'Bloody foreigners!' Macro sniffed. 'Beat' em in war and they profit from us in peace.'
'Thus it ever was, Centurion. The compensations of being conquered.' Despite the levity of the comments, Cato sensed a bitterness behind the words and was curious. 'Where are you from then?'
'A small town on the African coast. Cartanova. Don't suppose you've ever heard of it.'
'I believe I have. Isn't it home to the library of Archelonides?'
'Why yes.' Nisus' face lit up with pleasure. 'You know it?'
'I know of it. The town's built over some of the foundations of a Carthaginian city, I think.'
'Yes.' Nisus nodded. 'That's right. Over the foundations. You can still see the lines of the old city, and some of the temple complexes and shipyards. But that's it. The city was razed pretty thoroughly at the end of the second patriotic war.'
'The Roman army doesn't do things by halves,' Macro said with a certain amount of pride.
'No, I suppose not.'
'And you trained in medicine there?' asked Cato, trying to steer the discussion onto safer ground.
'Yes. For a few years. There's a limit to what can be learned in a small trading town. So I went east to Damascus and worked in a practice servicing the wide variety of ailments the rich merchants and their wives imagined that they suffered from. Lucrative enough, but dull. I got friendly with a centurion in the garrison. When he was transferred to the Second a few months back, I went with him. Can't say that it hasn't been exciting, but I do miss the Damascus lifestyle.'
'Is it as good as you hear?' Macro asked with the eagerness of all those who believe that paradise must exist somewhere in this life. 'I mean, the women have quite a reputation, don't they?'
'The women?' Vitellius raised his eyebrows. 'Is that all that soldiers think about? There's more to Damascus than its women.'
'Sure there is.' Macro tried to be gracious for a moment. 'But is it true about the women?'
The surgeon sighed. 'The legions who garrisoned the town certainly seemed to think so. You'd think they had never seen a Roman at all before. Bunches of slavering drunks staggering from one brothel to the next. Not so much in pursuance of the Roman peace as in pursuit of a piece for the Romans.'
Nisus gazed into the fire, and Cato saw his mouth fix into a tight, bitter line. Macro was also gazing into the fire, but the lazy flames showed a smile on his face as his mind dwelt upon the exotic pleasures of an eastern posting.
The difference between these two representatives of the ruling and conquered races troubled Cato. What was the value of a world ruled by uncouth womanisers who lorded it over their better educated subject races? Macro and Nisus were not typical examples of course, and the comparison was perhaps unfair, but was it always the case that strength would triumph over intellect? Certainly the Romans had triumphed over the Greeks, for all their science, art and philosophy. Cato had read enough to know how much the Romans had subsequently appropriated from Greek heritage. In truth, the destiny of Rome depended upon her ability to ruthlessly overwhelm other civilisations and subsume them. The thought was very unsettling, and Cato turned to stare down towards the river.
There was no doubting that the Britons were barbarians. Aside from looking the part, the lack of neatly planned towns, metalled roads and regimented crops of agricultural estates spoke clearly of an inferior quality of existence. The Britons, Cato decided, lacked the refinements necessary to be called a civilisation. If the stories brought back from the misty isles by merchants and traders were to be believed, the natives were scratching a living on top of huge deposits of silver and gold. It seemed typical of the capricious nature of the gods that the most primitive of peoples were granted tenure of the most valuable of resources – resources they had little appreciation of, and which could be put to much better use by more advanced races, such as the Romans.
And there was the sinister issue of the Druids. Not much was known of them, and all that Cato had read depicted the cult in lurid and horrific terms. He shuddered at the memory of the grove he and Macro had discovered a few days earlier. The place had felt dark and cold, and filled with menace. If nothing else, the conquest of the misty islands would lead to the destruction of the dark cult of Druidism.
The disgust he suddenly felt for the British caused Cato to pause in this line of thinking. As arguments justifying the expansion of the empire, they seemed plausible and simple. So much so, that Cato could not help being suspicious of them. In his experience, the things in life that were held up as eternal and simple truths were only so because of a deliberate limitation in thought. It occurred to him that everything he had ever read in Latin had presented Roman culture in the best possible terms, and infinitely superior to anything produced by any other race, whether 'civilised' like the Greeks, or 'barbaric' like these Britons. There had to be another side to things.
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.'