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  Recognizing his tribune's sash and generally weathered and battered appearance, his new companions of the road asked for news from the battle front and were suitably impressed when they learned that he had been recently in command of a legion, and that it was the one that had brought hostilities to a close. In return he asked news of the capital, but none of them had been so far south in months. All they had to report were rumors, which were as much use as the widely traded stories of the latest omens.

  The men in civilian clothes turned out to be state

  freedmen, administrative specialists sent out to lay the groundwork for organizing the new northern province, which was to be known as Albria, so called from its principal river, the Albris. It was the first time Marcus had heard the name, and he had been fighting there for two years. It was the Roman system: first conquest, then organization and limited citizenship. If there were no rebellions, the inhabitants would have full citizenship in a generation or two. The grandsons of the warriors he had been fighting these last two years, the survivors among whom were sullenly beginning to accept their lot, might win seats in the Senate. It had happened many times before.

  Dinner and conversation done, he went back onto the veranda and walked wearily to the officers' quarters. It was like a room in any Roman barracks: a double line of bunks against two walls of the room, pegs above the beds for slinging armor and other gear, a stand against one wall containing pitchers and basins for washing up. The facility was too small to have a true bath, though it boasted a regulation latrine.

  He picked a vacant bunk, kicked off his caligae and threw himself onto the bed. Without the worries of a whole legion on his mind, he found it amazingly easy to sleep.

  The next morning he woke an hour before sunrise, as he always did, and for a moment was puzzled not to hear the bustle of a legionary camp coming to life. He rose to sit on the edge of the bunk and pulled on his caligae, drawing their laces tight to the ankles, then walked out of the room and back to the mess area. He breakfasted on a piece of tough bread, dipping it into a cup of warmed wine that was half vinegar.

  He took his cloak from the rack by the fire where he had spread it the night before. It was almost dry. He wrapped himself in it against the morning chill. Fall was well advanced. When he went back outside, the eastern horizon was showing a streak of gray and a blustery wind whipped up flurries of dry leaves. He walked to the latrine, thence to the stables, where he rousted a stableman with a few kicks and got his beasts saddled and packed. When he rode out, the eastern horizon was pink.

  Nine days later, he sat his tired horse on a bluff above the Danubius River, overlooking the capital city of the empire, Roma Noricum.

  Chapter 3

  The city lay on the northern bank of the Danubius, surrounded by hills once heavily forested but now carpeted with cultivated fields, vineyards and orchards. Smoke rose from the altars before the great temples of Jupiter, Juno, Venus and Mars, and the lesser temples of Mercury, Quirinus, Janus, Aesculapius and a score of others. Its streets were narrow, lined with two-and three-story houses, most of them still built in the traditional Mediterranean

  fashion, despite its unsuitability for the climate.

  Near the center of the city, on a piece of high ground well above the river's highest flood stage, stood the Curia, meetinghouse of the Senate. It was an austere structure, a slab-sided rectangle relieved by a Doric facade, looking much like the one in Rome of the Seven Hills except for its roof, which was somewhat higher-pitched to shed the occasional heavy snow.

  The Curia overlooked the Forum, a broad, generously proportioned plaza that served as marketplace, meeting site for the Plebeian Assembly and the Popular Assembly. It was also the center of most festivals and the setting for the funerals of the most prominent men. Around its periphery were situated altars to the personified virtues: Discipline, Peace, Valor, Social Concord, Liberty, Piety and a score of others. The whole city was dotted with the shrines of lesser gods as well. These were revered by the common people, who found the state gods too lofty and remote.

  The state gods were Jupiter, Juno, Saturn, Mars, Vesta and Venus. Other prominent gods had their own temples and cults: Flora, Ceres, Bona Dea and many others. The small gods had shrines, springs, wells and holy groves, both in the city and in the countryside. There were gods for

  sickness and for finding lost objects, gods who were patrons of travelers, merchants, craftsmen and soldiers, gods for particular sites. There were gods for every household and for specific parts of each household. It was difficult for a Roman peasant to believe that a god as all-powerful as Jupiter took much interest in his problem with corn rust. But there was a special god, Robigo, who could be invoked to protect the crops from that scourge. All he asked was the sacrifice of a red dog at his annual festival, the Robigalia.

