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  "This is just a branch?" said Pedanius, the horse-doctor. "It looks like all the water in the world!"

  "Yet even Our Sea is just a part of the world's waters. Beyond the Pillars of Hercules is Oceanus, which is believed to be limitless." Flaccus, as usual, sounded deeply satisfied with his scholarship.

  "All right," Marcus said when he had looked his fill, "we've seen the sea. We'll see a great deal of water before this mission is done. Let's get back to the road."

  The road took them westward, then south. The first town of any size they encountered was Patavium, where the coastal road met the southwest-leading Bononia Road. As they approached the walled town, an armed militia rode out to meet them. They wore oddments of armor and rode upon scrubby horses. Clearly, the once-prosperous town had fallen upon hard times. They drew rein just out of javelin-cast and their leader rode a few paces forward. He wore an excellent bronze cuirass and helmet and was clearly some sort of local dignitary.

  "I am Cassius Porcina, captain of the civil guard of Patavium." He looked them over with curiosity bordering on wonder. "Who might you be?" He spoke a heavily accented but understandable dialect of Latin.

  "We are Romans," Marcus said.

  The man blinked. "Romans? The Romans disappeared in my grandfather's day."

  "We come from Roma Noricum," Marcus explained. "We are on a mission of trade and diplomacy for our homeland."

  "Oh, Noricum. I've heard of that place. So that's where the Roman refugees settled? I thought there were nothing but bearded, skin-clad savages up there beyond the mountains."

  "There are still a few of those," Marcus affirmed. "Mostly, though, we are civilized. We've been cut off from the south for a long time and we want to reestablish relations. Just now, we are riding to Rome to sacrifice at our temples and restore the tombs of our ancestors, which must have fallen into disrepair by this time."

  Cassius nodded. "Very pious and I wish you well." He looked them over again, appraisingly. "I am rather surprised that you've made it so far unmolested. There is a great deal of banditry around here. A group as well-found as yours, riding practically unarmed, must be a great temptation."

  "We shall have to be vigilant," Marcus said.

  The captain shrugged. "Well, you look peaceful enough. You may enter the city. Perhaps you can interest the merchant council in some trade agreements. The gods know we don't get much foreign commerce here."

  Marcus rode alongside the captain as they turned toward the city gate. "Is this still Carthaginian territory?" he asked.

  Cassius laughed. "Carthaginian? Oh, certainly they claim us. They send collectors each year to take our tribute, never doubt it. But no Carthaginian face has been seen in this district since Hannibal pulled his army out in my grandfather's time." Apparently his grandfather's time encompassed all of history prior to recent memory.

  The town had a few fine buildings, most of them growing shabby except for the homes of the most important men and a few of the temples. That evening they were entertained by the merchant's council to a modest dinner. These men, at least, had done some traveling and possessed useful information.

  "Carthaginians?" said a wool trader. "You'll find factors for their trading companies in most coastal cities, the ones with decent ports. But they maintain garrisons only in the most important ports. In Italy that means Brundisium, Tarentum and Messana. Tarentum is their Italian capital and has the largest garrison. It is the residence of the governor of Italy, one Hanno, a royal cousin like all the governors."

  "How do they dominate all of Italy with so little military presence?" Norbanus asked.

  "They have large forces quartered in Sicily. Lilybaeum and Panormus are fort cities, and there are smaller forts and camps all over the island. Only Syracuse remains independent."

  This statement drew immediate attention. "How did Syracuse retain its freedom when all other cities fell before the Carthaginians?" Marcus asked.

  "There was a protracted siege with heavy losses on both sides. Carthage was unable to breach the walls or control the harbor, and eventually a peace was negotiated. Some credit the fantastic war machines designed by the mathematician Archimedes with saving the city. Others think Carthage was simply exhausted after so many years of war. Also, some of their African subject cities rose in revolt, and they had to deal with the problem. In later years, they seemed content to leave Syracuse alone."

  "Who rules in Carthage now?" Flaccus wanted to know.

