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.