. “You will of course be welcome to visit, Rufus. Bring a vintage or two with you, although there will be no need to bring any gossip from Rome. You can keep that unpacked.”
His voice had grown croakier, Varro considered, as if flecks of granite tiled the inside of his throat. He observed how his hands seemed stiff and arthritic, shaped like he was permanently holding a stylus. Varro did his best to ward off any expression of pity on his face. He forced a smile through the thick-ribbed sorrowfulness of his thoughts.
“And should you travel to Rome again you are more than welcome to stay at our house. I remember how my father offered to provide you with protection and hospitality if ever you needed it, after Cicero’s death. I am happy to honour his promise.”
“Your father was prouder of you than you might think, Rufus. Don’t mistake not showing an emotion for not possessing it. I know he may not have seemed a good father at times, but Appius tried - and often succeeded - in being a decent man. Even the gods have their flaws, so it is only natural that man should prove eminently fallible too. Nobody’s perfect. None of us is without sin,” Tiro proffered, as much to himself as to his younger companion.
“Perhaps Herennius finally is, now he’s dead.”
“Yes. I heard about his end - although one person told me he was stabbed and the other mentioned he was bludgeoned to death in his own house, by an intruder. I do not believe they have apprehended the culprit. I will not consider it a travesty of justice should they never find him. I must confess I wished him dead, many years ago. But Herennius is a ghost from the past, already dead to me. I cannot say I ever forgave him, but I certainly forgot about the vile man. The soldier would have argued that he was only following orders, when he struck down my friend. But the past is the past. What of the present and the future? Tell me, are you still writing?”
“No. I realised that one has to give one’s heart and soul when writing poetry - and I cannot impart that which I do not possess,” Varro replied, glibly or otherwise.
“You are hard on yourself, although I will not say you are too hard on yourself. Laziness eclipsed application, where your writing career was concerned. You diluted your talent all those years ago, as surely as you didn’t dilute your wine. But just because you fell victim to a certain indolence - and dissoluteness - in the past, it doesn’t mean that you cannot write a new chapter into your future. Similarly, just because you’re unmarried now, it doesn’t mean that you should remain unmarried. When I saw Lucilla the other day, I gifted her the same advice,” the old man remarked, raising a knowing and suggestive eyebrow as he spoke.
“The last person that Lucilla would want to marry - would be the first person she married,” Varro said jokingly, or forlornly.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. The past is the past. Ask yourself how you feel about her now - and how she might feel about you?”
17.
Tiro’s words hung in Varro’s mind, like a body nailed to a crucifix, later that evening as he prepared for the party. He had bathed, shaved and combed his hair. He wanted to look his best or, at the very least, better than Pulcher. He positioned his fringe to cover his scar - although Lucilla would still know it was there.
Varro asked himself, how much can we consider ourselves the sum of our pasts? Or how much do our pasts leave us misshaped, hamstrung?
Can we free ourselves from our past, cut the anchor? Or rather does the past serve as the wind in our sails, to inspire and drive us forward? If we constantly look back will we not have eyes on where we’re going? But if we constantly look forward, will we be fated to fall for the same traps which snared us in the past? When she looks to the past, does she remember the days spent at Arretium? Love-making. Planning for a family. Or does she just remember the affairs, drunkenness and distance I put between us after we lost our child?
Manius called upon his friend and the two men made their way through the balmy night towards the party. Maecenas’ house loomed large on the Esquiline Hill. Varro had oft taken in the lavish, imposing property but he had never been inside. Maecenas’ art collection was the envy of Rome. His furniture was produced by Rome’s - and the empire’s - finest craftsmen. His gardens were reported to be attended to on a twice-daily basis. During the evening, lamps were hung in windows, even if the rooms were empty, so the house lit up the night sky.
“So here we are, about to enter the lion’s den again, my friend. At least we can be sure that the wine will be agreeable, even if the company won’t necessarily be so. And at least you can be sure Publius Carbo won’t be an honoured guest. How was your day?” Varro asked his companion, as he negotiated walking along a cobbled-stone street, mindful that he wouldn’t be able to do so on the way home should he drink too much throughout the evening.
“Duller than a mime show. Carbo went about his business and I duly followed him. He met with Labeo but, rather than inspect any would-be army, they just lunched together. He didn’t even take to the streets to give a rabble-rousing speech. I am due to visit the house and give another fencing lesson on the day after tomorrow. Perhaps I will be fortunate enough to learn more then. If only I could be in two places at once and track Labeo’s movement’s too. But I would prefer not to re-live my uneventful day. Fronto mentioned that you encountered Tiro this afternoon,” Manius remarked. The bodyguard had long been fond of Cicero’s secretary. The Briton remembered staying up late one night with him, discussing his homeland. Manius couldn’t ever recall Tiro ill-treating a slave, glowering or raising his voice. He was the soul of decency, in a slough of turpitude.
“He’s looking good for his age, would be the polite thing to say, given how decrepit others are. I hope the country air will be of benefit. He may then yet live another ten years or more,” Varro asserted, thinking how he must still possess a hidden robustness to have walked across Rome this afternoon, when he could easily afford to travel in a litter. “He could outlive us both, but that may not be saying much given that we could easily say the wrong thing tonight and not see the dawn.”
Varro’s words took on a dark air of prophecy when he observed Liv
ius Galba and his wife, Hypatia, enter the house to attend the party. The general possessed a flat, adamantine expression. A beetle brow hung over black, unforgiving and unimpressed eyes. The career soldier puffed out his broad chest, as if to challenge or defy all the world - or warn off anyone who looked at his young wife inappropriately. Galba locked his grey yet muscular arm around his wife, like a fetter, to keep her close. In an unspoken agreement Varro and Hypatia pretended not to notice one another. Varro told himself not to venture over to any corner of the room where his mistress stood during the party.
Better to be safe than sorry.
A procession of litters snaked around the side of the house. Many occupants took their time in disembarking, as though the more time they took the more important they must be.
Brawny, well-attired slaves held torches, either side of the entrance, to welcome guests into the palatial property. As impressive as the colonnaded front of the house was it still did not prepare guests for the unrivalled opulence of the interior, once one passed by the surrogate guard of honour. Even those guests who had witnessed the entrance hall before emitted small gasps and coos of admiration as they crossed the threshold.
Manius peered around, his mouth agape. Varro’s house seemed pauper-like in comparison. Agrippa’s estate equalled the property in size, but not in expense or decadence. A large, oval mosaic, taken from Cleopatra’s palace in Alexandria, had been reassembled in Maecenas’ entrance hall, an island of colour in a sea of polished Carraran marble. Every seat and sofa came with plump, silk-covered cushions. The entire house was swathed in light, from candles, lamps and braziers. And every shining surface seemed to reflect and increase the light: ivory figurines, gems, bronze statues. Many squinted in reaction to the coruscating brightness. Various ornate silver mirrors adorned the entrance hall, framed in gold. Opulence dripped from the walls and vaunted ceiling, like molten lava pouring down the side of a volcano. Golden candlesticks. Gold-painted scroll work and cornicing. Gold-plated steps and bannisters. Every piece of marble seemed flecked with gold too. Such was the bright scene that more than one guest noted how Maecenas had the power to turn night into day.
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