  Marcus rode down the bluff and onto the river plain. Soon he passed the great temple of Mars situated by ancient tradition in a field outside the city. He had no temples or shrines within the walls. The broad field to its north was the Campus Martius, drill field for the legions and meeting place of the Centuriate Assembly. It was devoted solely to military purposes and it was dotted with armories for training weapons and armor, sheds for drilling in inclement weather, obstacle courses, even a full-sized replica of an oppidium wall and ditch for storming practice. Every able-bodied Roman male between the ages of sixteen and fifty was a soldier and was never allowed to forget the fact. Most long-service legionaries were drawn from the peasant class, but the artisans and small merchants of the city had to be ready to take up arms when the cornicen sounded the call to the standards.

  On most days he would have seen at least a few units on the field training. Boys began training in centuries at the age of fourteen and there were almost always youth classes drilling on the field. This time he saw none. He wondered whether an augur had seen an omen and declared the day a holiday.

  He rode into town through the Via Borealis gate. He was tempted to go immediately home and see his family, but it was only mid-morning, so he thought it best to report to the Curia. The streets were thinly populated and he attracted little attention. Returning soldiers were among the more common sights in the streets of Roma Noricum.

  Most of the shops he passed were closed and shuttered. The whitewashed walls were covered with scrawled graffiti and professionally lettered announcements. The former were mostly good wishes or execrations hurled at friends, enemies and political figures. One of the latter announced an upcoming gladiatorial contest. One Publius Castricius was putting on a show of twenty pairs in honor of his late father, the former praetor Sergius Castricius. Marcus didn't know father or son, but he hoped he would be in Roma for the fights. It had been a long time since he'd seen a good munera.

  Abruptly, the narrow street widened into the broad expanse of the Forum and Marcus felt that he had truly come home. The wide plaza was on low ground, dominated by the surrounding temples, the Curia and Archive, all of them situated on high ground. The Forum was packed with citizens, shouting and arguing, which was what usually happened when a large number of citizens got together, unless they were hearing a speech or attending a sacrifice. They presented a colorful display, for while some retained the traditional white toga, many more favored the striped and checked cloth produced by the Gauls.

  On the speaker's platform below the Curia, several orators were haranguing the crowd at once. Marcus suspected that they were Tribunes of the People. Those politicians were the most frequent rabble-rousers and troublemakers. He wondered what shift of policy had set them off this time, not that it mattered lately. It took only a short span of peace to bring all the old resentments out into the open and boiling.

  He left his horses in the Curia's stable and made his way back into the Forum and up the stairs of the Senate house. A lone lictor stood in the doorway, shouldering his fasces—a bundle of rods tied around an axe, symbol of praetorian and consular authority. Marcus held up his senatorial dispatch and the man stepped
aside for him to enter.

  Within, the uproar was even louder than that in the Forum, if only because of the great crowding. The Curia had been one of the first buildings erected when the exiles founded Roma Noricum. It had been built to house a Senate of no more than three hundred members. In little more than a century, the citizen population had more than tripled, both because the old families were making up for their losses by raising many children, and because of the influx of new families. The highest ranking of the latter, families such as the Norbani, were the descendants of the noble local families that had supported the Romans in their conquest of the Danubius basin and its surrounding territories. In return for this invaluable service they had been awarded full citizenship and the greatest of them had been elevated to Senatorial distinction.

  Marcus saw an old friend seated in the rear of the chamber, sneaking occasional sips from a silver flask. He stepped to the man's side. "Still the most energetic senator in Noricum, I see."

  Aulus Flaccus looked up and beamed. "Marcus Scipio! Good to see you back. Here, sit by me."

