The Seven Hills

by John Maddox Roberts

  Jonathan answered. "Everything I've heard of them says the Parthians are most punctilious and honorable in these matters."

  "Then we talk," Norbanus said. "Now, how shall we go about this? A king should not ride out to parley unless there is a king leading those men."

  "I doubt the king himself came to support Manasseh," said Jonathan, "but the leader will be a close relative. If you ride out without me, they will try to outmatch you in arrogance. Not, I admit, that that is very easy to do. If I go, my condescension will give us an edge in negotiations."

  "Royal punctilio is your realm of expertise," Norbanus said. "Let's go."

  With Jonathan in the lead, Norbanus riding to his right and half a horse length to his rear, a few senior officers behind them, the party rode out to confer with the strangers. Oozing confidence, Jonathan drew up within easy conversation distance of the Parthian spokesmen.

  To the Romans, these riders were truly alien, far more so than the Jews, who had been exposed to Greek influence for many centuries. They wore long trousers and long-sleeved jackets stitched with colorful designs in gold thread. They were long-haired and bearded, their heads covered by tall caps with long lappets hanging before their ears. Each man wore a cased bow and arrows at his belt, and some of them wore a strange sort of armor made of small metal splints tightly laced in rows and lacquered in vivid colors. Most astonishingly, they wore facial cosmetics, with rouged cheeks and lips, and the eyebrows darkened with kohl, drawn to a point above the nose and extended into long wings at the sides. The Romans would have laughed at such a display, but the ferocity of the faces opposite removed any hint of effeminacy.

  Jonathan spoke first. "I am Jonathan ben Isaac, king of all the Jews. I demand to know what brings the soldiers of King Phraates within my borders."

  One of the Parthians guided his horse a few steps forward. He looked much the same as the others but his light armor was gilded. "I am Surenas, royal cousin of King Phraates. We are here at the invitation of our friend, King Manasseh. Where may we find him?" His Greek was heavily accented but clear. While he spoke, his eyes were fixed upon the Roman party, and the legions standing a bowshot beyond.

  "Alas, my brother is no more, and his rebellious province is once more returned to its rightful sovereign. I take very seriously this unwarranted incursion into my kingdom." The Parthians bristled but held their tongues for the moment. Jonathan relaxed his provocative tone a few notches. "However, since you came here under the mistaken belief that you had the invitation of a sovereign, I shall not regard this as an invasion, so long as you refrain from all belligerent acts henceforth."

  Surenas nodded. "I can see that things have changed here. My king must hear of the new order of things." He made a gesture of his hand, and the army behind him, until that moment tense and poised for battle, became a great crowd of relaxing horsemen. Many men dismounted and began to curry their mounts, examine hooves and dig rations from there saddlebags.

  Norbanus found this an excellent show, one calculated to give an impression of safety. He also noticed that not a single man unstrung his bow. These men could be in the saddle, charging and shooting in moments. Those bows bothered him. They were great, multiple-curved weapons and looked far more powerful than any bows he had ever seen.

  "I see that something else has changed," Surenas went on, still eyeing the Romans. "Who are these men whose soldierly bearing is so formidable? I can see how you value them as allies, since they hold the center of your battle line."

  "These are the soldiers of my new ally, Rome."

  The accented eyebrows rose fractionally. "Rome? I have never heard of this place."

  "I assure you, you will be hearing a great deal more of us. I am the Proconsul Titus Norbanus, commander of the legions you see before you, envoy of the Senate of the Republic of Rome." He rode a little forward. "My republic wishes only the friendliest relations with the other nations of the world."

  "The late King Manasseh seems to have learned differently," Surenas noted.

  "The usurper was in rebellion against our ally, King Jonathan. Alliances are a sacred matter to us Romans. We never leave an ally without support."

  "Admirable. I shall report all this to King Phraates." He was perplexed, but clearly knew that he was in no position to take action. Then, to Jonathan: "I must confer with my officers. The day advances and we would like to pitch camp here and make our preparations for departure."

