'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 annoyingly sociable and insisted on conversation at the most inconvenient moments. So much so that Cato often found himself grinding his teeth in frustration while Macro prattled on in his soldierly manner.
Cato was painfully aware of how difficult it was for him to make small talk with his military comrades, even now after several months in the army. The easy masculine jocularity of the legionaries irritated him terribly. Crude, obvious and embarrassing, it was second nature to them, but he found it difficult to join in, not least because he feared that any attempt he made at the appropriate argot would be seen through in an instant. There was nothing worse, he reflected, than being caught out in a patronising attempt at slumming it with the common soldiery.
Cato occasionally tried to steer his conversation with Macro round to more stimulating matters. But the blank and sometimes annoyed expression that greeted his efforts quickly stilled his tongue. What Macro might lack in sophistication he made up for with generosity of spirit, courage, honesty and moral integrity, but right now Cato just wanted someone to talk to – someone like Nisus. He had enjoyed their fishing expedition, and had hoped to cultivate a real friendship with the Carthaginian. The surgeon's quiet sensitivity was a balm to the raw emotions grating inside him. But Nisus had been driven away by the blunt hostility of Macro. Worse, he seemed to be falling under the spell of Tribune Vitellius. So who could he unburden his feelings to now?
Cato wondered if the answer was to keep a diary and commit his troubles to paper. Better still, he would write to Lavinia and make the most of the tortured poet-philosopher role he had been using to impress her. As real as the traumatic experiences of battle had been for him, he was also analytical and intelligent enough to see them as being in some way instructive. They would confer on him a sense of enigmatic world-weariness that was sure to impress Lavinia.
Carefully spreading out a blank scroll with his forearm, Cato dipped his pen into the inkpot, wiped off the excess ink and placed the tip on the plain surface of the scroll. There was light enough to write by for a while yet before he would have to resort to the dull glow of the oil lamp, and he took time to order his thoughts carefully. The pen made contact with the scroll, and neatly scratched out the formal greeting:
The pen paused interminably as Cato faced the familiar challenge of the first sentence. He frowned with the effort of producing an opening line that would be impressive without being unnecessarily florid. A nip sentence would put Lavinia in the wrong frame of mind for what would follow. Conversely, an overly serious tone at the outset might be off-putting. He slapped the side of his head.
'Come on! Think!'
He glanced up to make sure he hadn't been overheard, and coloured as he met the twinkling eye of a passing legionary. Cato nodded back and smiled self-consciously before he charged the pen with ink and wrote the first sentence.
My darling, scarcely a spare moment goes by when I do not think of you.
Not bad, he reflected, and true in word, if not wholly in spirit. In the few moments when his life was not busy with some duty or other, he did indeed think of Lavinia. Especially that one time they had made love in Gesoriacum shortly before she had left for Rome with her mistress, Flavia.