S.J.A. Turney: The Great Game

‘The prefect commands the presence of the legionary Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus and his escort at the vanguard.’

Rufinus blinked in surprise and his heart began to race as Mercator gestured to the two men on the far side and one in the row in front to join them.

‘Come on’ the guardsman said, watching the optio’s retreating form as he rode off to the van.

His breath coming rapidly and his skin prickling with nerves, Rufinus and the four-man escort rode along the side of the column, raising a number of looks of varying degrees of interest or malice from the rest.

Paternus and the tribunes had already dismounted by the time they arrived, guardsmen taking the reins of their horses ready to lead them away. As Rufinus and his escort came to a halt and saluted, another two white-clad soldiers reached for their reins and motioned them to dismount.

Turning with an expression of mild surprise, as though he’d not expected to see them, prefect Paternus clapped his hands together and rubbed them against the cold.

‘Ah, good; Legionary Rustius Rufinus. You’ll be coming with me. You four will escort us as far as the Imperial court and then return to your quarters and arrange temporary accommodation and clean, dry kit for this man.’

Rufinus felt his heart skip a beat and panic began to set in again.

The Imperial court?

Could Paternus really be meaning to present him to the Emperor? His mind raced through a thousand pitiful excuses and listed a thousand more things he could potentially do wrong in the presence of the great Marcus Aurelius. The master of Rome was reputed to be a man of moderate temper and good humour, intelligent and introspective, but then his predecessor had been possessed of similar traits and yet still the Rustii had found his bad side. Rufinus was well aware of the dangerous games the patrician class liked to play. The loss of one such game had led to the Rustii relocating from the Esquiline hill and putting a sea between them and the anger of the former emperor Antoninus

And now, in one fell swoop, Rufinus could take the lucky escape into exile of his family and turn it into damnatio and enforced suicide for the entire clan.

As Paternus and the mono-browed Perennis, tribune of the First cohort, marched off to the great, ornate archway that led into the headquarters building, Rufinus’ eyes darted this way and that. In six years of service with the Tenth, he had been inside the headquarters building precisely three times: once when he arrived, to see the clerk and quartermaster, once to have his duplicarius status confirmed, and once to stand before the tribunal for an unfortunate, drink-fuelled punch that had felled an optio after a game of dice had gone very wrong. All that was in the years before the Emperor had resided at Vindobona and set up his office in the structure.

Passing beneath the arch, his pulse quickened again and Rufinus, gauging that the officers were far enough ahead and paying little enough attention that they would not hear a conversation, nudged Mercator and spoke in a low whisper.

‘They can’t be meaning to take me into the emperor’s presence like this?’

He indicated with his hands the bedraggled nature of his clothes, the dirty armour already spotted with tiny brown stains as the weather got to work on the plates, the lack of shield and kit.

The two officers ahead stopped sharply and the guardsmen almost walked into them as they turned. Paternus’ mouth twisted up at the corner in a quirky smile that looked peculiar on his aquiline features. Perennis, however, stared at him coldly, his dissatisfaction at this breech in military etiquette clear.

‘May I ask, legionary Rufinus,’ Paternus asked quietly ‘why you are unfit to be seen by the emperor?’

Rufinus fumbled his words for a moment and finally croaked ‘should I not be bathed and in fresh uniform, sir?’

Paternus smiled. ‘You are being presented as a valiant soldier of Rome, fresh from a battle in which you were wounded while endangering your life to save an officer. Some of the effect of that could be negated if you are clean-shaven, well-dressed and smell like a Syrian perfumery, could it not?’

Perennis rolled his eyes and turned to his prefect. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Paternus nodded. ‘Oh yes. Words of retreat and the cost of war are poured into the emperor’s ear on an hourly basis. Any time the success and value of the army and this campaign can be promoted it is our duty as Romans to do so.’ He narrowed his eyes and Rufinus suddenly had the impression that a wide rift existed between these two men – a rift across which trust could barely reach. ‘See to the disposition of the men, Perennis. I will present the news.’

The tribune went pale with suppressed rage. Rufinus was impressed at how well the man controlled his frustration as he saluted and turned without word to stalk back along the corridor. The remaining six men walked on across the wide courtyard toward the basilica and fore-hall where they would find the imperial presence and as they approached the entrance, Paternus gestured for them to wait, striding on ahead to speak to the guard.

Rufinus, his heart pounding in near-panic and aware of how close he had just come to disaster, looked around the huge courtyard. The colonnade that surrounded it was lit from beneath with torches burning in sconces, highlighting the many doors of the offices that controlled the day to day running of the army.

A tall bronze statue of the emperor on horseback stood at one corner of the square next to the rostrum from which commanders addressed their men. An ornate covered well stood in the centre, dozens of trails of footprints leading to and from it across the snow. As his eyes passed the colonnade on their way back to the basilica doorway ahead, Rufinus’ head stopped and his eyes widened.

Two women strode around the covered walkway, their sandals slapping on the stone, two legionaries escorting them, hobnailed boots clattering along behind.

The lead figure was clearly a woman of powerful breeding and expensive tastes. Her elegant stola was enfolded in a thick cloak of ermine, her waves of amber hair bound up with gold wire and trapped beneath a diadem of gold and jewels. Her face was pretty and elegant, if a little haughty, decorated with the bare minimum of white lead and cosmetics, adorned with understated jewellery that would cost more than a legionary’s lifetime wage.

But it was not the striding figure of the noblewoman that had caught Rufinus’ attention. Hurrying along in her wake, carrying a bundle of fabrics, was a girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years; her pale, creamy skin, needing no white lead, was accentuated by her mane of pitch black hair. A plain circlet of bronze that held back that mane was her only adornment, and her plain grey stola was covered with a utilitarian cloak of brown wool.

Rufinus felt his breath slow and his skin prickle anew.

The slave girl was hardly beautiful in a conventional Roman manner. Her cheekbones were high, but masked with a little excess padding, her nose slightly short with a curious upturn at the end. Her eyes sparkled, though, with the promise of mischief, and somehow there was about her a presence that made her mistress almost fade into the background.

Rufinus felt a number of uncomfortable stirrings that he really didn’t want to be experiencing as he was introduced to the man who ruled the world. He bit his cheek until he started to cry gently.

The two women and their guard passed close by and the slave girl glanced across at the party with a charming smile that Rufinus knew was clearly meant for him alone. As the party disappeared through the door ahead, into the basilica, Paternus bowed deeply and exchanged a few unheard polite words before returning to the five soldiers in the courtyard.