If the coming battle ended in another defeat for the Britons, then the assassination could be attempted at the subsequent surrender of the tribes taken by the Emperor in person. Caratacus had managed to persuade one of his followers to accept the suicidal duty of wielding the blade. It only remained for Vitellius to see to it that the man was provided with a knife after being searched prior to his presentation to the Emperor. But without the message Nisus had been carrying, Vitellius would not know the identity of the assassin. Without that knowledge, there could be no attempt on the Emperor's life.
Whether the assassination of Claudius succeeded or not, the blame would be attached to the Liberators. It might well be a British knife that plunged into the Emperor's heart but those investigating the plot would be sure to find some way of implicating the Liberators, particularly if they were encouraged to do so.
Vitellius suddenly sat upright on his camp bed, angry with himself.
There was no point in thinking about the pleasures the future had to offer when at any moment his complicity in the plot could be revealed by Nisus. Equally, there was little he could do about it until Nisus, or news of Nisus, was brought into the main camp. Then he could justify his attendance on the man by acting the concerned friend. In the meantime, he admonished himself, he must be calm. He must not give the appearance of being fretful lest anyone who saw him remembered it when giving evidence to any investigation that might take place if the worst happened. Better to think about something more pleasing.
It was then that he recalled having seen Flavia amongst the imperial entourage. Behind Vespasian's wife had stood that terribly attractive slave girl he had once had a fling with when the Second had been stationed in Germania. Even that lecherous old dotard Claudius had noticed her. As he recalled her features, Vitellius smiled at the prospect of renewing their relationship.
Chapter Forty-Three
'Get him under the lamps!' the senior surgeon shouted as two legionaries carried the stretcher into the treatment tent. 'Take care, you fools!'
Cato walked beside them, pressing a blood-drenched rag to the wound. The senior surgeon, dark skinned like Nisus, helped them ease the stretcher up onto the wooden top of the examination table and then,'Jckened off the cord that lowered the pulley lamps. By their dim light, he removed the compress to inspect the javelin's entry point, but the entire front and sides of the torso were covered in a sticky red slick. The surgeon grabbed a sponge from a highly polished copper bowl and dabbed the blood away. He uncovered a dark hole the diameter of a man's finger which instantly welled up with blood. He clapped the compress back on.
Where did you find him?'
'He was trying to get through our picket lines,' Cato replied. 'One of my men stopped him.'
'I'll say.' The senior surgeon lifted the compress again to examine the wound, and grimaced at the unstaunched flow of blood.
Nisus' head came up as he suddenly screamed, then dropped back with a jarring thud on the examination table, muttering and moaning. 'We must stop the bleeding. It looks like he's lost too much already.' The senior surgeon looked up. 'How long ago did you say you found him?'
Cato calculated from the watch signals. 'Half an hour.' 'And he's been bleeding like this all the time?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then he's had it. Nothing I can do.'
'There must be something, sir,' Cato said desperately. 'Friend of yours?'
Cato paused a moment before he nodded.
'Well, Optio, I'm really sorry about your friend Nisus, but there really is nothing we can do for him. This kind of injury is always fatal.' Nisus was trembling now, and his moaning had a keening note. His eyes flickered and were suddenly wide open, glancing around in a dazed panic before they rested on Cato.
'Cato… ' Nisus reached out a hand.
'Lie still, Nisus,' Cato ordered. 'You need to rest. Lie back.'
'No.' Nisus smiled weakly, then his lips twisted as an agonising spasm glipped him. 'I'm dying. I'm dying, Cato.'
'Nonsense! You won't die!'
'I'm the bloody surgeon' I know what's happening to me!' His eyes blazed fiercely, then clamped tightly shut as the next spasm shot through him. 'Ahhh! It hurts!'
'All right, Nisus.' The senior surgeon patted his shoulder. 'It'll be over quite soon. Want me to make it easier for you?'
'No! No drugs.' He was panting now, in shallow rasping breaths. His hand still grasped Cato's and the powerful grip was almost painful as he struggled to keep a hold on the living world even as death gradually drew him away. With a supreme effort, and driven by what spark of consciousness remained, he seized Cato with his other hand and pulled the optio close to his mouth.
'Tell the tribune, tell him… ' The voice tailed out into a whisper and Cato was not even sure whether he was hearing words or the last wheezing breaths of a dying man. Slowly the Carthaginian's grip slackened, his breathing faded into silence. Nisus' head lolled back and his lifeless eyes gIazed over, mouth hanging slightly open.
For a moment there was silence, then the senior surgeon felt for a pulse. He found nothing.
'That's it. He's gone.'
Cato was still holding Nisus' hand, conscious that it was only lumpen flesh and no spark of life moved within it any more. He felt rage at his powerlessness to save the man's life. There had been so much blood; he had tried to stem the flow but it just kept pumping out.
'Where the hell has he been the last few days'?' asked the senior surgeon.
'I've no idea.'
'What did he say to you at the end?' Cato shook his head. 'I don't know.'
'Did he say anything?' the senior surgeon pressed him. 'Did he say his death rites?'
'Death rites?'
'He's Carthaginian, like me. What did he say, just before he died? He whispered something to you.'
'Yes. But I couldn't make it out… Something about a bell, I think.'
'Then I'll have to do the death rites for him.'
The senior surgeon prised Cato's hand free and gently pushed him away from the body. 'Won't be a moment, but it has to be said, otherwise he'll be forced to linger on the earth, like your Roman lemures.'
The thought of the uneasy spirit of Nisus walking the shadows of the earth filled Cato with horror, and he backed away from the examination table. The senior surgeon pressed his right hand down over the dead man's heart and began quietly chanting an ancient Punic ritual. It was over quickly, and he turned back to Cato. 'You want to give him Roman rites as well?'
Cato shook his head.
'Want to stay with him a moment?'
'Yes.'
The senior surgeon ushered the legionaries out and Cato was alone with Nisus' body. He was not sure how he felt. There was grief at having lost a friend, and bitterness that he should die so wastefully on the point of a Roman javelin. There was anger too. Nisus had betrayed his friendship, firstly by forsaking him in favour of Tribune Vitellius and secondly by deserting – or whatever it was he had been involved with when he had disappeared from the camp. The very last words Nisus had uttered had been for Vitellius, and that galled Cato more than anything else. Whatever had caused Nisus to disappear, Cato suspected it had something to do with Vitellius. The contrasting emotions turned over and over inside him as he stared at the body.