The Eagles Conquest c-2

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato would awake with a cry and find himself sitting bolt upright, skin bathed in cold, clammy sweat, the mumbled curses from the disturbed men in his tent shaming him. He would not be able to return to sleep again, and the long night would be spent fighting off the terrible images, until the grey of dawn diluted the thick darkness wrapped around him inside the tent.

  This was why he had presented himself at his centurion's tent, desperate for some task that demanded fixed attention for long periods of time, long enough to chase a way the demons that lurked at the fringes of his consciousness. Completing the dead men's accounts demanded enough of his attention to keep the worst excesses of memory and imagination at bay, but he applied himself to the task with such a single-mindedness that the job was completed more quickly than he wanted. So Cato went over the calculations once more, to ensure that they were correct, or so he told himself.

  Eventually there was no further excuse for doubting his mathematical competence, and he neatly rolled up the scrolls and carefully placed them back into the records chest. He was just finishing when a shadow fell across the camp desk.

  'Hello, Optio,' said Nisus. 'I see that slave-driver centurion of yours is keeping you at it.'

  'No, my choice.'

  Nisus tilted his head to one side, resting it against a long, thin spear with three prongs. 'Your choice? Think I must have missed a touch of concussion when I examined you. That or some fever is getting a grip on you. Either way, you could do with a break. And, as it happens, so could I.'

  'You?'

  'Don't look so surprised. Some of our wounded survive my treatment for as much as several days. I just can't get them to die quickly enough. So what's needed is a little diversion. In my case that's fishing. And since we're camped by a river I don't want to waste the opportunity. Want to come along?'

  'Fishing? I don't know. I've never tried it.'

  'Never tried fishing?' Nisus recoiled in mock horror. 'What's wrong with you, man? The ancient practice of separating our scaly cousins from the water is a man's birthright. Where did you go wrong?'

  'I've lived in Rome almost all my life. It didn't occur to me to go fishing.'

  'Even with the mighty Tiber roaring through the heart of your city?'

  'The only thing anyone ever caught from the Tiber was a nasty dose of Remus' Revenge.'

  'Ha!' Nisus clapped his huge hands. 'No chance of that here, so come on, let's get going. They'll be feeding at dusk and we might actually catch something.'

  After only a brief hesitation Cato nodded, closed the lid of the chest and slipped the bolt back in the catch. Then the pair of them made their way towards the gate in the east wall.

  Macro lifted his tent flap back to watch them and smiled. He had been deeply worried about the lad's dark mood over the past few days. More than once he had looked in on Cato and seen the blank eyes and faintly shifting frown that spoke of a silent distress he had seen in all too many other legionaries after intense fighting. Most men coped with it soon enough but Cato was not yet a man, and Macro had enough sensitivity to realise that Cato did not have the soul of a soldier. An optio of the crack Second Legion he might be, but underneath the armour and army-issue tunic lived a person of quite a different quality. And that person was suffering and needed to talk about it to someone outside the close-knit world of the Sixth Century.

  Much as he disliked the casual irreverence of Nisus, Macro was aware that the surgeon and Cato shared a similar sensibility, and that the lad might find some comfort in talking to him. He certainly hoped so.

  Chapter Thirty

  'Good,' mumbled Macro as he chewed the fish loaf. 'Bloody good!' He beamed happily at the Carthaginian beside him. They were sitting outside his tent. A dying fire glowed amid grey ashes and still cast its warmth out, while luring midges and mosquitoes to their doom. Any doubts Cato might have had about Nisus' recipe for the trout had been quelled, and now he helped himself to another fish loaf in the warm basket Nisus had brought along to the tent.

  The fishing trip had been a new experience and Cato had enjoyed it more than he'd thought he might. It was strange to sit and watch the sunlight shimmer across the stream, to surrender to the pleasant music of nature. The rustle of the leaves in the soft breeze had mingled with the lapping of the water – and the strain of every moment spent on this campaign had begun to lift. Cato's admiration of Nisus had increased as the Carthaginian had combined skilful fishing with occasional bouts of softly spoken conversation.

