The Eagles Conquest

'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.

'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 cu

Nisus was hurt by the accusation, as ViteIIius 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 tell you what I believe.' He paused to look round carefully. Aside from the restless toil of the engineers. only a handful of men roved 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 glimmering 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 terracotta 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.'

Cato nodded. Sleeping on sentry duty, like so many other active-service offences, carried the death penalty. The execution had to be performed by the comrades of the guilty man.

'Right then, if anyone needs me I'll be in the centurion's mess tent.' Cato watched him disappear into the gloom with a sprightly step, The centurions had managed to wangle a number of wine amphorae out of one of the transport ship captains. The consignment had been intended for a tribune of the Fourteenth, but the man had drowned one night when he had decided to go for a swim after far too much Falernian, and his new supply was snapped up before the slow-witted captain thought to return the cargo to its sender. Long before the Gaulish wine merchant received word that his customer was well past paying the bill, the wine would have been guzzled.

Left on his own, Cato hurried through the day's administration without any interruption and tidied the scrolls away. This was his chance for some peace and quiet. Much as he admired and liked his centurion, Macro was a