  Now Jonathan allowed himself to unbend. The foreigners had asked his permission to camp. Hostilities were off, for the moment. "Of course. As long as you offer no violence to my people, you are welcome to my grass, wood and water."

  "With King Jonathan's permission," Norbanus said, "I would like to send some of my officers to your camp this evening. Now would be an excellent time for us to make preparations for an exchange of envoys to open diplomatic relations between our nations."

  Surenas nodded curtly. "Very well. I am empowered to arrange such negotiations, pending my lord's approval."

  Jonathan smiled. He knew these Romans now. Those officers would spy out every detail of the Parthian camp.

  The Parthians rode back to their lines and Norbanus turned to Jonathan. "Will there be an exchange of gifts?"

  "It's customary. I will give them cloaks and jewelry, that sort of thing. They will probably give me horses, saddles and so forth. Why?"

  "See if you can get a few of their bows."

  "Why do you want bows?" Jonathan asked.

  "I've never seen their like. I want to send them to the Senate for study. It's our usual practice."

  The other Roman officers nodded. They had noticed the bows, as well.

  That night Norbanus took his ease beneath the awning of his new praetorium. He knew that some of his officers thought the royal tent far too luxurious for a Roman officer, and he did not care. He had been watching his fellow Romans from the time they had departed the austere northlands, and the signs of change were unmistakable.

  Before crossing the Alps, Roman soldiers could make Spartans look decadent. Now, after many months in the South, having seen the rich farmlands of Italy, having experienced the incredible luxury of Carthage, the vast wealth of Egypt, they were changing. Troopers and officers often wore gold now. When they eyed a foreign city, they did not just apprehend danger, they assessed its potential in terms of loot.

  They hadn't softened, and he would see to it that they didn't, but they had changed. From now on, they would fight not just for the glory and safety of Rome, but for their own enrichment. A man who would command legions henceforth could not depend upon his men's patriotism and discipline to assure their loyalty. He would have to appeal to their greed.

  Titus Norbanus foresaw no problem with that.

  He smelled the approaching women before he saw them. Their fragrance was wonderful. In the North, he had never understood the allure of perfume. It was what drew bees to flowers, no more. The closest Romans had come to an appreciation of scent was in the form of incense, imported at great cost to burn before the altars of the gods. Even women never anointed their bodies with fragrance. In the South and East, though, perfume was as important as color and jewels and fine food and wine. These people studied the sensual arts as Romans studied those of war. Norbanus had discovered that war would win you those luxuries, and the women and slaves to go with them. It was a simple equation.

  "You see?" said Glaphyra or Roxana, he was not sure which. "All is falling into your hands, just as we foretold. The stars are never wrong."

  "Do their seeresses ever make mistakes?" he asked, taking a hand and drawing her before him. It was Roxana, but he knew her twin was nearby.

  "Not about the stars," she said, smiling as she slid into his lap. Immediately, he felt another pair of hands on his shoulders, another cloud of perfume.

  He ran a hard palm up and down Roxana's spine. She arched, bringing her breasts closer to his face. "It would be best that you never make a mistake about me."

  She stiffen
ed slightly. "What do you mean, my lord?"

  His hand went to the back of her neck and tightened. He grasped one of her sister's wrists and drew that one before him. He slid Roxana off his lap and forced both women to their knees before him. With a slender neck in each hand he drew both faces close to his own. His face was set in the mask of ferocity that was as much a part of a highborn Roman as skill with weapons. Their doelike eyes went wide with terror and an acrid odor drifted from beneath their clothing, overwhelming the perfume. This was a smell he truly savored.

  "I mean that you two bitches are now part of my inner circle, closer to me than my soldiers and my officers. You will be with me in intimate moments. Never think that I am vulnerable. Never try to manipulate me or take advantage of me. Never speak a word of what I have said to other people, or of anything you have seen or heard in my company."

  "Never, my lord!" both bleated.

