Scarrow Simon - Brothers in Blood

‘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.’