Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (27 page)

In the shade of the awning at the front of the centurion’s tent, Cato sat quietly, finger moving from item to item, mentally adding up the debts and subtracting the totals from the figures in the savings column. Many of the dead men had left behind more debts than savings, reflecting the fact that they were recent recruits, who were always less likely to survive than seasoned veterans. Most of the names meant little, but some leapt from the page and brought a wave of sadness: Pyrax, the easygoing veteran who had showed Cato the ropes when he had arrived in barracks; Harmon, the bovine brick shithouse who entertained his comrades with farmyard impersonations and ear-splitting farts on demand (perhaps that last was no great loss to civilisation, Cato decided on reflection). They were all men like himself, once living, breathing, laughing human beings with their complement of virtues and faults. Men he had marched alongside for the past months, men who knew each other better than most men know their own families. Now they were dead, their rich experiences of life reduced to a line of figures on a financial record scroll and the few personal belongings that made up their bequest.

Cato’s stylus wavered above a waxed tablet, trembling in his uncertain fingers. He remembered that he had been told that death would be his constant companion throughout his career in the army. He had thought he understood the implications well enough, but now he knew that there was a wide gulf between fine concepts expressed in neat phrases, and the sordid reality of war.

In the days while he was recovering he had found that normal sleep did not come easily. He would be lying inside his section tent, eyes closed but mind working feverishly as terrible images of slaughter leapt unbidden before his mind’s eye. Even when he was awake the same images forced themselves upon him relentlessly, until he began to doubt his sanity. As nervous exhaustion seeped in he began to hear sounds from the fringes of his waking world: a muffled clash of weapons, Pyrax shrieking out his name or Macro bellowing at him to run for his life.

Cato needed someone to talk to, but he could not unburden himself to Macro. The cheerful insensitivity and bluffness that made him so admirable both in everyday life and in the heat of battle was precisely what made it impossible for Cato to confide in him. He simply could not trust the centurion to understand the torment he was going through. Nor did he want to reveal what he considered to be his weaknesses. The very prospect of having Macro offer him pity or, worse, contempt, filled him with self-loathing.

The most nightmarish image from the grinding sequence of battles recurred when he eventually fell asleep. He would dream he was being held under water by the British warrior once again. Only this time the water was blood, and the thick salty redness of it filled his lungs and choked him. And the warrior did not die, but looked through the red river, face horribly mutilated by a savage wound yet fixed in a terrible grin as his hands held Cato down, far beneath the surface.

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,’