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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