  "The Barca family have ruled since Hannibal's day. He overthrew the republic and set himself up as sole king. The current Shofet—that is what they call their king—is Hamilcar the Second. I believe he is a great-grandson of Hannibal."

  "And is Carthage unchallenged these days?" Marcus asked.

  "In the west, I am afraid so. With the fall of Rome, there was no credible military power remaining and all was reduced to subjugation, save Syracuse. In the east, it is a different matter. The descendants of Alexander's generals still control Greece and Macedon, Syria and Egypt. They fight much among themselves, but Carthage has never been able to overcome their combined might or their military expertise. Carthage has not produced another general of Hannibal's caliber." He sat back and took a long drink of watered wine. "But it is trade you are interested in, is it not? These military matters can hardly concern you."

  "That is quite true," said Ahenobarbus, smoothly taking control of the dialogue. For the next few hours he learned all he could from the merchants. Marcus was content to let him dominate the conversation. This was his realm of expertise and he would glean much valuable intelligence unwittingly delivered by the traders.

  The next morning they resumed their journey southward, this time on the Bononia road. As soon as they were away from the city, Norbanus leaned over and spat on the roadside. "Tribute! These people pay tribute to an enemy that does not even bother to establish garrisons in their country to keep them in line! What has happened to Italian manhood?"

  "Things have sunk to a sorry state since our ancestors left," Marcus said. "But what do you expect? These are the descendants of the people who stayed behind, renounced their share of Roman inheritance and submitted to the yoke of Carthage. Oxen can't breed fighting bulls." He drew rein as soon as they were out of sight of the city. "I want every man to arm himself now. We must not appear too warlike. Cover your armor with your cloaks, helmets and shields to be hung from your saddles. We can expect attack at any moment from here on."

  "You're pessimistic today," Flaccus grumbled.

  "Word will have gone out from the city that we are on this road, with good horses and full purses and that we look like peaceful traders. There are always people happy to inform bandits of such a thing, for a share of the spoils."

  They took their military gear from the pack animals and donned it. Each man had a short shirt of mail of the type worn by cavalry, and an iron helmet. The shields were of light-cavalry design, small and round. Each had a long cavalry sword as well as a short infantry gladius, a sheaf of javelins and a lance. Only fat Metrobius was spared the military preparations. He was too old, too fat and had been nothing but a scholar all his life. Remounted, they rode on.

  They encountered no bandits that day, nor on the next. But on the third day, they found their way barred at the bridge across the Padus River. They had crossed a number of smaller rivers since leaving Patavium, and had been gratified to see that their bridges were still intact, if not quite up to exacting Roman standards of design and construction.

  "It seems," Flaccus said, "that someone doesn't want us to cross the Padus."

  "Or else wants us to pay for the privilege," Norbanus said, fingering the hilt of his longsword.

  "Or," Flaccus speculated, "it could be that they just intend to kill us and take everything."

  "What disappointed men they shall be," Marcus said. "But, it should do no harm to talk with them. Maybe they'll see reason." He counted the men before them, ranged in front of the northern approach to the fine bridge. There were so
me eighty-five or ninety of them, half mounted, the rest afoot, all armed. There was no attempt at uniformity of clothing or equipment. All were well armed, some partially armored. "Who do you think they might be?"

  "The usual rabble," Norbanus said. "Runaway slaves, ruined peasants, army deserters. Bandits are the same everywhere."

  "They could be men of spirit," Marcus speculated, "men who will not pay tribute or be dominated by cowards."

  "At the moment," Flaccus said, "their spirit seems misdirected. Toward ourselves, to be precise."

  "I agree," Norbanus said. "Let's get rid of them."

  "Talk first," Marcus said gently. "We are diplomats, after all." These words were greeted with sighs and groans, which he ignored as he rode forward. He stopped the customary distance and waited to see who the leader of this ragged band might be.

