Hannibal's Children (8 page)

"The Phocians were there..." And on and on it went, the names of heroes, the roster of followers and ships, town after town, not omitting the virtues of the leaders and even the relative merits of the horses. The rolling, almost musical accents of Attic Greek were a joy to hear.

"Excellent!" Metrobius commended when Flaccus came to the end of the book. "Memorization flawless, pronunciation impeccable, diction all but perfect. This is how Greek must be spoken."

"Some of us were studying Greek while the rest of us were soldiering," someone said, raising a laugh.

"I have a suggestion," said Titus Norbanus.

"Let's hear it," Marcus said.

Norbanus stood. He did not arrange his cloak but he had the bearing of an orator without need of accessories. "It is clear that, except for Flaccus, we are all wretchedly out of practice with our Greek. From now until we reach our destination, I propose that we speak only in Greek, even in casual conversation. Anyone caught speaking Latin gets fined. By the time we have to deal with the Carthaginians, we should all be comfortable with the language."

There was a great deal of grumbling, but Marcus spoke over the noise. "That's an excellent idea. A sesterce fine for anyone who speaks Latin from here on, to be paid into the general travel fund."

"Why, Marcus," Flaccus said in Greek, "you just gave that order in Latin." Amid general hilarity, Marcus took a big copper coin from his pouch and tossed it to Ahenobarbus, who acted as treasurer for the expedition.

Twenty days later they were in Italy. The alps lay behind them. The pass through the eastern end of the range was not the highest or most rugged, but the weather had been wretched and they were no longer on Roman roads. The slow passage had one beneficial effect: They were all now more or less comfortable speaking Greek. Even the slaves, who had never studied the language, were able to understand the simpler nouns and verbs barked at them. Metrobius and Flaccus had been merciless in their criticism and correction, and now the least apt among the party could at least make himself understood.

On the afternoon that they rode out onto the broad plain at the foot of the mountains, Marcus called a halt and ordered them all to dismount. When all were gathered around him he spoke.

"At last, after more than a hundred years, we Romans stand upon the sacred soil of our ancestral land." He looked around until he found a small boulder, lifted it and carried it to the spot where he had dismounted. He set the stone firmly in place and straightened. "On this spot we will erect an altar to Jupiter Best and Greatest. I want every man to pitch in."

Now he scanned the gently sloping plain before them. Here and there were stone huts surrounded by low walls and pens. It was fine high pasture and there were many flocks within view. He pointed to the nearest hut. "Quintus Brutus, go over there and buy the best ram you can find. We will make a sacrifice here before the sun goes down."

Brutus went off on his errand and the men, noble and common, free and slave, set about gathering stones and piling them at their dismounting spot. They were experienced at military engineering and masonry, so it was not a haphazard heap of stone, but a stable, roughly rectangular altar that rose upon the plain.

"Build it high, men!" called Titus Norbanus. "Someday, a great monument will stand on this spot. When we are dead, men will say, 'This is where the reconquest of Italy began.' " The men cheered his words.

Marcus cheered with the rest, but he was not entirely pleased. Ever since his proposal about speaking Greek, Norbanus had been taking more and more upon himself, insinuating his own policies into action. Marcus resented it, but there was little action he could take. Norbanus never failed to defer to him and his suggestions almost always were good ones.

The altar was almost chest-high when Brutus returned with a fine white ram. "For this service," Marcus announced, "we will dispense with Greek and speak in the language of Jupiter and Quirinus. Brutus, be so good as to take the omens."

Brutus went to his pack mule and removed his striped toga and his lituus, the crook-topped staff of his vocation. Draping his toga with muttered prayers in archaic Latin, he walked to a high spot near the altar and with the tip of his staff marked out a circle. Standing within the circle he faced north and waited. All kept silence while the augur performed his craft. Far to the east, a dark cloud had formed and lightning flashed. Seconds later, a dull muffled thunder reached them.

"Thunder on the right!" Brutus announced. "Jupiter approves!"

"Jupiter, greatest of the gods," Marcus called, "we are here in your sacred land to fulfill the vows made to you by our ancestors. We ask you to look with favor upon our undertaking. We will rebuild your temples, reconsecrate your sacred groves, and reinstitute all your services and festivals. This is our pledge." With this he raised the last skin of their carefully hoarded wine and poured it out upon the altar. Norbanus handed him a sack of meal and he poured its contents likewise upon the stone. Then two sacerdotal slaves came forward. One handed Marcus the curved sacrificial knife. Then the man grasped the ram while the other held a bronze bowl beneath it. Marcus drew a fold of his cloak over his head and the watchers did likewise.

The animal scarcely moved as Marcus, with a quick swipe of the keen blade, cut its throat. The slave with the bowl caught the blood that gushed from its severed jugular. When the flow ceased, Marcus raised the bowl high. "Thus do we seal our pledge, and consecrate ourselves to our holy mission." He poured the blood onto the altar.

