The Seven Hills Read online

  THE SEVEN HILLS

  John Maddox Roberts

  www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/roberts.htm

  Copyright © 2005 by John Maddox Roberts

  Cover design by Passageway Pictures, Inc.

  Book series by John Maddox Roberts

  SPQR Roman mystery series

  SPQR: THE KING’S GAMBIT

  SPQR II: THE CATILINE CONSPIRACY

  SPQR III: THE SACRILEGE

  SPQR IV: THE TEMPLE OF THE MUSES

  SPQR V: SATURNALIA

  SPQR VI: NOBODY LOVES A CENTURION

  SPQR VII: THE TRIBUNE’S CURSE

  SPQR VIII: THE RIVER GOD’S VENGEANCE

  SPQR IX: THE PRINCESS AND THE PIRATES

  SPQR X: A POINT OF LAW

  SPQR XI: UNDER VESUVIUS

  SPQR XII: ORACLE OF THE DEAD

  SPQR XIII: THE YEAR OF CONFUSION

  Stormlands series

  THE ISLANDER

  THE BLACK SHIELDS

  THE POISONED LANDS

  THE STEEL KINGS

  QUEENS OF LAND AND SEA

  Cingulum series

  THE CINGULUM

  CLOAK OF ILLUSION

  THE SWORD, THE JEWEL, AND THE MIRROR

  Gabe Treloar mystery series

  A TYPICAL AMERICAN TOWN

  GHOSTS OF SAIGON

  DESPERATE HIGHWAYS

  Alternate Roman History

  HANNIBAL’S CHILDREN

  THE SEVEN HILLS

  The Falcon (Medieval Knight Errant series,

  first published under pen name Mark Ramsay)

  THE FALCON STRIKES

  THE BLACK POPE

  THE BLOODY CROSS

  THE KING'S TREASURE

  Solo Novels

  KING OF THE WOOD

  CESTUS DEI

  YA Novels

  SPACE ANGEL

  SPACER:WINDOW OF THE MIND

  THE SEVEN HILLS

  John Maddox Roberts

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Nothing like it has ever happened before," Zeno said. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the smell of fertile land. That was Italy over there, long a Carthaginian tributary and now—now it was something else.

  "Nothing like what?" Izates wanted to know.

  Zeno smiled. His friend was a Cynic and practiced contrariness for its own sake. "You know very well. Never before has a nation vanished, only to reappear more than a hundred years later." The tubby merchantman heeled slightly to a shift in the wind, and Zeno took hold of a stay without noticing the change. He was a great traveler and as used to the motions of a ship as any sailor.

  "These Romans never vanished," Izates said. "They just relocated. Now they have come back. There is nothing new in it. My own ancestors were sent into captivity by the Babylonians, then were returned to their homeland by Cyrus the Persian." He had been born a Jew, but had fallen in love with Greek philosophy as a boy and now could almost pass for a native Hellene.

  "This is different," Zeno insisted. "The Romans were banished by Hannibal the Great, but they have returned on their own, at the bidding of their gods. Their legions poured into Italy and took the whole peninsula like the thunderbolt of Zeus. The whole nation has followed and even now the capital is being restored."

  Izates made a rude noise with his lips. "What of it? Italy has been so tame for so long that there were scarcely any Carthaginian troops anywhere on the peninsula and all the nearest garrisons had been stripped for Hamilcar's war with Egypt. A few hundred Cretan bowmen could have taken Italy. Holding it may prove to be another matter entirely."

  "You will see. This is something unprecedented. This is history in the making and I must be there as it unfolds."

  "You would be the Herodotus of the new Rome?" He shook his shaggy, ill-kempt head. "No, Herodotus took the whole of history for his theme. You will be the new Thucydides. He was wise enough to confine his work to a single, narrow subject. I fear that your book will be a very short one."

  "Is there no end to your sourness?" Still holding the stay, Zeno jumped onto a handrail as if to urge the ship shoreward with his own body.

  Izates pondered the question. "If so, I've never found it."

