S.J.A. Turney - The Great Game

‘Ho there!’ he called.

Strange. The alarm should have been raised before a visitor got this close to the walls. He should have been challenged by now. He paused for a moment.

‘Praetorian?’

A tense moment later, a face appeared above the gate, his white horsehair crest wavering in the wind. A gentle rain had passed an hour ago, but the speed of the clouds scudding across the sky promised further showers for the day, and the gusting wind contained a chill.

‘Who goes there’ said the surprised guard, out of breath.

‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus; guardsman of the first cohort.’

‘Argentulum? Where in the name of Vesta’s tits did you come from?’

‘Let me in. Where is the rest of the guard?’

The face disappeared from the gate and there was silence for a long moment before the sounds of the bolts being withdrawn and the heavy restraining bar lifted. The face of a tired-looking guardsman peered round the edge of the gate.

‘Don’t expect you know the password?’

‘’Course I don’t!’ Rufinus snapped. ‘What is going on?’

The man straightened and stepped aside, swinging the gate a little wider to allow Rufinus entry. ‘I ought to escort you under guard when you approach without the password, but I think we’ll forego formalities.’

Rufinus glared at him as he dismounted painfully and stood, shaking from the pain and discomfort. ‘I asked you what’s happening. Where is everyone?’

The man shrugged. ‘All down in the city. The emperor took the whole guard to secure the palace, the procession route and the amphitheatre. There’s only half a century of us left in the camp as a guard: mostly those of us who were in the hospital and a few malcontents and lazy bastards. Sorry I was a long time answering… suffering something chronic with the shits right now.’

Rufinus gave him a distasteful look. ‘Any of the officers here?’

‘Nah. Just a fat optio lounging around in the headquarters, helping himself to the wine ration, and the quartermaster faffing around somewhere.’

‘So where are the prefects?’

‘Perennis is at the palace, commanding the emperor’s escort. Paternus is at the amphitheatre, securing it.’

‘Not securing it enough .’

He handed the reins of the mare to the surprised guard.

‘Do me a favour: put Atalanta in the stables for me, and make sure she’s fed and watered. I’ve got to kit up and get into town before the world comes crashing down.’

He was already stumbling off toward the barracks, legs wobbling slightly after the ride, when the guard waved at him. ‘But I need to go shit!’

‘Stable the horse. Then shit!’

Ignoring anything further from the unfortunate ill guardsman, Rufinus tried to run but devolved into a painful stagger after a few steps, feeling the aches and pains start to come on again. As he ran, he unstoppered the vial of painkiller and tipped a small measure between his lips, hoping it was enough to take the edge off the rising tide of pain, but not enough to wool-coat his brain.

Behind him, the guardsman, busy swinging the gate closed, yelped and jumped back as Acheron trotted into the fortress, sparing him a baleful look. The guard’s bowels surrendered.

Hurrying as much as his body would allow, Rufinus made his way through the corridors of the building to the room that had been his more than a year since. Icarion had kept the room clean and clear, though he was still using Rufinus’ bunk for extra storage. Rufinus’ kit stood in the corner and he staggered across to it. If he was to get near the emperor armed, he would have to be in Praetorian paraphernalia.

He noticed with some regret that the more valuable of his possessions seemed to have vanished. Even worthy Icarion couldn’t watch his treasured items at all times, and any sneak thief could find access to any room, given enough time. The leather medal-harness still hung on the bedstead, though the phalera from it had gone, probably to some street vendor for a few sesterces. Such decorations fetched a high price in some circles. Besides, no other Praetorian could wear it without being questioned as to its sudden arrival on his chest.

But the phalera was not the saddest thing. His two javelins stood in the corner, but the third spear in its leather wrap – his hasta pura – was also conspicuously absent. He gritted his teeth as he removed his mail shirt, allowing it to drop to the floor and painfully drew on his musty, dusty white Praetorian tunic, hissing and yelping. When this was all over, someone was going to pay for that theft. Melted down, the hasta pura would be worth a fortune in silver.

Would it be worth the unfortunate thief’s punishment? Hardly, he growled to himself.

Grumbling continually, sharp pains and dull aches drawing tears from his eyes, he divested himself of the drab equipment of a private mercenary and kitted himself out as a Praetorian guardsman. He realised with surprise and relief, as he examined his belt buckle, that he was using both eyes. His beaten eye’s swelling appeared to have gone down enough to allow him to open it. The sudden addition of depth perception to his vision made him feel queasy, but it would be most useful if he met any kind of trouble.

It felt odd after all this time to don official vestments, but somehow also right: as though he had merely stepped out of them for a while. For precious moments he considered the armour. The mail shirt he’d dropped to the floor would do the job, but he felt more at home in segmented plate, and his own armour stood there waiting for him expectantly. There was no hope of getting into it on his own. With a cluck of irritation, he gripped the armour and hauled it painfully from the corner onto the bed. He would have to find someone in the compound to help him. The chain shirt would have been easier, but today he was a Praetorian again, and would damn well look like one!

Acheron appeared in the doorway, tongue lolling, wandering over to the rainwater catchment basin near the end of the corridor and lapping water as though he may never stop. Rufinus smiled at the hound as he gingerly slung the gladius and baldric over his shoulder, feeling one of the cuts on his ribs leak into its wrapping.

A distant roar brought him back to focus. Somewhere off in the city, that sound had risen and fallen like a wave of noise.

Thousands of people shouting.

Like a crowd at the games.

His heart jumped as he was forced to consider the possibility that Commodus had just shown up at the amphitheatre. If that was true, then it was all over. Even at the fastest a man could run, he couldn’t be at the amphitheatre in less than quarter of an hour and that would be quarter of an hour too late. The condition he was in, it would be half as long again at best. Had he missed his opportunity by that little?

Acheron continued drinking, unconcerned. Panicked into rushing ever more, Rufinus grasped the helmet from the table in the corner and, jamming it on his head and lifting the plate armour with his good hand and a grunt, turned back to the door, ready to face whatever awaited him in the greatest city in the world. He’d love nothing more than to take his shield, but there would be simply no way of using it with his arm in this state. If it came to a fight, he would just have to rely on the laminated plates of the manica to protect him.

A second distant roar rose and fell, and this time Rufinus could distinctly hear the sound of an elephant trumpeting over the top. His pulse racing, he realised that the wild animals were being led from their places of captivity through the streets in preparation for the day’s events. The most dangerous beasts: the lions and rhinoceros, the bears and wolves, would have been kept in the cells beneath the arena, but for a celebration of this magnitude, even the great amphitheatre of the Flavians did not contain enough cells to hold all the gladiators and animals required. The less dangerous would be kept in the training schools and bestiaries nearby, and paraded to the amphitheatre in time for the show to begin. As long as the beasts and men were still being brought to the arena, he had time, but it was running out rapidly. The presence of such a large crowd in one place pointed to the imminence of the event.