Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER THREE

Britannia, July

‘Dear me, I can see that this one’s had a lot of wear and tear,’ the Syrian tutted as he examined Cato’s cuirass, running his fingers across the dents and rust gathering in the grooves between the muscled design. He turned the cuirass round to look at the backplate. ‘That’s in better shape. As you would expect from one of the Emperor’s most fearless officers. The exploits of Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato are legend.’

Cato exchanged a sardonic glance with his companion, Centurion Macro, before he responded. ‘At least amongst the ranks of armour merchants.’

The Syrian bowed his head modestly and set the cuirass down and turned to face Cato with an apologetic expression. ‘Sadly, sir, I think it would cost more to recondition this armour than it is worth. Of course, I would be pleased to give you a fair price if you were to trade it in against a new set of armour.’

‘A fair price, I bet,’ Macro chipped in from the comfort of his chair where he stretched out his legs in front of him and folded his thick arms. ‘Don’t listen to him, Cato. I’m sure I can get one of the lads down the armourer’s forge to knock it into shape for a fraction of the price this scoundrel will charge for a replacement.’

‘Of course you could, noble Centurion,’ the Syrian responded smoothly. ‘But every knock, as you put it, that is added to this cuirass weakens the whole. It makes the armour brittle in places.’ He turned to Cato with a solicitous look. ‘My dear sir, I could not sleep easily knowing that you had gone to war against the savage warriors of these lands wearing armour that might imperil your life and rob Rome of the services of one of its finest officers.’

Macro gave a cynical guffaw from the other side of Cato’s tent. ‘Don’t let the rascal sweet-talk you, there’s nothing wrong with the armour that a little bit of work won’t put right. Might not look the best on parade but it’s good enough to do its job.’

Cato nodded, but as he looked at the cuirass lying on the table, it was obvious it had seen better days. He had bought it, together with the rest of his armour and weapons, from the stores of the London garrison when they had returned to Britannia earlier in the year. It had been a cheap, hurried purchase and the quartermaster had explained that there had only been one previous, careful owner, a tribune of the Ninth Legion, who had only worn the armour for ceremonial occasions, favouring a mail vest when on duty. It was only when the lacquer and polish had begun to wear away that the lie had been exposed. As Macro had commented, it was more than likely that the cuirass had seen service back in Julius Caesar’s time.

Cato sucked in a deep breath as he came to a decision. ‘What’s it worth?’

A slight smile flickered across the merchant’s lips and he folded his hands together as if considering the prospect. ‘I think it might be best to consider what you would replace the armour with before we agree on a trade-in price, noble sir.’

He turned to the chest his slaves had carried into the prefect’s tent. With a deft flick of his wrists he undid the catches and raised the lid. Inside there were a number of bundles of thick wool. The merchant turned a few flaps back before he selected two and placed them on the table, beside Cato’s cuirass. Then he folded the cloth back to reveal a mail vest and a gleaming fish-scale vest. Stepping aside so that his customer could see the pieces, he waved his hand over his offerings.

‘Sir, I give you the finest armour you can buy anywhere in the empire, and at the most reasonable prices you will find. On that you have the word of Cyrus of Palmyra.’ He touched his heart.

Macro nodded. ‘That’s set my mind at rest, then. Bound to get yourself a fine bargain here, Cato.’

The merchant ignored his customer’s cynical friend and beckoned the prefect towards the table. Cato stared down at the sets of armour for a moment and then reached down and picked up a corner of the mail shirt, feeling its weight.

‘Lighter than you thought, eh?’ The merchant ran his fingers over the metal rings. ‘Most mail armour is made out of cheap iron, but not this. The manufacturer is a cousin of mine, Patolomus of Damascus. You have heard of his work, I am sure.’

‘Who hasn’t?’ Macro asked drily.

‘My cousin has perfected a new metal, with a higher copper content to make it lighter without sacrificing its integrity. Why not try it on and see for yourself, noble Prefect? No obligation to purchase at all.’

Cato traced the tips of his fingers over the armour and then nodded. ‘Why not?’

‘Allow me, sir.’ The Syrian swept up the mail vest and expertly bundled the fall and clenched his fingers round the heavy mass as he held it up. Cato stooped to get his head through the neck opening and then tucked his thumbs in as he eased his hands into the short arms of the vest. The merchant worked the mail down and gave it a final brush with his hand as if to ease out an imaginary crease and then stood back and folded his hands under his thin, pointed beard. ‘Even though it is a humble mail vest it fits you like the finest goatskin glove, sir! Elegant! So elegant.’

