The Eagles Conquest c-2

by Simon Scarrow

  Anyway, the stew was delicious and he had already polished off the mess tin and was scraping the bottom with his spoon.

  'There's plenty more, lad.' Macro dipped the ladle back into the pot and scooped deep to make sure that Cato got plenty of meat. 'Fill up while you can. In the army the next meal's never guaranteed. By the way, how do the burns feel?'

  Cato instinctively reached for the dressing on his side and discovered that it had been changed, and a clean roll of linen had been bound about his chest, tight enough not to slip and yet not too tight to be uncomfortable. A good job had been made of it and Cato looked up gratefully.

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Don't thank me. That surgeon did it. Nisus. Seems our century's been assigned to his care, and you've seen to it that he's kept busy.' 'Well, I'll thank him for it sometime.'

  'You can do it now.' Macro nodded over Cato's shoulder. 'Here he comes.'

  Cato twisted his head and saw the huge hulk of the surgeon emerging from the dull shadows between the tents. He raised a hand in greeting. 'Cato! Awake at last. You were way down the Lethe last time I saw you. Hardly a murmur when I changed the dressing.'

  'Thanks.'

  Nisus slumped down by the fire between Cato and his centurion, and sniffed at the pot. 'Hare?' 'What else?' replied Macro. 'Any spare?'

  'Help yourself.'

  Nisus unhooked the mess tin and spoon from his belt and, ignoring the ladle, dipped the mess tin in and scooped it out almost filled to the brim. With a keen look of anticipation he moistened his lips.

  'Please make yourself at home,' Macro muttered.

  Nisus skimmed a spoonful off the surface, blew on it a moment and sipped cautiously. 'Lovely! Centurion, you're going to make someone a wonderful wife one day.'

  'Fuck off.'

  'So then, Cato, how are the burns today?'

  The optio touched the dressing tenderly and winced immediately. 'Painful. '

  'Not surprised. You've not given them a moment's rest. Some of the wounds are open and might've got infected if I hadn't cleaned them out when I changed the dressing. You're really going to have to take a bit more care of yourself. That's an order, by the way.'

  'An order?' Macro protested. 'Just who the hell do you medics think you are?'

  'We're qualified to look after the health of the Emperor's troops, that's who. Besides, it's an order from the top. The legate told me to make sure Cato rested. He's excused duties and is out of the line of battle until I say so.'

  'He can't do that' Cato protested. Macro looked at him sharply and Cato subsided, realising the foolishness of his protest.

  'Might as well make the most of it, lad, since the order's come from the legate,' said Macro gruffly.

  Nisus agreed with a vigorous nod, and then returned to his stew. Macro reached for one of the roughly hacked logs and placed it carefully in the flames. A small cloud of sparks swirled up and Cato's eyes followed them into the velvet sky until their glow faded and they were lost against the dazzling pinpricks of the stars. Despite being asleep for most of the day, Cato still felt exhaustion weighing down every sinew of his body and would have been shaking with cold but for the fire.

  Nisus finished his stew, set his mess tin down and lay down on his side, gazing at Cato. 'So then, Optio. You come from the palace.'

  'Yes.'

  'Is it true that Claudius is as cruel and incompetent as all his predecessors'?'

  Macro spluttered. 'What kind of a question is that for a Roman to ask?'

  'A reasonable enough one,' Nisus replied. 'And anyway, by birth I'm not a Roman. African as it happens, though there's some Greek in there as well. Hence the occupation and my presence here. The only place the legions can get decent medical experience from is Greece and the eastern provinces. '

  'Bloody foreigners!' Macro sniffed. 'Beat' em in war and they profit from us in peace.'

  'Thus it ever was, Centurion. The compensations of being conquered.' Despite the levity of the comments, Cato sensed a bitterness behind the words and was curious. 'Where are you from then?'

  'A small town on the African coast. Cartanova. Don't suppose you've ever heard of it.'

  'I believe I have. Isn't it home to the library of Archelonides?'

  'Why yes.' Nisus' face lit up with pleasure. 'You know it?'

  'I know of it. The town's built over some of the foundations of a Carthaginian city, I think.'

