Second Act

Six

Seven hills of Rome. Each very different from its neighbour. The Aventine, for instance, rising from the wharves, had covered its slopes with warehouses and was pretty much the plebeian quarter of the city. The Esquiline, on the other hand, with its cleaner, clearer air, abounded with parks and public gardens and was where rich patricians chose to site their homes. The Capitol, of course, precipitous and once completely forested, stood testament to the Empire’s wealth and superiority, which was now symbolized by soaring temples which dominated the skyline.

But it was the Palatine Hill where the seat of power lay. It was here, on the Palatine, that the most influential of all Rome’s temples had been built, the Temple of Apollo. Commissioned by Augustus to commemorate his victory over Mark Antony and Cleopatra, and constructed of solid marble from the quarries of Numidia, the temple housed the great Greek and Latin libraries, as well as the ancient Sybilline prophecies, and was the wonder of its day.

It was on the Palatine that the Imperial Palace stood guard above the Forum, solid and secure as the Empire itself, where hundreds of civil servants busied themselves like bees in a hive to service the massive administration that was Rome.

And it was on the Palatine, in the very shadow of the Emperor’s private residence, that the Arch-Hawk of the Senate, Sextus Valerius Cotta, was putting the finishing touches to his speech.

Forty-two years old, lean as a tiger and with a thatch of hair the colour of ripe corn, Cotta cut a figure of envy among an Assembly who, for the most part, were strangers to a full head of hair and their back teeth. His military record was admirable, too, particularly that outstanding victory in Cisalpine Gaul when he was General, and materially he was up there with the best of them, as well. Prestigious address on the Palatine. Large estate in Frascati. Handsome wife who’d borne him four sons. (Not to mention Phyllis, the beautiful and undemanding mistress who had spurned a Consul in favour of Cotta’s protection.)

Tonight, though, he was in no mood for socializing and the door to his private office was locked. Crammed with antique furniture, its walls painted in rich, dark, military reds and smelling far too strongly of leather, the room appeared much smaller than it actually was. An effect exacerbated by an array of wall-mounted trophies in the form of antlers, tusks and animal heads, and a floor littered with the skins of various hunted beasts from panther to lion, which, with a bizarre sense of irony, now trapped the heat pumped out by the bronze brazier standing on a tripod in the centre of the office.

‘ Stagnation, gentlemen, will be the ruin of Rome,’ he read aloud. ‘ We should be thinking not of how best to employ Parian marble in our temples, but how best to employ the plunder of the Dacian goldmines.’

Test the King of Dacia enough and he’ll eventually fall to Rome’s sword.

‘How best to maximize the potential of the shipping round the Black Sea.’

The Scythians can’t hold out for ever. They’d have to release their grip some time, why not sooner rather than later?

‘And finally, gentlemen, we must consider what treasures might await us, once we finish the job started by the Divine Julius and storm the white cliffs of Britannia in a properly organized military campaign.’

Cotta leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. None of these prizes were beyond Rome’s capabilities. Especially now that Augustus had reformed the army to comprise professionals on twenty-year contracts, rather than a bunch of raggle-taggle farmers who’d only sign up for a campaign provided it suited them. Cotta picked up his stylus.

‘With twenty-eight legions, seven hundred warships, superior cavalry and the best auxiliaries money can buy,’ he wrote, ‘the eagle’s shadow already soars over half the civilized world. All we need are another five, possibly six legions and Dacia is in our pocket, Scythia next, then the whole of the maritime trade round the Black Sea becomes ours.’

Fine for Augustus to stand up there and spout about how peace feeds the people, but son-of-a-bitch! Subduing Dacia, Britannia and Scythia would bring in a huge influx of slaves, working even more land, which would lead to even greater prosperity.

‘Arabia,’ he scribbled, ‘would follow, our stepping stone to the treasures of the Orient — ’

He scrumpled the parchment and tossed it on to the floor. He was wasting his breath and he knew it. Hawks were as popular as the plague in the Senate these days. The Assembly shot them for sport.

Which was rich, coming from doves.

The trouble was, the governing classes had grown fat on Rome’s victories. Lazy as walruses, they had no desire to risk their own skins when they could be doing nothing. Tch! Cotta kicked the leg of his desk. There was no such thing as ‘doing’ ‘nothing’. Either one did something or one did not and if Rome was becoming complacent, you could bet your boots the enemy at the gate was not. Before you know it, that enemy will have patched up its differences with its neighbours to become a hundred-headed monster attacking from every direction, and then it’ll be too late for the eagle to start fighting back.

Expansion was the only way forward. Conquer the world, and you can be assured of exactly where your enemies are and what they are plotting.

Cotta pushed his chair back and rested his feet on the desk, crossing them at the ankles.

Their counter-argument was that long-term stability lay in consolidating the peace, as opposed to expanding the boundaries. Three generations of civil war had taken their toll, they argued. Neither Rome nor its citizens had the stomach for war, and more importantly nor did their neighbours, they said. A generation was growing up with sons burying their fathers, not the other way round, trade links had been forged and these had raised the living standards of the conquered nations to levels far above their expectations. Moreover, they insisted that many of the smaller tribes actually felt empowered by Rome’s military protection, rather than oppressed.

Fine. If Sextus Valerius Cotta couldn’t change the views of the Senate, then there was always the other option.

He would have to change those who sat in it.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t ever say you weren’t fucking warned.’