S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

Seeing the vast magnificence of it all in the centre of a city of marvels filled with a million people, it seemed absurd that he had walked, talked and even bathed alongside the man who would now live here.

Almost as if summoned by the thought, the door of the main carriage swung open and Commodus stepped out and down the rungs to land lightly on the paving, a spring in his step. The young emperor looked around and his smile of sheer pleasure at being back in Rome was unmistakable.

Others clambered down from the carriages, looking more relieved than anything. Pompeianus was the last to exit and, while the rest of the nobles made for the great palace’s main portal on the heels of their master, the Syrian bowed to his brother-in law, the emperor, and turned, striding away into the city without an escort.

Men of the Fourth Praetorian cohort who stood on guard opened a large gate to one side of the main structure and slaves ran out, taking the reins of the beasts that hauled the carriages and leading them into ancillary areas.

Rufinus sat with the others, sweating in the heat as his horse swatted bothersome flies with its tail. Time passed as the column, now a simple cohort of mounted men in white with no passengers of import, awaited further instructions. Finally Prefect Perennis, having followed the emperor to the palace, returned, climbed onto his horse and flashed his grim face at the column before gesturing onward. Buccinae sounded and the unit moved off.

Wheeling in that great square before the imperial palace, the cohort trotted off back down the slope toward the triumphal arch at the base again. A right turn took them between a sprawling bath complex and a massive temple bigger than any he had seen. Just as he felt he was settling in, becoming inured to the constant barrage of glory that made him feel so provincial, his eyes fell upon the great Flavian arena and he marvelled anew.

The main amphitheatre of Rome curved away with delicate row upon row of arches. Rufinus was no newcomer to the games; he had seen some of the best slaves Hispania had to offer face one another and, on occasion, savage beasts in the arena at home. But the Tarraco amphitheatre, carved into the hillside and hanging above the blue waters of the Mare Nostrum, could hold sixteen thousand when full to bursting. The huge edifice before him now must hold four times that number; a truly mind-numbing prospect.

Further opportunities to marvel were torn from him, however, as the column turned before the great ellipse and trotted off up a wide street. The most notable difference as the cohort moved into the packed residential district of the Viminalis, hugging the slope, was the smell. A constant drone of flies accompanied the smell of dung, both horse and human, that clung to the drainage channels in the road, regardless of the combined efforts of bucket-men and the rain. The centre of the great city with its painted marble coating seemed to be largely faeces free, no doubt as a result of the great sewer that flowed beneath it and of the effort of public workers. Not so the rest of the city.

The ride up the long, straight road that cut through the heart of the district seemed interminable, the stink filling his nostrils and making him gag. His interest in his surroundings waned as the city became more and more slum-like, occasional grand entrances leading to palatial residences that remained well back from the grotty streets, enveloped in their own landscaped parks.

Finally, after an eye-watering quarter of an hour, the column approached their destination. A high, crenellated wall of brick loomed over the nearby houses, a respectable distance separating them. The camp of the Praetorian Guard, was enormous; the size of a legionary fortress and close enough to the city that it was, to all intents and purposes, part of it. The gates swung open for the approaching column and the First cohort passed within gratefully.

At another signal from Perennis and an accompanying blast from the musician, the column came to a halt on the dusty open area within. Rufinus reined in with the rest, his eyes taking in the barracks that would be his home for the next twenty years.

The main street stretched away from this gate to a counterpart some four hundred paces away, and was lined with huge blocks of white-plastered buildings, tiled with red and often sporting a veranda with a colonnade. It was considerably more grand and spacious than any legionary fortress, with wide avenues leading off. Men moved about on their business here and there, giving the fort its own seething life, like a small, enclosed military city. Somewhere roughly half way along, Rufinus could just make out the grand entrance to the headquarters building with its enormous marble pillars and triangular pediment full of carved figures.

A pair of identical temples faced each other near the gate through which they’d entered and a huge functional fountain with little in the way of ornamentation revealed that one of the city’s many aqueducts fed the camp before even reaching the urban sprawl.

His attention was drawn back to Perennis, who had dismounted, handing his reins to one of his senior officers. ‘See your mounts to the stables, report to the duty clerk, and then you can do as you please for the rest of the day. I recommend the baths be your first priority.’

The men grinned and sagged with relief.

‘Don’t get too relaxed, though. I want you all formed up in full, clean kit an hour after seventh watch.’

Rufinus slumped in the saddle. An hour after the seventh watch would mean it would still be dark at first muster. And regardless of being given the evening as their own, the prefect clearly expected the whole cohort to clean and polish their gear tonight.

‘Dismissed!’

As the prefect strode off toward the headquarters, Rufinus dismounted with the rest and led his horse, falling in at the back and following in their wake until they disappeared beneath a huge archway into a massive structure with only small, slit-like apertures in the facing walls. Passing beneath the arch, he saw that the building was constructed around a large central courtyard that smelled of warm horse shit.

His eyes locked on men ahead, he sighed with dismay as he felt his boot sink up to the ankle in a pile of manure. Pausing to look down at his stinking, shit-covered boot, he started as a fresh clod of brown mess slapped into his leg just below the knee.

He looked up in surprise. Three men were standing in the shadows beneath the arch, by the side wall. They had been clearing the entranceway of the inevitable conglomeration of manure and all had shovels, two leaning on them as they stood next to a huge pile of dung, the third grinning as he lifted his shovel back from the surprisingly accurate throw.

Rufinus stared in a bewilderment that slowly became infused with anger.

He’d never met them before and it was impossible, surely, for them to have picked out the one new man returning? The last time he’d been around another cohort, he’d been bearded and with flowing locks. He frowned.

The man who had flung the manure straightened and, with a mean grin, said ‘Welcome to Rome, ‘argentulum’.’

Argentulum! ‘Little silver’ indeed!

Rufinus took a deep breath as he felt a wave of anger wash through him again. The hasta pura that was his great reward for actions in Marcomannia was wrapped in a section of spare tent leather and carried with his two pila. It would require a great leap in judgement for a guard to pick out the extra missile and identify him as the former legionary who had transferred into their ranks in Vindobona.

He was wondering why such malice was being levelled at him and how they had singled him out so easily, when he saw the figure of Scopius standing in the open courtyard beyond the arch, gripping his horse’s reins and massaging the nose that had never quite regained its proper shape after Rufinus had flattened it across his face. Scopius gave him a look of malignance and walked away, disappearing from sight.