Twenty-Nine

Sitting in the VIP section of the Circus Maximus, Sextus Valerius Cotta cheered the charioteers as though he hadn’t a care in the world. To a skilled military tactician, it was vital no signs of uneasiness should be transmitted to the troops and if acting was part of a general’s role, then so be it.

As two hundred thousand people stamped and whistled as the winner thundered past the post, his chariot wheels smoking, Cotta was acutely conscious that time was running through the sandglass at an alarming rate. In three months, the new campaign season got underway and it had been his intention to have the new regime in place by then. He had allies in six of the ten newly elected tribunes. Had the backing of the plebeians. Knew which generals and naval commanders he could trust. Had plans to deal with dissenters.

The winning charioteer drew his team up in front of the Imperial box to receive his victory palm. Blowing up the Senate and assassinating the Emperor would not have been Cotta’s first choice. (Naturally.) But for Rome to achieve her true potential, hard pruning was the only solution. New shoots could not flourish without cutting away the dead wood.

Down in the tunnel, lots were already being cast for who got which starting box for the next race, the Novice Crown, and a swarm of broom boys were out sweeping the sand with their besoms. This time of year, when it got dark so early, there was no time to lose between contests, and under Augustus, the number of races had increased dramatically.

‘A people that yawns, Cotta, is a people ripe for revolt.’

It was one of the Emperor’s favourite sayings.

As the magistrate signalled with a drop of his handkerchief for the Novice Crown to begin, the trumpet sounded and Cotta marvelled at the arrogance of his fellow Senators who sat so comfortably on their cushions beside him, believing nothing, and no one, could displace them. Secure in their cocoons of wealth and their positions of authority, they had ceased to ask: never mind us patricians, are the plebeians content? They didn’t question whether erecting a temple of marble was more important than rebuilding death-trap tenement slums. Had stopped caring whether the funds would be better invested in schooling, housing and policing the streets.

The novices thundered by, kicking up clouds of sand with their hoofs. Suddenly, one of the drivers veered too close to the central stone spine and his competitors crowded him into the wall, overturning the chariot. The two outside stallions thrashed in their traces, their eyes rolling with fear, while mechanics rushed to free the two terrified mares who were trapped in the shaft before they became trampled in the next lap.

Augustus wasn’t a bad man, Cotta reflected, glancing across to the Imperial Box, where the great man sat in gold crown and purple robes beside the Vestal Virgins. He’d introduced many worthy elements into Roman society, including free games, free public baths, the dole and, of course, his complete overhaul of the army, right down to equipping it with surgeons and vets. Augustus was objective and rational, wily and just, making Cotta more than willing to throw his lot in with this man instead of Mark Antony. (Especially once everyone realized how far that bloodsucking Egyptian bitch, Cleopatra, had got her hooks into him, weakling that he was.) But seventeen years at the helm was taking its toll.

Augustus might only be thirty-seven years old, but he was softening.

The eagle was relaxing its grip.

The Empire was growing flabby and lax.

Dole tablets didn’t prevent fires from sweeping through the tenements every night and taking a score of lives with them. No amount of Games could heal the diseases that ravaged the slums and made the inhabitants’ lives a perpetual torment. With the contents of his father’s box, though, Cotta could reverse that slide.

Realgar. The form of arsenic known by the Arabs as Fire of the Mines.

Sulphur. Produced by roasting fool’s gold and recrystallizing the vapour.

Honey. Binding the ingredients and rendering the mixture volatile.

Poseidon Powder. That fine, floury, combustible substance that would change the history of Rome for ever.

Sonofabitch, who could have predicted it would all come to nought with a body found in the woods? And yet— Cotta shouted encouragement to his team as they passed. And yet— The ghost of his father was in no doubt that Mighty Jupiter himself blessed his plans…

‘Note for you, sir.’

A reverent tap on his shoulder, and a roll of parchment was passed to him by a messenger wearing the Senator’s own livery of amber and green. He broke the seal and read the note carefully. It was from his steward in Frascati, and Cotta read the note again to make sure.

‘Yes!’ he said, punching the air, as his team passed the post two lengths ahead of the field.