‘Perhaps this is good news, Cassius. Maybe your father’s to be given a new honour, or you’re to be given an official role,’ said Horatius, the concern in his voice telling me how likely he thought that really was.
‘So you know nothing of this?’ I demanded of him.
He opened his arms wide in a gesture of innocence. ‘Nothing at all, the Praetorian who delivered the message must be from another cohort, I swear it.’ I believed him; Horatius genuinely liked me, and would have warned me of any trouble with Augustus.
‘What will you do, Cassius?’ asked Spento.
‘Well, what do you think I will do? I will join him at the Circus Maximus as he requested. What else can I do?’ By all the gods, I hated the games, why did I have to meet him there of all places.
‘Can I go with you, Cassius? Can I see the great Augustus?’ squeaked Silo excitedly, oblivious to the unease the summons produced.
‘Certainly not, Silo. I want you to return home and inform Patrellis what has happened. He will look after you.’ If this summons had anything to do with Tita, it couldn’t be anything good and I didn’t want Silo caught up in it. Had my scandalous behaviour been brought to Augustus’ attention? Was I going to the games as a spectator, or would I end up as the spectacle? I hadn’t heard of Augustus executing any of his guests at the games, but then I hadn’t been to the games for quite some time! Why, by Hades, did he want to speak to me? I should be far beneath the notice of Augustus. It must be Tita; what else could it be? Could her husband have made a complaint directly to the imperator?
I sent a sulky Silo off home and composed myself before starting my journey to the Circus Maximus. To their credit, both Spento and Horatius offered to accompany me, but I declined their offer; neither could help me withthe wrath of Augustus and it was pointless to take them down with me. How, by the gods, did Augustus know where to send his messenger? Did the messenger visit my home first? Or did one of Augustus’ spies keep an eye on me? If so, they were sure to have seen Tita’s slaves waiting outside my home last night.
My mind was a whirl with terror as I walked through Rome’s crowded streets, bumping into people along the way due to my preoccupation, thinking up ever more terrible consequences to my adulterous affair with Tita. It was only one night, I told myself over and again. Surely Augustus couldn’t hold one night against me? Maybe there was another explanation to my summons? But what? What else could it be? I tripped on my purple striped toga, muddying it in the process. I brushed off what dirt I could; with all my troubles, I didn’t want to compound them by appearing before Caesar dressed slovenly. There, not so bad I thought, and took a deep breath and hurried towards the stadium.
This was not the first time I had been embroiled in a sex scandal in Rome. It was eleven years before, and my best friend Julius had already left to join the legions, leaving me to become involved with the wrong crowd of people. I was an innocent, much like the young Marcus Scaeva was now; I was brought up in the closeted confines of the Augustan school, set within Rome, but sheltered from outside malign influences. My background gave me an excellent education in poetry, art, music, history, riding, and weapons training but nothing of the true wider world. I returned home to my father’s villa outside of Rome, where I worked on the estate for a year. Then my father told me he wanted me to return to Rome for one year to work in public service as a minor magistrate, the job any aspiring young senator’s son should fulfil if he held future political aspirations. I was to be quartered in Rome, to make my face known in the Forum, then after a year I could be sent off to the army properly educated in the workings of the city. In this year, he wished me to ingratiate myself with the noble families who resided in Rome and, under the tutelage of Augustus, ruled it.
Instead I was attracted to the growing clique that surrounded Augustus’ daughter, Julia. I met her at a dinner party organised by her to welcome the new sons of noble families to Rome, of which I was one. She was thirty-eight years old, but still beautiful, and I was instantly transfixed by her. Others spoke of her graceful slender neck or her long eyelashes, but for me it was her husky sultry voice which spoke with such eloquence that captured my heart. My sheltered background never involved women of such sophistication and the fashionably glamorous entourage that surrounded the imperator’s daughter was far more attractive than the stuffy toadies who grovelled around Augustus. Julia’s coterie were different. They were cultivated, debated intelligently and with wit, spoke their minds when an unpopular edict came down from the Senate. To a young seventeen-year-old idealist like me, they were everything I imagined free-thinking citizens should be. Unfortunately, the free-spirited Julia and her friends were also trouble.
