Scarrow Simon - Brothers in Blood

‘So now we know.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’ his son asked quietly. ‘We have to warn General Ostorius.’

‘I think not. Better he is not aware of it. The matter needs to be dealt with quietly. We need to send our own man after Pallas’s agent. Track him down and put an end to his scheme. At the same time he can get a warning to Cato and Macro.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I rather think they will be unhappy to receive any news from me, but it’s only fair to warn them. Besides, I may have some need of their services again at some point. We shall see.’

Septimus shrugged, then asked, ‘Who will you send?’

Narcissus turned to him and looked his agent up and down. ‘I suggest you buy some warm clothes, my boy. From what I hear, the climate in Britannia is inclement at the best of times.’

‘Me? You can’t be serious.’

‘Who else can I trust?’ Narcissus spoke in an urgent undertone. ‘I’m hanging on to my position at the Emperor’s side by my fingernails. I’m no fool, my son. I know that some of my agents have already gone over to Pallas, and others are thinking about it. You are the best of my men, and the only one I can fully trust, if only because you are my son. It has to be you. If I could send someone else, I would, believe me. Do you understand?’

He stared intently into Septimus’s eyes, almost pleading, and the young man nodded reluctantly.

‘Yes, Father.’

Narcissus squeezed his shoulder affectionately. ‘Good. Now I have to return to the palace. The Emperor will expect to see me at dinner. You take charge here. Get this place cleaned up and pay Ancus off.’

Septimus jerked his thumb towards the table. ‘What about him?’

Narcissus glanced at the mangled agent of his enemy. ‘He’s no further use to us. Nor anyone else. Cut his throat, make his face unrecognisable and dump the body in the Tiber. It’s likely that Pallas is already aware that he has gone missing. I’d rather Musa disappeared. That should discomfort that preening bastard, Pallas. See to it.’

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.’