S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

Another nod and they strode out into the cardo maximus where they had first dismounted. Mercator gestured left and right.

‘Temple of Augustus and temple of Victory. Once a week you’ll be required to do duty in one or the other.’ He lowered his tone. ‘It’s boring unless you’re very pious. If you’re lucky you’ll land duty when Passus is on. He tends to bring a jar of wine with him and there’s a dice school that runs in the back room.’

Mercator stopped and straightened with a sniff and a sour look. ‘Are you really bothered about a full tour now, or shall we get you rooms assigned and then head to the baths so you can stop smelling of shit?’

Rufinus nodded wearily. ‘I think so. If we’re going to be required to get up so early tomorrow, we should maybe get settled in. Why do you suppose the Prefect wants us mustered before dawn?’

Mercator shrugged. ‘First day back in the city. The emperor’s going to have to do a tour; show his face to the people, talk to the senate, get the blessings of Gods, do a bit of judicious donating to the most important priesthoods, announce a couple of meaningless but popular laws. You know the sort of thing.’

Rufinus nodded. Even the council members of the city ordo at Tarraco were lavish with gifts and public appearances when they were raised to office. To be made emperor would require a correspondingly huge display of largess, and the guard would accompany him on his tour.

The two men wandered along to the impressive headquarters building, where Rufinus was left examining the painted pediment which appeared to display a scene of the emperor Tiberius granting the camp to the Praetorian prefect, while Mercator disappeared inside for a while and organised matters with the clerks. When he returned, he was nodding, and gestured to a barracks two blocks down. He walked off, Rufinus falling in beside him again.

‘This is the one’ the veteran said with a wave of his hand, indicating the central of three identical huge blocks, built on two levels with a portico at the roadside. ‘Room twenty four will be the last one on the left. Turn left through the door and follow it round to the back.’

Rufinus nodded. ‘Where will you be?’ The idea of spending his first night in this huge, unfamiliar fortress on his own was not an attractive one.

‘I’m going to get someone to bring you your stuff from the stables and then I’m going back to my room for now. The baths are at the end of the Decumanus on the right, just before the south gate. Shall I meet you there in an hour? Then I’ll show you to the First cohort’s mess hall.’

Rufinus nodded. ‘See you there. Thank you, Mercator.’

With a wave, the veteran disappeared up a side street back toward the stables. Rufinus took a deep breath, looked up at the door, above which a sign read ‘Cohors I’ and, bracing himself, walked inside. Ahead, through another arch, a peaceful courtyard formed the centre of the structure, a pleasant little garden, decorative pool and fountain, half a dozen stone benches occupied by sunbathing guardsmen. It seemed a million miles from the camp life he was used to.

The corridor led left and right and he followed the former branch, past a well and a staircase, turning at the corner for the rear of the building. The corridor ended abruptly at a blank wall, with the last two rooms opening off to either side. The door on the left was marked XXIV and, with a sigh of relief, he strode inside.

To his surprise, the room was quite spacious with a window that was currently shuttered against the hot sun. Most unusually it held only two beds and no upper bunks. The guard apparently had the unthinkable luxury of just two men to a room. As he wandered around the chamber, running his finger across the dusty table and examining the badly hearth and the other, slightly shabby furnishings, he wondered what his new room-mate would be like.

With another sigh, he threw himself back onto the bed and bounced. It was soft and comfortable, especially after the past two years of intermittent life in leather tents.

His mind flickered through shifting images as he recapped the amazing couple of hours since he had first spotted the roofs of Rome. It seemed astounding that he was now here, lying in his own room. While he’d have loved time to explore the city and find his bearings, tomorrow they would be escorting the emperor, so he would get his wish in part at least. With a sigh, he reluctantly raised himself from the cot and clambered to his feet to go in search of the nearest latrine before it became a matter of too much urgency. Whistling quietly, he walked out of the doorway.

The wooden marching pole caught him a heavy blow on the side of the head and sent him reeling, his head swimming. He reached up to his scalp as he bounced off the door jamb and his hand came away scarlet.

Slowly, his eyes swam into focus. Scopius and a pair of his cronies stood in the corridor, two with solid ash marching poles, the third with a wooden mallet. The two extra thugs he didn’t know, but Scopius was all too familiar, as was the look in his eyes.

‘Time for your first lesson, shit-heel’ the bully snapped and lunged forward.

Quick as a flash, already recovering from the blow to the head, Rufinus dodged the attack and danced out of the way. Gritting his teeth, he cracked his knuckles, forcing a feral grin.

‘Alright, Scopius. Let’s do it.’

MEN rushed into position across the turf, cursing and gesturing to their compatriots. The Praetorian Guard, along with various other military units, chariots and drivers, wagons of ‘spoils’, roped lines of captive ‘tribal chieftains’ – all very much a charade, and even four elephants, a great grey beasts from south of Aegyptus with a horn on its nose, four lions and half a dozen camelopards. It was a spectacle the like of which Rufinus had never thought to witness.

Despite the supposed austerity of the triumph, with the priestly colleges to add the appropriate tone of piousness and zeal, the emperor had even acquired a troupe of acrobats from Armenia who danced on the back of horses, ate fire, leapt through burning hoops and suffered needles to be thrust through their cheeks, apparently without harm.

The veterans and officers of the First cohort rode or marched alongside and behind the chariot that would carry Commodus himself and the freedman Saoterus, who had rarely left the emperor’s side in the week since they had returned. Mercator was there, perhaps six feet from his master.

Far ahead, standing mopping their collective brow in the shade of the great mausoleum of Hadrianus, the white and purple toga-clad figures of the senate were involved in their own chats and intrigues, along with the magistrates and senior officials of the city. They would lead the column. Behind them, the musicians of the city’s cohorts, Praetorian, Urban and even the Vigiles and Speculatores, tested their instruments, issuing a sound like nothing more than a herd of wounded oxen. Next came the carts laden with so-called treasure from Marcomannia: great chests of coin and gold and priceless paraphernalia, all – Rufinus was sure – of Roman manufacture and bearing the marks of the palace. If the defeated tribes lived up to their side of the treaty, they would be sending large chests of treasure to Rome on an annual basis but even the victorious Commodus had not expected a beaten people to manage to organise the gathering and delivery of such a princely sum in half a year from a ravaged and destroyed land.

Following the treasure carts would come the bizarre and motley collection of entertainers. During the first gathering this morning, Rufinus had found himself with a couple of moments free and had tried to speak to one of the Armenians in the troupe, but his Latin had been so rough and heavily accented that it was almost impossible to communicate and he had quickly given up.