Cato turned to a small camp table where he kept his mirror, brushes, strigils and the Samian-ware pot containing the scented oil he used for his ablutions. Holding the polished brass mirror out at arm’s length he inspected himself critically. The mail was fringed with a serrated tip pattern and hung well on his slight frame. The metal was of a lighter hue than normal mail and gleamed dully in the daylight streaming in through the tent flaps.

‘Comfortable, is it not?’ the Syrian purred. ‘You could march in that all day and fight a battle at the end of it and be only half as tired as you would be wearing your old cuirass. And it does not hamper your movements as much. A warrior needs to flow in his movements, no? This armour will give you the freedom of an Achilles, noble sir.’

Cato twisted on his hips and tried a few movements with his arms. It was true that the mail felt a little less cumbersome than mail vests he had worn in the past. He turned to his friend. ‘What do you think?’

Macro cocked his head slightly to the side and looked Cato up and down. ‘It looks like a good fit, my lad, but what matters is how good it is at keeping out the weapons of your enemies. Mail is good enough for the slash of a sword, even though a decent blow will break the bones beneath. The real danger is from the point. A decent javelin or arrowhead will pierce mail easily enough.’

‘Not this vest,’ the merchant intervened, and pinched a fold of the mail. ‘If I may explain, sir? See here, the links are riveted. That gives added strength and will keep the barbarous points of your enemy at bay. Your learned companion, the formidable Centurion Macro, will surely know that a riveted vest is far, far better than those whose rings are merely butted up, or overlapped. Moreover, as you can see, the rings are smaller, making it harder still to pierce this superb example of my cousin’s fine workmanship.’

Cato tilted his head to look at the mail on his shoulder. It was as the merchant said: each ring sealed with a tiny rivet, a time-consuming process that meant that it took far longer to produce this vest than those worn by the majority of soldiers in the legions and auxiliary units. That would be reflected in the cost of it, he reflected as he chewed his lip. He had recently received his first pay since landing in Britannia nearly four months before. It had been six months since he had officially been appointed to the rank of prefect, with an annual wage of twenty thousand denarii. He had drawn five thousand in advance to cover the modest wedding feast following his marriage to Julia, and to pay for his kit and travel to take up his command. The dowry paid by her father, Senator Sempronius, had been left with Julia so that she could buy them a small house in Rome, furnish and staff it and have enough on deposit to live off the interest until Cato returned, or sent for her. Meanwhile he had received the second quarterly payment of his salary and could afford to buy some new kit.

Not having the benefit of coming from a wealthy family, like many men of his rank in the army, Cato was growing conscious of the simpleness of his small wardrobe and his armour. He was not unaware of the haughty glances cast at him by some of the other officers every time General Ostorius summoned his subordinates to the daily briefings at his command tent. Despite his fine military record, there had been no mistaking the disdain in the voices of those who placed more value on aristocratic lineage than raw ability and proven achievements. Even the general himself had made little secret of his disapproval of the youngest auxiliary cohort commander in his army.

That, Cato was certain, lay behind the general’s decision to put him in charge of guarding the army’s baggage train. The baggage escort comprised the survivors of the garrison of the fort at Bruccium, a wing of Thracian cavalry, brigaded with Macro’s cohort of legionaries from the Fourteenth Legion. Both units had suffered heavy losses during the siege of the fort and there was little chance of being assigned to other duties before the end of the campaign season when the army went into winter quarters. Until then, Cato, Macro and their men would trudge along with the carts, wagons and the camp followers towards the end of General Ostorius’s column which was wending its way into the heart of the mountainous lands of the Silurian tribe.

They were pursuing the enemy commander, Caratacus, and his army comprised of Silurian and Ordovician warriors, together with small bands of fighters from other tribes who had chosen to continue fighting the Romans. It was the general’s intention to run Caratacus to ground and force him to give battle. When that happened, the natives would be no match for the professionals of the Roman army. The enemy would be crushed, their leader killed or captured, and the new province of Britannia could finally be regarded as pacified, nearly nine years after Claudius’s legions had first landed on the island.

‘Well, noble sir?’ The Syrian merchant broke into his thoughts. ‘Is the mail to your liking?’

‘It fits well enough,’ Cato conceded. ‘What does it cost?’