  Marcus sat. "It would never occur to you to stand and greet me."

  "Why? It's as easily done sitting. Have a sip. You'll need it if you're going to endure the Senate for more than a few minutes." Aulus Flaccus was short, pudgy and saturnine, the very opposite of the Roman ideal. He was slow and lazy, or made a show of it. He and Marcus had been friends from childhood.

  Marcus took a drink. It was imported Illyrian of the finest quality. Flaccus only drank the best. "What's the argument about?"

  "The usual." Flaccus referred to the perennial dispute between the old families and the new. The new families wanted to expand the empire north, east and west, conquering the fierce but primitive tribesmen of those dark, forested lands. The old families were determined to march south and retake Italy, to reestablish the capital at Rome of the Seven Hills and be once again the preeminent power of the Mediterranean.

  "It's been going on all my life, and my father's," Marcus said. "What makes this different?"

  Flaccus took another swig, earning scowls from more traditionally minded senators. He gestured with the flask toward the side of the chamber where the priestly colleges sat dressed in their sacerdotal robes and insignia. "They've been taking the omens. For months, the gods have been sending signs that it is time to go south and take Italy back."

  Marcus felt his scalp prickle. Retake Italy! It had been the dream of the Scipios for five generations. And it was the will of the gods. For more than a hundred years, they had scanned the skies, watched for lightning, listened for thunder, observed the way the birds fed and took note of every abnormal birth, both human and animal. Each time, the signs had been unfavorable, or at best ambiguous. There had been times when hopes had been raised by some prodigy, some extraordinary phenomenon, some wondrous dream sent to a consul or a flamen. Each time, the omens had proven to be false.

  Something truly unusual must have happened to raise such an uproar. "Is it certain?"

  Flaccus shrugged. "It depends on how much trust you put in omens. Since Quinctilis people have been seeing things. Every time the sacred geese feed, they start at the northern end of the line of grain and eat their way south. If it's lined east to west, they won't eat at all. Thunder always seems to come from the right. Wolves, boars, foxes, eagles, bears, horses, rams, serpents, lions and scorpions keep doing unusual things. Doubtless if we had hippogriffs, dragons, capricorns, sphinxes and chimeras they would be doing likewise." These creatures, natural and fanciful, were the totem beasts of the fourteen legions.

  "Ten days ago," he went on, looking uncommonly sober, "on the ides of November, a flight of fourteen eagles flew low over the city. They circled the temple of Jupiter Best and Greatest all morning, then flew south until they were out of sight."

  "Could this be true?" Marcus said. He had never heard of such a prodigy. It was as if Jupiter himself had spoken from his throne inside the temple.

  "The whole city saw it," Flaccus said. "I saw it myself."

  Marcus was glad that he was sitting, because he was not sure his knees would have supported him. "That's it, then," he said. "We're going."

  "Not if they have anything to say about it." Flaccus gestured once more, this time toward a large crowd of senators grouped in the middle of the chamber. They wore tunics with the broad purple stripe of the senator, and those holding higher magistracies wore togas with a broad purple hem, but in every case the garment, tunic or toga, was of Gallic cloth, striped, checked and interwoven with lines of brilliant color. A few men, daringly, even sported long hair and flowing mustaches. This was an affectation Marcus had never seen before in the Curia. It portended an even deeper split than usual.

  "What is wrong with them? Can't they recognize the will of the gods when they see it?"

  "They aren't as fond of omens as the old families," Flaccus said. "Or rather, they fancy different omens than we do. And different gods." It was no surprise. The new families were careful to perform all the rites demanded by the state gods, but in their homes they kept shrines to the gods of their ancestors.

  "Who's the ringleader?" Marcus wanted to know.

  "Old Norbanus."

  "What happened to Tubero?"