  "I have a short way with traitors. The princess of Carthage taught me ways to make people suffer that we Romans never dreamed of. Give me reason to suspect you, and your death will not be swift." Through his palms he felt them shudder, felt the thunder of their hearts. In a hard world, Carthage was a byword for extreme cruelty. Torture was an art form in that land, and execution was never swift.

  He loosened his grip and let them rise. The point had been made. "Undress," he said. As their clothing fell away layer by layer, their fear receded and their confidence returned. This was an area where they still had power. Naked except for their jewelry, they were as alike as matched pearls.

  "Now," he said, "show me some of your Babylonian depravities."

  The twins smiled and did as they were bidden.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Queen Teuta's face twisted, making the tattoos writhe. Her breath wheezed between teeth clenched in a rictus of near-grotesque intensity. Her unbound hair flew wildly, her breasts swung, her hips churned and every part of her body was in abandoned motion. Then she shuddered, stopped as if suddenly stunned and cried out hoarsely as her fingers dug into his shoulders, before she collapsed upon Hamilcar in a sweaty heap.

  The shofet, drained by his own, less demonstrative release, stroked her back as his thundering heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He knew that this passionate woman might well be the death of him, but no one else had ever made him feel more kingly. She seemed perfectly unconcerned about possible impregnation, and he gathered that she believed the two of them were above such petty considerations. That, too, gave him satisfaction.

  Of course, she had some annoying peculiarities. For instance, she insisted on riding him, holding that as a queen of matchless horsemen, this was her right. He longed to mount her as a lion mounts a lioness, but this she had so far refused to permit. He resolved to enjoy her this way before consenting to a royal marriage. The woman would have to learn to make concessions.

  At last she arose from the bed and called for her serving women. As they attended to their mistress with damp cloths and warm towels, he admired her superb body with its covering of tattoos. He had learned that, indeed, not a square inch of her flesh had been spared the needle save her eyelids and lips. A lifetime in Carthage made one a connoisseur of the bizarre, and this was as outré as anything he had ever seen. What made it even more stirring was that the woman was a queen.

  Later, dressed and seated on a terrace in the light of a full moon, they spoke of their plans. From the distance they could hear the constant work of hammers and saws. The building of new ships went on day and night now, as Carthage sought to make up the losses from the tremendous fire. The work went swiftly, but harder to replace were the cargoes that had turned to ashes and smoke. The shofet had sent out to his provinces and to neighbor kings for the supplies his armies would need so desperately. He had called in favors going back many years, spending royal capital with abandon. No matter. With the success of this war he would be master of them all.

  "Syracuse has fallen," Teuta said in her customarily blunt fashion. "When do we begin?"

  "Begin? You mean counterattack?"

  "What else could I mean?" she said impatiently. "So far, Rome has had all the advantage in aggression. Let them win any more, and they will think themselves invincible."

  "They already think themselves invincible," he pointed out.

  "So did the Spartans. Then came the battle of Leuctra. Epimanondas and the Thebans smashed the Spartans and never again did the Spartans or anyone else believe that they were invincible. Once a myth is broken it is never again recovered." She took a generous swallow of unwatered Chian wine.

  The woman was a constant amazement. She ate and drank like a Gallic mercenary and could be as crude as a clay pot, but she displayed a fine knowledge of history and was an astute judge of men as individuals and in their masses and nations. But she was trying to rush him and he could not allow her to think she was in charge.

  "When the time is right, I shall destroy Rome and its myth together. But one should never go to war without the fullest preparation. Grain and oil, nails, tents, lumber and a thousand other things are as important to a campaign as fighting men, horses and weapons."

  "It is possible to be too cautious. Sometimes it is better to hit hard and fast with what you have, than to wait until you have everything you think you must have. Many campaigns have failed because a king has always needed just one more allied contingent, one more wing of cavalry, one more ship. They are usually struck by someone more aggressive and less concerned with preparation. I am not saying that you should go off foolishly unprepared, just that these Romans don't seem to hesitate to attack and you must hit back quickly. Deal them a major setback and they will stop to figure out what went wrong. Then you will have leisure to assemble your fullest force down to the last tent peg in order to fight a war of annihilation."

