B004H4XRB4 EBOK Page 8

  "Why not?" Marcus answered. "It's there to be conquered, and we haven't been wasting our time up north. We've kept in practice."

  It might have been worse, Marcus reflected. In an odd way, it was Rome's good fortune that it occupied such an indifferent site. But for its exceptional inhabitants, Rome was just a second-rate Italian city on a third-rate Italian river. Carthage was interested only in controlling coastal cities and extracting tribute from the interior. The new occupants seemed inclined only to till the soil and use it for pasturage.

  Marcus turned his horse and spurred it toward the Sacred Way that wound its way up the slope of the Capitol. Once, triumphal parades had taken this route, the climax of the magnificent ceremony that reaffirmed the inevitable primacy of Roman arms. The victorious general, dressed in a purple robe, his face and hands painted red, crowned with a golden wreath, rode in his chariot with enemy kings and chiefs walking in chains behind him. For a day, the triumphator received semi-divine honors as he rode through the city after the great wagons, floats and litters heaped with loot and arms taken from the enemy. The Sacred Way ended atop the Capitoline hill, where he sacrificed at the altar of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and was feasted at a great banquet hosted by the Senate.

  Now the Sacred Way was a sorry sight, its monuments toppled, the great buildings that had once bordered it tumbled in ruin: The tabularium that had held the state records was rubble, the lesser temples and shrines falling into decay, although they could detect no signs of outright vandalism. The huge temple of Juno Moneta stood roofless, and on the highest peak the smaller but even more ancient temple of Jupiter Best and Greatest stood likewise open to the elements.

  "When we rebuild," Marcus said, dismounting, "let's use only stone and bronze. No more wooden roofs for Roman temples."

  Slowly, they walked inside. Even in its half-ruinous state, this holy site filled them with awe and reverence. Here had taken place some of the most decisive debates of the Senate, when the Curia had been too small to hold the crowd or when the augurs had declared that Jupiter himself wished to participate. Here the leaders of Rome had taken their most solemn oaths. Here generations of triumphators had dedicated their victories to the chief god of Rome's pantheon.

  In the center rear of the temple Jupiter still sat enthroned. The ancient image was of terracotta, his skin painted red, his hair and beard black, his robe gilded. One hand was raised in benediction, the other resting upon the arm of his throne. He seemed all but untouched by the intervening years. Dust lay upon him, and leaves hammocked in the folds of his robe, but his shell-inlaid eyes were bright.

  "We will cleanse the temple," Marcus said, "and rebuild his altar fire. Then we will sacrifice to Jupiter, and renew the oath of our ancestors."

  Silently, they set about the ritual cleansing of the temple. Many of them were highborn men, but there was nothing demeaning in this holy work. They fashioned brooms from reeds growing below, and they carried up pots of water and used their saddle blankets to scrub the floor, and they worked on their knees to eliminate the accumulated dirt and detritus of more than a century. Marcus used his own cloak to clean the image of Jupiter, and Flaccus used tints from his store of colored inks to fill in scratches and chips in the aged terracotta.

  When they had done the best job they could, Brutus built a fire at the altar before the temple. Norbanus had found a suitable animal on a nearby farm: a fine white bull with no blemishes. The beast was duly sacrificed and its blood poured over the altar. Curious locals, most of them shepherds who grazed their flocks within the city itself, witnessed the solemnities. So much of it had reverted to the wild that there was abundant pasture within the walls.

  "Who are these?" Marcus asked when the simple ceremony was done.

  "Bruttians," Norbanus said, spitting.

  "So Hannibal rewarded their treachery with the lands our ancestors vacated." Bruttium in southern Italy had sided with Carthage against Rome without a fight. "That can be set aright."

  One of the shepherds climbed the steps and addressed the Romans, gesturing toward the dead animal and gesticulating. His dialect was so thick that they hardly understood a word.

  "As near as I can understand," Flaccus said, "he wants to know why we aren't hauling out the animal's liver to read it."

  "They must still take the haruspices here," Marcus observed. "Etruria is right across the river. The Etruscans were the great entrails-interpreters."

