Hero of Rome

XII

The last rays of the dying sun caught the roof of the ramshackle Temple of Juno Moneta, which shared the summit of the Capitoline half a mile away across the Forum with the much grander house of Jupiter Capitolinus. For once, Lucius Annaeus Seneca agreed with his Emperor’s view of the ruinous state of much of central Rome. Still, this was hardly the time to raise the subject.

‘And Britain?’ he asked.

‘Britain?’ The pale eyes were a shadowy curtain for whatever was happening behind them. The cherubic face tilted slightly to indicate puzzlement. A hint of a smile touched lips the shape of a cupid’s bow, but there was the faintest air of petulance which carried a warning. Seneca smiled back.

‘Our island province is the final subject of the day, Caesar, surely you haven’t forgotten?’ The smile stayed in place but Seneca noted the eyes appeared to harden. He had played this game many times, but the boy — strange that he still thought of him as a boy even though he was almost twenty-two years old — was an emperor now, and playing games with emperors, however familiar, could be like playing touch with a viper. Agrippina, the boy’s mother, had forgotten that simple rule and he had made her pay the price after one of the most ludicrous, botched assassination attempts ever devised. When his collapsing boat failed to do the job, the Emperor’s hirelings had resorted to the simple and much more effective expedient of stabbing her to death.

‘Remind us.’ Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, known as Nero, nodded for Seneca to continue. No offence had been taken.

‘Conquered by your respected stepfather, a feat for which Rome awarded him a triumph in recognition of his military prowess.’ The curtain lifted for a second as Nero attempted to reconcile the vision of weak-minded, doddering old Claudius with the victorious general, hailed imperator twenty-two times, whom the arch on the Via Flaminia commemorated. ‘Your rule is imposed by four legions: the Twentieth and the Second in the west, soon to be joined by the Fourteenth, and the Ninth to the north, to which they have yet to bring Rome’s bounty.’

‘And the east?’

Seneca paused. This was more dangerous ground. ‘Pacified. The conquered tribes accept your rule without question. The Colonia which Emperor Claudius founded on the fortress of the Trinovantes thrives and its people prosper. It is an example to all Britain. The temple dedicated to the cult of your divine stepfather is a masterpiece worthy of Rome itself, but…’ he hesitated in deference to the delicate decision he was placing before the boy, ‘there is, of course, the question of whether it might be rededicated.’

‘I will think on it. Continue.’

‘Your new port of Londinium continues to grow…’ Seneca allowed his voice to drop to a low murmur as he listed the virtues of the province. This was another part of the game. He had found that a combination of pace and pitch could mesmerize the boy and he could let his mind drift on to other subjects while his tongue rolled off the facts and figures he had learned by rote in a few short hours earlier that day. It was, he thought, a singular talent, but one he would never boast of, unlike those other talents for which he, and the world, must be for ever thankful: his genius for oratory; his subtlety of argument; the way he could turn a simple subject upside down and inside out and find a satisfactory conclusion that would have eluded any other man. Today his thoughts turned to Claudius. There too had lain a sort of genius. A genius for survival. Yet at the end he accepted death as meekly as a sacrificial lamb in the Temple of Fortuna. Not only accepted it, but embraced it. Claudius had known Agrippina’s purpose, Seneca was certain of it. So why, when it would have been so simple to plead fatigue or insist another took the first bite, had he supped the fatal portion with such enthusiasm? Was this a case of a life so well lived that the man who lived it had recognised his time? Surely not. Proximity to Claudius and the nest of serpents he called his advisers had been almost as dangerous as proximity to Caligula of reviled memory. Between them the pair had cost him nine years of his life; nine long years of heat and wind and dust spent in exile on Corsica. A small twinge — part guilt, part annoyance — reminded him of his own complicity and he struggled to suppress it. It was a sensation he had felt often over the years. How could a man so… astute? Yes, astute: one must be accurate with words… how could such a man succumb to a momentary folly, or perhaps not so momentary, which would endanger not only his career, but his very existence? But self-analysis, like self-pity, could be corrosive and he forced himself to concentrate. Too late.

‘So we still do not know the source of the island’s gold?’ The sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. He realized his tone must have faltered, allowing the spell to be broken.

‘That is correct, Caesar,’ he acknowledged smoothly. ‘But we have barely scratched the surface of the Silurian heartlands. Even now your engineers are seeking out the fountainhead.’ The truth was that the Empire’s expectations should have been met years earlier and would have been, but for the obstinacy of the rebel Caratacus, who had held out in the Silurian mountains for almost a decade before his capture.