  A man wearing an old-fashioned helmet and breastplate, riding barefoot, rode forward a few paces. "Greetings, Romans," he called. He was gap-toothed and scrubby bearded, but he had an air of authority, like a centurion of long service.

  "So you know who we are. You have an excellent intelligence service."

  The man grinned. "Intelligence service? You mean the world is full of men willing to betray strangers for a handful of coins."

  "I'm following you, but your accent is strange to me. Are you Samnite?" He chose the nation at random, naming an old enemy people.

  "No, they live far south of here. I'm Ligurian. I think we should discuss the terms upon which we will allow you to continue breathing."

  "By all means," Marcus said, leaning forward, listening with evident interest.

  The bandit chief looked puzzled and, for the first time, uneasy. "You don't seem very frightened."

  "Should we be?" Marcus said. "You seem to be splendid fellows and we're all friends here, are we not?"

  "They're all mad," said one of the bandits. All of them fingered their weapons, staring greedily at the fine animals and clothing and equipment.

  "This is how it will be," said the leader. "You will all dismount and strip. All of your valuables go on the ground. Then you can walk back to Patavium unmolested. We won't hold you for ransom or sell you as slaves, so long as you make no resistance."

  Marcus gazed past him. Heaped at the end of the bridge was a tangle of ropes, chains and shackles. "What are those for?"

  The man followed the direction of his gaze. "If you resist, we ransom or sell the survivors. It's the custom."

  Marcus straightened. "This is how it is going to be. We will not give you a single animal or a single coin. You will stand aside and allow us to cross, and you will live. We're Romans, you see. We don't negotiate with bandits, pirates and the like. We crucify them." He looked at a nearby copse of trees. "Plenty of good timber for crosses here. We don't have nails, but wood pegs work as well and hurt worse." He took his helmet from his right saddle horn and fastened its chinstrap.

  "Eh?" The bandit leader was nonplussed. Then he saw Marcus shrug his cloak from his shoulders, revealing his glittering iron mail as he took the round shield from his left saddle horn. Behind him the rest of the party did the same. In an instant, the trade delegation had become a cavalry troop. For a moment he was shaken, but then realized that he still had the advantage of numbers, by more than two to one. He turned to order his men forward, but Marcus did not wait.

  It was always, he knew, best to seize the initiative in the face of superior numbers. He drew his sword and spurred his horse in a single motion. He did not bother to give orders to his men. They knew exactly what to do. This had been drilled into them from the day they first straddled a horse. In an instant his horse was even with that of the bandit chief. He leaned over his saddle and thrust with his arm at full extension. The bandit, expecting a cut, was caught by surprise as he raised his wooden shield, still trying to draw his sword. The point went into his throat just beneath the chin, passing through and separating the neck vertebrae. He went backward out of his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.

  As Marcus was withdrawing his sword, a footman rushed up on his left and tried to seize his bridle. Marcus punched with the iron-sheathed edge of his shield, a straight thrust that crunched into the man's temple, dropping him instantly. Then the other Romans were even with him, formed into a skirmish line, their lances and swords rising, falling, thrusting like some great mechanical device. Each man engaged the enemy before him while keeping an eye on those attacking his comrades to right and left. A moment's inattention by any of the bandits and a lance would be into his side and out again before he was even aware of it. It was Roman practice in such a fight for a horseman to protect himself from the man directly before him while using his offensive weapons principally against attackers to either side. They had learned that they inflicted far more losses on an enemy this way than by heroic, one-on-one duels.

  In an amazingly short time, most of the bandits were on the ground and the rest were running, some of them onto the bridge from which they jumped into the waters below, so desperate were they to escape this unprecedented killing machine. Marcus reined in but some of the younger men continued to chase the running bandits, spearing them or cutting them down as if this were a stag hunt, not a fight against men. Marcus did not call them off. He did not like bandits and it was just as well that the people in these parts learned the terror of Roman arms. It would make for less trouble later.

  Titus Norbanus rode up, his sword red to the hilt, his mail splashed with blood as well. "A few seem to have gotten away," he reported.

