The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘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 I’ll 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 bout 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 Carthage 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 to 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! Want some?’

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

  ‘A family wine. From a vineyard my father owns in Campania. I’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.

  ‘We live in a strange age, Nisus.’ Vitellius carefully slurred his words. ‘We have to be careful about what we say and who we say it to. You asked me what I believed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’ Vitellius turned and smiled at him. ‘Can I afford to trust you, my Carthaginian friend? Can I assume you are what you purport to be, and not some cunning spy of the Emperor?’

  Nisus was hurt by the accusation, as Vitellius had hoped he would be.

  ‘Sir, we haven’t known each other long,’ the wine caused him to stumble over the words, ‘but I think, I’m sure, we can trust each other. At least, I trust you.’

  Vitellius smiled faintly and clapped the Carthaginian on the shoulder.

  ‘And I trust you. Really I do. And I’ll tell you what I believe.’ He paused to look round carefully. Aside from the restless toil of the engineers, only a handful of men moved among the ranked tents. Satisfied that they would not be overheard, Vitellius leaned closer.

  ‘What I believe is this. That the rightful destiny of Rome has been perverted by the Caesars and their cronies. The Emperor’s only concern has been to keep the mob happy. Nothing else matters. Remove Claudius and the mob won’t need to be quite so spoiled all the time. And that means the burden can be lifted from the rest of the empire. Then maybe we can look forward to an empire based on partnership between civilised nations rather than one based on fear and oppression. Who knows, even Carthage might return to her rightful position in such an empire . . .’

  Vitellius saw the effect his words were having on Nisus. His face was now fixed with an expression of idealistic zeal. Vitellius had to stop himself smiling. It amused him immensely that men were so easily suborned to idealistic causes. Provide them with a sufficiently attractive set of ideals to flatter themselves with, and you could command them to do anything for the sake of the cause. Find a man who craved significance and the admiration of others, and you found a fanatic. Such men were fools, Vitellius told himself. Worse than fools. They were dangerous to other people, but more importantly, they were dangerous to themselves. Ideals were figments of deluded imaginations. Vitellius believed he saw the Roman world as it truly was – the means by which those with sufficient guile to bend it to their will could achieve their ends, nothing more. People too stupid to see this were merely tools waiting to be used by better men.

  Or women, he reflected, as he recalled the skill with which Flavia had made her play against the Emperor, behind the back of her husband. She and her friends might have succeeded, but for the brutal methods of Narcissus and his imperial agents, like Vitellius himself. Vitellius recalled the man who had had to be virtually beaten to death before he yielded her name. He had been executed immediately afterwards, and now the only person other than himself who knew of Flavia’s complicity was Vespasian.

  ‘Carthage reborn,’ Nisus mused softly. ‘I’ve only dared dream of that.’

  ‘But first we must remove Claudius,’ Vitellius said quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ Nisus whispered. ‘But how?’

  Vitellius stared at him, as if considering how far he would go down this line. He took another mouthful of wine before continuing in a voice scarcely louder than the surgeon’s, ‘There is a way. And you can help me. I need to get a message through to Caratacus. Will you do it?’

  The moment of decision had arrived and Nisus lowered his head into his hands and tried to think. The wine helped to simplify the process, if only because it stopped any cold, logical thinking interfering with his emotions and dreams. With very little effort it was clear to him that Rome would never accept him into her bosom. That Carthage would always be treated with harsh contempt. That the iniquities of the empire would last for ever – unless Claudius was removed. The truth was clear and uncomfortable. Drunk as he was, the prospect of what he must do filled his heart with cold terror.

  ‘Yes, Tribune. I’ll do it.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  _______________

  ‘Where’s your Carthaginian friend?’ asked Macro. He was sitting with his feet up on his desk, admiring the view from his tent down to the river. The evening meal was finished and tiny insects swirled in the glimmeri
ng light. Macro slapped at his thigh and smiled as his lifted hand revealed a tiny red stain and the mangled smear of mosquito. ‘Ha!’

  ‘Nisus?’ Cato looked up from the letter he was writing at his camp desk, pen poised above the grey terra nigra pot of ink. ‘Haven’t seen him for days, sir.’

  ‘Good riddance, I say. Trust me, lad. His kind are best avoided.’

  ‘His kind?’

  ‘You know, Carthaginians, Phoenicians and all those other shifty trading nations. Can’t be trusted. Always looking for an angle.’

  ‘Nisus seemed honest enough, sir.’

  ‘Rubbish. He was after something. They all are. When he realised you had nothing he wanted, off he went.’

  ‘I rather think he went off, as you put it, due to the nature of the conversation we had that night he cooked us a meal, sir.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ Macro shrugged, hand poised over another irritating insect weaving dangerously close to his arm. He slapped, missed, and the mosquito whirled away with a high-pitched whine. ‘Bastard!’

  ‘That’s a bit strong, sir.’

  ‘I was talking to a bug, not about your mate,’ Macro replied testily, ‘though one’s as much of a nuisance as the other.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do, and now I think I need a little refreshment!’ He rose to his feet and arched his back, hands on hips. ‘We all sorted for the night?’

  It was the century’s turn for watch duty on the east wall; the recent battle losses meant that each watch had to stand for nearly twice the normal length of time. It was unfair but, as Cato had come to learn, fairness was not at the forefront of the military mind.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve sent the rota up to headquarters and I’ll make the rounds myself just to make sure.’

  ‘Good, I don’t want any of our lads trying to sneak a quick kip. We’re low enough on numbers already, thanks to the locals. Can’t afford to make matters worse by having any of them stoned to death.’