Brothers in Blood Read online

  Narcissus drew a deep breath before he pressed on with his interrogation. ‘How does Pallas intend to achieve his aim?’

  ‘He has sent an agent . . . to conspire with Caratacus . . . and a powerful noble of the northern tribes . . . If Caratacus can unite them . . . then our legions cannot win . . . The province must fall.’

  ‘The name of the agent? What is his name? Speak.’

  Musa shook his head and winced. ‘I do not know. Pallas did not say.’

  Narcissus hissed and stood up with an exasperated expression.

  ‘There’s more . . . Something more you should know,’ Musa muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The agent has another purpose . . . To eliminate two of your men.’

  ‘My men?’ Narcissus cocked an eyebrow. ‘I have no agents in Britannia.’

  ‘Pallas thinks otherwise . . . He means to kill two officers he knows are linked to you.’

  ‘Who?’

  Musa struggled to concentrate before he spoke again. ‘Quintus Licinius Cato . . . and Lucius Cornelius Macro.’

  ‘Those two?’ Narcissus could not repress a chuckle. ‘They don’t work for me. Not any more. Pallas is wasting his time if he thinks their deaths will harm me. Besides, I pity any of his agents that decide to cross swords with those two. Is that it? Is there anything else to tell me?’

  Musa licked his lips and shook his head slightly. ‘No, that is all.’

  ‘You’ve done well, my friend.’ Narcissus patted his hand. ‘Now it’s time to rest. Time to recover.’

  The corners of Musa’s lips twitched in a brief smile of relief and his body relaxed. Narcissus released his hand and moved away, over towards the door, and he gestured to Septimus to join him.

  ‘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.’

  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?’

&nbs
p; 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.’