  This was tempting. "I see. You are not, then, suggesting that I send my main army?"

  "No."

  Hamilcar clapped his hands and a slave stepped forward from the shadows. "Bring my war map and more lamps."

  In the light of the new lamps they studied the large parchment. Upon it were drawn all the lands bordering the Middle Sea. Carthaginian possessions were gilt, and fortifications marked, with their garrisons enumerated. Ports and their naval facilities and fleets were likewise depicted. Hamilcar stabbed a finger at a spur jutting from the southern coast of Spain.

  "New Carthage. I've assembled an army there, mostly Iberian allies and mercenaries. I had intended to send them into northern Italy as a feint, to distract the Romans and draw away some of their power while I launched the main blow at Sicily and southern Italy."

  "Very good," Teuta said. "But why wait until the main invasion? The Romans will know enough to concentrate on the main thrust and leave your Spanish army for a later action. Launch them now. The main Roman force is now engaged in Sicily and they've lost the four legions they left in Egypt. They'll send a minor force northward, thinking they are dealing with a minor incursion. Smash that Roman army and the effect will be demoralizing."

  "Just what I was thinking," Hamilcar said, believing indeed that it had been his idea. "They will pass through the southern edge of Gaul, where we have old allies. And they can pick up the garrison of Massilia as they pass."

  "Excellent! And why not send some of the mercenaries you have lying around here eating up your substance while doing no fighting? The naval fleet is untouched. Some of your warships can transport the mercenaries and then support the Spanish army on its campaign, and be back in plenty of time to take part in the real invasion."

  Hamilcar smiled. "I like this. If they take fearful losses, what of that? I can.always hire more mercenaries and levy more troops from the subject cities. But I won't try to emulate my ancestor's feat and send them across the Alps. It's already been done, so there is no glory in it, and it isn't necessary, anyway. Roman power is weak in the North; they have no allies there to give my army any trouble. They can simply march along the coast, gathering strength as they go and supported by the
fleet, which will leave them and return home as soon as they reach Italy." He sighed. "This is so attractive that I'm tempted to take personal command."

  "No!" she said. "You must command only the main thrust, not a sideshow like this. But do entrust it to a capable general."

  "I'll send Mastanabal with the reinforcements."

  "Wonderful!" She poured wine for both of them and they drank to the new project. "Now that you are committed to real action," she went on, "it is time you took some action at home. Your sister is a traitor. If you don't want to kill her, let me."

  But this time Hamilcar refused to be pushed. "If only it were so easy."

  "You must kill her, my princess," Echaz said.

  "The foreign queen? That overdecorated Illyrian?"

  "The same. She has become our shofet's closest advisor. More than close—intimate. She has his ear in bed."

  "As well as other parts. What of it? He may have every woman in Carthage save me, for all I care. It is his right."

  "Highness," he went on patiently, "he is listening to her, though she is a woman and a foreigner."

  "So you think she misleads him with bad advice?"

  "Worse. She may be giving him good advice."

  The princess lay on a huge cushion stuffed with rare, aromatic herbs. She was exhausted after a lengthy, demanding ritual in the Temple of Tanit, and now she rolled over onto her stomach, propping her weary head on her fists. "This could be bad. I knew my brother wanted the woman for a plaything. She certainly is colorful. It did not occur to me that she might be intelligent."

  "A mistake many of us make," Echaz said, sighing. "Those Romans seemed comically uncouth, yet they proved to be shrewd."

  "She won't be easy to kill," Zarabel said. "She has her own men, who are very savage, and then there are my brother's own guards. It would be easier for me to kill him, but I dare not do that."

  Zarabel hated and feared her brother, but she had little to gain by his death. A woman could not inherit the throne and she had no son to elevate and then manipulate. If Hamilcar died, the head of one of the great families would assume the crown and, most probably, put her away and give the high priestesshood to a female relative. She wanted Hamilcar weak, not dead.