  "How many?" Marcus asked.

  "Four or five, I think."

  "Just as well. Let them spread the word."

  "But we promised them crucifixion!" Norbanus protested. Marcus scanned the little battlefield. "There are probably some here you can crucify."

  "No, they're all dead," Norbanus said, sounding deeply disappointed.

  Flaccus rode up. "I'm glad of it. Crucifixion is a lot of work."

  Norbanus looked him over. "That's a clean sword you have there."

  Flaccus held the weapon up as if studying it. Its polish was unmarred, its edge innocent of notches. "So it is. This means I won't have to clean it, doesn't it?"

  "Since you rested during the fight," Marcus said, "you can see to disposal of the bodies."

  "Of course. I'll summon the slaves. They can go round up some peasants and we'll have these poor wretches piled up and incinerated before nightfall." He sheathed his sword and rode off, calling for the servants.

  Marcus dismounted and walked down to the river to wash the blood from his sword. Blood was the worst thing in the world for a sword, oddly enough. Leave it on too long and it would etch and stain the blade, ruining the fine polish. As he swept the blade back and forth in the flow, he reflected that it was going to take more than a long march and a fight with bandits to make a Roman of Flaccus.

  Fifteen days later, they came within sight of the walls of Rome.

  Chapter 5

  They stood on the plain north of the city and gazed upon the walls built by the king Servius Tullius. On the heights within the walls they could see the great temples of Juno and Jupiter. All their lives they had been told of these places and they knew the topography of Rome and the surrounding countryside as well as they knew their own city.

  "The walls!" somebody said with a sob in his voice. The great, ancient wall was reduced in places to rubble, only small sections still standing to their full height.

  "What did you expect?" Titus Norbanus said. "Hannibal would never leave a strongly fortified enemy city within his domains, any more than we would. He pulled the walls down, so we will build them up again."

  "That we will," Marcus affirmed. "Come on, let's go see what the Carthaginians left us."

  So they rode across the river plain, along the old northern road that led them to a gap in the wall where once had stood the Colline Gate. Within, they found a dismal expanse of tumbled masonry, overgrown with bushes, weeds and even full-grown trees where once had s
tood the proud houses of the patricians, the tenements of the poor, the markets and plazas of the great city.

  "This is the temple of Quirinus," Flaccus said. The structure stood atop a rise of ground, the Quirinal hill. Its pillars and portico were still intact, but the roof was gone.

  "So much for Hannibal's oath to leave our temples and shrines intact," said Norbanus.

  "A century of neglect could have done this," Flaccus told them. They rode up to the steps before the temple, dismounted and climbed to the top of the stair. From this prominence they could see a great expanse of city. The temple of Quirinus was one of the most ancient in Rome, a small, modest structure in keeping with the simplicity of their distant ancestors. Nearby stood the equally ancient temple of Salus.

  "They burned the city," Marcus said. "Only that could account for such devastation."

  "First loot, then burn," Norbanus said. "That's the way it is usually done."

  They remounted and rode on, until they came to the valley between the Capitoline and Palatine hills. This had been the Forum, the very heart and center of Rome. Once drained by the Cloaca Maxima, the valley had reverted to its original character as a marshy glen with a small lake in its center. In the marsh, amid blowing reeds stood the small, circular temple of Vesta, where once had burned the sacred fire.

  "The Vestals will weep when they see this," said Brutus.

  "It will look better by the time they arrive from Noricum," Marcus assured him. "The Cloaca Maxima is down there somewhere. The drains have just clogged. A legion with its engineers will have this valley drained in a week. In another month, the mud and reeds will be cleared away, the pavement uncovered and restorations well under way. It will look like a city again, before we bring the Vestals and the sacred objects back home."

  "First we will have to retake this district," Norbanus pointed out.

  "First we will reconquer Italy," Marcus said. "Then, the rest of the old empire."

  "And after that, the world?" Norbanus said, smiling.