S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

He looked down at the floor. A silver spear lay at his feet, forgotten in the sudden panic. It was one of the most prestigious awards that could be given to a soldier and, along with the phalera that hung from his shoulder and the promotion that would bring with it an almost unimaginable pay-rise, this should be the happiest occasion in his life.

He bent slowly to pick up the silver staff, catching the white linen tunic and breeches that slid from his shoulder as he did so.

‘Come with me, and get that tunic on as soon as you can.’

He’d looked up to find Paternus, having finished addressing the assembly, gesturing for him to follow. The rest of the Praetorians present had moved off with the imperial party, leaving the legionary detachments to keep order as they moved out. That answered that, then. He was, at least unofficially, part of the Guard now.

It had taken quarter of an hour to reach the fortress, travelling now-deserted streets, the wailing of distraught citizens echoing from side roads and buildings. Like Rufinus, many would have seen the fall as the end of the emperor, regardless of any consoling words from the prefect of the Guard. And Marcus Aurelius could hardly have been counted among the long-gone emperors of Rome as anything less than a genius, a scholar, a victorious general; a great man in every respect. His passing would leave a hole in the world.

Paternus had spent the hurried journey in introspective silence and, despite a surprisingly desperate need for human contact in this strange, bewildering uncertainty, Rufinus allowed the man his space.

The fortress was eerily quiet, the Tenth legion already back in barracks and attending to their ordinary daily tasks as though one of the most world-shaking events had not just occurred. Passing through the gate, the prefect had led Rufinus, still struggling with carrying his hexagonal scorpion shield, silver spear and new uniform, up the Via Principalis and to the legatus’ house, flanking the headquarters building.

Like almost every other man in the legion, Rufinus had never had cause to set foot in the house of the commanding officer. Occasionally a man was required to enter to deliver messages or packages, but the house was usually only visited by the commander, his family, their slaves and servants and other high-ranking officers or civil officials.

Where two men of the Tenth would routinely remain on guard, to either side of the commander’s front door, half a dozen Praetorians now stood, stony faced and proud. They came to attention and saluted as their commander approached with the strange new recruit in tow.

The huge residence, almost as large as the headquarters building itself, presented a blank face to the outside world, three sides consisting of solid walls, lacking any apertures, the fourth butting up against a series of small store rooms that faced the main street. Built around several gardens, the light that filled the airy household came from internal light wells. This house, nestled in the centre of a great legionary fortress, was roughly the same size as his father’s opulent villa back in Hispania and, if he had to be honest, a great deal better appointed.

The legatus lived comfortably.

And now Rufinus found himself in that great residence, nervously waiting in the atrium as Paternus spoke with the imperial major domo; shrugging on his white tunic as the prefect had told him to. He wondered briefly whether there would be time to change his breeches, but removing his trousers in the commanding officer’s house seemed too wrong to contemplate. Stripping to the waist had been strange enough.

Reasoning that few people would be concentrating on his thighs, he tucked the white breeches into his belt and picked up his segmented plate armour. It was a major chore to pull on without the help of a tent-mate, but he’d perfected a way of doing so that resulted in the fewest possible pinches and pieces of trapped skin and only occasionally failed and required a second attempt. Thrusting his arms through the shoulder sections, he closed the front and threaded the leather throng through the eyes to lace it up.

In all, and in what he considered a super-human feat, he’d managed to change his tunic and replace his armour in less than a couple of dozen heartbeats. Looking up, he realised that Paternus and the slave had disappeared and he felt a moment’s panic, standing alone in the open, colonnaded space with its ornamental fountain.

He was just pondering what to do when another slave appeared around the corner on the far side of the small atrium and bowed. Gesturing him to follow, the small, reedy man disappeared again. Hurriedly, Rufinus collected his shield and the gleaming silver spear from where they rested against the wall, next to the small shrine to the house’s protective spirits.

Dashing round the corner, he caught up with the slave, who led him along a corridor painted with exotic scenes of African beast hunts, round another corner and past a small open, veranda’d light well, along another vestibule lined with small pillars, each bearing a bust that resembled the others, and out into a magnificent garden that must have stretched most of the length of the house. The flowers and plants were lifeless and snow-covered, but the ornamentation and the statuary, the octagonal fountain and the small shrine were magnificent. Rufinus found himself wondering why legionary commanders were always so hungry to move on into politics in the city when they had the opportunity to live in places like this.

On they rushed, his eyes picking out every detail, trying to keep his mind off where they were heading and what might await him there.

A small suite of rooms led off the immense garden, more or less a miniature villa within the main complex. Once again, Praetorians stood by the entrance; they nodded at him as he approached, presumably already apprised of his presence. Somehow, despite their judiciously blank faces, they managed to convey a sense that they looked down on him. In some circumstances it would have been very disconcerting; in the current situation there were far more important things to think about.

The large chamber into which they strode was decorative and pleasant, gleaming white and gold marble underfoot accentuating the crimson-painted walls. Chairs and cabinets stood around the edge and a gurgling fountain complete with leaping dolphins and well-endowed Gods occupied the centre. Three doors led off into the more private areas, each with its complement of guardsmen. Today, the Praetorians were ever-present, leading him to wonder yet again where he was expected to be.

He’d hoped to find Paternus here, waiting to give him some sort of instruction, but was a little dismayed to find the room empty apart from the guards. The slave bowed to him and retreated from the room, leaving Rufinus once more alone and confused, unsure as to why he was here, other than the fact that the entire complement of the First Praetorian cohort, to which he would become attached, appeared to be on duty at the imperial residence.

Almost as if his thoughts summoned the man, a door opened to the right hand side and Perennis, the tribune of this cohort strode out.

‘Guardsman Rufinus, good.’

Defying his words, the tribune’s face suggested that the young man’s presence was anything but good.

‘Sir!’ Rufinus snapped to attention, silver spear at his side.

‘There’s a small bath house at the far end of the gardens. Get back there and get yourself suitably attired. Those red breeches are hardly appropriate for a member of my cohort. And find somewhere to secure that spear. This is the imperial household. We don’t carry unsheathed weapons, no matter what they’re made of!’

Rufinus saluted, irritation beginning to mount. Why was he even here? Should he not be standing by one of the doors with a sour expression like the rest of the cohort?