Julia’s relationship with her father was uneasy at best. Although he was said to admire her intelligence, he railed against her wilful nature. He insisted that she marry his sensible stepson Tiberius, a man poles apart from the free-thinking, independent Julia. Tiberius didn’t like his intractable new wife much and, after a couple of years, withdrew himself from public life and retired to the island of Rhodes to contemplate poetry or some other nonsense. This left Julia alone in Rome to take on any lover she desired. At this time it was Iullus Antonius, son of the great Mark Anthony, who had been the bitter rival of Julia’s own father, Augustus. A more ill-fated partnership never existed, but I was too young, stupid, and naive to see it.
Iullus was a similar age to Julia, but kept himself in impeccable shape. He looked the very model of the heroic republican and he would bemoan the lost freedoms that the Republic had been afforded up until Augustus’ uncle, Julius Caesar, seized power.
There were other leading lights within this group, such as Sempronius Gracchus and Cornelius Scipio, well-known young political agitators whose behaviour was only tolerated due to their association with the imperator’s daughter. It amused them to bring me in to their fold: an impressionable senators’ son; one more young man to be turned against Julia’s father. I accompanied them in their debates, which they held regularly at public gatherings, speaking out against Julia’s father’s strict new laws concerning personal freedoms. I was never much more than a very minor player, but gradually they began to trust me more, and I was introduced into their wild social scene of parties and heavy drinking. At first I was shocked by their behaviour, but a seventeen-year-old is so easily swayed, and before long I found the pleasures of strong wine taking hold of my life.
Party would follow party. Open fornication and seditious talk were commonplace, as Julia and Iullus Antonius held sway over Rome’s respectable families’ sons and daughters. Julia revelled in her reputation as a maverick, and cared nothing for the damage it was doing to her father’s reputation; on the contrary – it was this that spurred her on.
I watched from the sidelines as Julia and Iullus Antonius led us all down the path of moral ruin, whilst I enjoyed every minute of it. Until, one night, we pushed our luck too far.
Around twenty of us, both men and women, were returning from a late-night party through the deserted Forum, and as usual, drunk to the eyeballs. As we staggered through the deserted streets, Julia stopped and looked around the Forum, the centre of Rome, which had been transformed since Augustus had taken power. New public buildings made of the finest marble and crafted by Rome’s finest stonemasons surrounded the great square; but in the centre, by a small pool, a statue of Marsyas, playing a flute and holding a wineskin over one shoulder, still stood. The satyr Marsyas traditionally represented Rome’s liberty and was erected back in the days of the old Republic. Julia looked at the statue of the satyr with a thoughtful expression, her eyes unfocused from the wine, and said softly, ‘Poor Marsyas, you have seen the freedom of your people taken away. Just as the vine trees which used to surround you were replaced by suffocating marble, so it is with us – imperial glory has replaced the dignified ideals of the Republic and has left us poorer, despite all our apparent riches.’
Julia took the wreath from her brow and placed it on the statue of Marsyas, a small tear creeping down her cheek. She lay down under the statue, and took Iullus by the hand. ‘Come, join me Iullus. Make love to me here, under poor Marsyas – so he can witness that some still believe in the old ways, when people were free to act as they will, and not constrained by the shackles of my father.’
Iullus never needed much encouragement and before long started thrusting away in front of us. Then we were all at it, ripping each others’ clothes off, right on the steps of Rome’s governmental seat. I coupled with a plump young girl from Alba who had taken a shine to me. She had full breasts and eyes that shone with desire. I remember little more than that, not even her name. It didn’t seem all that important at the time.
When we were done, our passion spent, the two of us laughed out loud as we left the steps of the Forum, following our two heroes, Julia and Iullus and their ragtag followers of free thinkers, libertarians, and spoilt aristocratic youth, sure of our invulnerability – as only the young can be.
However, the Forum had not been as deserted as we all thought. Before long, news of our impromptu stage show reached the ears of Augustus, who finally decided enough was enough. He expelled Julia to the island of Pandateria, after hastily decreeing a divorce between herself and Tiberius. Iullus Antonius was first tortured and then persuaded to take his own life. The other young aristocratic men and women in attendance were all rounded up and exiled from Rome, one by one, as the names were extracted under torture from Iullus.