  'An African delicacy,' explained Nisus. 'I learned it from our cook when I was a child. Almost any fish will do. The secret is in the choice of herbs and spices.'

  'And where would you keep those on campaign?' asked Macro. 'With the medical supplies. Most of the ingredients can be used in a variety of poultices.'

  'How convenient.'

  'Yes, isn't it?'

  Cato watched the Carthaginian as he ate from his mess tin. There seemed a good deal of pride in his heritage, yet he served in the ranks of the army that had laid that heritage low. It was interesting, he reflected, how people adapted. He set his mess tin down beside him.

  'Nisus,' he said, 'how does it feel to be a Carthaginian serving with the Roman army, given our mutual history.'

  Nisus stopped chewing for a moment. 'Someone else asked me the same question just a few days ago. How does it feel? Most of the time I'm too busy to think about it. After all, it's far in the past. Doesn't seem to have a lot to do with me. Anyway, we're part of the empire now, and that's the world I live in. Take the Roman army. Not really a Roman army as such any more. Look how many races serve with the eagles now. Gauls, Spaniards, Illyrians, Syrians and even some Germans. Then there's the auxiliaries. Nearly every race in the empire is represented in their ranks. We've all got a vested interest in Rome. And yet there are times when I wonder… ' Nisus' voice trailed off for a moment and he gazed into the glowing embers. 'I wonder whether we've surrendered rather too much of ourselves to Rome.'

  'How do you mean?' asked Macro between munches.

  'I'm not really sure. It's just that everywhere you travel in the empire, and even beyond it, there's Roman architecture, Roman soldiers and administrators, Roman plays in new Roman theatres, Roman histories and poetry in the libraries, Roman clothing in the streets, Roman words in the mouths of people who will never see Rome.'

  'So what?' Macro shrugged. 'Is there anything better than Rome?'

  'I don't know,' Nisus responded honestly. 'Not better perhaps, just different. And it's the differences that count in the long run.'

  'It's differences that lead to war,' suggested Cato.

  'Not usually. More often it's the similarities between our rulers.

  They're all after the same things: domestic political advantage, personal aggrandisement – in short, power, wealth and a niche in history. It's always the same whether you're talking about Julius Caesar, Hannibal, Alexander, Xerxes or any of them. It's men like that who make wars, not the rest of us. We're too busy worrying about the next crop, how to guarantee the town's water supplies, whether our wives are being faithful, whether our children will survive into adulthood. That's what concerns the small people all over the empire. War does not serve our ends. We're forced into it.'

  'Bollocks!' Macro spat out. 'War serves my ends. I chose to join the army, no one made me. If it wasn't for the army I'd still be in a piss-poor little squat helping my father catch fish for a living. A few good campaigns under my belt and have saved enough to retire in style. Same goes for Cato.' He glared at Nisus a moment; then, satisfied that he'd made his point, he went back to devouring his fish loaf.

  Cato nodded once, with embarrassment, and tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground. 'But surely Rome's wars are justified in terms of what follows. Just think about how Gaul has been changed by being part of the empire. Where there were just loose confederations of warring tribes now we have order. That has to serve the Gauls' interests as much as ours. It's Rome's destiny to extend the bounds of
civilisation.'

  Nisus shook his head sadly. 'That's maybe what most Romans would like to think. But other nations might be brash enough to believe that they were already civilised, albeit by a different standard of civilisation.'

  'Nisus, old lad.' Macro adopted his worldly-wise voice. 'I've seen a great deal of other so-called civilisations in my time, and take it from me, they've nothing to teach us. They better us in nothing. Rome is the best, root and branch, and the sooner they recognise that, as you have, the better.'

  Nisus started, and his widened eyes reflected the glow of the embers for an instant before he cast them down. 'Centurion, I joined the army to gain the rights conferred by Roman citizenship. I did it for pragmatic reasons, not idealistic ones. I don't share your sense of your empire's destiny. In time it will pass, as all empires have passed, and all that will remain will be ruined statues half-buried in deserts that will merely evoke the curiosity of passing travellers.'

