Hannibal's children

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 stood 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.

"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.

"Your hospitality on short notice is more than splendid, Excellency," Scipio said, taking his seat. The others sat in order of precedence, even Flaccus showing himself as punctilious as the rest, in the presence of barbarians.

Hanno waved a hand dismissively. "Just what we keep handy for when unexpected guests drop in. Tonight I shall entertain you at a proper dinner and tomorrow we shall have a banquet, with all the best people of the city attending."

"That is short notice for all the important people to drop their plans." This from another man. What was his name? Norbanus, that was it. Hanno did not miss the flicker of annoyance that crossed the face of the one called Scipio. Norbanus had spoken out of turn.

"Everyone will be more than happy to meet such fascinating newcomers," Hanno assured them. Not, he reflected, that their wishes were of any account when he desired their presence. "In the meantime, quarters will be prepared for you here in the Residence. It will be my great pleasure to provide for all your needs and desires."

"This is most generous," Scipio said. "You will find that our wants are minimal."

"Indeed?" Hanno said. "But then, you are a martial people. Most commendable. Our own soldiers, officers and men, while on campaign practice the virtues of austerity as well. But what need is there to be frugal in the midst of abundance?"

"It is our belief that luxury and soft living weaken a man, Excellency," Scipio said. "Even when we are away from the legions, we avoid those practices that might unfit us for service."

"Most wise, I am sure," Hanno said, nodding, making a mental note to see which of these Romans actually lived up to this ideal. But he was intrigued by that word: legions. Had the Romans maintained their vaunted military organization and discipline? It was so superior that the Carthaginians had imitated it in many regards. He began to detect a possible answer to his recruitment dilemma, should conditions prove favorable.

"I must confess," Hanno admitted, "that my knowledge of lands north of the alps is sketchy. We Carthaginians are sea-traders and send few expeditions inland. We have only the reports of Greek traders for information about the remote north, and they prefer to guard their trade secrets closely. It was my impression that your ancestors who dwelled formerly on this peninsula had founded a small nation beyond the mountains. Am I to take it that your New Rome is a rather prominent citystate?"

"We call it Noricum, or Roma Noricum," Scipio answered. "And, yes, we have prospered up there. Noricum is the militarily dominant state of the region, as well as the most prosperous commercially and in all categories of agriculture."

"How good to hear," Hanno murmured, certain that the man was holding back a great deal, which was only the path of wisdom. "And how comes it about that you have decided to return to Italy after all these years? You do understand that the banishment of your people has never been repealed?"

"That is understood. In truth, for generations all the omens proclaimed that our gods wished us to stay north of the mountains. However, of late, certain signs have indicated a change in divine attitude and the Senate has decided to investigate the possibility of a Roman-Punic friendship. After all, many years have passed, times have changed, new persons occupy the thrones of nations-there is no reason why the enmity of our ancestors should separate us forever."

"I am certain that the Shofet will accept your suit in exactly that light," Hanno assured them. "I shall be most happy to have a ship fitted out to bear you to the capital, so that you can present your credentials to His Majesty personally."

"This goes beyond generosity and hospitality," Marcus said, exulting inwardly. A chance to see Carthage itself? He had never dared hope for such luck.

"It is nothing. I want only good relations between our nations."

That afternoon, given freedom of the city, the Romans explored Tarentum. They were fascinated to see the workings of a genuine port. In the presence of barbarians they maintained the unflappable Roman demeanor, but this required an effort when their urge was to goggle and stare.

Tarentum was unlike anything they had seen before. Capua had given them some preparation, but it was a pale imitation. Here the streets were covered with bright awnings and fountains bubbled at every street corner. The temples were adorned with colorful marble and every open space featured splendid sculpture and painted porticoes. Huge sections of stony ground had been hewn away and filled with soil from the mainland and planted with splendid gardens. The agora was lined with shops offering luxury goods from all over the world: bolts of purple cloth, spices, incense, papyrus, gold and gems, fine art works, pearls, furniture of the rarest woods, exquisite perfumes, books copied from the library at Alexandria; the variety seemed endless.

"Now I understand," said Titus Norbanus, "what a crude frontier fort Noricum is."