I thought myself finished and returned to the family home outside Rome and confessed all to my father. He was furious and told me that he could not protect me from Augustus and that I had brought it all on myself. Each night, I would tremble in my bed, a cold sweat covering my entire body, sure that soldiers would be knocking on the door to take me away. But each night, nothing. Days passed, then weeks, and still the soldiers never came. My father said it was not his doing and I believed him: even my father could not have protected me from the scandal that had rocked the foundations of Rome itself. I was not foolish enough to think that Iullus would have tried to hide my name from the torturers; he would have sold me out in a blink of the eye. The only conclusion I could come up with was that I was such an insignificant member of Julia’s group of rebels: he simply hadn’t noticed that I was there! Such luck!
After the death of Iullus and the expulsion of Julia, my father told me that the gods had spared me for a reason and it was high time I repaid that favour. I was despatched to the army, a year earlier than planned, to join my boyhood friend Julius in the legions in Syria, where I learned to be a soldier and put my wild drinking days behind me – at least for a few years.
I heard the crowd long before I reached the great gates to the Circus Maximus. They cheered loudly after a collective ‘Ooooh!’went round the stadium; perhaps a particularly nasty wound had been inflicted, or maybe someone had just had something chopped off. The gates were surrounded by the usual hawkers for tickets –tipsters and bookmakers –who would take bets on the contests to be fought today and later tonight. It was now late afternoon, and the more popular gladiatorial ties would begin to take place. The walls of the building were covered with murals depicting who would be fighting that day, with listings of their previous wins. This was the third day of the festival of Quinquatria, so the best gladiators available would be taking part. The first day of Quinquatria was actually a solemn religious day, when no bloodshed must be taken. To make up for this lack, the next four days of the festival were a positive carnival of blood-letting: gladiatorial contests were billed every day and played out in front of thousands of spectators at the Circus Maximus – whilst the benevolent Augustus was in attendance, overseeing his fellow citizens as they enjoyed their blood-lust.
I could hear the trumpets and water organ, being played in the arena to the tempo of the fight, as I made my way through the gates and up the stairs to the imperial box of Augustus and his family. The tempo was fast paced and dramatic now, which probably signified the current contest reaching its climax. I emerged into the sunshine and took in the sight of the Circus Maximus thronged with people in good voice as crowds shouted their encouragement to the gladiators below on the arena sand. Even I could not fail to be moved by the excited buzz rippling through the thousands of spectators. The Circus Maximus was designed for chariot racing, a great oblong ring with a central plinth to race around. Unfortunately, this was not the ideal shape for a gladiatorial contest, so all the spectators were gathered along one side, so they could see the two combatants. Even so, the seats this side of the stadium were all taken and it looked to be a good turnout to the games today – hopefully that would put Augustus in a good mood.
I looked at the fight below as I made my way through the final rows to Augustus’ box. A lightly armed thraex, with a small shield and helmet, was desperately trying to fend off an aggressive heavily armoured murmillo, who advanced relentlessly, beating away his opponent’s attacks with his sword and large rectangular shield. The thraex was bleeding from several wounds to his largely unarmoured body, and as he weakened, his attacks became more ragged and wild. It reminded me why I avoided the games these days. It wasn’t that I objected to what befell any of the slaves; after all, it was none of my business what their owners did with them. It was because I knew what it was like to be in the position of that thraex, fighting for one’s life in desperation and panic. Anything that brought back such uncomfortable memories, I avoided, even if I was one of the only men in Rome who didn’t enjoy the games.
I approached the guard outside Augustus’ box and told him that I was expected. The man conferred with a superior, armoured resplendently in burnished breastplate and plumed helmet, who let me through but told me to wait at the edge of the box until the current contest was concluded so I could be announced to Augustus properly. I entered and did what I was told, trying to hold myself in as dignified a pose as I could muster, waiting in trepidation to be called. Even from the back of the box there was an excellent view of the proceedings, and I saw the thraex finally collapse and raise his finger in a signal of submission. The crowd then roared their opinions as to whether the man should be spared or not;a great cacophony of noise reverberating around the stadium. Their sentiment was mixed. Some were annoyed that the murmillo had won so easily, whilst others admired the thraex’s courage in holding out for so long after it was obvious he was beaten. Drums replaced the water organ in an ominous drumroll whilst Augustus, who I could just make out at the front of the box, deliberated. The ruler of the Roman state sat on a large chair surrounded by his closest family, who were gathered for the day’s entertainment; the elder members looked on bored whilst the younger nephews and grandsons fidgeted excitedly.
