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 hi
s 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.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Now that we’re all here, I can begin.’ General Ostorius glanced at Cato and Macro pointedly before he looked over the faces of the officers seated on camp stools and benches in front of him. The last to arrive, Cato and Macro sat at the back, on the end of a bench, amongst the other auxiliary unit commanders. Cato was the youngest by some years and most of the other prefects had hair flecked with grey, or had already lost much of it. Some were scarred, like Cato, whose face was bisected by a jagged white line from a sword cut he had received in Egypt. In front of them sat the senior officers of the two legions in Ostorius’s column, the Fourteenth and Twentieth: the centurions commanding the cohorts, the junior tribunes and the broad-stripers who were destined to lead their own legions provided they showed the necessary potential, and lastly the two legates, veterans who had each been entrusted with command of one of the empire’s elite fighting formations.
General Ostorius stood facing his officers, a thin, wiry aristocrat of advanced years, his face deeply creased and fringed with cropped white hair. He had a reputation as a tough and experienced officer with a sound grasp of strategy, but to Cato he looked frail and worn-down. His judgement was questionable too. Before Cato and Macro had returned to the province, the general had provoked an uprising by the tribesmen of the Iceni. He had been preparing for a campaign against the Silures and the Ordovices and to ensure the security of the rest of the province he had ordered the Iceni to lay down their arms.
It had been a tactless move, causing grave offence to the warrior caste of the tribe who had been prepared to fight rather than give up their weapons. The ensuing revolt had been easily crushed, but it had delayed the campaign and bought Caratacus much needed time to organise his new allies. It had also humiliated the Iceni and their allies, and those tribes now regarded the Romans with thinly veiled hostility. That was the kind of wound to the pride that would fester in the hearts of the native tribesmen, Cato reflected. He doubted that it would be the last time the Iceni defied Rome. The final battle of the brief revolt had been won by tribal levies commanded by Roman officers. The divisions between the British tribes did far more to undermine the cause of those who opposed Rome than the swords of the legions. As long as the largest tribes continued to nurture their age-old rivalries, Rome would win the day. But if they ever united, then Cato feared that the Emperor’s soldiers would be swept from the island amid a tide of carnage and humiliation.
Ostorius raised a hand and addressed his officers.
‘Gentlemen, as you know, we have been pursuing Caratacus through these wretched mountains for over a month now. Our cavalrymen have been doing their best to keep in contact with the enemy, but the terrain favours him rather than us. Too many choke points where the Silurian rearguard can turn and hold us off while the main body of their army escapes. So far we have remained in touch with the enemy. But the mists of the last few days have enabled Caratacus to give us the slip.’
There was no concealing the disappointment in his voice and Ostorius ran his gnarled fingers through his hair as he continued. ‘The scouts report that there are two routes that the enemy could have taken. Tribune Petillius, the map, if you please.’
One of the junior tribunes hurried forward with a roll of leather and set it up over a wooden easel beside the general’s desk. Night had fallen outside and the map was illuminated by the oil lamp stands in the tent, so Cato had to squint to make out the details. The features of the map betrayed one of the main difficulties of the campaign. While the coastline was delineated in detail, thanks to the work of the naval squadron operating from Abona, the inland sections of the map were sparsely marked, and only then as the advance of the army uncovered the landscape it passed through. Such was the loyalty of the local people to their cause that none was willing to serve as a guide for the Roman forces, even for a small fortune in silver.
Ostorius approached the map and tapped his finger on the soft parchment. ‘This valley is where we are camped. Some ten miles ahead it divides . . . Here. One branch appears to head deep into Silurian territory. The other leads north, towards the Ordovices. If we turn south on the assumption that Caratacus is headed that way then he will continue to lead us a merry old chase through the mountains. That said, the longer it continues, the more strain he places on his food supplies. The Silurians have already suffered enough hardship feeding his troops and enduring the raids that we have mounted on their settlements. We can keep up the pursuit until the end of the campaign season but the chances are that Caratacus will elude us and then we will have to begin a new hunt for him next year.’
There were a few mutters from some of the officers and Ostorius pursed his lips irritably. ‘Quiet, gentlemen! I know how you feel about spending any more time in these wretched mountains. But grumbl
ing will not get us the result we desire. We must force the enemy to battle. Only then can we be sure of destroying him once and for all. That is why I hope that Caratacus has turned north. If, as I suspect, he intends to keep his army intact rather than risk exhausting it and losing most of his strength to straggling, then he will retreat to his strongholds in Ordovician territory and draw on the plentiful supplies he has there. He knows that he risks being forced to defend those lands if we pursue him, but at the same time he can keep open his lines of communication to the Brigantes.’ Ostorius turned to the map, which did not extend as far as the tribe he was referring to so he waved a hand in the air above and to the right of the map. ‘Up that way.’
Cato and some of the other officers smiled indulgently before the general lowered his arm and continued. ‘As you may know, there are elements amongst the Brigantes who are more than sympathetic to Caratacus. We’ve already had to intervene once to keep Queen Cartimandua in power. Her decision to ally herself with Rome has not played well with many of her nobles but, according to the latest intelligence, she has the matter in hand. It’s some gratification to see that she is proving her loyalty to the Emperor. Mind you, so she should, given the amount of gold the Emperor has paid for her loyalty. Thank the gods that other women can be bought more cheaply, though from what I hear, the further we venture into the mountains, the more our ladies of easy virtue in the civilian camp are upping their prices. We’d better catch Caratacus soon or they’ll bankrupt my army.’
There was laughter at the general’s comment this time, and even Cato chuckled.
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