movements of the fight in his head and only then noticing the gash on his arm that was still bleeding heavily. At twenty years old, it was not the first time he’d been cut. It was just one more scar to add to the rest. He began to chop the head free, using the oily beard to hold it steady.
The horses were still there when they came back, parched and staggering, with their tongues swelling in their mouths. It was sunset by the time the three Romans reached the village, with two sopping red sacks that dribbled their contents with every step. The local men had returned angry and empty-handed, but the mood changed when Octavian opened the sacks onto the road, sending heads tumbling into the dust. The woman’s husband embraced and kissed him with tears in his eyes, breaking off only to dash the heads against the wall of his house, then crushing Octavian to him once more. There was no need to translate as they left the man and his children to their mourning.
The other villagers brought food and drinks from cool cellars, setting up rough tables in the evening air so that they could feast the young men. As Octavian had imagined, he and his friends could hardly move for good meat and a clear drink that tasted of aniseed. They drank with no thought for the morning, matching the local men cup for cup until the village swam and blurred before their eyes. Very few of the villagers could speak Roman, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Through a drunken haze, Octavian became aware that Maecenas was repeating a question to him. He listened blearily, then gave a laugh, which turned into a curse at his own clumsiness as he spilled his cup.
‘You don’t believe that,’ he told Maecenas. ‘They call it the eternal city for a reason. There will be Romans here for a thousand years, longer. Or do you think some other nation will rise up and be our masters?’ He watched his cup being refilled with beady concentration.
‘Athens, Sparta, Thebes …’ Maecenas replied, counting on his fingers. ‘Names of gold, Octavian. No doubt the men of those cities thought the same. When Alexander was wasting his life in battles abroad, do you think he would have believed Romans would one day rule their lands from coast to coast? He would have laughed like a donkey, much as you are doing.’ Maecenas smiled as he spoke, enjoying making his friend splutter into his cup with each outrageous comment.
‘Wasting his life?’ Octavian said when he had recovered from coughing. ‘You are seriously suggesting Alexander the Great could have spent his years more fruitfully? I will not rise to it. I will be a stern and noble Roman, too …’ He paused. The drink had muddled his thoughts. ‘Too stern and noble to listen to you.’
‘Alexander had the greedy fingers of a merchant,’ Maecenas said. ‘Always busy, busy, and what did it get him? All those years of fighting, but if he had known he would die young in a foreign land, don’t you think he would rather have spent it in the sun? If he were here, you could ask him. I think he would choose fine wine and beautiful women over his endless battles. But you have not answered my question, Octavian. Greece ruled the world, so why should Rome be any different? In a thousand years, some other nation will rule, after us.’ He paused to wave away a plate of sliced meat and smile at two old ladies, knowing they could not understand what he was saying.
Octavian shook his head. With exaggerated care, he put his cup down and counted on his fingers as Maecenas had done.
‘One, because we cannot be beaten in war. Two … because we are the envy of every people ruled by petty kings. They want to become us, not overthrow those they envy. Three … I cannot think of three. My argument rests on two.’
‘Two is not enough!’ Maecenas replied. ‘I might have been confounded with three, but two! The Greeks were the greatest fighting men in the world once.’ He gestured as if throwing a pinch of dust into the air. ‘That for their greatness, all gone. That for the Spartans, who terrified an army of Persians with just a few hundred. The other nations will learn from us, copy our methods and tactics. I admit I cannot imagine our soldiers losing to filthy tribes, no matter what tricks they steal, but it could happen. The other point, though – they want what we have? Yes, and we wanted the culture of the Greeks. But we did not come quietly like gentlemen and ask for it. No, Octavian! We took it and then we copied their gods and built our temples and pretended it was all our own idea. One day, someone will do the same to us and we will not know how it happened. There are your two points, in ashes under my sandals.’ He raised a foot and pointed to the ground. ‘Can you see them? Can you see your arguments?’
There was a grunt from another bench, where Agrippa was lying stretched out.
‘The ape awakes!’ Maecenas said cheerfully. ‘Has our salty friend something to add? What news from the fleet?’
Agrippa was built on a different scale from the villagers, making the bench groan and flex under his bulk. As he shifted, he overbalanced and caught himself with a muscular arm pressed against the ground. With a sigh, he sat up and glared at Maecenas, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his bare knees.
‘I could not sleep with you two clucking.’
‘Your snoring calls you a liar, though I would not,’ Maecenas replied, accepting another full cup.
Agrippa rubbed his face with his hands, scratching the curls of black beard he had grown over the previous weeks.
‘So I will say only this,’ Agrippa went on, stifling a yawn, ‘before I find a better and a quieter place to sleep. There will be no empire to follow us because we have wealth enough to withstand any new tribe or nation. We pay for men by the hundred thousand, swords and spears by the million across all our lands. Who could stand against us without the full might of Caesar falling on his neck?’
‘It is always about money with you, isn’t it, Agrippa?’ Maecenas replied, his eyes bright with amusement. He enjoyed needling the bigger man and they both knew it. ‘You still think like a merchant’s son. I am not surprised, of course. It is in your blood and you cannot help it, but while Rome is full of merchants, it is the noble classes who will decide her future, her destiny.’
Agrippa snorted. The evening had grown cold and he rubbed his bare arms
‘According to you, a noble man would spend his day in the sun, with wine and beautiful women,’ Agrippa said.
‘You were listening! I don’t know how you do it, snoring all the while. It is a rare talent.’
Agrippa smiled, showing very white teeth against his black beard.
‘Be thankful for my blood, Maecenas. Men like my father built Rome and made her strong. Men like you rode pretty horses and gave impressive speeches, just as Aristotle and Socrates once held court in the agora.’
‘I sometimes forget you have been educated, Agrippa. Something about you says illiterate peasant whenever I look at you.’
‘And something about you says that you enjoy the company of men more than most.’
Octavian groaned at the bickering. His head was swimming and he had lost all track of time.
‘Peace, you two. I think we’ve eaten and drunk an entire winter’s store for these people. Apologise and join me in another jug.’
Maecenas raised his eyebrows. ‘Still awake? Remember that you owe me a gold aureus if you fall asleep or vomit before me. I am feeling very fresh.’
Octavian held his gaze for a moment, waiting until Maecenas gave way with a grunt.
‘Very well, Octavian. I apologise for suggesting Agrippa’s skull would find its best use as a battering ram.’
‘You did not say that,’ Octavian replied.
‘I was thinking it,’ Maecenas said.
‘And you, Agrippa? Will you be as noble?’
‘I struggle to reach his level, Octavian, but as you ask, I apologise for saying he would not earn as much as he thinks, renting himself out by the hour.’
Maecenas began to laugh, but then his face grew pale and he turned aside to empty his stomach. One of the old women muttered something he did not