"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.