‘I would normally ask no less than three thousand sestertians for such a piece of equipment, sir. But, in view of your fame, and the honour you do me in serving you, I would accept two thousand, eight hundred.’

That was far more than Cato had expected. Over three years’ pay for a legionary. However, his existing armour was no longer suitable for battle and there were only a handful of armour dealers amongst the camp followers, and with little competition they were bound to charge a premium.

Macro choked. ‘Two thousand eight hundred? Fuck off!’

The merchant raised his hands placatingly. ‘It is the finest mail armour in the province, sir. Worth twice the modest price I am asking.’

Macro turned to his friend. ‘Don’t listen to the greedy little bastard. The mail’s not worth half that.’

Cato cleared his throat. ‘I’ll deal with it, if you don’t mind, Centurion.’

Macro opened his mouth to protest before his ingrained sense of discipline took control of him and he nodded curtly. ‘As you wish, sir.’

Cato eased the chain mail back over his head, with the help of the merchant, and set it down beside the scale armour. ‘What about that?’

‘Ah, your discerning eye has no doubt observed that this, too, is the work of my cousin.’ Cyrus hefted the scale armour and held it up for his customer to see as he continued. ‘For the same modest price as the mail, this will give you even better protection, sir, with the added lustre of the impression you will create on the battlefield as your foes are dazzled by the gleam of your silvered magnificence.’ The light gleamed off the polished scales which reminded Cato of the skin of a freshly caught fish. He could well imagine himself in battle, standing out amid the throng, where his men could see him clearly. Therein lay the problem, since he would stand out equally well to any enemy determined to strike down a Roman officer. All the same, Cato mused, it would give him a certain dash when he put in his appearance amongst the ranks of the senior officers.

‘Ahem.’ Macro cleared his throat. ‘Could you use some advice, sir?’

Cato tore his eyes from the scale vest. ‘Well?’

Macro stepped towards the merchant who was still holding the scale vest up to the sunlight to show it to best advantage. Lifting the hem, Macro tapped a finger on the thick leather jerkin to which the scales had been sewn. ‘There’s your problem. A scale vest is a good piece of kit in a dry climate. As our Syrian friend says, it offers better protection, but what happens when it rains, eh? This leather will soak up the water and add as much again to the weight of the vest. You’ll be clapped out before you know it.’

‘But summer is on us,’ said Cato.

‘And that means it won’t rain, I suppose.’ Macro shook his head. ‘You know what the weather’s like on this bloody island. It’s wetter than the cunny of a Suburan whore at the games.’

Cato smiled. ‘Sounds like you’ve been reading Ovidius again.’

Macro shook his head. ‘No need for the theory when you know the practice. Same as anything in life.’

‘Spoken like a soldier.’

Macro bowed his head. ‘I thank you.’

Cato turned his attention back to the scale armour. He was very tempted to buy it, largely because it would give him a distinguished appearance in the eyes of those officers who scorned him. And yet that might be the cause of even more disdain, he feared. His fine new armour would merely give them fresh cause to sneer at the common soldier who had risen so far above his station in life. Reluctantly he gestured towards the mail.

‘I’ll have that.’

The merchant smiled and placed the scale shirt back into its blanket and hurriedly returned it to the chest. ‘Two thousand eight hundred then, my dear Prefect.’

‘Two thousand five hundred.’

Cyrus looked pained and his dark brows knitted together in a brief frown. ‘Come, sir, you jest with me. I am an honest businessman. I have a family to feed and a reputation to uphold. There is no armour you could buy for that price that would match the quality of my cousin’s work. Sir, think on it. If I accepted such a price, it would only be because I knew that all the claims that I have made for its quality were not true. And you would know it too, my dear sir. The fact that I would not sell it for less than, say, two thousand seven hundred, is eloquent proof of my belief in the highest standards of my wares.’

Cato fixed his features into an implacable expression as he responded. ‘Two thousand six hundred.’

The Syrian sighed. ‘My heart grows heavy that you should treat me so. .’ He paused as if in an agony of indecision, then continued in a long-suffering tone. ‘However, I would not see you go into battle poorly protected, honoured Prefect. For that reason alone, I would accept two thousand six hundred and seventy-five.’

‘Two thousand six hundred and fifty, and not a sestertian more.’

The merchant smiled. ‘We have a deal. For that price, and your old breastplate, which has no value, as we have already decided.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Just the coin. And I’ll want a mail shoulder cape and fastenings as well.’