With great efficiency the slaves butchered the animal while fires were built. When all the meat was cut into small morsels, it was set on spits and cooked over the coals. Then all sat upon the ground and ate the tough, gamy meat until it was gone. A fire was built upon the altar and the hide, bones and offal were ceremoniously thrown upon it and all was consumed. When all these rites were concluded, the men began to speak again, in Greek.

"So, Brutus," Marcus said, "what language did the shepherd speak?"

"It sounded like some form of Latin, but so corrupted I could understand perhaps one word in ten. But he understood a few words of Greek and sign language accomplished the rest. Any peasant understands your meaning when you hold up a silver coin and point at a sheep."

"What was his attitude? Did he seem astonished? Frightened?"

"He gaped, seemed afraid at first, but only for a moment. He pointed toward the mountains and I think he asked if we came from that direction. I indicated we had and he shook his head, as if he never heard of such a thing."

"They probably haven't in a long time, around here," said Flaccus, who was taking notes.

"Was he armed?" Marcus asked.

"He had a sword belted on, and came out of his hut with a spear. Once he was satisfied we weren't a threat, he left the spear propped against his hut."

"Maybe bandits in the area, then," Marcus observed.

"Or he could be part of a local militia," Norbanus said. "Roman peasants always kept their arms handy in case of a call-up. It was the law."

"We'll learn soon," Marcus said. "I think we have little to worry about from bandits." The rest chuckled at the thought.

That night Marcus lay back and stared up at the sky. The slaves had erected his tent, but he preferred to sleep outside in good weather, with only his cloak for a cover and his saddle as a pillow. His spear was stuck in the ground by its butt-spike, his shield leaning against it. His sword lay beside his right hand. The sky above him and the ground beneath were much the same as he had experienced on hundreds of other nights, but now there was a difference: This was the sky of Italy. He lay upon the soil of Italy, the soil in which reposed the bones and ashes of his ancestors going back a thousand years.

He was startled when a shooting star streaked across the sky. Was it an omen? It had crossed from north to south. Was that significant? He chided himself for being so eager. Every celestial oddity did not mean an omen. A man on night-guard might see a few falling stars on any clear night. There weren't enough momentous events to account for them all. Most, he thought, were probably just pieces of stars that broke off and fell to earth.

They resumed their trek south before first light. As daylight brightened, they saw a land of small farms, decent if not exactly prosperous. They saw no military camps, no forts, no garrisons. This, they knew, had once been a northern frontier area of the old Republic. The natural barrier of the mountains precluded a heavy legionary presence, but there had been raids by the mountain tribes and pirate incursions from the sea, so there had always been small forts and roving patrols. Now, it seemed, there were none.

"If Carthage is still in charge here," Norbanus noted on that first morning, "then she isn't very interested in defending her conquests." This seemed perverse to the Roman mind.

"If so," Marcus said, "then it is something valuable to know."

By late afternoon they came to a small, fast-flowing river. "If my maps and texts are correct," Flaccus said, "this is the Plavis River. We are in the old district of Gallia Transpadana."

"Then, before long," Marcus said, "we should strike the coastal road."

"If it's still there," said Norbanus. He rode along on a splendid horse, finer by far than Marcus Scipio could afford.

"It will be there," said Flaccus, "unless the Carthaginians took it on themselves to physically root out every trace of Italian civilization. It takes more than a trifling century or so to obliterate a decent road."

They reached the road by evening and dismounted to examine it. It had once been lightly paved or graveled, but soil, grass and weeds had made encroachments. Still, it was usable, and far better than the dirt paths they had followed in the mountains.

"This is nothing like a Roman road," Norbanus said.

"Actually," Flaccus said, "we learned road building from the Etruscans."

Marcus smiled. "Doubtless we practice the art better than they did. This is a good sign. If the old coast road is still in such shape, the others should be as well. We'll be able to reach the Seven Hills on halfway decent roads the whole way."

Flaccus scratched his chin. "Actually, I think a little side trip is in order. One farther south."

The rest looked at Marcus expectantly. "Well," he said, "it will take us a bit out of our way, but why not? This is a reconnaissance, not a race."

They remounted and continued to ride south, taking a narrow dirt road that took them southward along what was now a coastal plain. The ground to each side grew marshy and settlement thinned. They pitched camp upon the first high, relatively dry land they encountered. The air held a new, unfamiliar smell. It was something alien to them, yet it was familiar, as if it stirred a memory bequeathed by their ancestors.

The next morning, as the sun rose, they looked upon a seemingly limitless expanse of water. Rivers and lakes they had seen in plenty, but never anything like this. The sight and sound of the waves breaking upon the rocky beach was something new to them yet, like the smell, it seemed somehow familiar as well.

"So this is the 'wine-dark sea' of which Homer sang!" said Metrobius, sounding like a man in the grip of ecstasy. "It was upon these waters that Agamemnon's fleet sailed to the beach at Troy. It was upon these waters that Ulysses sailed, lost, for ten years."

"This is the Adriatic," Flaccus said, unrolling one of his maps. "It is the branch of Our Sea that lies between Italy and Illyricum. Farther south lie the Ionian and the Sea proper."

"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.