  'Rome fall?' Macro scoffed. 'Do be serious! Rome is the greatest in every way. Rome is, well… you tell him, Cato. You have a better way with words than me.'

  Cato glared at his centurion, angry at the awkward situation he had been thrust into. Much as he might believe in most of Macro's claims for Rome, he was well aware of the debt the empire owed to older cultures, and he had no wish to offend his new Carthaginian friend.

  'I think what you're trying to say, sir, is that in a way the Roman empire marks an end to history, in that we represent an amalgam of the best qualities to be found in men, together with the blessings of the most powerful gods. Any war we fight is intended to protect those who enjoy the benefits of empire from the danger of the barbarians outside the empire.'

  'That's right!' Macro said triumphantly. 'That's us! Well done, lad! Couldn't have phrased it better. What d'you say to that, Nisus?'

  'I'd say that your optio is young.' Nisus was struggling to keep the bitterness out of his voice. 'He'll have his own wisdom in time, not second-hand. Maybe he'll learn something from the few Romans who possess real wisdom.'

  'And who might they be?' asked Macro. 'Bloody philosophers, no doubt.'

  'They might be. Then again they might be amongst the men around us. I've talked to some Roman soldiers who share my views,'

  'Oh yes? Who?'

  'Your tribune Vitellius for one.'

  Macro and Cato exchanged a look of astonishment.

  Nisus leaned forward. 'Now there's a man who thinks deeply about issues. He knows the limits of the empire. He knows what the expansion of the empire has cost its people, Roman and non-Roman alike. He knows… ' Nisus paused, aware that he had said more than he should. 'All I meant to say is that he thinks these things through, that's all.'

  'Oh, he thinks things through all right!' Macro replied bitterly. 'And stabs you in the back if you happen to get in his way. The bastard!'

  'Sir,' Cato cut in, anxious to ease the awful tension between them, 'whatever we might think of the tribune, it's best we keep it to ourselves for now.'

  If Nisus had befriended Vitellius, then they must take great care not to say anything that the tribune might be able to use against them, should Nisus repeat their conversation. The treachery over Caesar's pay chest still rankled, and the fact that Vitellius had not been called to account made him a dangerous enemy.

  Macro checked his temper and sat in silence, chewing on a crust, frowning at the dark landscape of endless lines of tents and campfires.

  Nisus waited a moment, then rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his tunic. 'I'll see you around, Cato.'

  'Yes. And thanks for the fish loaves.'

  The Carthaginian nodded, then turned and walked briskly away.

  'If I were you,' Macro said quietly, 'I'd steer well clear of him. The fellow keeps unhealthy company. We shouldn't trust him.'

  Cato looked from his centurion to Nisus' fast receding shadow and then back again. He felt bad about the way Macro had treated the surgeon and ashamed that he had felt compelled to go along with his centurion's facile line of argument. But what was the alternative? And in any case, Nisus was wrong. Especially in his appraisal of Tribune Vitellius.

  Chapter Thirty -One

  As soon as the ramparts had been completed, General Plautius ordered the men to construct a string of forts to guard the approaches to the main camp. At the same time, the engineers started on the pontoon bridge. They drove piles into the river and secured the vessels in position by day, and laid the roadway by night. Working from each bank, the engineers were steadily closing the gap and soon men and supplies would be able to pass freely across the Tamesis. Nisus watched them from a tree stump above the river, his eyes on the shimmering reflection of torches in the dark water. He was frowning as he gazed down on the river, and was so deeply immersed in his thoughts that he did not notice his visitor until the man sat down on a log close by.

  'Well, my Carthaginian friend, you do look gloomy!' Vitellius gave a small laugh. 'What's up?'

  Nisus thrust his dark thoughts aside and forced a smile. 'Nothing, sir. '

  'Come now, I can read a man's body like a book. What's the matter?'

  'Just needed some time alone.'