  'Yes.' Nisus nodded. 'That's right. Over the foundations. You can still see the lines of the old city, and some of the temple complexes and shipyards. But that's it. The city was razed pretty thoroughly at the end of the second patriotic war.'

  'The Roman army doesn't do things by halves,' Macro said with a certain amount of pride.

  'No, I suppose not.'

  'And you trained in medicine there?' asked Cato, trying to steer the discussion onto safer ground.

  'Yes. For a few years. There's a limit to what can be learned in a small trading town. So I went east to Damascus and worked in a practice servicing the wide variety of ailments the rich merchants and their wives imagined that they suffered from. Lucrative enough, but dull. I got friendly with a centurion in the garrison. When he was transferred to the Second a few months back, I went with him. Can't say that it hasn't been exciting, but I do miss the Damascus lifestyle.'

  'Is it as good as you hear?' Macro asked with the eagerness of all those who believe that paradise must exist somewhere in this life. 'I mean, the women have quite a reputation, don't they?'

  'The women?' Vitellius raised his eyebrows. 'Is that all that soldiers think about? There's more to Damascus than its women.'

  'Sure there is.' Macro tried to be gracious for a moment. 'But is it true about the women?'

  The surgeon sighed. 'The legions who garrisoned the town certainly seemed to think so. You'd think they had never seen a Roman at all before. Bunches of slavering drunks staggering from one brothel to the next. Not so much in pursuance of the Roman peace as in pursuit of a piece for the Romans.'

  Nisus gazed into the fire, and Cato saw his mouth fix into a tight, bitter line. Macro was also gazing into the fire, but the lazy flames showed a smile on his face as his mind dwelt upon the exotic pleasures of an eastern posting.

  The difference between these two representatives of the ruling and conquered races troubled Cato. What was the value of a world ruled by uncouth womanisers who lorded it over their better educated subject races? Macro and Nisus were not typical examples of course, and the comparison was perhaps unfair, but was it always the case that strength would triumph over intellect? Certainly the Romans had triumphed over the Greeks, for all their science, art and philosophy. Cato had read enough to know how much the Romans had subsequently appropriated from Greek heritage. In truth, the destiny of Rome depended upon her ability to ruthlessly overwhelm other civilisations and subsume them. The thought was very unsettling, and Cato turned to stare down towards the river.

  There was no doubting that the Britons were barbarians. Aside from looking the part, the lack of neatly planned towns, metalled roads and regimented crops of agricultural estates spoke clearly of an inferior quality of existence. The Britons, Cato decided, lacked the refinements necessary to be called a civilisation. If the stories brought back from the misty isles by merchants and traders were to be believed, the natives were scratching a living on top of huge deposits of silver and gold. It seemed typical of the capricious nature of the gods that the most primitive of peoples were granted tenure of the most valuable of resources – resources they had little appreciation of, and which could be put to much better use by more advanced races, such as the Romans.

  And there was the sinister issue of the Druids. Not much was known of them, and all that Cato had read depicted the cult in lurid and horrific terms. He shuddered at the memory of the grove he and Macro had discovered a few days earlier. The place had felt dark and cold, and filled with menace. If nothing else, the conquest of the misty islands would lead to the destruction of the dar
k cult of Druidism.

  The disgust he suddenly felt for the British caused Cato to pause in this line of thinking. As arguments justifying the expansion of the empire, they seemed plausible and simple. So much so, that Cato could not help being suspicious of them. In his experience, the things in life that were held up as eternal and simple truths were only so because of a deliberate limitation in thought. It occurred to him that everything he had ever read in Latin had presented Roman culture in the best possible terms, and infinitely superior to anything produced by any other race, whether 'civilised' like the Greeks, or 'barbaric' like these Britons. There had to be another side to things.

  He looked at Nisus and took in the dark skin, dark features, thick curling hair and the strangely patterned amulets on his broad wrists. The Roman citizenship he had been awarded on joining the legions was less than skin deep. It was a mere legal label that conferred a certain status upon him. Beyond that, what kind of a man was he?

  'Nisus?'

  The surgeon looked up from the flames and smiled. 'Can I ask you something personal?'

  The smile faded slightly and the surgeon's eyebrows twitched closer to each other. He nodded.