"It's what I've been saying all along," said Flaccus, stroking the magnificent leather case of a scroll, just a single volume of a fifty-scroll set of the works of Homer complete with commentary, the entire collection resting in a case of pearl-inlaid ebony.

"I've seen ten perfume shops," Marcus told them, "and not a single armory."

"All to the good," Norbanus responded, lifting a massive golden platter wrought with a scene of satyrs pursuing voluptuous nymphs. "We've traveled the length of Italy and have seen not a single fort or military camp. Give me five legions and I'll occupy the whole peninsula in a single summer."

"That part is easily done," Marcus said. "But what would we have to hold it against? We must learn about Carthaginian military strength. For all we know they can have a vast army here within days. We've heard that Sicily is heavily garrisoned, and it isn't far."

"Let's have a look at the harbor," Norbanus suggested.

"Good idea," Marcus concurred.

They took the broad avenue that led from the agora to the waterfront, and there they stood, all but stupefied with amazement. The tip of the peninsula was the entrance to the fine harbor and even as they arrived, a two-masted grain ship was in the process of rounding its point. It was the largest object they had ever seen afloat, but it was one among many wonders.

"Look!" Norbanus said, face aglow, pointing toward a long, low shape that seemed to be walking across the harbor. It was a war galley under oars, the first they had seen. The long oars moved with a precision that was wonderful to see. Its bronze ram cut the water, sending up a spray of foam. Crouched above the ram, its toes in the foam, was the effigy of a squat, ugly, crouching god or demon. Lining the bulwarks above the rowers were rows of overlapping shields painted with a triangle-and-crescent device. The marines who stood on the deck wore glittering armor. They had seen many drawings of these vessels, but beholding the real thing was a thrilling experience.

"Carthaginian military might at last," Marcus said.

"If paint and gilding win battles," Flaccus said, "we're defeated already." The rest chuckled, assessing the power of the ship with eyes that missed nothing. They traced its path and saw that it was heading toward a low building situated near the mouth of the harbor. Beneath its castellated ramparts were twenty-five openings at the waterline. As they watched, the galley entered one of the openings and disappeared.

"So that's the naval dock," Marcus said. "They have docking for twenty-five such galleys."

"Maybe for more," Flaccus remarked. "Each could be deep enough to hold more than one."

"Let's go have a closer look," Marcus said. As they strolled toward the naval facility, one of the party pointed to a pair of islands just beyond the entrance.

"Forts out there," he said. The islands were heavily fortified and they could just discern the angular forms of catapults atop the walls.

"This place could be hard to crack," Norbanus said. "Just a narrow isthmus connecting it to the mainland, with a strong gate, the approaches by sea well guarded. There may be a harbor chain like the one at-where was it, Flaccus?"

"Rhodes," said the scholar. "If there is one, it should be easy to find. They require large anchor points and heavy machinery to lift and lower."

"Find out," Marcus said. "You can poke around without looking like a spy."

Along the waterfront they heard for the first time many people speaking in the guttural Punic tongue. To their ears, accustomed to Latin and Greek, it was an ugly language. Wandering among the waterfront stalls and taverns, they saw Punic soldiers and sailors. Immediately they noted that the soldiers all conversed in Greek, the sailors in Punic.

"They still rely on mercenaries," Norbanus said with contempt. "Only the navy men are native Carthaginians."

"Some of the soldiers seem to be using the Laconian dialect," Flaccus noted.

"Spartans?" Marcus said. "If so, they've fallen far, to be hired lackeys for Carthage."

"Spartans were hiring themselves out as mercenaries long before our ancestors left Italy," Flaccus said.

Marcus beckoned to Metrobius and the fat teacher came to him. "Metrobius, you know Greek better than any of us. I want you to circulate here, talk with the soldiers, find out where they come from and anything else that might be of use to us."

"You'll have my report this evening, Commander." He walked off and was soon lost in the crowd.

They came to the naval dock and found it to be fortified with its own wall on the landward side, heavily gated and manned by soldiers who wore armor of bronze scales and conical helmets. At their approach, one of the guards called something and a tall man emerged from the interior. He wore a Greek-style cuirass of silvered bronze, its shoulder rings supporting an extravagant purple cape. He was bareheaded, his hair dressed in long, oiled ringlets, his beard square-cut. His complexion was dark, his eyes black, flanking a great beak of a nose that divided his face like the prow of a warship. They did not need to be told from what nation this man hailed. The writings and tales of their great-grandfathers had described this physiognomy in detail: highborn Carthaginian.

