‘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.’