  Zeno was from Athens and he had the classic look common to the wellborn men of that fabled city. His features were cameo-cut, his physique slender but athletic. In contrast to his scruffy companion, his tawny hair and short beard were neatly trimmed, his simple clothing immaculate. He yearned to be a historian of stature, but had thought that all the worthy themes had already been exhausted. Who needed yet another account of the wars of Athens and Sparta, or the career of Alexander? Of barbarian lands, the only ones worth study were Persia and Egypt and those, too, had been done to death.

  He sensed in the return of Rome to the great stage of history a subject worthy of a great work, and he was determined to be first to record their deeds.

  "What are these Romans, anyhow?" Izates groused. "The city was founded by a pack of bandits, by all accounts. They became farmers and dominated this obscure peninsula for a while and then lost a war to Carthage. What is so great about that?"

  Zeno shaded his eyes and gazed northward along the coast. The skipper had said they would raise Brundisium by midday. "What were Odysseus and Achilles and the rest but a pack of bandits and pirates? Nobody's ancestry is very savory if you look back far enough. The Romans were distinguished above all by their republican form of government and their extraordinary concept of military duty. From what I've been able to learn, they retained these things during their exile in the north and may even have strengthened them."

  It had not been easy learning about the land called Roma Noricum, where the exiles had carved an empire from a savage wilderness, subduing its Celtic and Germanic inhabitants and expanding their territory with every year. For generations, a few Greek merchant families had monopolized trade with the Romans and had kept most of their knowledge secret to protect their commerce from competition. Most Greeks were not even aware that the Romans still existed. Yet when they had poured into Italy a few months before, it had been in such numbers that they must have prospered mightily during their exile. Surely, Zeno thought, these must be the most remarkable people in the world. And he, Zeno of Athens, would be their chronicler.

  That afternoon they rounded the mole and entered the harbor of Brundisium. In the ancient Messapian dialect the name meant "stag's head," and was supposed to refer to the shape of the harbor. Zeno could detect no such resemblance and surmised that silting had altered the form of the little bay. In any case he was far more interested in the men who occupied the broad plaza adjoining the docks. He saw the glitter of arms among them and knew that these must be Romans.

  "These are the legionaries?" Izates said as the merchantman worked its way up to a stone wharf. "They don't look like much."

  Indeed they were a disappointment at first sight. Their equipment had none of the dash and beauty so esteemed by Greek soldiers. Most wore shirts of mail: a form of armor invented by the Gauls, consisting of thousands of interlinked iron rings. It was tough and as flexible as cloth, but made a baggy, almost shapeless garment utterly lacking in grace. Their helmets were simple pots of iron or bronze with wide neck guards and pendant cheek plates, and plain crests distinguishing the officers. Their large, oval shields were painted with simple devices. Each man wore a short sword belted at his waist and carried a heavy javelin no taller than the man himself.

  Two men strode down the wharf to meet the ship, and these were clearly higher ranking than the others. One wore an old-fashioned bronze cuirass embossed with stylized muscles, the other a shirt of shimmering scales overlaid with a harness of colorful leather straps studded with silver medallions. Both wore short swords in ornate scabbards. Neither bor
e shield or helmet. The man in the scale shirt carried a large wooden tablet and had a bronze stylus tucked behind his ear. The skipper stepped ashore to meet them.

  "What ship?" asked the man in bronze.

  "Calypso, out of Dyrrhachium with a cargo of copper ingots. I am Leander of Corcyra, shipmaster."

  "You'll find a market here, Leander," said the bronze man as the scaled one scratched notes with his stylus on the tablet's wax-lined inner surface. "The bronze foundries of Italy are busy as never before."

  "So I heard," said the shipmaster. "Everyone with metal to sell is headed this way."

  "You're the first to reach Brundisium, so you'll get the best price." The man spoke passable Greek, but the dialect was so antiquated Zeno guessed that the Romans learned their Greek from the works of Homer and other ancient authors.

  "I have two passengers," Leander informed the two. "Zeno, from Athens, and Izates, from Alexandria."