Exploitation. One could cloak the reasons for a military campaign in any guise one wished — there were still suspicions about the true motive behind Claudius’s invasion of Britain — but the primary purpose would always be exploitation. Exploitation of natural resources. Exploitation of land. Exploitation of peoples. And the late and much maligned Claudius had proved a master of exploitation. Better still, the exploited were unaware until the hook had been set or the trap closed. First subsidies — or loans: the one as good as the other, indeed, the one capable of being mistaken for the other, and who would know the truth by the time the loan was called in? Gifts that bound the warrior kings of Britain to Rome. Gifts that brought with them obligations. And with obligations came taxes, which meant more subsidies, more loans: more debt.

‘Yet the cost of maintaining our legions is barely covered by the tax revenues.’ It was as though the Emperor had read his mind. He should have learned by now never to underestimate the intelligence behind the child’s mask. ‘The profits of our enterprises slim or non-existent. The initial outlay enormous, but unrecouped. I see little profit in Britain. Perhaps it is time to withdraw?’

Seneca nodded in acknowledgement and allowed himself an indulgent smile, though the blood froze in his veins. Nero was not the only actor in the room. ‘But does history not teach us that patience is the investor’s greatest virtue? That haste can be an expensive business partner?’

The young man frowned and leaned forward in the gilded throne, one hand — the right — raised to stroke the smooth, almost baby textured flesh of his chin. The thinker’s pose. A ruler deliberating on matters most momentous. Eventually, he spoke. ‘Perhaps, but patience does not fill bellies. Did you not also teach me that filled bellies and a full arena are what keep the mob from the streets?’

‘Of course, Caesar.’ In fact it had been Claudius who had imparted that rather brutish wisdom. Seneca allowed the daintiest touch of annoyance to seep into his tone. ‘I merely counsel against a precipitate decision. Grand strategy should not be decided like two beggars haggling in the streets. You have other advisers. Perhaps the Praetorian prefect is more qualified to provide guidance in military matters.’

The eyes narrowed. ‘Your most intimate friend, Afranius Burrus?’

‘Your governor of the province, then. Gaius Suetonius Paulinus. Surely no decision should be taken without having first been discussed with the man most able to enlighten. Summon Paulinus home and question him as you have questioned me. Perhaps his answers will be more palatable than my own humble opinions.’

Nero laughed; it was a child’s laugh, high-pitched and easy. ‘Have I offended you, dearest Seneca? Does the pupil’s lack of understanding grieve the teacher? Then you have my apology. Sometimes the cares of the Empire drive your teachings from my head. Let us lay down the subject of Britain for a moment. Come, explain to me again why an emperor’s greatest need is for compassion and mercy. Would not wisdom in all things suffice?’

Seneca shook his head. ‘First, a Caesar can cause no offence, only concern — and Britain should rightly be a matter for our concern. But, to mercy. Your stepfather, Divine Claudius, showed mercy when he reprieved the British war leader Caratacus from the strangling rope. Yet he also showed wisdom, and statesmanship. For in allowing a mighty warrior to live — one who had knelt before him in defeat — he gained a living monument to his greatness, and thereby enhanced both his own and Rome’s security. Since with security comes stability, did not all, from the lowest slave to the highest senator, gain from it?’

‘But…’

An hour later Seneca left the room and turned past the twin figures of a pair of anonymous Praetorian guards into the corridor. Once he was certain he was alone, he put one hand against the painted wall for support and choked down the bile that filled his throat. Sweat matted his hair and the stink of fear from his own body filled his nostrils. Nero knew. Of course he knew. It was time to act. He must call in his British investments immediately. If the legions withdrew it would be lost. All of it. What could he do to ensure his fortune was safe? An idea formed and he saw a face, a thin, beak-nosed, miserable face. Could he trust him? Could he afford not to? Yes. It would have to do.

Self-interested panic receded and he considered the wider, appalling consequences if Nero proceeded with his threat. Billions of sestertii wasted on sixteen years of folly. A dozen potential allies turned in an instant into certain enemies. He listed the tribal kingdoms of the province in his head and attempted to calculate the cost of withdrawal. The legions would strip them of each and every vestige of wealth, every bushel of grain and every cow, taking tens of thousands of slaves and hostages to ensure their future compliance. Compliance! The island would starve and the legacy of that starvation would be enmity for a thousand years. And they were so close. The gold mines of Siluria and the Brigantian lead reserves would change everything. No, it must not happen. He could not allow it. But first he had to retrieve his fortune.

He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. Marble busts of Claudius, Caligula, Tiberius, Augustus and Divine Julius, the pantheon of Rome’s great, stared at him from their alcoves as he walked quickly past them. Emperors all, a trio, at least, of tyrants, and each, he thought, had left Rome worse than he received it. Could Nero be different? Had he, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, been in a position to make him different? It was cool here in the heart of the palace complex and he felt the sweat chill in his hairline. His mind went back to the earlier conversation. Yes, he knew.