As I expected, Augustus raised his fist with the thumb safely inside, the symbol that the loser would live. Fights to the death were actually quite rare; the cost of training a gladiator was so much that their lives could not be tossed away frivolously. The Praetorian officer then whispered in Augustus Caesar’s ear and I was beckoned over.
I walked through the box, eyes straight forward, and saluted in the military fashion to the seated Augustus. I thought it advisable that I remind him that I had once fought for Rome and was hopefully worthy of leniency. ‘Caesar, this is a great honour,’ I proclaimed in my best parade ground voice.
Augustus was never an imposing figure; he had always been slight of build and now, in his later years, his hair was white and balding and his back slightly stooped. However, his eyes radiated power, and when they turned to face me, my heart skipped a beat and I held my breath. He held me like that for several seconds, his eyes boring into mine, sizing me up. ‘Cassius Aprilis, isn’t it?’ he said at last.
‘Yes, sir.’ I was pleased I managed to keep my voice so level.
A glint in his eyes showed amusement as he said, ‘The hero at Western-Gate Pass, no less. You have made quite a name for yourself.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I was not sure whether the glint in his eye signified he knew how unwarranted my reputation really was or not; either way, I could hardly acknowledge it. ‘I was told you wished to speak to me. I came as soon as I received the summons, Imperator.’
A look of irritation passed across his face. ‘Please address me as Princeps, not Imperator.’ I inwardly cursed my stupidity; it was well known in Rome that its ruler preferred to be known only as her ‘first citizen’ and not as the dictator that in reality he was.
I stumbled an apology, ‘Of course, Princeps, I meant no offence.’
The ‘princeps’ paused, looking me up and down before telling me, ‘I know your father well. I wonder whether you have his mettle?’
‘He always speaks well of you, Princeps,’
Augustus chuckled. ‘Of that I doubt.’ It was true: my father served Augustus loyally, but in private bemoaned his often abrasive demeanour. Augustus’ tone turned more serious, ‘My wife wishes to speak to you. You may leave me.’
As quickly as that, I was dismissed; he turned his gaze back to the stadium and for a moment I was completely at a loss as to what I should do next.
The Praetorian officer came to my assistance, nudged my arm and inclined his head towards the back of the box where Augustus’ wife Livia sat. I made my way over and approached the regal Livia, garbed in a matronly stola, whose stern face held eyes that radiated the same power as her husband’s. ‘Cassius Aprilis, how good of you to join us.’ She smiled as I came over; although that smile did nothing to lessen her severe demeanour, accentuated by her tightly bound hairstyle that left her skin drawn tight against her high cheek boned skull. ‘Please sit down and join me.’
Someone once told me that her hairstyle was copied by many women throughout Rome; for the life of me I couldn’t see why – it certainly wasn’t flattering. ‘It is an honour to be invited,’ I told her and bowed my head before taking the empty seat next to her.
‘Please forgive my husband, he really can be quite rude when he is watching the games – it doesn’t do for the populace to see him at the games not paying attention – his uncle would do that and they never liked it.’ His uncle, the now almost mythical Julius Caesar, had used the popularity of the games to serve his own ends; his nephew Augustus learnt that lesson well. Livia continued, ‘He has instructed me to speak to you on his behalf. It is but a trifling matter.’
I sat more easily in my seat, a semblance of calm returning to me; perhaps this was nothing to do with Tita after all. ‘I am always at your family’s service, you know that.’
‘Yes, of course we do. You remind me so much of your father, always such a true friend to Augustus,’ she assured me, although it was not strictly the truth. During the civil war, between Augustus and Mark Anthony, my father had chosen the wrong side. My father switched sides soon enough when Augustus’ victory looked certain, but Augustus remained deeply suspicious of him, which was why I had found myself at the Augustan school at a young age – having his first born son held close to Augustus’ reach was surety of my father’s continued loyalty. My father eventually earned the trust of Augustus and was awarded the governorship of Sicily as reward, but it had been a different story in the early days.