  The Romans glanced at them. "Are you selling anything?" the bronze one asked.

  Izates laughed and Zeno bristled. "We aren't merchants!" Zeno told them.

  "On official business?"

  "We are philosophers," said Zeno. "We want to see Rome."

  The scaled one closed his tablet, replaced the stylus behind his ear and jerked a thumb backward, over his shoulder. "Take the wide avenue to the city gate and you'll find two pillars. They mark the southern end of the Via Appia. Start walking and it'll take you to Rome in a few days." His Greek was more strongly accented than the other's. "Now," he said to the skipper, "let's have a look at that cargo and we'll clear you to start unloading."

  "That's all?" Zeno said, dumbfounded. "You don't want to see our letters of introduction?"

  "What for?" asked the bronze one. "You want to see Rome? Go to Rome. We won't stop you."

  "But we could be spies!" Zeno protested.

  The two. Romans looked at each other as if they had never heard of such an idea. "What if you were?" said the bronze one. "We're not hiding anything." He looked to the other one. "Are we hiding anything?"

  The man shrugged his scaled shoulders. "Not that I heard. We've retaken Italy right out in the open. And we're invading Sicily, last I heard. Nothing secret about it." He turned to Zeno. "Go ahead, look all you want." They returned their attention to the ship, having lost all interest in the two Greeks.

  "Astonishing!" said Zeno as the two, their bags shouldered, walked up the wharf toward the town. "They aren't concerned about spies. Any petty tyrant in the world would require that we register with the authorities, post bonds, account for our activities and that sort of thing. These Romans seem to fear nothing."

  Izates snorted. "Only idiots have no fear, and those two didn't strike me as fools. They are entirely too disingenuous. They put on a show of simplicity to gull strangers. Any soldier knows the value of military intelligence, and these men are soldiers even if they are nothing else."

  They came to the plaza and stood for a while watching the soldiers, many of whom were engaged in complex drill. All over the waterfront men, apparently locals, were toiling at the restoration of buildings long neglected by the Carthaginian authorities. The city had declined after the expulsion of the Romans, and the Carthaginians had established their colonial capital at Tarentum, on the southern end of the peninsula.

  Zeno looked back and forth from the native Italians to the Roman soldiers. "Do you notice something odd here?"

  Izates nodded. "Some of those legionaries don't have a drop of Italian blood in them. They're not Romans at all."

  The first thing that had struck both men after the plainness of their equipment was how many of the legionaries were tall men with fair hair and ruddy complexions.

  "I have never traveled in the north," Zeno said, "but I've seen a good many Gallic and German slaves, and that is what these men look like. But they don't seem to be foreign mercenaries. They serve in the ranks right alongside the men who are plainly of Italian ancestry." He remembered things he had read of the old Romans, how they had conquered other Italian peoples, rewarding their good behavior with partial citizenship, eventually granting them full citizenship and immunity from tribute and taxation. In this way Rome grew stronger, for only citizens could serve in the legions. He spoke of this to his friend.

  "What an odd idea," Izates said. "If I moved to Athens, not only would I not be a citizen, but my descendants five hundred years from now would not be citizens, either. They would be foreigners, just like me."

  Zeno nodded. "I believe our exclusivity has been a great folly. These people are worthy of study for their political institutions alone."

  They walked into the city in search of accommodations. It was far too late in the day to begin their land journey, and there were still arrangements to be made. They would need a pack animal, a servant or two, some traveling supplies. As they looked for an inn, they studied the place.

  The locals had the half-stunned look common to people recently conquered, although nobody seemed to be mistreating them. Whole gangs had been impressed to clean the city, rebuild walls and restore temples, paint and plaster. Clearly, the Romans intended to transform Brundisium into a major port city once more.

  The legionaries were everywhere. Those off-duty still retained their swords, their military belts and boots. Zeno found the latter accoutrements worthy of note. They were stoutly made of heavy leather, their thick soles densely studded with hobnails. He drew Izates' attention to these and said they must be an innovation as important as any weapon on the battlefield.