  'What is it like not being Roman?' The question was awkward and blunt, and Cato felt ashamed for asking it but blundered on in an attempt to clarify himself. 'I mean, I know you are a Roman citizen now. But what was it like before? What do other people think of Rome?'

  Nisus and Macro were staring at him. Nisus, frowning and suspicious, Macro simply astonished. Cato wished he had kept his mouth shut. But he was consumed with a desire to know more, to step outside the view of the world that had been fed to him since birth. Had it not been for the palace tutors, it was a view he would have accepted without question, without the slightest notion that it was partial.

  'What do people think of Rome?' Nisus repeated. He considered the question for a moment, gently scratching the thick stubble on his chin. 'Interesting question. Not an easy one to answer. It mostly depends on who you are. If you happen to be one of those client kings who owes everything to Rome, and fears and hates his subjects, then Rome is your only friend. If you are a grain merchant in Egypt who can make a fortune out of the corn dole in Rome, or a gladiator and beast supplier providing the citizens with the means to idle away their lives, then Rome is the source of your wealth. The fine ware manufacturers and the arms factories of Gaul, the traders in spices, silks and antiquities, all of them are sustained by Rome. Wherever there is money to be made from Rome's voracious appetite for resources, entertainment and luxury, there is a parasite feeding the demand. But for everyone else,' Nisus shrugged, 'I can't say.'

  'Can't say, or won't say?' Macro chipped in angrily.

  'Centurion, I am a guest at your fire, and only offer my opinion at your optio's request.'

  'Fine! So give it then. Tell us what they bloody think.'

  'They?' Nisus arched an eyebrow. 'I can't speak for them. I know little of the grain farmers along the Nile, forced to give up most of their crop each year, regardless of the yield. I've no idea what it means to be a slave taken in war and sold to a lead mine chain gang, never see my wife or children again. Or to be a Gaul whose land has been owned by the same family for generations, only to see it centurionated and handed over to a mob of discharged legionaries.'

  'Cheap rhetoric!' Macro snapped. 'You don't really know at all.'

  'No, but I can imagine how they might feel. And so can you – if you try. '

  'Why should I try? We won, they lost, and that proves we're best. If they resent that then they're wasting their time. You can't resent the inevitable. '

  'Nice aphorism, Centurion.' Nisus chuckled appreciatively. 'But there's nothing inevitable about the taxes the empire collects, or the grain, gold and slaves it squeezes out of its provinces. All to support the squalid masses living in Rome. Can you wonder if people are filled with bitterness and resentment when they look to Rome?'

  For a fatalist like Macro this was fighting talk, and he ground his teeth. If they had been drinking he would simply have tired of the conversation and stuck his fist in the man's face. But he was sober, and in any case Nisus was his guest, so he had to endure the conversation.

  'Why become a Roman then?' he challenged the surgeon. 'Why, if you hate us so much?'

  'Who said I hated you? I am one of you now. I appreciate the fact that being a Roman grants me special status within the empire, but I have no feelings for Rome beyond that.'

  'What about us?' Cato asked quietly. 'What about your comrades?'

  'That's different. I live alongside you, and fight with you when necessary. That creates a special bond between us. But put the Roman citizenship and my Roman name to one side and I'm someone else. Someone who carries the memories of Carthage deep in his blood.'

  'You have another name?' This was something Cato had not considered.

  'Of course he has,' said Macro. 'All of them who join the eagles and take up citizenship have to take on a Roman name.'

  'So what was it before you became Nisus?'

  'My full name is Marcus Cassius Nisus.' He smiled at Cato. 'That's how I'm known now in the army, and on every legal and professional document. But before that, before I became Roman, I was Gisgo, of the Barca line.'

  Cato's eyebrows rose, and a cold finger tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck. He stared at the surgeon a moment before he dared speak. 'Any relation?'

  'A direct descendent.'

  'I see,' muttered Cato, still trying to absorb the implications. He stared at the Carthaginian. 'Interesting.'

  Macro threw another log on the fire and broke the spell. 'Would you mind telling me what's so bloody interesting? Just because he's got a funny name?'

  Before Cato could explain, they were interrupted. Looming out of the dark came an officer, polished breastplate glittering with the reflection of the fire.

  'Surgeon, are you the one called Nisus?'

