"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."