Free The Siege by Nick Brown Page B

and our arrangement remains . . . confidential.’
    The bag of coins landed on the desk with a solid thud. Strabo pointed at Cassius.
    ‘I have your word I’ll receive it when the garrison is relieved? In addition to my pay?’
    ‘You have my word.’ Cassius nodded towards the square. ‘As long as you stand by me out there.’
    ‘I’ll do as you’ve asked. For now.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Thank you,’ replied Strabo, grinning as he reached for the door, ‘sir.’

VII
    The heat in the square was almost unbearable. As he came to a halt beneath the flagpole, Cassius tugged irritably at the straps of his helmet, then wiped his clammy hands against his tunic.
    After the meeting with Strabo, Simo had tidied up the officers’ quarters and made some useful discoveries: a bronze tuba for sounding orders, a log book and the century roll. Cassius had been through every page of the roll: it listed names, wage levels and dates and places of birth. Petronius had been a conscientious officer; almost up to his death he had made notes in the log about supplies and work details. There was no mention of disciplinary infractions or punishments.
    ‘What do you think, sir? I thought it would be good for the lads to see this again.’
    Barates arrived holding a tattered legion flag.
    ‘Excellent idea.’
    The veteran, now wearing his belt and sword, unfurled the flag and knelt down in front of the pole.
    Squinting through the glare and the sweat running down into his eyes, Cassius turned to face the assembled troops. Most had made some kind of effort and all now wore tunics, belts and swords. A few even sported metal insignia: decorations for honourable action. One group was making a show of ignoring Cassius completely. They included Flavian: the stocky legionary was still wielding his stave and looked rather unsteady on his feet.
    Cassius was curious about what Strabo had said to them. The guard officer stood to his right, looking bored, apparently disinterested in taking the lead. Wondering if it was another one of his tests, Cassius decided to get things moving.
    ‘Guard officer.’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Get the men into close formation. Three lines.’
    Strabo repeated the command, then yawned. The men organised themselves with surprising efficiency. Only Flavian and his cronies dragged their heels, successfully making a mess of the third line.
    Cassius felt a tap on his shoulder. Barates pointed up at the flag, now hanging listlessly in the enervating heat. As with all legions raised by Caesar, the symbol of the Third Legion was a bull, in this case rendered in golden thread. Though the red of the standard had faded to a thin pink, the bull itself shone reassuringly bright.
    ‘Well done.’
    Barates moved away but Cassius held up a hand. ‘Stay here would you, I may need your help.’
    ‘Of course.’
    Barates put his hands behind his back and surveyed the men. Strabo was doing nothing to quieten the shuffling feet and whispered comments. Before beginning, Cassius reminded himself to consider his audience and simplify his language. As he had discovered during training, the military was not the place for the embroidered vernacular of the orator.
    ‘I am Centurion Cassius Quintius Corbulo and I am here on the direct orders of General Marcus Galenus Navio. I have been instructed to take charge of Alauran.’
    Though the men were listening, Cassius sensed this was due more to curiosity than respect. There were more than a few quizzical looks at the unusually young officer before them.
    Flavian was swaying and muttering to himself.
    Cassius continued: ‘Now, I appreciate the difficulties you have faced over the last few months, but—’
    Flavian stumbled forward into the second line. Some of the other legionaries cursed at him.
    Cassius turned to Strabo.
    ‘Guard officer,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Deal with that man. He’s drunk.’
    Flavian pushed his way through the first line.
    ‘Guard officer,’ Cassius