Cyrus paused and held out his hand. ‘You strike a hard bargain, Prefect. You have the advantage of me. But I will accept your offer.’

Cato took his hand and there was the briefest pressure of flesh on flesh before the merchant withdrew and bent over the chest to fish out a small mail cape whose rings were made of cheaper iron, but still riveted, Cato noticed with relief. He considered whether it was worth insisting on having the cape match the mail of the vest, but then decided not to. He was never comfortable when haggling over a purchase and was now keen to conclude his business with the merchant.

He crossed the tent to the iron-bound chest beneath his camp bed and took the key from round his neck and unlocked it. He had been paid in a mixture of gold, silver and bronze coins and counted out the payment into a leather pouch. In the meantime the merchant called for his slaves to come and remove his trading chest from the tent. Having checked the coins and totalled their value, the merchant bowed deeply and backed out of the tent flaps.

‘An esteemed honour to have done business with you, sir. Should any of your brother officers be in need of armour, be sure to inform them of Cyrus of Palmyra, proud purveyor of the finest protection to the heroes of the empire. The gods save you.’

With a last bow he disappeared and Macro puffed out his cheeks as he stared down at the mail vest.

‘Hope it’s worth it.’

‘Time will tell.’ Cato drew a breath and called out, ‘Thraxis! In here!’

A moment later a short, broad-shouldered auxiliary trooper hurried into the tent and saluted. Though he had joined a Thracian unit, Cato’s new manservant was from Macedonia and had the dark features and narrow eyes of his race. Cato had picked him out to replace his previous servant who had died in the fort at Bruccium. Despite his lack of experience as a servant, the man had a clean record and his decurion vouched for his honesty and his command of Latin. He would do for the present, Cato decided, but once the campaign season was over he intended to buy himself a good-quality slave from the market in Londinium to take on the necessary duties and allow Thraxis to return to his squadron.

Cato pointed to his breastplate. ‘I’ll be saving that for ceremonial use only. Get down to the camp-followers’ market and find some lacquer. I want it cleaned up, painted and polished so that it gleams like new.’

‘Yes, Prefect.’

‘And while you’re there, is there anything we need for my personal stores?’

Thraxis lowered his gaze and thought briefly. ‘Wine and cheese, Prefect. The stock is running low.’ He flashed a glance in Macro’s direction. ‘Due to recent consumption.’

‘Is there enough coin in my mess kitty?’ asked Cato.

‘Yes, Prefect. Though it will require fresh funds by the end of the month.’

‘Very well, see if you can buy some decent wine this time. The last two jars tasted like piss.’

‘Really?’ Macro looked up. ‘I didn’t notice.’

Cato sighed, and continued addressing his servant. ‘Good wine, understand?’

‘Yes, Prefect. A wine merchant joined the camp yesterday. He has fresh stock. I’ll try him.’

‘You do that. Dismissed.’

His servant bowed smartly and left the tent. Macro waited until he was out of earshot and then scratched his cheek. ‘Not sure what to make of that one.’

‘Thraxis? He’s working out well. Good soldier too.’

‘That’s just it. Don’t sound like no auxiliary soldier to me. More like one of those smart-arsed Greeks.’

‘I think you’re referring to philosophers.’

Macro shrugged. ‘I think my description does ’em more justice. Anyway, you know what I mean.’

Cato sighed. ‘It takes all kinds, Macro.’

‘Not in the army, lad. Our business is killing people. It’s not a talking shop. And speaking of talking. .’ Macro fished into his haversack and brought out a large waxed tablet. He opened it and glanced over the notes he had scratched into the waxed surface before he automatically adjusted his composure to a more businesslike manner. His voice altered subtly, Cato noted. Gone was the easy tone of a comrade as Macro became the senior centurion of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion.

‘Daily report for yesterday, sir. Strength returns. First Century: sixty-two fit, eight sick, one detached to headquarters duty.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Interrogation, sir. Legionary Pullonius’s skills are required for questioning the latest batch of prisoners.’

‘Very well. Carry on.’

Macro glanced at his notes again. ‘Second Century: fifty-eight fit, ten sick. Surgeon says he doesn’t think one of them will live out the day.’

