Nick Brown: The Siege

Simo took Cassius’ helmet and mail shirt from him.

‘Sir, I’m afraid I need to-’

‘Yes, yes, of course, get back to your work. Simo, do you have that pot with the identity tablets?’

‘Yes, sir, I just collected the last of them.’

‘Bring it to me, would you.’

Simo headed inside the barracks, passing Julius on the way. The lad was carrying something carefully in one hand. He indicated that Cassius should open his palm and meticulously placed two small objects there. Cassius knew what they were before Julius removed his hand but when he saw Strabo’s dice, he realised why the boy had been so particular. They were upturned just as they had fallen that morning, when the Sicilian had claimed the day would bring triumph.

‘A five and a six,’ Cassius said. ‘Fortuna’s friend.’

He looked up to see Domitius and the other man carrying Serenus’ body towards the barracks. The other three legionaries hurried past them. They were carrying bunches of reeds gathered from the spring.

‘What’s all that for?’ Cassius asked.

‘Tradition, sir,’ said one man. ‘No one’s going to make the relieving troops proper grass crowns out here so we thought we’d do it ourselves. Sign of our gratitude.’

‘They’re almost here, sir,’ said another.

Simo returned with the pot. It was full, almost overflowing. The tablets were covered in grime and blood. Almost as soon as he looked at them, Cassius felt that he would cry again, so he left Simo and the others and walked away towards the officers’ quarters.

The men filled cups with wine from a barrel. As they drank and began weaving the crowns together, Domitius started up a song of victory. Even a few weak voices from the barracks joined in.

Cassius placed the pot on the window of the officers’ quarters. Then he walked over to the well and picked up a pail of water and a cloth. Returning to the window, he sat down, facing away from the men, and took each tablet from the pot in turn. He cleaned each one thoroughly, wiping every mark or stain from the dull lead, then placed them in neat lines to dry.

As he worked, the noise of the approaching column grew louder.

When his eyes picked up the names inscribed on the lead he would look away. But he could not stop himself thinking: thinking of how each tablet had found its way into his hands, taken from the lifeless necks of those who had fought so hard to win them and had worn them with such pride. He thought of where each tablet had been, carried for years, decades even, by the legionaries as they slept and marched and ate, as they lived and loved and fought.

Then he did read the names, and tears ran freely down his face. By the time he put the last tablet on the ledge, the top of his tunic was wet. He gathered water from the pail and cleaned his face, then closed his eyes for a moment and composed himself. He turned round and walked over to the legionaries.

Domitius saw him and nodded to the others. The five exhausted legionaries dragged themselves to their feet, all holding their cups of wine. Smiling, Domitius gave another full cup to Cassius.

‘Here’s to you, sir. You did us proud.’

Domitius held his cup high.

‘Centurion Corbulo.’

‘Centurion Corbulo,’ repeated the men.

Cassius raised his cup and took his first sip of wine in almost a week, savouring every bitter drop. The sound of the approaching cavalry was now thunderous. The tip of a standard appeared over the eastern wall. Glancing back at the legionaries, Cassius knew with a sudden, irresistible certainty that he could lie to them no longer.

‘There’s something I must tell you. I am not a centurion. I haven’t even been assigned to a legion. I am an officer of the Imperial Security Service.’

‘A grain man?’ said one man incredulously.

‘Out here?’ said another.

‘Yes. Syria is my first posting. I thought I would be doing. . paperwork.’ Cassius smiled and shook his head. ‘I thought I would be behind a desk.’

The legionaries stayed quiet, staring at each other in disbelief. The ground-shaking impact of hundreds of hooves had reached a crescendo. They turned to see a line of horses being skilfully guided past the collapsed dwelling, through the scattered bodies and abandoned weapons. At the head of the column was the standard-bearer: a muscular veteran with flecks of grey in his heavy beard. Mounted on the pole in his hands was a flag bearing the legend of the Sixteenth Legion.

A smaller, younger and far more noble-looking man urged his horse past the standard-bearer and brought it up close to the barracks. His tunic carried a broad blue stripe and he wore a fine scarlet cloak over his armour. He removed his helmet, smoothed down his hair and looked impassively down at the small band of legionaries.

‘I am Tribune Gallio Artorius Andronicus. Who is in charge here?’

The legionaries were standing between Andronicus and Cassius. Not one of them said a word.

‘Well?’ demanded the tribune. ‘Who is in charge?’

After a moment, Domitius turned round and looked at Cassius. With a trace of a smile and a slight nod, he moved aside. Another man turned, nodded to Cassius and moved out of the way. One after another, each of the other legionaries did the same, until there was clear space between the two officers.

Recalling Strabo’s last words, Cassius straightened his back and raised his chin.

‘I am, sir. I am.’