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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.’

Seven

As another grey December dawn poked its way through the clouds, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio yawned, put out a hand and found a nipple. It was a very pretty nipple. Pink and perky. And it wasn’t one of his. Under his hand, the nipple began to stir. He opened his eyes and got another shock. This wasn’t his house. Hell, it wasn’t even a house. Just one cramped room, and instead of gazing upon porphyry inlaid with tortoiseshell and silver, at gilded stuccoed ceilings, water clocks and ivory statuettes, the furniture was functional and worn, the bed little more than a wooden shelf jointed to the wall, and if a chap wasn’t careful, he’d bang his head on the cooking stove when he rolled off.

From the flat next door, a baby howled and dogs barked in the yard. Footsteps stomped overhead, rattling the ladles which hung over the oven. Most depressing of all, though, in place of sturdy, draughtproof shutters, light from the single window was shut out by a sagging curtain which hung limply on a hook. But at least the curtain was clean, the floorboards scrubbed, the plaster on the walls spotless and the blanket covering him smelled of violets. At home his bedroom would be perfumed with aromatic herbs and resins. Here, the smell of stale cheap wine predominated. Overlaid with sex.

Under his hand, the nipple let out a girlish giggle. ‘Who’s woken up a naughty boy, then?’

Jupiter in heaven, please, who is she? Where was he? How had he ended up in this impoverished little bedsit? Orbilio tried to think, but was prevented by the relentless clack of castanets behind his eyes. Last night, last night. Where had he been? What was he doing? Dammit, never mind last night. This morning was troublesome enough. Croesus, not only did he have to contend with a perfect little breast swelling in his hand, there was a corresponding swelling in his groin. He groaned, which she mistook for pleasure and began feathering her fingertips lightly down his chest. Lower, lower, lower, until he had to push her hand away.

‘Taking it slowly, huh?’

In the early morning light, her face was beautiful. A small, round, pixie face flushed pink with sleep, surrounded by a halo of frothy honey curls. Any man would feel it a privilege to wake up next to such an enchanting creature. Any man except Orbilio. How the blazes had he got here? Why couldn’t he remember?

‘Slow is fine by me,’ she whispered, running her tongue inside his ear.

‘I have to be on duty early.’ Despite himself, a shiver of desire rippled through his loins. ‘Today’s the day the new tribunes assume elected office.’