  'I see,' replied Vitellius and rose from the log. 'Then please excuse me. I thought we might talk, but I can see that you don't want to…'

  Nisus shook his head. 'No need to go. I was just thinking, that's all.'

  'What about?' Vitellius smoothly seated himself again. 'Whatever it was, it seems to have upset you.'

  'Yes.' Nisus said no more and simply stared out across the river once again, leaving the tribune to sit silently at his side.

  Vitellius was shrewd enough to know that the men he wished to manipulate needed to trust him first. And more, he must seem considerate and empathetic to a degree that indicated compassion rather than comradeship. So he waited patiently for Nisus to speak. For a while the surgeon continued to stare at the river in silence. Then he shifted his position and turned his head to the tribune, not quite able to shift the despair from his expression.

  'It's strange, but no matter how many years I've served Rome I still feel, and am made to feel, like an outsider. I can mend the men's wounds, I speak to them in their tongue and I share their suffering in long campaigns. Yet the moment I mention my race or origins, it's as if a sour smell has come between us. I can see them almost recoil physically. You'd think that I was Hannibal himself from the way some of them react. The moment I mention Cartage it seems that nothing has changed in the last three hundred years. But what have I done to cause them to react this way?'

  'Nothing,' replied Vitellius gently. 'Nothing at all. It's just the way we're raised. Hannibal is a name that has passed into our folklore. And now everything Carthaginian is associated with the terrible monster who once came within a whisker of wiping out Rome.'

  'And is that how it will always be?' The aching bitterness in Nisus' voice was clear. 'Isn't it time your people moved on?'

  'Of course it is. But not while there's still some political advantage to be wrung out of old fears. People need someone to hate, to be suspicious of, to blame for the unfairness in their lives. That's where you come in. And by "you" I mean all non-Romans who live cheek by jowl with the citizens. Take Rome. At first it was threatened by Etruscans, then the Celts, then the Carthaginians. All very real threats to our survival which made us stick together. But once we became the most powerful nation on the earth and there were no longer any enemies to make Rome tremble, we found it was still expedient to have someone to fear and hate. Being Roman means thinking you're the best. And being the best only has meaning if there is something less worthy to compare yourself to and pit yourself against.'

  'And you Romans seriously think you are the most superior race in the whole world, I suppose.'

  'Most do, and the truth of that, as they would see it, is more evident with every victory over an enemy, with every piece of land that is added to the empire. It encourages the mob in Rome, and it gives them something t
o be proud of as they eke out their lives in appalling squalor.'

  'And you, Tribune?' Nisus fixed his dark eyes on the tribune. 'What do you believe?'

  'Me?' Vitellius looked down at the dark shape of his boots. 'I believe that Romans are no better or worse than other people. I believe that some of our leaders are cynical enough to realise that there's no political capital to be made out of such a notion. Indeed, they realise that as long as they can focus people's discontent away from their real conditions of existence then the plebs will bump along nicely and cause few problems to their rulers. That's one of the reasons why Rome has so many public holidays and spectacles. Bread, circuses and prejudices: the three legs upon which Rome stands.'

  Nisus regarded him silently for a moment. 'You still haven't told me what you believe in, Tribune:

  'Haven't I'?' Vitellius shrugged. 'Maybe that's because one has to be very discreet about what one believes in these days.' He reached to his side and slipped a small wineskin off his belt, pulled out the stopper and squeezed a jet of liquid into his mouth. 'Ah Now that's good stuff!

  'Thanks.' Nisus reached for the wineskin and tipped his head back and drank. He swallowed, and smacked his lips. 'What is it?'

  'Family wine. From a vineyard my father owns in Campania. l've been drinking it since I was a kid. Nice.'

  'Nice? Lovely!'

  'Maybe. Anyway, I find it helps clarify the world if taken in sufficient quantities. It's strong and a little goes a long way. More?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  They drank in turn, and soon the warm wine worked its way with them, and Nisus slipped into a more content and receptive frame of mind. The wine seemed to have affected the tribune equally. He lifted a knee and cupped it with his hands.