  "They're a superstitious lot," Norbanus said. "Bruttians must be stupid enough to believe in their mummery."

  That night they posted guards to keep intruders out and passed inside the temple. There, beneath the waxing moon, they reaffirmed the vow sworn by their ancestors, omitting only the Secret Name of Rome, which was known to none of them.

  On the next morning they continued their ride south, fortified by their reconnection with the city of their people.

  "At least we're on real Roman road," Flaccus said, admiring the beautiful cut stone of the Via Appia. This, the oldest of the Roman highways, connected Rome with Capua. It was already almost a hundred years old when the Romans left, and except for some encroachment by weeds at the curbs, it was as fine as the day it was inaugurated by Appius Claudius.

  "We should be on good roads from here on," Marcus said, "all the way to Tarentum."

  As they rode south, the land began to present a different appearance. The near-desolation of the north gave way to prosperous farms, for this was the matchlessly fertile Campanian plain. Huge grain fields, vineyards and orchards stretched as far as the eye could discern. Cattle in immense herds grazed the meadows and sheepfolds the size of small towns held flocks of countless woolly beasts. The Romans looked upon these things in wonderment.

  "I never saw so much land under cultivation," Norbanus said, "unbroken by forest or boundary walls."

  "And," said Flaccus, "you will notice that there are few towns or villages, and not even many farmsteads. These are not farms, my friends, they are plantations. Southern Italy is no longer a land of free peasant farmers. These lands are worked by slave-gangs under overseers. You see those long buildings?" He pointed to a series of such on a nearby hillside.

  "I thought they were storage sheds," Marcus said.

  "They are slave barracks. The men you see on horseback are the slave drivers."

  "It's an efficient way to farm," Norbanus said, "but how does such a land raise soldiers?"

  "Maybe it doesn't," Flaccus said. "Perhaps it isn't supposed to."

  They found this thought infinitely depressing. The native Italians were their kin, even if they were not all Latins. Only the Etruscans were wholly foreign. That they should have lost their martial heritage was a terrible thing to contemplate.

  "Surely," Marcus said, "a mere century is not sufficient to utterly emasculate a warlike people."

  "Why not?" Norbanus answered. "We've reduced scores of races and made them pass beneath our yoke."

  "But those were barbarians!" Marcus protested. "Besides, we never break them entirely. That would be a waste of good legionary material. Once they've had time to learn a civilized language and get used to our laws, we make citizens of them. That is the proper way to conquer, not this enslavement of whole nations."

  "You don't have to convince me," Norbanus said.

  Their journey took them through once-prosperous towns, now mostly in a sad state of decline. Without the powerful presence of Rome, Bovillae and Lanuvium had reverted to backwaters with half their former populations. Capua was still a fine city, but once it had been glorious.

  Everywhere they went, they were regarded with wonder, like some new form of omen. People asked one another how a nation erased from history could reappear. Rome was as dead as Troy, yet here were true Romans in their midst. What might this prodigy portend?

  The farther south they went, the more prevalent grew the Greek language, until they spent days hearing no other tongue. The many Greek settlements of southern Italy had reasserted themselves, at least culturally
. All were still subjects of Carthage.

  Almost a month after their arrival in Italy, they came to the gate of Tarentum.

  For Hanno this day, like all other days, began with prayer. The musicians awakened him with a traditional tune played on the Egyptian harp, with tambour and sistra providing a soft, rhythmic pulse to quicken his senses and prepare him for the day. The Libyan slave girls drew aside the filmy curtain that protected him from night-wandering spirits and mosquitoes, and they helped him to rise and sit on the edge of the bed. A boy held a golden basin before him and Hanno splashed water in his face, then poured a cupped palmful over his head as he spoke an invocation of the gods of water.