  "Died last month. Norbanus took over the leadership of the opposition. If this keeps up, we'll all be chucking rings into sacred pools and be stuck here in the frozen north forever." He didn't look terribly distressed at the prospect. Flaccus had served a quaestorship and had done his military service sitting in a general's tent making himself an invaluable secretary. This had earned him a purple stripe and a seat in the Senate. He had done nothing else in the years since. He was a bottomless well of senatorial gossip.

  "What is the sticking point this time?"

  "Whether the decision should come from the Senate or the Popular Assemblies. You can guess the rest."

  Indeed he could. The old families dominated the Senate; the new families controlled the largest voting bloc in the Assemblies. "But war has always been the prerogative of the Senate."

  "War isn't the immediate question," Flaccus said. "A mission to Carthage is under discussion."

  "Foreign relations and diplomacy are also senatorial privileges."

  "What we are discussing here"—Flaccus made eloquent gestures indicative of uncertainty—"is neither war nor diplomacy. It is an ostensible mission of trade and exploration, but actually a spying expedition, to get the lay of the land, find out how powerful Carthage is these days, who their allies are, if any, that sort of thing."

  Marcus nodded. "It makes sense. Marching against an unknown enemy would be folly."

  "Exactly. But the nature of the mission is ambiguous enough that it is unclear who should have authority. If it's for war, the Senate is in control. If it's for trade, the equites demand authority."

  "Of course it's for war!" Marcus said. "All espionage is military in nature."

  Flaccus patted him on the shoulder. "Marcus, you're such a political infant. Even within the Senate, it's hard enough to get a majority for this war. The Assemblies are against it. But everyone likes the idea of a mission to find out what is happening down south these days. All we ever hear is what the Greek traders choose to tell us, and who can trust a Greek? The merchant community would like very much to open up trade routes to the south."

  The merchants of Roma Noricum were almost all members of the equites, the class of wealthy plebeians. Their name meant "horsemen" and dated from the days when the highest property assessment meant assignment to. the cavalry when the legions were called up. Soldiers served at their own expense. An equites had to provide his own horse and see to its maintenance. In recent generations, as cavalry duties were levied mainly on the Gallic allies, it had become purely a measure of wealth. Equites were frequently far wealthier than the senatorial class, and had therefore a larger clientage with consequent power in the Popular Assemblies. In many ways, they were the most powerful class in Roma Noricum.

  Marc
us nodded, accepting it. "Surely a compromise can be reached."

  "That's what is going on now," Flaccus affirmed. "The compromise is just taking longer to reach, with more attendant noise."

  "Who looks likely to prevail?" Flaccus would know if anyone would.

  "The old families, because of their prestige and because of their attachment to the old empire. They'll name the leader. The new families will get the choice of subordinate commander and make sure that he has almost equal authority."

  "Of course." Marcus sighed. Divided power was the ancient bane of the: Romans, and the new families had nothing to do with the institution. In the dim, semi-legendary days of Tarquinius Superbus and Junius Brutus, the Romans had expelled their Etruscan kings and founded the Republic. Swearing never again to allow a single man to have supreme power, they had divided the highest offices among a number of office holders: the Pontifex Maximus to rule on religious matters, the Princeps Senatus to set the order of debate in the Senate, a number of assemblies to pass laws and, most importantly, two men to hold imperium, the ancient power of kings to raise and lead armies and to pass judgment on capital cases. Each could overrule his colleague and while it had for centuries prevented the rise of a king among the Romans, it had also lost them many battles and bogged down much legislation in acrimony and stubborn obstructionism. Roman politicians who craved high office were chronically jealous of all others with the same ambition.

  The founders of the Republic had foreseen this problem and had provided for it. In cases of extreme national danger, the Senate was empowered to raise a Dictator. At a vote of the Senate, the consuls would appoint a Dictator from among the senators. The Dictator had total imperium and could take any measures he thought necessary to meet the emergency. His power was limited to six months, after which he had to retire to private life. Unlike any other magistrate, a Dictator could never be called to account for his actions in office.

  "Is there going to be a vote?" Marcus asked.