‘I will pass on your warm words to my father when I next see him,’ which was not likely to be anytime soon, as he had not returned from Sicily for the last two years. ‘It is very good of you to extend your hospitality to me.’
She smiled as she glanced over at me, although that smile did not reach her eyes. ‘I seem to remember that you went to the school set up by my husband? Isn’t that correct?’ she asked.
I was baffled by the question. She would know full well that I went to that school. We were all awarded a first-rate education, even though we were little more than bargaining counters in a far larger political game; could this mean my loyalty was being questioned? I’d have to be careful. ‘They were some of the happiest days of my life. I owe your husband a lot.’
‘No doubt you do. Do you remember a fellow student named Arminius?’ Before I could answer, the trumpets peeled to announce the next two gladiators to fight.
‘Ah good! I’ve been looking forward to this one,’ declared Livia, completely changing the subject and leaving me wondering about her question. Of course I knew Arminius, he was my best friend in my youth: Julius Arminius, a foreign German prince kept hostage in Rome to ensure the loyalty of the Cherusci tribe and to be educated in the Roman fashion. He had grown up to be a good soldier and left Rome to fight in the legions as an auxiliary cavalry commander.
‘Yes, I served with him in Syria. Has he come to some harm?’ I would be genuinely upset if anything befell Julius. I still thought of him as my closest friend – even if I hadn’t seen him in nearly six years.
‘Oh no, nothing like that. Oh! Don’t both fighters look fine!’ she said, drawing my attention to the two combatants who were striding out into the arena to the warm applause of the spectators. One was conventionally armoured with sword, shield and helmet, whilst the other held no shield but was armed with two swords – a Dimacheri.
Livia had seemingly lost interest in our conversation so I looked at the small wooden card left by the side of my chair which listed the fighters today and tried to discern who these two gladiators were. I saw the name which brought such a stir to the crowd: Atius Longus, a well-known auctoratii, one of the poor deluded fools who actually volunteered to fight in the arena for the supposed fame. What made Atius Longus unusual was that he was from the equestrian class, from a very privileged background. ‘I know of Atius Longus,’ I asked Livia, ‘but who is the man he is fighting –the one with two swords? – I’ve never heard of him?’ The carte simply listed him as ‘Buteo’.
‘My husband shipped him in from the school at Capua. We’ve been looking forward to this contest all day. I asked for it to commence when you joined us – you’re very privileged.’
The contest was in my honour? This day was getting stranger by the moment; why would they go to the effort of playing out the day’s most important tie when I arrived? ‘I am honoured, my lady. I had no idea you were going to such effort on my behalf.’
‘It’s no trouble. Now you say you remember Arminius?’ She fixed her eyes on mine, like a hawk when its eyes are fixed on a field mouse.
The abrupt change of topic was unnerving; was she deliberately trying to keep me off balance? ‘Yes, I served with him in Syria. He was a close friend.’ I saw no reason to hide this.
‘Then you will be delighted to hear that he has come of age, returned to his people, and taken up his rightful place at their head.’ Again the sly smile that never reached her eyes.
Julius, returning to Germany? I couldn’t fathom the idea. He was more Roman than the Romans after his upbringing; imagining him back in the backwards poverty of Germany? – he would hate it. ‘What do you mean by his rightful place at their head?’ I queried.
‘I mean he now leads the Cherusci tribe. His uncle died last winter. There were other claimants to the crown, but with the aid of Rome, Arminius has overcome them and been declared King of the Cherusci nation.’
I completely forgot myself and blurted, ‘What, Julius? King? That’s preposterous– did he want to return to be their king?’
‘I really wouldn’t know.’ Her gaze returned to the two fighters in the arena who were now circling each other and making the first feints towards one another.
I watched them distractedly, still reeling at the news of my friend Julius. It did not take me long to realise that it was not so crazy after all – who better for Rome to lead one of the troublesome German tribes than one of their own. Rome had been setting up client puppet kings for generations. Julius had the birthright. He was the perfect choice, whether he liked it or not. An ugly thought occurred to me: what did any of this have to do with me?