COTTA. My God! I was in Rome last year,
Under the sun; it seems a dream.
LUCIUS. Things are not going well in Rome;
This frontier war is wasting men
Like water, and the Tartars come
In hordes.
COTTA. We beat them back agen.
LUCIUS. So far we have, and yet I feel
The empire is too wide a bow
For one land's strength.
COTTA. The stuff's good steel.
LUCIUS. Too great a strain may snap it, though.
If we were ordered home...
COTTA. Good Lord! ...
LUCIUS. If ... then our friends, the tribesmen there,
Would have glad days.
COTTA. This town would flare
To warm old Foxfoot and his horde.
LUCIUS. We have not been forethoughtful here,
Pressing the men to fill the ranks;
Centurions sweep the province clear.