The Siege by Nick Brown

names. There was well-observed silence, even though he had to hesitate now and again while searching for the next name or struggling to read Petronius’ writing.
    He was about halfway through when his peripheral vision picked up some turning heads. Looking up, he saw that most of the men were staring over at the barracks. Cassius turned too, and found himself gazing at an extraordinary figure.
    Walking barefoot with a slow, ambling gait was an individual of such unusual size that he seemed to occupy the space of two normal men. Though he was tall, it was the horizontal dimensions of his body that were unlike any Cassius had ever seen. The huge head was hairless apart from an untidy greying band between the ears and sat atop a neck of equally unnatural breadth. Below, an enormous pair of shoulders and arms stretched the material of a light blue tunic Cassius could comfortably have used as a bed sheet. Patches of thick dark hair covered the upper arms and shoulders. A leather belt was pulled tight at the waist, showing little fat round the man’s middle. Beneath the tunic were a bulging pair of legs that somehow matched the vastness of the rest of him.
    Without a single glance at the assembled legionaries to his right, the giant rounded the corner of the barracks and disappeared towards the inn.
    Barates leaned towards Cassius.
    ‘The Praetorian.’
    ‘A late time to rise, even for him,’ said Strabo.
    Cassius had been so busy that he had given no thought to the man Cotta had spoken of.
    ‘What does he do here? Will he join us?’
    ‘Probably not,’ said Barates.
    ‘Definitely not,’ added Strabo.
    ‘If he’s in the army, then he must fight.’
    ‘Perhaps you would like to go and tell him that, centurion,’ said Strabo. ‘Or you could stay here – and ensure that your head remains attached to your neck.’
    ‘I should explain,’ said Barates.
    ‘Quickly then.’ Cassius held up a hand to the legionaries. ‘One moment, men.’
    ‘He was exiled from Rome, serving with the Fourth, but was struck down with some disease of the gut. I’ve never seen a man in such agony. The pain causes him to cry out; his face contorts as if he’s possessed by some evil spirit. All that will ease it is wine. Lots of it. He’ll rise in the afternoon, walk the few yards to the inn, down as many jugs as he can, then retire when he’s done, ready for the next day.’
    ‘Why was he exiled?’
    ‘The last man who asked that has only just recovered.’
    ‘Broke his arm,’ said Strabo. ‘Praetorian didn’t even get out of his seat.’
    Cassius saw that the men were drifting off into conversation.
    ‘Tell me the rest later. Let’s get this roll finished.’
    They did so quickly. The only absentee was Flavian, now bandaged up and asleep in the barracks. Cassius was happy to leave that particular problem until the morning. With the square now shrouded in the half-light of dusk he, Strabo and Barates began the inspection.
    It was reassuring to see that none of the men had allowed their personal arms to fall into serious disrepair. This was, Cassius now understood, one of the advantages of making each man purchase his own.
    The legionaries wore a variation of the plain linen tunic worn by soldiers across the Empire. All reached down below the knee, none any further than the calves. About half of the men had cut the sleeves off at the shoulder. Some were decorated with dark lozenges or squares. No one was without his military belt.
    Earlier in the day, Cassius had seen legionaries walking around barefoot but all had now managed to locate their boots. Tied together with leather straps, some had uppers, others were open under the laces. Cassius heard Strabo picking on certain individuals whose footwear needed attention. It seemed the guard officer was finally beginning to live up to his title.
    Stopping between the second and third sections, Cassius waited for the others to catch up.
    ‘Armour’s not so good,’ he said as the