We arrive in the back of a clapped-out Mercedes, a grand taxi lurching north along patchy roads from Meknes, passing the holy Muslim town of Moulay Idriss that hangs in the hills and glistens now like fish scales. For Roman sensibilities this was a pleasing landscape, in both its fertility and shape, conforming to the notion of amoenitas: having gentle, decorous charm, being symmetrical and mild. White sunlight falls on soft hills skirting the agricultural flats, the weathered remnants of Rome rising like strange totems in a strange land, bone dry and long ago abandoned.
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