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.
XIII
Gwlym could see only a few faces in the glow of the fire, but he knew that beyond them a hundred others sat on the damp leaf mould listening to his words. They were the elders of the northern Catuvellauni, at least those he thought he could trust, and he had gathered them in this forest clearing so that they should understand that they were not alone. This was the most dangerous time, the time when he had to persuade the doubters and the timid. Now they could see that they were many, that they were strong, that they were part of a great movement.
But attending a meeting in a forest glade by night did not mean a man would pick up his spear and march against his oppressors. They had courage, of course, and they hated, but sometimes it required more than that and he needed to know that when he moved on they would return to their homes and set up the secret furnaces and workshops that would help them rearm their tribes.
‘This was once a sacred grove,’ he said, his voice soft but strong enough to be heard clearly by every man among them. ‘The Romans hacked down the oak trees which grew here for a hundred years and slaughtered the guardians so their blood soaked the ground we sit upon. But that blood was not wasted,’ he pointed to a ring of small saplings, barely a year old, ‘for the grove has been replanted and one day the rites will be renewed here. One day the gods will return to their rightful home.’
He paused to allow them to consider his words. He knew that certain of the rites he spoke of were not universally loved. Sometimes it was necessary to dispatch a messenger to the gods to ensure an appeal was heard and understood. Normally the message carrier was a prisoner or a slave, but in times of true emergency the gods would only accept a more treasured candidate: a chief’s first-born, or the well favoured daughter of a lord.
‘But the gods will only return when they are certain that you have not forsaken them. What did you do when the Romans came with their axes and their swords?’ He let his hawk’s eyes rove over the men in the inner circle and then the darkness beyond them, so that each became the focus of his words and felt the shame they evoked. ‘Did you fight or send your sons to fight? Did you stand and say: this is the sacred ground of Taranis and Teutates, of Esus and Epona? No, you did not, for you are still alive. Yet, though you failed them, the gods have not forsaken you. The message I bring is this. Prepare: for the time of release is upon us. Arm: for strength is the only message the Romans understand. Wait: for only when the gods send their sign will the time be right.’
And they asked: what will be the sign?
And he answered: the wrath of Andraste.
