S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

Deep in thought, he’d missed the second name being called out, though a legionary stepped out of the lines of the Third Italica and approached the steps. Built like an ox and shield-less, his splinted arm slung against his chest, he approached the stage. Rufinus found himself, with immense irritation, realising that the man was newly shaven and had perfectly neat, short hair. Almost as if to purposefully mock him, an errant curl of black, shiny hair suddenly sprung from beneath the rim of his helmet and dangled before his left eye, momentarily obscuring the irritatingly clean-shaven ox of a man.

The big fellow stood powerful as he was acclaimed for being the first man to reach the Quadi supply wagons, having been at the forefront of the wedge that had broken their lines. He received his glinting torc that was pinned to his shoulder plates, returned the officer’s salute and made his way back to his unit.

And on it went. Man after man stepped out from the lines of the legions, even one from an auxiliary unit, and stood proudly on the stage, erect and powerful as Mars himself while their martial accomplishments were announced, every one of which sounded far more impressive than pulling an officer bodily from his horse into the muck. Each one received their phalera or torc or armband, some with financial bonuses, some attaining field promotions or duplicarius status. Two men who were near to their retirement age and had acquitted themselves particularly well were granted their honesta missio early, receiving a small plot of land in the area and a sizeable fiduciary settlement.

Twenty seven men rewarded for their part in the battle, Rufinus mused, adding with a little rancour that only two of them were unshaven and unkempt and that both of them were heavily wounded and had probably only been released from the legion hospital this morning without the opportunity to visit the never-present barber.

Of course, he could have shaved with his pugio and trimmed his own hair, but he’d done that once, early on in the campaign and after staunching the nine flows of blood from his tortured face, he’d endured two weeks of being called ‘duck-head’ after his unfortunate new hairstyle. Clearly he could only rely of the skills of a professional. Duck-head would not be likely to receive anything but scorn from the emperor.

‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus, duplicarius legionary of the Third Century, First Cohort of the Tenth Gemina! Attend!’

Rufinus had begun to drift off into a reverie in which he was clean shaven and lying in soft linen sheets with…

His mind reeled as he suddenly snapped back to reality, trying to push aside the images that were rising in the more private parts of his mind. He took a step sideways, trod on the back of a legionary’s boot and stumbled into him with a gentle crash. A helpful man nearby caught the rim of his shield as it fell and handed it back to him.

Straightening, his cheeks burning the same colour as his tunic, he grasped the shield and stepped into the open space between cohorts. The optio, a man who knew him very well and had sparred with him in the ring countless times, glared with open disappointment at this display of ineptitude.

Despite keeping his eyes locked on the path before him and the helmet restricting his view, Rufinus was horribly aware that every pair of eyes on this side of Vindobona was watching him intently. His cheeks flared anew and he began to feel hot and slightly faint. Swallowing nervously, he realised that his throat had become parched.

Slowly, he marched across the dusty ground toward the steps, trying desperately to bring his body back under control. Throwing himself through scratchy woodland in deep snow with only a sword and dagger and facing half a dozen vile barbarians in combat held no fears when compared to the possibility of excruciating embarrassment in front of the imperial family and the entire army.

He paused for only a moment at the foot of the wooden steps, just as a passing gull deposited its business on the wooden plank right in front of him. They said it was lucky when birds shit on you, but he was still rather glad this one had missed, in the circumstances, particularly given the astonishing quantity.

Slowly and with as much grace as he could muster, he climbed the stairs and stepped out onto the dais. The adjutant had paced back and was saluting him. Close by, Paternus and Perennis were also standing erect and saluting with full military stance. Paternus’ face was unreadable; Perennis’ was not, though Rufinus dearly wished it was.

The emperor had once more stepped forth from the rear of the platform, Commodus close by his side. Marcus Aurelius had a serene, regal expression, made all the more powerful by the pale, drawn skin and his glittering, dark eyes. A sudden gust of fresh air ruffled the emperor’s blond curls and he held up his hand. Rufinus thought he’d felt a first flake of fresh snow on the breeze.

Commodus, the same mischievous, even child-like, glint in his eyes, smiled widely at Rufinus. ‘The barber continues to evade you, then?’ he said quietly enough that no one beyond the stage would hear the words.

Rufinus felt the blush on his cheeks again and managed a weak, hopefully deferential, smile. Commodus laughed and saluted, stepping back next to his father. Marcus Aurelius, father of Rome and ruler of the world, stepped one pace forward and Rufinus straightened.

‘Any battle’ the emperor said, his voice smooth and calm and yet carrying across the square as though he had bellowed, ‘has its heroes and its cowards. Today we have honoured men who have shown selflessness and bravery in Godlike quantities; we have rewarded those who had a personal hand in the victory of Rome over the barbarian. There remains one acknowledgement left to make.’

The army was silent, the only noise the clink and clank of metal across the square, the gentle distant murmur of the civilians speculating over the reason for the emperor’s personal involvement, the caw and chirp of birds and the nearby rush and gurgle of the Danubius as it made its way to the distant Euxine Sea.

Aurelius held out his hand to one side. A lesser staff officer standing to the rear of the dais placed something in it and the emperor turned back to face the front of the dais and the crowd beyond.

‘Single-handedly felling five enemy warriors while lacking much of one’s armour and equipment is an exploit worthy of note’ he announced. ‘If every legionary could fight with such lion-like strength and courage, a single legion would be sufficient to conquer the lands of the barbarian back to the impassable torrents that encircle the world. As is only appropriate for such valour, and upon the recommendation of his legatus, I hereby award legionary Rufinus with this phalera. May it be the first of many!’

Aurelius stepped toward him and Rufinus held his breath as the shiny, burnished disc bearing the image of a roaring lion was pinned to his shoulder plate’s buckle. The emperor struggled for a moment, his shaking fingers completing the task with some difficulty. The great man’s breath smelled strange and sickly-sweet, almost like rotting flesh. It was all Rufinus could do not to reel away from it. Finally, the aging emperor finished his task and stood back.

‘Such reward is fitting for an act of this magnitude. One might say, however, that it is a paltry thing when the rest of this man’s actions are taken into account.’

The officer at the rear of the dais stepped forward once more and handed something else to Aurelius, who took the item and gripped it. Rufinus’ eyes widened.

The emperor stepped forward, grasping the silver shaft of a spear, perhaps six feet in length. The tip was pointed but without the head that would accompany its battle-ready counterparts. A simple silver rod, tapered at the end. Rufinus’ head spun. Even if it were really an iron shaft, merely coated with gleaming silver, it would be worth a year’s pay.