S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

He made a point of visiting the baths again several times, partially through the sheer bliss of being able to remain clean, but mostly in the continued hope of a haircut and shave. In an almost farcical turn of events, though, every visit seemed to coincide with the resident barber being out on some ‘important business’ or other and so he remained hirsute and itchy, despite his best efforts.

The second afternoon, as he’d sat alone in the room, humming a little ditty from his childhood while polishing out a rust spot on one of his back plates, Mercator had dropped by with the first news from higher up in two days: The legions had decamped in Marcomannic lands and were returning to base, leaving their small occupying garrisons to control the freshly conquered territory. In response, the First Adiutrix were moving out of the fortress and constructing a temporary camp on the far bank.

Rufinus could only imagine how popular they all were among the First at the moment, having to vacate their comfortable barracks of the past few months for life under leather tents in snow and mud. Still, the war was over. Soon most of the legions drawn in for the campaign would be returning to their home fortresses in Pannonia and Noricum and as far distant as Germania and Thracia. The inconvenience of sharing one fortress would soon have passed. The Tenth could settle back into garrison life at Vindobona… he, of course, could be anywhere if the Praetorian Guard were taking him into their ranks; most likely back to the great thriving heart of the empire.

Vindobona had immediately exploded into a chaos of reorganisation as men who had occupied barrack blocks for months were required to collect together their kit and march out across the Danubius. As had become the norm, there was no task or assignment for Rufinus and he found himself ejected from the Praetorian quarters and sent to his old room in the strangely empty fortress, a single man occupying quarters for five thousand.

Two more days had passed with an increased sense of solitude, the First busy in their temporary camp across the river while the few Praetorian cohorts manned the walls and gates of the fortress, awaiting the return of the Tenth to retake its position as garrison. It had been strange to return to barracks, comforting in some small way, with the familiar walls covered in lewd graffiti, but made more hollow and peculiar by the loneliness that accompanied it and the knowledge that as soon as his transfer was made official, he would be leaving the room again forever.

Such a sense of solitude should have disappeared when the Tenth returned, marching in triumph down along the thoroughfare cut into the woods across the river, buccinae blaring out, flags waving, men cheering. It did not.

The various returning legions scattered to create temporary camps around the periphery of Vindobona while the Tenth marched into the fortress, the camp prefect performing a brief ceremony and receiving the passwords from the Praetorian tribune as his men filtered out through the fortress, already taking guard positions.

Rufinus had waited with a sense of anticipation and excitement for the other men in his contubernium to return to the room: men he had last seen in the woods of Marcomannia rushing to the signal before he stumbled across an ambush that had turned his life upside down. He had such things to tell them: he had met emperors, bathed in senior officer’ baths, ridden with the Praetorian cavalry. He yearned also to hear of the aftermath of the battle; the night after such a great action was always filled with drink and reverie as the survivors celebrated their continued fortune. Some of the best and funniest stories were born in such conditions.

They returned: five tired, dirty soldiers wandered into the room, chatting in a small group, telling stories and anecdotes and paying no attention to the desperately lonely man sitting on the bunk awaiting them. Only one of them even met Rufinus’ gaze before they dumped their kit and went to find food or the baths without extending an invitation to their long-term roommate.

Deflated and unhappy, Rufinus had wandered out and among the men of his legion as they went about the business of settling back into quarters long abandoned, putting to rights the changes made by their temporary occupants. He’d always been a reasonably popular man, except with those that had foolishly bet against him in fights. Now, though, hardly anyone seemed inclined to speak to him and few even made eye contact.

As he’d travelled around the fortress, moving like a ghost, unnoticed amid the chaos, the clouds gradually lowered and the first flakes of damp, soggy snow settled on his shoulders. Even the weather seemed to have turned against him.

A little judicious listening-in on supposedly private conversations had led him to the conclusion that he was no longer considered a legionary by the Tenth. Having been taken by the Praetorians and seemingly treated as though he were somehow different, the men of the Tenth had already labelled him ‘one of them’ . His continued absence had reinforced their opinions, and it looked like there was little Rufinus would be able to do to return things to normal. He had been taken by Praetorians and was no longer welcome among the Tenth.

And so the last day had been thoroughly soul-destroying, with men he had long counted friends ignoring his very existence. Even the centurions and optios seemed already to have more or less forgotten about him, and his name failed to appear on any duty rosters. To prevent the boredom and depression overcoming him completely, Rufinus had devoted all his time to his kit and preparations.

And now here he was, sliding his gladius into its scabbard and reaching for his helmet with the stiff, red horsehair crest. The room was empty; the entire block was empty, the rest of the men already on their way to the assembly. He’d have been the first man out had he not suffered a last moment panic, misplacing his sword, though a small, bitter part of his mind suggested to him that his former companions might have hidden it simply to aggravate him.

The blade had turned up eventually, propped in a corner behind the piles of mud-spattered kit strapped to their marching poles.

With a sigh, he jammed the helm on his head and turned to leave, tying the chin-straps together as he left. Across the fortress, the buccinae rang out with the second call. By the third such blast the legion had to be in position, and punishments would be handed out for failure to attend in time. Grasping the heavy, rectangular crimson shield by the door frame, he strode out into the bright, crisp, cold morning and jogged along the street. The snow had let up early this morning as the sun began to show on the horizon, almost as if the emperor had commanded a good day for the gathering of the eagles.

Other men were still filing out of their quarters here and there, rushing for muster, jamming on helmets and struggling to carry their kit while fastening cloaks. The fresh snow in the streets of the fortress had already become a soggy slush, brown and unpleasant, which soaked into the boots and numbed the toes no matter how thick one’s socks were.

Out onto the Via Praetoria he jogged, turning with the other tardy men, rushing toward the headquarters and its gathering. There the Tenth would finish mustering before marching out to present themselves as part of Aurelius’ victorious army. Past the granary, the hospital and the bathhouse Rufinus hurried, finding himself in a cluster of men pushing their way through the entrance to the great complex. As they burst through into the courtyard within, men rushed to find their place and fall in with their centuries.

Ducking past two panicked-looking legionaries, Rufinus slowed his pace and made for his unit, the centurion giving both he and the three other latecomers a black look. The third and final blast rang out from the legion’s chief musician and the men were in position, the last few still settling into place, looking miserably forward to a few days of unpleasant duties for their tardiness, mucking out latrines or similar. At least, if the proposed transfer actually occurred, he would avoid such punishments.