Nick Brown: The Siege

‘Say that in Greek!’ Cinna barked.

Cassius’ headache was now an ever-enlarging ball of pain above his eyes. Beads of sweat had popped out across his face and back. His fingers, gripping the top of his belt, were wet against the slick leather.

He knew he had to act.

‘You!’ he shouted, pointing at Cinna. ‘Back on your horse! That’s an order!’

After a brief hesitation, the legionary removed his hand from his sword pommel and reluctantly retreated. Two others who had dismounted got back on their horses.

‘And you,’ Cassius said, speaking over his left shoulder, ‘can do the same.’

Cassius was taller than most legionaries but this man had a good three inches on him. He was bulky too, with thickly muscled forearms criss-crossed by scars.

Cassius waited, trying to look unperturbed.

The soldier didn’t move.

‘Alternatively, I can take your name. And you can prepare yourself for a lengthy discussion with your commanding officer upon our return to Antioch.’

The legionary tapped the javelin lightly against his shoulder, then finally backed away.

Cassius let out a breath. After a moment’s thought, he struck on a solution and turned towards Ammianus.

‘What if I pay for the dates?’

Ammianus looked surprised, then his face broke into a grin. Cassius imagined he was thinking of future drinking sessions, of boasting about the time a centurion bought him his lunch.

‘Fine by me, sir.’

Cassius reached into the small leather bag tied to his belt and pulled out a couple of bronze sesterces.

‘That should cover it,’ he said, handing the coins over. The stall owner looked satisfied; he’d been paid well over the odds. As he hurried back to his stall, a couple of the legionaries groaned with disappointment.

‘Caesar himself wrote about the importance of feeding an army,’ Cassius announced loudly. ‘And it is my responsibility to ensure that the most important individuals in our group are well nourished.’ Then, before Ammianus could react, he snatched the palm leaf from his hand, walked back to his horse and held the dates under its muzzle. The animal noisily devoured the fruit.

Cassius stared back at the dumbstruck Ammianus and smiled genially.

The tall legionary was first to react, chuckling at the sour look on the Thracian’s face. Some of the other soldiers joined in, adding a few quips at Ammianus’ expense. Then the Syrians began laughing too, and in moments the air of tension had been dispelled.

Cassius wouldn’t have sided with the Syrian had Ammianus been more popular, but the man had brought it on himself. Still scowling, the Thracian stalked back along the alleyway. A couple of the locals shouted at his back. Cassius hurried over to them.

‘That’s enough,’ he said, quiet but firm. ‘Please move along. We shall be leaving soon.’

The crowd broke up. Cassius found himself gazing at a shapely young girl carrying a clay amphora. She had the same smooth brown skin and flashing white teeth he’d noticed all over Syria. His stare lasted a moment too long and he realised some of the locals and legionaries were watching him.

‘Hurry up there!’ he shouted to no one in particular, feeling his face redden. Returning to his horse, he climbed up on to the saddle, cursing quietly and reminding himself to keep control of his baser instincts. It was just such interest in the female form that had landed him in his present predicament.

‘A moment of weakness’ was how he’d described it to his father. Up to that point, the old man had tolerated his drinking and dalliances, happy at least that his only son’s studies seemed to be progressing. Cassius had been working towards a career as an orator in his native Ravenna, hoping eventually to graduate to the forums of the capital.

However, when he had been discovered enjoying one of his aunt’s handmaidens (by his aunt, at her villa, during her fiftieth birthday party), his father’s patience had finally run out. Cassius’ protestations that the serving girl had ‘enjoyed it too’ did not help and over the next week he had been dismayed to find that his persuasive powers were not as far advanced as he thought. Corbulo senior was an ex-army man and he had decided that Cassius could only be deterred from a wasteful life of excess by ‘discipline, discipline and more discipline’.

Cassius cursed again and rubbed his fingers against his warm, aching brow. He still found it almost impossible to believe that such a small indiscretion had led to this. Here he was, stuck in this pit of a town; in a province facing imminent annexation; deprived of cultured company and all the finer things in life; and surrounded by barbarians, thugs and idiots.

Worse still, according to his father’s terms, he had five years left in the army.

Two weeks earlier, Cassius had stood in the office of General Marcus Galenus Navio, the commander charged with the defence of Syria.

‘So — a grain man, eh?’ the general said, examining the sheet of papyrus as he sat behind his desk.

Cassius didn’t reply. He was beginning to tire of the nickname used for agents of the Imperial Security Service. An independent wing of the military, the Service had been established during the time of the Emperor Domitian. Originally concerned with the supply and distribution of grain to the legions, its officers were spread far and wide across the Empire. Dealing so closely with the provincial populace, they were uniquely well placed to report back to Rome on all manner of issues. Over time they had become the ‘eyes and ears’ of the emperor and his general staff. The original name had stuck.

The Service maintained a headquarters in Rome known informally as ‘The Foreigners’ Camp’. Most legions were assigned several officers and, though their duties sometimes still included the procurement of supplies, Service men could find themselves acting as emissaries, tax collectors, investigators or spies.

Cassius had heard of his first posting via a missive from the Service chief, Spurius Sestius Pulcher: the same letter now in Navio’s hand.

‘You’re a little young,’ the general continued. ‘Usually a man has to prove himself a lying, scheming, underhand devil before being recruited to the Camp.’

Cassius stifled a grimace. He knew that the Service suffered from what could at best be described as a mixed reputation. Several friends had advised him against accepting the post. Some suggested that the Service was riddled with corruption, others that it was an impossible job — with loyalties divided between headquarters, local governors and the military hierarchy.

‘It is a rather unusual arrangement, sir, I know. My father was able to secure me a position commensurate with my level of education.’

Cassius chose not to add that only weeks of pressure from his mother had persuaded his father to call in a few favours and keep his son from front-line service.

The general grinned. Cassius noticed the thick, lined pouches of skin beneath his eyes. Though broad-shouldered and upright, Navio was quite overweight and this extra bulk sat unnaturally on the frame of what had once been an exceptionally fit man. Above his forehead was an island of grey fluff abandoned by the rest of his receding hair.

‘Well, unless your education extends to the dark arts of diplomacy, espionage and assassination you may find it a post more suited to a career criminal than a scholar.’

As Navio continued reading, Cassius looked around. Considering the general was responsible for the defence of Rome’s third city, his office was surprisingly modest. Well lit by a large window behind the desk, the only other items of furniture were four unused lamp stands, a neglected brazier and a holed rug. There was nothing for visitors to sit on. Cassius wondered if the general had problems with his eyes. He was taking a long time to read a short letter.