The Eagles Conquest

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 fu

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 Ha

'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 Ha

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

The Eagles Conquest