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 repeated.
‘Sir?’ said Strabo flatly.
Flavian stomped forward, bloodshot eyes locked on Cassius. He smacked the stave noisily against his other hand.
‘Deal with him!’ Cassius shouted, resisting the temptation to turn and run. Flavian was no more than twenty feet away.
‘What exactly should I do, sir?’ asked Strabo, drawing laughs from some of the men.
‘What about your duty!’ snapped Barates.
Flavian charged on, a bestial grimace on his face.
‘Deal with him now!’ Cassius yelled. If it hadn’t been for the flash of movement to his right, he would have made his escape.
Strabo covered the distance with surprising speed and his well-timed trip caught Flavian perfectly. The legionary fell forward head first, cracking two tiles with his skull. The stave flew out of his hand and clattered to the ground at Cassius’ feet.
Barates squatted down and examined the legionary’s head. He was unconscious but still breathing.
‘There’ll be quite a lump, but he’ll be all right.’
‘What should we do with him?’ asked Strabo.
‘Put him in his bed,’ Cassius answered, loudly enough for the men to hear. ‘I’ve no use for a drunk.’
Strabo turned Flavian over and waved a couple of men forward to help him. One of Flavian’s cronies broke ranks, rounding the first and second lines.
‘Hands off, Strabo! We look after our own here.’
‘Get back in line, Avso,’ said Strabo, dropping Flavian’s prone form roughly to the ground. ‘This is none of your concern.’
‘And since when has taking charge been yours?’ countered the legionary angrily.
Avso was not a big man, but he looked wiry and tough. He was probably no more than thirty, but had a gaunt, almost cadaverous face and a head of lank, greasy hair. Cassius also noted his well-maintained weaponry and a livid pink scar that ran diagonally across his right shin.
Two of Avso’s supporters stepped up behind him while some of those in the first line exchanged glances with Strabo. There seemed to be a distinct possibility that Cassius’ first address was about to deteriorate into a brawl.
However, the guard officer took a breath. He glanced first at Cassius, then back at his would-be adversary.
‘Avso, I know you’re Thracian but try to keep up. We have a new centurion here and he’d like to finish his speech.’ Strabo nodded down at Flavian. ‘Take your friend, clean him up and get back here on the double.’
Avso hesitated for a moment, then beckoned the others forward. It took all three of them to carry Flavian off the square and into the barracks.
Cassius let the men settle down, composed himself, then continued.
‘As I was saying, I know you’ve had a difficult time out here — not knowing what’s going on beyond these walls and manning such a remote post without pay — and I’m not going to pretend that all is well with the war. The Palmyrans could strike here and we must be ready.’
Reading the apprehension in the eyes of those he addressed, Cassius moved on quickly.
‘But there is good news. A cavalry column is on its way: General Valens’ men. They should be here in four or five days. When they arrive you will receive all wages due. That’s straight from General Navio.’ As before, Cassius felt the lie was a risk worth taking. He had to do something to get the men on side and could always plead innocence or ignorance at a later time. ‘I have been sent here to ensure that the relieving forces find a well-organised, well-defended fort.’
A man in the second line raised his hand.
‘Yes, legionary.’
‘What will happen then, sir? Some of us have been out here almost two years. If we could at least get back to Antioch-’
‘Yes, of course. I must be honest on that point. I do not know how you will be re-deployed.’
‘If I may, sir,’ Strabo piped up. ‘Seems to me that if there are fresh centuries coming to reinforce the area, they won’t want a unit that can barely muster fifty. It might be that we’re back in the city before long.’
‘And how many times have we heard that before!’ came a loud retort. The man was standing in the second line and Cassius took a step left to get a better view. The legionary was of a good age, over forty certainly, with a thinning thatch of spiky grey hair and the battered face of a seasoned campaigner.
‘Serenus,’ whispered Barates. ‘Highly decorated but afflicted by illness for a year or more.’
‘Legionary,’ said Cassius, ‘you and every other man in this square are members of this garrison. Now I am too. We are not brigands or mercenaries or auxiliaries. We are professionals and we will do a professional job.’
For the first time, there was silence.
‘Now, once you have been dismissed, I will be deciding on a precise plan of action. Until then, I want each of you to return to your quarters and ensure that your personal kit is up to scratch. If it stinks, wash it. If it’s dirty, make it shine. If it’s blunt, make it sharp enough to cut the balls off an elephant. Muster parade will be held just before sundown. The roll will be called.’
Strabo dismissed the men line by line. As they broke up, Cassius observed a number of differing reactions. Some of the men trudged off with blank expressions, others walked briskly away, apparently glad to have something to do. A few remained on the square, exchanging comments with their compatriots, weighing up the new officer still standing stiffly below the legion flag.
Though he knew there was precious little of substance to be happy about, Cassius was relieved. Most of the legionaries had at least shown a willingness to follow orders.
He had made a start.
Not long afterwards, the new commander of the Alauran garrison sat at the table inside the officers’ quarters. Occupying chairs to his left and right were Strabo and Barates. Simo sat on the low bench opposite him. The Gaul had managed to find some spare papyrus sheets and an old reed pen. Having just made up some ink from a lump of gum and some water, he was now ready to make notes as requested.
Strabo belched loudly.
‘Do you happen to know the date?’ asked Barates suddenly. ‘I have been trying to keep track, but-’
‘Late August,’ answered Cassius. ‘The twenty-fifth, — sixth, perhaps. Simo?’
‘Somewhere around there, sir. I could work it out if you like.’
‘No matter. Doesn’t seem to mean much in these parts in any case.’
Cassius had been bemused to learn that many of the Syrian cities still maintained their own calendars, stubbornly refusing to adopt the Roman system. An officer in Antioch had regaled him with several related tales, the last of which involved leaving one city in March, only to arrive at another in February.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, keen to get started, ‘my mother always says: “If in doubt, make a list.” And so we shall.’
Ignoring both sets of raised eyebrows, Cassius continued.
‘Our aims are simple and twofold. Firstly, to consolidate the defences of the fort and secondly to turn that rabble next door into something approaching a fighting unit. We need to establish the most urgent tasks and set about them immediately. Barates, you seem to know the place as well as anyone, any thoughts?’
‘Several. Number one — the wall.’
‘Clay brick, yes?’
‘Unfortunately. There are no quarries near here, only clay pits. I believe it’s about twenty years old. Originally there was just a village around the spring and at some point the army decided to enclose it.’