  Another slave girl, this one a tattooed Scythian, brought him his robe and draped it over his shoulders, easing his arms into its fringed sleeves, while a Libyan placed his pearlsewn slippers on his feet. Thus prepared, Hanno heaved his corpulent bulk erect and strode across the tiles to the shrine of Tanit, highest of the baalim who were the chief gods of Carthage. He raised his hands beside his face, palms outward, and intoned:

  "Lady of the crescent moon, look upon thy servant with favor

  Lady of pearl, grant thy servant abundance

  Lady of ivory, protect holy Carthage and her Shofet

  Lady of incense, intercede for us with the multitude of gods

  Lady of grace, queen of beauty, tower of strength, avert from us all evil."

  With the last words he took a pinch of fine, yellow frankincense and strewed the soft crystals over the charcoal that smoldered before the statue of the goddess. At one time, Tanit had been depicted in abstractions: the cone and stylized arms, the crescent. Now, under Greek influence, she was a figure of polished marble, a beautiful nude woman crowned with a crescent moon, one hand raised in benediction.

  His morning devotion done, Hanno walked out onto his terrace and sat in his deep-cushioned chair. His hairdresser oiled and arranged his dense, curly black hair with consummate skill while his breakfast was set before him: hot breads and sliced fruits, spitted quail, chilled oysters, boiled eggs wrapped in medicinal herbs, dried dates and figs, pots of honey and a dozen sauces.

  While he ate, Hanno surveyed his domain. He was governor of Italy, a cousin of the Shofet, a man of great and ancient family. Italy was culturally backward, but it was a rich agricultural province. In the early days, there had been uprisings among the native populace, especially the hill people called Samnites, but these had been put down with great savagery and mass crucifixions, and Italy had been docile for many decades.

  His city of Tarentum, while far short of Carthage in magnificence, was still a splendid city with many fine temples, both native and Punic. Like many cities in the south of Italy, Tarentum was founded as a Greek colony and was once the first city of Magna Graecia. It boasted a beautiful theater, a great gymnasium, a painted portico and, in the center of the agora, a wonderful statue of Zeus by Lysippus.

  The Tarentines had saved their city's splendor by very wisely opening their gates to Hannibal without a fight. It meant severing their political ties with Greece, but the hand of Carthage lay more lightly on Tarentum than on most Punic possessions. Besides having the only truly secure harbor in Italy, the adjacent territory raised multitudes of sheep, and Tarentum was famous for its wool industry. Its olive orchards were the most productive in the world.

  In all, Hanno reflected with some satisfaction, he could have done far worse. If this was not the most splendid outpost of the far-flung Punic empire, it was fine and comfortable, and he was well away from the intrigue and peril of the Carthaginian court. Here he had only to collect revenues, settle occasional disputes between resident Carthaginian merchants, hold court once each month and maintain the majesty of Carthage before the barbarians.

  There was a single flaw in Hanno's satisfaction: the royal missive he had received from the capital just a few days previously.

  Governor Hanno, it began after the usual salutations, His Majesty being engaged in preparations for most justified war against impious and treacherous Egypt, you are commanded to raise from among His Majesty's subjects in your province soldiers to the number of two myriads. You must exert yourself to the utmost to further His Majesty's holy mission. Begin recruitment at once. Details will follow.

  That was bad enough, Hanno thought, chewing thoughtfully. He hoped that these details would include such things as financing this recruitment program. And what could the Shofet be thinking? Since the conquest, it had been Carthaginian policy to keep Italy unmilitarized. The natives had proven to be the most stubborn, warlike and intransigent they had ever encountered. Even after the passage of generations as virtual slaves, Hanno feared that putting weapons in their hands might awaken ancestral memories of their warrior heritage.

  He was distracted by a stir in the city below. His terrace overlooked the agora and he saw the morning throng divide before a line of horsemen. Preceding them on foot was a man in Punic uniform, the officer of the gate. Situated as it was on a stony peninsula, Tarentum had but a single gate. At the officer's gesture the men halted before the entrance to the governor's palace. As they dismounted, the officer crossed the courtyard and ascended the broad ceremonial stair to the terrace where Hanno sat shaded by a canopy of purple cloth. At a precise ten paces before Hanno, the officer dropped to his knees and touched his brow to the flagstones.

  "Exalted lord, a very strange delegation has arrived in the city, craving audience with your eminence. Rather than interrogate them myself, I judged that my lord would wish to question them himself."

