Hannibal's children

Chapter 4

The expedition set out in a drizzling rain. It was not a military expedition, so there was no fanfare, no music, no crowds of young girls to shower them with flower petals. As they made their way through the city, people watched them with curiosity, occasionally shouting good wishes, but generally the mood was quiet. It was not a glorious occasion, yet all felt that something of great consequence was at hand.

Marcus turned in his saddle to look back along the line of men following him. There were forty members in the official party, mostly young, all of them from good families. Many were friends. A few were avowed enemies of his family. As to the rest, he would learn about them soon enough. Besides the official party, there were a score of slaves to tend the animals, set up camp and perform all the other tedious duties of such an expedition. There was no escort of soldiers. This was, ostensibly, a trade and diplomatic mission. The men of the official party were all soldiers, anyway.

The trek south toward the mountains would be through territory long held by the Romans, peaceful and free of brigands. Each man wore a sword belted to his side, but the other arms and military gear were carried by pack animals.

"Is this a good omen?" Flaccus asked, riding up beside Marcus.

"Omen? The augurs took them this morning and everything was favorable."

"I mean this rain. Surely, if Jupiter looked favorably upon this expedition, he would give us a warm, sunny morning to start it."

Marcus grinned. "But as Jupiter Pluvium he is the god of rain. This may be his blessing."

"I see we can look forward to many stimulating discussions of religion." Flaccus drew the hood of his cloak over his head as the rain intensified. He had been appalled at being named to the expedition, but his family's pride would not allow him to back out. Since he was clearly the best man for the role of recorder and historian, he insisted on an extra pack animal to carry his writing gear, portable desk, inks, parchments and so forth. Then he had loaded the beast with extra comforts for the road.

The lands they rode through for the first few days were peaceful, fertile and intensively cultivated. The Romans were a race of farmers, and wherever they went, they instituted the sort of agriculture that had made Italy abound in produce and population, the sort of population that had allowed Rome to raise new legions after every disastrous defeat inflicted by Hannibal. They were determined never to be weakened by insufficient manpower.

These lands had been among the earliest conquered during the migration from Italy; a migration that had been spearheaded by a military invasion, for good land always has occupants, and the fine, fertile river valleys beyond the Alps had been no exception. A mixture of Celtic and Germanic tribes had stood in their way, and they had been crushed, for all they had was numbers and valor. These things were as nothing in the face of Roman organization and discipline. Above all, the natives raised no leader like Hannibal.

The wisest of the natives had allied themselves with the newcomers and assisted in the conquests. It was their descendants who now had seats in the Senate. The land through which the party rode, once the site of bloody battles, was divided into spacious farms and many of these were dominated by splendid villas. Families that had been peasants in Italy were now equites, while people of native descent were small farmers and tenants. Slaves captured in war did much of the field labor.

In the evenings they stopped at the inns that were spaced every ten miles along the fine roads. The roads themselves were splendidly made of cut stone, straight as a chalkline no matter what the terrain. If a gorge was in the way, it was bridged. If a hill intervened, it was cloven as if with an axe, and the road passed through. Only the great mountains forced the Roman roads to climb or bend.

At the inns and on the road Marcus got to know the men of his company. Some of them he had known for years, others he knew by reputation, and still others were total strangers. Quintus Brutus came from a very ancient patrician family, as ancient as the Scipios. Although still a young man, he was already a member of the college of augurs and he acted as the expedition's priest and omen-taker. Lucius Ahenobarbus was not a member of the patrician family of that name, but a descendant of their freedmen. These Ahenobarbi were merchants and contractors, and understood business in a way the land-based old aristocracy did not. Marcus would depend upon him for financial advice and analysis.

Most problematic of all, though, was Titus Norbanus. He was a tall, handsome man with a fine martial bearing although he had no great reputation as a soldier. He had a splendid voice and a rhetorician's way with words, and would be invaluable as envoy and negotiator. He was invariably polite and affable when he and Marcus spoke, apparently quite content with his secondary position. Marcus did not believe any of it for a moment. They were rivals from childhood and the rivalry had often been bitter. Norbanus acted as if this was boyish foolishness long behind them. Marcus did not believe that, either.

He could not explain why he disliked and distrusted Norbanus so. It was just that he was Titus Norbanus, and he could not be trusted.