  Nisus and Macro jumped to their feet and stood stiffly to attention before Tribune Vitellius. Cato was slower, wincing with the painful effort to raise himself to his feet.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then come with me. I've an injury that needs seeing to.'

  Without another word the tribune turned and strode off, leaving the surgeon with barely enough time to tip out the dregs of his stew, wipe his spoon on the grass, and re-attach them to his belt before trotting off to catch up with the tribune. Cato slumped back to the ground while Macro watched Nisus disappear between a line of tents.

  'Strange one, that. Not quite sure what to make of him, except that I don't like him yet. Might see how we get on after a few drinks.'

  'If he drinks,' added Cato.

  'Eh?'

  'There are some religions of the east that forbid it.' 'Why the fuck would they want to miss out on wine?'

  'And what was all that bollocks about his name?'

  Cato propped himself up and gazed across the fire towards Macro.

  'His family are descended from the Barcas.'

  'Yes, I heard,' Macro said with heavy emphasis. 'So?'

  'Does the name Hannibal Barca mean anything to you, sir?' Macro was silent for a moment. 'The Hannibal?'

  'The same.'

  Macro squatted down by the fire and whistled. 'Well, that might go some way towards explaining his attitude to Rome. Who'd have thought we'd have an heir of Hannibal fighting with the Roman army?' He laughed at the irony.

  'Yes,' Cato said quietly. 'Who'd have thought it?'

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Work on the bridgehead fortifications continued at first light. A thin mist had risen from the Tamesis and wreathed the camp of the Second Legion in its clammy chill. In the pallid glow of the rising sun, a column of legionaries trudged out of the northern gate of the marching camp that had been hastily thrown up as soon as the main body of the legion was ferried across the river. The rest of the army would soon be joining the Second to continue the campaign, and the
fortifications had to be extended to accommodate the other legions and auxiliary cohorts. Round the Second Legion's palisade the engineers had marked out a vast rectangle with surveying posts. A substantial stretch of earthworks had been raised the previous day, and the engineers set to work at once on extending the defences.

  With weapons neatly stacked nearby, the legionaries continued excavating the surrounding ditch and piling the spoil to form an inner rampart. Once the spoil was packed down, a layer of logs was laid along the top to form a firm platform behind the palisade of sharpened stakes driven into the body of the rampart. A screen of men stood guard a hundred paces in front of their toiling comrades and far beyond them rode the distant figures of the legion's mounted scouts. Caesar's comments about the hit-and-run tactics of the British charioteers were fresh in the mind of the legion's commander, and he had made sure that any approaching enemy would be sighted in time to warn the engineering party.

  With relentless effort the earthworks were extended from the river in sections of a hundred feet at a time. Years of drilling ensured that every man knew his duty, and the work was carried out with an efficiency that gratified Vespasian when he rode out to inspect their progress. But he was preoccupied and troubled. His thoughts turned yet again to the meeting of senior officers he had attended yesterday. All the legion commanders had been present, as well as his brother Sabinus, now acting as Plautius' chief of staff.

  Aulus Plautius had commended their achievements, and that the army's scouts reported that there was no significant body of enemy soldiers for many miles to their front. The Britons had taken a beating and retreated far beyond the Tamesis. Vespasian had argued that the enemy should be pursued and destroyed, before Caratacus had a chance to regroup and reinforce his army from those tribes who were only just beginning to appreciate the danger posed to them by the legions in the far south of the island. Any delay in the Roman advance could only be to the benefit of the natives. Although the Romans had managed to harvest the crops they had marched through in the early weeks of the campaign, the Britons had quickly realised the need to deny the invader the fruits of the land. The vanguard of the Roman army was advancing over the smouldering remains of wheat fields and grain stores, and the legions were wholly dependent on the depot at Rutupiae, from which long supply trains of oxen-drawn wagons dragged their loads forward to the legions. When conditions permitted, the supplies were shipped along the coast in the shallow-bottomed transports escorted by the warships of the Channel fleet. If the Britons were to make use of their superior manoeuvrability and concentrate their attacks on these supply lines, the Roman advance inland would be seriously delayed. It made sense to strike at the Britons now, while they were still reeling from their defeats at the Mead Way and the Tamesis.