  "Rise," Hanno said. "What makes these newcomers so special?"

  "Lord, they claim to be Romans."

  Hanno almost choked on a date. "Romans! That cannot be!"

  "Yet this is their claim, Lord."

  The governor scratched in his scented beard. "I suppose it is not beyond possibility. Greek merchants have informed us that the wretched rabble so generously spared by my ancestor founded a squalid little nation somewhere in the barbarous north. This could prove to be entertaining. Yes, do send them up. Will I require an interpreter? I believe the Romans spoke Latin, which is related to the Oscan spoken by some of the natives here."

  "They speak passable Greek, Lord."

  "Indeed? That is intriguing. Perhaps they are Greek imposters, mountebanks expecting hospitality and presents by claiming to be ambassadors from a distant land."

  "I think not, Lord," said the officer.

  As Hanno watched the men ascend the great stairway he, too, knew that they were not Greeks. He had never seen men who carried themselves with such self-assurance. Their bearing was erect and soldierly and they wore robes gracefully draped over one arm, giving each man the poise of an orator. Even the slaves who held the horses below bore themselves regally among the idlers of the agora.

  The officer of the gate walked beside them, cutting a poor figure as he explained palace protocol to the visitors. When they reached the terrace, they advanced closer to the governor than was customary.

  "Stop!" the officer cried. "On your faces!"

  They ignored him entirely. One, apparently their leader, stepped two paces forward and inclined his head slightly. "Have I the honor of addressing His Excellency, the Governor of Italy?"

  Hanno waved a hand to silence the sputtering officer. "You have. I am Hanno Barca, cousin in the second degree of His Majesty, Hamilcar. I fear you did not understand my officer's instructions."

  "We understood them quite clearly," said the leader. "Roman citizens do not prostrate themselves. Nor do we kneel or bow." The officer of the gate went pale. Hanno's slaves were so shocked that the fan-bearers halted their metronomic motions.

  Hanno all but gaped, then he erupted in convulsive laughter. "You must be Romans! Our historians avow that the Romans were the most arrogant race we ever encountered."

  "It is not arrogance," the leader said. "It is a quality we are schooled in called gravitas. We do not tolerate foolishness or obsequiousness in men of public service
."

  For a few moments Hanno toyed with the idea of having them all crucified over the main gate of the city. It was his usual course with insolent foreigners and rebellious subjects. But, it was yet early in the day for executions, and he was in an excellent mood. Besides, something about these bizarre northerners tickled his sharp political instincts, and he had learned to trust those instincts. In Carthaginian court politics, one always walked a tightrope above sharp swords, and he had yet to lose his balance. He felt that they might be of use to him and decided to sound them out. Plenty of time to kill them later, should they prove disappointing.

  He mused over one little problem: the slaves and the guard captain who had witnessed this breach of decorum. It wouldn't do to have anyone see this act go unpunished. If he decided not to kill the Romans, he would have the witnesses done away with instead: a simple, satisfactory solution.

  "Gravitas, eh? It is a good word. Now, you must sit down and tell me all about your country and your mission."

  "In the name of the Roman republic, I thank you," said the leader. "I am Marcus Cornelius Scipio, empowered by the republic to negotiate trade agreements and to open diplomatic relations with Carthage."

  "Trade agreements? We are always eager to open new markets. As for diplomatic relations, those you must discuss at court, where I am certain His Majesty will give you a most sympathetic hearing. But first, you must be my guests."

  "I thank you. Allow me to introduce my party." One by one, he introduced them. Their names sounded so similar that Hanno was certain he would never remember most of them. No matter. He would remember the two or three most prominent and the rest would be "my Roman friend."

  While these formalities were observed, household slaves quietly and efficiently brought folding chairs onto the terrace. These were not mere camp chairs, but elegant furniture crafted from rare woods inlaid with ivory, their seats made of brilliant carpeting that was visible only briefly as still more slaves covered them with rare animal pelts. A small table was set beside each chair, covered with spotless linen and loaded with wine and delicacies.