Marcus was brooding upon this, seated at an inn fire on the evening of the ninth day since their departure, when Norbanus stopped by him.

"Come along, schoolboy," said Titus. "It's time for our lesson."

Marcus set aside his cup and rose. "I thought I'd outgrown this years ago."

"No such luck," Norbanus said, clapping him on the shoulder in a show of joviality that, to Marcus, rang utterly false. They went to a corner of the great room where an imposingly fat man stood with the rest of the party seated around him. Marcus and Norbanus took their places and waited in silence, just as they had when they were schoolboys, before donning the toga of manhood.

The fat man was Metrobius, a freedman and Roma Noricum's best teacher of Greek. Every wellborn Roman boy learned Greek, for it was the language of the civilized world, but few of them used it after their school years. It was the task of Metrobius to sharpen their rusty language skills. Nobody in Roma Noricum knew the Punic language, but it was certain that, in any land that touched the Mediterranean Sea, there would be people who spoke Greek. The Greek merchants who traded in Roma Noricum boasted that Greek was still the language of all educated people and of all who traded or traveled, though the days of Greek power were long eclipsed.

It was the order of the Senate that, every day of the journey, Metrobius was to conduct a class in Greek grammar. He drilled them like boys because it was the only way he knew to teach. They obeyed him like dutiful pupils from long-drilled habit.

Metrobius pointed at an unfortunate man who looked less than attentive. "Give me the opening lines of the Iliad."

The man stood and shuffled. He was clearly more comfortable with his sword than with any book. "Ah, let me see-'Sing, o muse, of an angry man, of the wrath of Achilles, son of-' "

"Not that wretched Latin translation!" Metrobius yelled. "I want the original Attic Greek!"

"Oh. Well, ah-" He did not reach the end of the first stanza.

"Stop!" The fat man covered his ears. "The most famous poem in the world and you made six mistakes in grammar, syntax, pronunciation and case in fewer than ten words! Where did you learn Greek? In a Druid temple?"

"No," said the man. "You taught me."

Marcus laughed with the others and was immediately punished. The fat finger pointed at him. "You! The second ode of Pindar, if you please."

Marcus stood and cleared his throat. He was fairly confident here because he had an excellent memory, although he would have preferred to recite a speech of Demosthenes. There was no help for it, though. Traditionally, language teachers taught by use of Greek poetry. Rhetoricians made their students recite speeches by rote. He launched into the lengthy ode and Metrobius nodded, finally stopping him halfway through.

"You seem to know the poem well enough, but your pronunciation is absolutely wretched. Sit down. Now, you." He pointed at Flaccus. "I suppose you are not unacquainted with the roll of the ships from the second book of the Iliad?"

"I believe I recall a bit of it," Flaccus replied.

"Then, if you please, let us hear a 'bit' of it."

Flaccus stood and adjusted his traveling cloak, managing to arrange it in the traditional drape used by orators for the most dignified effect. Then he launched into the famously difficult passage detailing the leadership of the Greek expedition, the list of towns and nobles and how many ships were contributed by each of them:

"I will name the captains of the fleet and the numbers of their ships.

"The Boeotians were led by Peneleos and Leitos, Arcesilaos and Prothoenor and Clonios. These came from hilly Hyria and rocky Aulis, from Schoinos and Scolos, Eteonos, from Thespeia, Griaia and wide-reaching Mycalessos, from the districts round Harma, Eilesion, and Erythrai, from Eleon, Hylae and Peteon, Ocalea and the well-built fortress of Medeon, from Copai and Eutresis and Thisbe with its multitudes of doves, from Coroneia and grassy Haliartos, from Plataia and Glisas, from the strongly-walled fortress of Hypothebai and from sacred Onchestos, that glorious grove of Poseidon, from Arne, adorned with clusters of grapes and from Midea, from divine Nisa and the coastal town of Anthedon, from these came fifty ships and in each ship a hundred and twenty young warriors of Boeotia.

"There were those who dwelt in Aspledon and Minyan Orchemenos, led by Ascalaphos and Ialmenos, son of Ares. Their mother was Astyoche, a maiden of high rank; their father was mighty Ares, who lay with her in secret. She bore her sons in her upper chamber in the house of Actor Azeides. They brought thirty ships to the sandy beach at Troy.

"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.

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 some 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.