"Greetings, sir," Marcus said. "We are a delegation from Rome, and we were just admiring your admirable naval base."

"I know who you are. I've heard the rumors." His Greek was fluent, but so guttural that he sounded as if he were gargling some of the words.

"Might we come inside and tour your facility?" Marcus asked.

"That is forbidden."

"But your governor gave us freedom of the city," Norbanus said.

"It may be his city, but this is my naval base, and it is forbidden for any foreigner not in the service of His Majesty to set foot within any Carthaginian military base."

"You must hold to your duty, of course," Marcus said. "We intended no disrespect."

The man unbent fractionally. "I am Egabal, Commodore of the Tarentine Gulf and of the Adriatic fleet."

Marcus made the introductions and Egabal looked them over. "I suppose, living in the far north, you've never seen a civilized naval base?"

"Until a few days ago none of us had even looked upon a sea."

"Well, then, there's no harm in your seeing the outside.

That much is open to everyone." He strode to the water's edge and leaned on the balustrade, his scarred brown hands making an odd contrast with the polished white marble. He raised one of them and pointed at the great facade of the dock, which curved away from them with its row of gaping tunnels.

"There you see the ship sheds. Inside are all the facilities necessary for fitting out the ships, arming and victualling them. Inside, each of those is long enough to hold three ships at once. If a middling large fleet must abide here, twice that many can be accommodated."

"How is that possible?" Flaccus asked him. "We saw a ship go in a short time ago. There seems to be little leeway on each side. If they are only long enough for three, how do you crowd in three more?"

"Easily. First, three ships go in, prow to stern. They are unloaded and dismasted, then they are hoisted to the ceiling with rope and tackle. Then three more are rowed in to dock beneath them."

"Whole ships hung from the ceiling?" Marcus said, trying to visualize such a thing.

"It is how warships are always stored for the winter. Even the Greeks do it, and they were never the sailors we are."

So, Marcus thought, 150 ships constituted a middling sized fleet, unless this man was lying or exaggerating. "It is a magnificent establishment."

Egabal shrugged. "It's not much compared to the great naval harbor of Carthage, but it's impressive to barbarian eyes." The Romans remained stone-faced, merely filing the small insult away as one more offense for which Carthage must one day be made to pay.

That evening, after a sumptuous dinner at the palace, they heard Metrobius's report.

"Many of the soldiers are Greeks, almost all of the marines. I encountered a number of Argives, a few Athenians and men from the islands and the cities of Magna Graecia, but no Spartans. I learned that all the training officers and drill instructors are Spartan professionals, so the Laconian dialect is the language of the whole army, even among the non-Greeks. The army also includes a great many Spaniards and men of Libya, Numidia and Mauretania, along with Balearics, Sicilians, Corsicans, Sardinians and men from all the islands of the western sea."

"But no Carthaginian ground troops?" Marcus asked.

"They never leave their homeland and are kept in reserve against uprisings by the natives and foreign threats to Carthage herself. The elite of the army is the Sacred Band, which is made up of highborn young Carthaginians."

Norbanus snorted. "Elite! A pack of privileged boys who have never campaigned in foreign lands are the elite of this army?"

"They're probably just the best-dressed," Flaccus said. "Shiny gear and bright plumes always seem to give men a high opinion of themselves. Did you see the purple cloak Egabal wore? Back home only a triumphing general gets to wear such a thing. Here, a navy functionary rates one."

"I am preparing a report for the Senate," Marcus said. "I will include all we've seen and learned, but I have a feeling that the true revelations lie ahead."

"Carthage," Norbanus said, dreamily. "We are going to see the heart of enemy territory with our own eyes! Even our ancestors never had that chance."

"Actually," Flaccus said, "while it sounds like a most interesting trip, I will be more than happy to forego it in order to stay here in Tarentum and be your liaison-"

"You're going with us, Flaccus," Marcus said. "You're just afraid to go out on the open sea."

"It's unnatural to go floating about on water like that," Flaccus protested. "Neptune did not give us scales and fins."

"You are going with us, Flaccus."

