Free Clash of Iron by Angus Watson Page B

drunk, braying Romans. These people didn’t look better than his people, but they’d certainly created something much better. They’d been in Rome almost a moon and still he found it hard to walk around with his mouth closed. The massive buildings were minutely and intricately decorated. Mosaic floors were so skilfully made and beautiful that he could have spent a whole day looking at each of them. The painted statues were exquisitely lifelike. Overarching all was a fiercely vibrant hum of activity; people scurrying hither and thither, merchants shouting their wares, politicians shouting their ideas and the relentless demolition and construction of buildings. And there was the size of the place. A million people lived in Rome, they said. A thousand thousand people all in one tight space, yet somehow they managed to gather everything they needed every day and take out everything they discarded. How, by Danu, did they do it? The systems that must have been involved were so vast and complex that it made him feel dizzy to consider them.
    What was more, even though the city was more spectacular, luxurious and shinier than he’d ever imagined even the halls the gods might be, it felt strangely safe. More than safe, he felt comfortable. It was paradoxical. It could not have been more foreign, yet he felt more at home here than he ever had in the excrement-stinking circles of dilapidated huts that passed for settlements in his homeland.
    “I think I’m just different from the rest of the British,” he said, turning to look at Clodia. Her eyelashes raised questioningly. “Perhaps I’m a Roman soul born in a foreign body? I certainly couldn’t ever be a slave.”
    “No. Slaves are born, not made.”
    “There are so many. Why don’t they—”
    “Rebel?” Her coarse accent had vaporised again. “They do. But they don’t rebel against the idea of slavery as you might think, they rebel against the fact that they themselves are slaves. Every time they rebel successfully, they make others their slaves. But they always end up slaves again – because that it is what they are. There was one exception to that, one who nearly did make a difference, a wonderful Thracian named Spartacus. But he…” She sighed sadly, “He made the mistake of taking on Rome. He did better than most, and it did look for a while like he might free all the slaves. But, if my romantic side is a little in love with him, the practical part is glad he didn’t succeed. I rather like my slaves. I never have to do anything mundane and they remind me that I’m free … But I’d like to learn something about you. Tell me, what has struck you most about Rome since your arrival?”
    “The buildings are colossal, and there are so many. I walked from—”
    “Yawn.”
    She wanted a clever answer, Ragnall thought. Well, let’s see how she likes this: “All right. Here’s a big difference. In Britain, the women rule as much as the men do. They fight in the army. In the household, men and women share the work. Men are not in charge of women, and women are not in charge of men. Yet I’ve heard that Roman women, even rich ones like you who say they are free, are actually no freer than slaves. I’ve heard you have no power. I heard a man say that women were decorations and not much more. Is there any truth in that?”
    Clodia pursed her lips and wrinkled her large nose. “Some truth. We are not men’s equals in Rome’s eyes. Immigrants distort the picture so it’s not particularly obvious, but there actually are far fewer Roman women than men because so many baby girls do not pass infancy.”
    “Why not?”
    “It is the parents’ right to kill them and many do not want a girl. Girls are more likely to bring shame than honour to a family.” She smiled wryly. “As I have proven. Women cannot be any sort of official, so cannot curry favour or win battles. Look at our host, Julius Caesar. He has won awards and positions all his life, saturating his