S.J.A. Turney: The Great Game

Vindobona, the largest settlement in this Gods-forsaken corner of the world, was home to thousands of loyal subjects of the emperor from all walks of life, from the ancient Roman noble blood that controlled the ordo – the city’s council – down to the local traders and metalworkers who had barely a word of Latin. Smoke rose from the roofs of hundreds of houses and workshops lining the roads which radiated out from the centre, a mark of Vindobona’s success and prosperity.

And yet all of this was just the periphery of the conglomeration. The focus of Vindobona and the reason for its creation, growth and importance remained, as always, the army. At the centre of the spider web of roads, lanes and buildings stood the great fortress with its high stone walls, water-filled surrounding ditch, towers and red-roofed internal buildings. The fortress that had played host to four legions in its various incarnations, the latest being Rufinus’ own, was powerful and imposing and now held the centre of administration for the entire empire, due to the presence of the Imperial family during this protracted campaign. The column moved down the wide avenue, trudged across the bridge in the dim light and reached the artificial island which housed the massive fortress.

Just six years ago, as a fresh-faced young man, Rufinus had arrived in this great place as part of a trade caravan from northern Italia, seeking a position in the military far from the influence and intervention of his father; a place where the name Rustius Rufinus was as unknown as he himself. The Tenth had been the resident garrison of Vindobona for six decades now, had suffered crushing defeats against the Marcomanni and watched the city burn before returning the favour and then rebuilding stronger and grander than ever. There was a commonly-held misconception among the non-martial public that the garrisons on the borders of the empire earned their pay by sitting in barracks, raping the local economy of its strength and growing fat and intemperate with wine and rich food. Such was never the case here, with the arrogant and expansionist tribes across the river.

Rufinus had settled into barracks in the knowledge that any peace and prosperity the city seemed to be exhibiting was ephemeral and could be whisked away in mere moments when the tribes beyond the river decided that they were once more strong enough to challenge the rule of Rome.

And then, after three years of growing used to garrison life, learning the ways of the legion, training as a soldier and earning his double-pay status by bringing the First Cohort the inter-century championship, the world had exploded into frenzied activity as the Imperial court descended on the fortress. Eight more legions and thousands of auxiliaries came in tow – the final, total conquest of the troublesome local tribes foremost in the mind of the great Marcus Aurelius.

Six years…

The column passed from the still new, resin-odoured timber of the bridge and onto the snowy-blanketed turf that lay before the magnificent walls just as the braziers, torches and watch-fires were lit and the buccina call for the fourth watch rang out across the town.

As they approached the northern gatehouse, the optio commanding the watch called out, asking for the approaching column’s identification. The commander shouted back the response and the gate swung ponderously open. The loud, ominous creak of the hinges and the detritus that had built up against the wooden gates spoke eloquently of how rarely this gate was opened, standing somewhat redundantly facing a river that few would cross in peace.

As the column passed through the gate, Rufinus shuddered. It felt strange returning after so long. Though the fortress was the closest thing he’d had to a home in six years – possibly in his whole life, now he thought about it – returning under escort of the Praetorian Guard and to an uncertain reception robbed the event of any comfort.

The men of the First Adiutrix, currently garrisoning the fortress in the absence of its own legion, watched as the white-clad riders passed by, some with awe and respect, more with jealousy and greed, and others still with barely concealed sneers of contempt. The Imperial guard always drew a variety of reactions, often depending upon the previous experiences of the observer. While they were nominally the elite of the army, well-paid and with exceptional benefits and a position to which most legionaries aspired, they also had the ear of the emperor and more power than many approved of. A bad word from a Praetorian could result in a severe beating for an ordinary soldier.

Eyebrows were raised in surprise and interest as the single red-cloaked legionary rode past in the middle of the column. It was unusual, to say the least. On the men rode, up the Via Praetoria and toward the great headquarters at the centre. Rufinus found he was holding his breath. Until this point, all he had thought about was reaching Vindobona, not what would happen when they arrived. He glanced aside wistfully as the riders passed row upon row of barrack blocks, side streets running off in ordered lines. Less than halfway along the great thoroughfare, he recognised the end of the road upon which his own quarters resided.

The column filtered to the right side of the street without breaking pace as they passed three huge carts unloading a late night delivery into the enormous granaries, raised off the floor on bases of heavy stones and with a loading platform at the end. This far into winter grain was being shipped in from very far afield at enormous cost, and no delay in its storage could be brooked, given the chance that it may become damp or fall prey to the multitude of rats that occupied every army base.

Rufinus’ stomach growled and he realised just how long it had been since they’d last stopped for food. Now that he’d thought of it, visions of roasted meat and fresh bread, vegetables and fruit swam through his thoughts. Perhaps there would be a silver lining to the cloud of returning in uncertain circumstances after all. The Tenth legion would be on hard rations for days yet.

His eyes strayed back across the street to the right, where the rows of barracks had ended, giving way to the huge hospital complex. Few lights flickered in the windows and all was calm and quiet. Rufinus’ mind flashed back to the grisly scenes he had witnessed outside the temporary camp a day and a half to the east as the capsarius had bound his injured arm for the journey. If he had some free time to himself in the coming evening, he probably ought to go see the First’s medicus and have his arm checked out more thoroughly.

As his gaze wandered back to the left again, past the end of the granary, his eyes fell on a familiar and welcome sight: the bath house. Smoke poured from the roof as the furnaces worked hard, belching hot air throughout the numerous channels beneath the floors and up through the hollow wall tiles. Indeed, the heat of the building was revealed by the fact that the settled snow had melted some six feet around the entire complex.

A thought struck him and he leaned over and nudged Mercator, who was staring ahead, glassy eyed as he inhabited a world in his own mind. The guardsman shook himself out of the reverie and turned to him.

‘When you’re dismissed and the horses are stabled, will we be given the chance to use the baths?’ Rufinus asked hopefully.

‘Me: Yes. You? I have no idea. I don’t know what the prefect has planned for you.’

Rufinus nodded dismally; nor did he.

The column reached the centre of the fortress and the buccinae call went up sharply to rein in. As the guardsmen sat patiently waiting for further instructions, a decurion rode back from the head of the column, the twin white feathers in his helmet no longer jutting proudly, but sagging under the weight of the water. Reining in next to them, he cleared his throat. The look on his face suggested that he felt he was addressing a criminal or an animal or some other, lower, form of life.