"Very well, Commander," Flaccus sighed.

That same evening, in another part of the palace, Hanno drafted two letters. The first he dictated to a scribe.

"Begin with all the usual salutations to His Majesty," he told the old man who sat at his feet cross-legged, a writing table on his lap, pens and pots of ink on the floor beside him. The man scribbled industriously.

"Majesty," Hanno began, "this day your city of Tarentum was visited by a most unexpected apparition-a delegation of Romans! I assure Your Majesty that your servant has not taken leave of his wits. It seems that the rumors of a state in the north founded by the Roman exiles are true. Not only that, but these latter-day Romans have prospered beyond expectation. They have retained some of their martial organization and I believe that Your Majesty may find them to be of some use in your most justified and holy war against the decadent Ptolemies of Egypt. To this end, I shall within a few days place these Romans on a trusty ship and dispatch them to the capital where they may afford you some amusement as well as provide a martial resource. I remain etcetera etcetera. Close with the usual formulas and make up a copy fit for royal eyes."

Then he dismissed the scribe and began another letter, this one written with his own hand.

Most esteemed and worshipful Princess Zarabel, he began. You are about to be visited by a delegation of Romans. It seems that these people are far from expunged from history as we have long imagined. The far north is a savage place, and for these to have founded a state in that wilderness and made it prosper must mean that they have lost none of their political and military skills. The bearing of these men is dignified to an extent that you must see to appreciate. Impoverished and downtrodden states do not produce such men.

Their leader is one Scipio, a name we know from history. His second in command is named Norbanus, and I detect both envy and ambition in this man. He is resentful of his inferior position. Such rivalry we know to be the bane of republics, and useful for us. For many years the world of the Middle Sea has lain in uneasy balance, with the Barcas, the Ptolemies and the Seleucids contending for dominance but each unable to seize it. These crude but martial foreigners are a new factor and they could tip the balance in favor of one or the other of the royal contenders. The one who makes best use of them may have a decisive advantage.

Perhaps we have been mistaken in our concentration upon the Middle Sea, acting as if the rest of the world did not exist. I shall act forthwith to dispatch agents to the north, beyond the alps, and get an accurate report concerning this Roma Noricum. It is clear that the Greek merchants who trade to the north have been concealing much from us. I will interrogate such of these persons as I can find with utmost rigor.

You, Lady of the Moon, Light of Tanit, are an unparalleled judge of men. I know that, once you have had an opportunity to assess them, you will read their hearts as you read the stars and the sacred waters of Tanit. This, I feel certain, is an opportunity that must be seized with the utmost resolution.

I remain your most loyal servant, Princess Zarabel, shadow of Our Lady upon Earth.

He finished the letter with a few more flourishes, rolled the parchment and placed it in a bronze tube. This he capped and sealed with melted lead, pressing a special seal into the soft metal. At his call a man entered the room and prostrated himself. The newcomer was a man of middle years, dressed in a short tunic and a pointed blue cap. His skin was burned dark and his face was seamed like old leather.

"You are to deliver this to the Princess Zarabel at once. Take my fastest cutter and leave tonight. Her reward and mine will be, as always, most generous."

The man stretched out a hand and took the tube, then he knocked his brow upon the floor. "I am your servant, Lord. None is more swift, none more loyal. The king's men will never know that I am in Carthage, they will never know that I have left."

"See that it is so. Go now." When the man had left, Hanno called for wine. He needed it. This had been a most momentous day, perhaps one of those rare days that influenced all that followed, and he gave thanks to the goddess and the other Baalim that these men had appeared at Tarentum, and not at one of the other port towns. This circumstance allowed him to give the princess some forewarning. In the murderous intriguing of the Carthaginian court, such preparation could mean the difference between ascendancy and failure, between life and death.

His own position was now most precarious. Should the recipient of the first letter learn of the existence of the second, more detailed and perceptive letter, the order for Hanno's death would arrive on the next ship from Carthage. Like many other Punic nobles, Hanno kept a selection of poisons handy against just such an eventuality. Of course, the king's officers were highly skilled at dissembling, displaying the utmost friendliness and goodwill to mask their intentions.

Life, Hanno reflected, was a chancy thing at all levels. If one aimed for the most exalted goals, the cross always waited at the heights.