  "I see no innovation," said the Cynic. "Your own Athenian general Iphicrates issued his men similar boots almost three hundred years ago. Rather, these Romans seem to be adept at adopting things invented by other peoples. Look at them! The helmets and shins of mail are Gallic. Those short swords, unless I am mistaken, are of Spanish origin. The boots they probably got when they fought King Pyrrhus of Epirus one hundred and seventy-odd years back. Everything they have is Greek, Celtic or plundered from some other Italian race."

  "And isn't that genius of a sort?" Zeno said. "What other people have shown the discernment to adopt only the best and most useful from other cultures?"

  "What sophistry! You astound even me, and I had thought myself beyond shock. Surely you cannot believe this cultural acquisitiveness to be some sort of virtue! I grant you that these days everyone wants to be Greek, and that in this passion for all things Greek they happily adopt the worst aspects of the culture while ignoring the best. But at least those people look to the very light of the world as the only culture worthy of imitation, but look at these Romans. Some of them are wearing trousers!"

  Indeed it was a somewhat shocking sight. Many of the soldiers wore, instead of civilized tunics, trousers fitting tightly to the knee.

  "I suppose they are practical garments in the cold north," Zeno said. "And the same with those cloaks. The Romans used to wear red battle cloaks, like the Spartans." At least half of the soldiers wore woolen cloaks of deep, forest green, crosshatched with black lines. Zeno knew this to be another Celtic item.

  "They have been transforming themselves into barbarians up there," Izates asserted. "No, they were barbarians in the first place. They have become even more primitive barbarians."

  "They certainly haven't become any less warlike in the process. Come on, let's find some lodgings."

  Like any other port city, Brundisium had no shortage of inns. Near the old theater they located one that was newer and cleaner than the others, and here they established themselves for the evening. At dinner they quizzed the innkeeper about the town's new masters.

  "They came out of nowhere," the man told them. "The legion came marching down the Via Appia before we even had word of their coming. There had been rumors that the Romans had returned to Italy and were restoring their old capital, but nobody thought they could move so fast, or in such strength."

  "What did the Carthaginians do?" Zeno asked.

  The man shrugged. He was a typical southern Italian,
olive-skinned with black hair, pudgy in distinct contrast to the lean, soldierly Romans. "There were hardly any Carthaginians here. Just a customs agent and a couple of coast guard ships in the harbor. Even before the shofet's Egyptian war there wasn't much Carthaginian presence in the area."

  "They just walked in without a fight?" Izates asked.

  "What was anyone going to do?" the landlord said. "Who is going to stop six thousand armed men? The city guard?" He laughed ruefully. "They act like the lords of the earth, and just now no one is going to dispute it with them."

  Later Zeno quizzed the girl who brought them their food and wine. She was a pretty creature of about sixteen and spoke the sailor's Greek common to every port town.

  "The Roman soldiers are real men," she said in a low voice, glancing about to make sure she was not overheard. "Not like the males around here. All the men here complain that the Romans treat them with contempt, but why shouldn't they, is what I ask. Carthage has run this place for so long that everyone's forgotten how to fight. Hardly a man in Italy has ever picked up a sword."

  She brushed her coarse hair back from her face. "I'll tell you something else: There was no looting or rape or any other sort of misbehavior, not at all like when the shofet's hired marines come to town. The Romans took over the running of the place and quartered their troops, but they don't pick up a leek that they don't pay for and they leave even the slave girls and boys strictly alone. They just visit the working girls and the lupanars and they pay for the service."

  Even as the girl spoke, a group of off-duty soldiers walked in and took a table. The girl went to serve them, smiling brightly. Zeno noted that they did not swagger or speak loudly, but there was nothing diffident in their bearing. They seemed to have perfect self-assurance. They spoke to the girl in halting, broken Greek and spoke among themselves in a language Zeno supposed must be Latin. It lacked the beautiful liquidity of Greek, but he found its hard-edged sound pleasing. Like everything else about the Romans, even the language sounded soldierly.