Cato nodded as he did some quick mental arithmetic. Macro’s cohort had suffered heavy losses at the fort and rather than field six sparsely manned centuries, Cato had ordered that the survivors be formed into two units with a more acceptable level of manpower so that they could operate as effective tactical units. The same was true of his own cohort, the Second Thracian Cavalry. There were just enough troopers left to fill the saddles of three squadrons, barely ninety men in all. So his command, the escort of the baggage train and camp followers, amounted to two hundred and ten men. If Caratacus managed to slip a raiding force in between General Ostorius’s main column and the rearguard they could play havoc before a sufficient force could be marshalled to drive them off again. And if that calamity did come about, it was certain that the general would hold Cato to account, despite the lack of men available to him. Such were the iniquities of an officer’s life, Cato reflected with weary bitterness.

‘What else?’

‘The grain supplies are running low. Four days of full ration left. Also the armourer has complained about the leather he’s been having to use for repairs to the men’s segmented armour.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Damp’s got to it. Most of our stock is useless. Replacement straps keep breaking.’

‘Then have him draw more from stores.’

Macro clicked his tongue. ‘That’s just it. He can’t draw them from the Fourteenth’s stores because the quartermaster refuses to let him.’

Cato closed his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Because he reckons my cohort is on detached duty, in which case we are to draw on the escort column’s stores.’

‘But we don’t have any leather.’

‘That’s not his problem, he says.’

Cato hissed and opened his eyes. ‘You spoke to him then?’

‘Oh, yes. Nothing doing. He suggested I take it up with my commanding officer, and so here I am.’

‘Thanks.’

Macro grinned. ‘Goes with the rank, sir.’

‘I’ll see what can be done about it at headquarters, after the general’s briefing is over.’ Cato folded his arms. ‘Is that all?’

‘For now, sir.’

‘Then we’re done. Thank you, Centurion.’

Macro saluted and left the tent, leaving Cato to give vent to his frustrations. He raised his eyes and briefly prayed to Jupiter, best and greatest, that he would not be burdened with escorting the baggage train for much longer. It was bad enough that his two units were woefully under-strength, low on supplies and their needs were largely ignored. What was worse was the nature of the duty itself, constantly having to cajole and bully the contracted mule drivers to get the supply wagons moving, herding the merchants, wine sellers, prostitutes and slave dealers along in the wake of the main body of the army. Frequently having to resolve disputes between them and cracking a few heads together whenever any arguments broke out that threatened to stop their advance along the muddy track churned up the boots of the legionaries marching at the head of the column.

Cato stepped out of the tent and surveyed the scene before him. Dusk was closing in over the Silurian mountains, painting the sky with a faint lilac hue. The army had halted during the afternoon to make camp and now that the last defences had been prepared, it was settling down for the night. Due to the narrowness of the valley floor the soldiers had been obliged to construct a long thin rampart rather than the usual regular rectangle. As a result, the baggage train and the haphazard sprawl of tents and shelters of the camp followers stretched out on either side, beyond the regular lines of the tents belonging to the men of the escort detachment. The horses of the Thracians were contentedly chewing on their evening feed in a roped-off enclosure.

To his right, two hundred paces away, were more ordered lines of tents where the two cohorts of the rearguard were camped. A similar distance to the left were the long rows of tents belonging to the main body of the army, as neatly ordered as the ground allowed, and arranged about their commanding officer’s tent. The largest tent that Cato could see was on a small rise, over half a mile away: the headquarters of General Ostorius. Scores of fires had been lit, and the glow of the flames pricked out of the gathering veil of darkness. Looking up, beyond the staked parapet running along the rampart, Cato could see small parties of horsemen from another cavalry unit on the slopes surrounding the camp, some starkly outlined against the fading glow of the setting sun. And beyond them, out there in the wilderness of these mountains, lay the army of Caratacus that the Romans were pursuing — for the moment anyway, Cato thought. He had fought the Catuvellaunian king before and had learned to respect him. Caratacus might yet spring a surprise on them. Cato smiled grimly. In fact, it would be a surprise if he didn’t.

The thin brassy notes of a cornu cut through the hubbub of shouted orders, muted conversation and braying. Cato listened attentively and recognised the signal summoning unit commanders to headquarters. He turned back into his tent and pulled on and laced up a leather jerkin with its protective strips that covered his shoulders and dropped from his waist to his thighs. He slung his sword strap over his shoulder and snatched up his woollen cape. It would be dark by the time he returned to his tent and he knew these valleys well enough to know how cold they became at night, even in what passed for a summer in Britannia. Stepping out of his tent, Cato fastened the pin at his shoulder and adjusted his cloak as he waited for Macro to stride up from his tent line. Then the two of them set off through the camp towards headquarters.