Marcus saw an old friend seated in the rear of the chamber, sneaking occasional sips from a silver flask. He stepped to the man's side. "Still the most energetic senator in Noricum, I see."
Aulus Flaccus looked up and beamed. "Marcus Scipio! Good to see you back. Here, sit by me."
Marcus sat. "It would never occur to you to stand and greet me."
"Why? It's as easily done sitting. Have a sip. You'll need it if you're going to endure the Senate for more than a few minutes." Aulus Flaccus was short, pudgy and saturnine, the very opposite of the Roman ideal. He was slow and lazy, or made a show of it. He and Marcus had been friends from childhood.
Marcus took a drink. It was imported Illyrian of the finest quality. Flaccus only drank the best. "What's the argument about?"
"The usual." Flaccus referred to the perennial dispute between the old families and the new. The new families wanted to expand the empire north, east and west, conquering the fierce but primitive tribesmen of those dark, forested lands. The old families were determined to march south and retake Italy, to reestablish the capital at Rome of the Seven Hills and be once again the preeminent power of the Mediterranean.
"It's been going on all my life, and my father's," Marcus said. "What makes this different?"
Flaccus took another swig, earning scowls from more traditionally minded senators. He gestured with the flask toward the side of the chamber where the priestly colleges sat dressed in their sacerdotal robes and insignia. "They've been taking the omens. For months, the gods have been sending signs that it is time to go south and take Italy back."
Marcus felt his scalp prickle. Retake Italy! It had been the dream of the Scipios for five generations. And it was the will of the gods. For more than a hundred years, they had scanned the skies, watched for lightning, listened for thunder, observed the way the birds fed and took note of every abnormal birth, both human and animal. Each time, the signs had been unfavorable, or at best ambiguous. There had been times when hopes had been raised by some prodigy, some extraordinary phenomenon, some wondrous dream sent to a consul or a flamen. Each time, the omens had proven to be false.
Something truly unusual must have happened to raise such an uproar. "Is it certain?"
Flaccus shrugged. "It depends on how much trust you put in omens. Since Quinctilis people have been seeing things. Every time the sacred geese feed, they start at the northern end of the line of grain and eat their way south. If it's lined east to west, they won't eat at all. Thunder always seems to come from the right. Wolves, boars, foxes, eagles, bears, horses, rams, serpents, lions and scorpions keep doing unusual things. Doubtless if we had hippogriffs, dragons, capricorns, sphinxes and chimeras they would be doing likewise." These creatures, natural and fanciful, were the totem beasts of the fourteen legions.
"Ten days ago," he went on, looking uncommonly sober, "on the ides of November, a flight of fourteen eagles flew low over the city. They circled the temple of Jupiter Best and Greatest all morning, then flew south until they were out of sight."
"Could this be true?" Marcus said. He had never heard of such a prodigy. It was as if Jupiter himself had spoken from his throne inside the temple.
"The whole city saw it," Flaccus said. "I saw it myself."
Marcus was glad that he was sitting, because he was not sure his knees would have supported him. "That's it, then," he said. "We're going."
"Not if they have anything to say about it." Flaccus gestured once more, this time toward a large crowd of senators grouped in the middle of the chamber. They wore tunics with the broad purple stripe of the senator, and those holding higher magistracies wore togas with a broad purple hem, but in every case the garment, tunic or toga, was of Gallic cloth, striped, checked and interwoven with lines of brilliant color. A few men, daringly, even sported long hair and flowing mustaches. This was an affectation Marcus had never seen before in the Curia. It portended an even deeper split than usual.
"What is wrong with them? Can't they recognize the will of the gods when they see it?"
"They aren't as fond of omens as the old families," Flaccus said. "Or rather, they fancy different omens than we do. And different gods." It was no surprise. The new families were careful to perform all the rites demanded by the state gods, but in their homes they kept shrines to the gods of their ancestors.
"Who's the ringleader?" Marcus wanted to know.
"Old Norbanus."
"What happened to Tubero?"
"Died last month. Norbanus took over the leadership of the opposition. If this keeps up, we'll all be chucking rings into sacred pools and be stuck here in the frozen north forever." He didn't look terribly distressed at the prospect. Flaccus had served a quaestorship and had done his military service sitting in a general's tent making himself an invaluable secretary. This had earned him a purple stripe and a seat in the Senate. He had done nothing else in the years since. He was a bottomless well of senatorial gossip.
"What is the sticking point this time?"
"Whether the decision should come from the Senate or the Popular Assemblies. You can guess the rest."
Indeed he could. The old families dominated the Senate; the new families controlled the largest voting bloc in the Assemblies. "But war has always been the prerogative of the Senate."
"War isn't the immediate question," Flaccus said. "A mission to Carthage is under discussion."
"Foreign relations and diplomacy are also senatorial privileges."
"What we are discussing here"-Flaccus made eloquent gestures indicative of uncertainty-"is neither war nor diplomacy. It is an ostensible mission of trade and exploration, but actually a spying expedition, to get the lay of the land, find out how powerful Carthage is these days, who their allies are, if any, that sort of thing."
Marcus nodded. "It makes sense. Marching against an unknown enemy would be folly."
"Exactly. But the nature of the mission is ambiguous enough that it is unclear who should have authority. If it's for war, the Senate is in control. If it's for trade, the equites demand authority."
"Of course it's for war!" Marcus said. "All espionage is military in nature."
Flaccus patted him on the shoulder. "Marcus, you're such a political infant. Even within the Senate, it's hard enough to get a majority for this war. The Assemblies are against it. But everyone likes the idea of a mission to find out what is happening down south these days. All we ever hear is what the Greek traders choose to tell us, and who can trust a Greek? The merchant community would like very much to open up trade routes to the south."
The merchants of Roma Noricum were almost all members of the equites, the class of wealthy plebeians. Their name meant "horsemen" and dated from the days when the highest property assessment meant assignment to. the cavalry when the legions were called up. Soldiers served at their own expense. An equites had to provide his own horse and see to its maintenance. In recent generations, as cavalry duties were levied mainly on the Gallic allies, it had become purely a measure of wealth. Equites were frequently far wealthier than the senatorial class, and had therefore a larger clientage with consequent power in the Popular Assemblies. In many ways, they were the most powerful class in Roma Noricum.
Marcus nodded, accepting it. "Surely a compromise can be reached."
"That's what is going on now," Flaccus affirmed. "The compromise is just taking longer to reach, with more attendant noise."
"Who looks likely to prevail?" Flaccus would know if anyone would.
"The old families, because of their prestige and because of their attachment to the old empire. They'll name the leader. The new families will get the choice of subordinate commander and make sure that he has almost equal authority."