The world had turned upside down for him for the second time in a few days.
His hand reached for the strigil.
IV – The giving and taking of great things
RUFINUS fastened the bronze-plated belt around his waist. It was far fancier than his old one and had cost enough that he really didn’t want to calculate how many weeks of slogging he would have to endure to pay for it. Add to that the replacement helmet and shield and the five sesterces that he owed Acastus for hammering out and smoothing the major marks on his armour, and it started to look like a small fortune. He’d even paid out a disturbing sum for a new cloak, given the state of his old one.
It was all doubly irritating given that, not long after the ceremony was over, he would be transferred to the Praetorian Guard and much of his equipment, including his fresh replacements, would be inappropriate and sold back to the legion’s quartermaster. He may well have paid a princely sum for a cloak that he would wear only once.
Still, it was not every day a man was awarded a decoration by the hand of the emperor himself, and being arrayed in the finest kit available seemed the least he should do, regardless of cost and inconvenience.
The organisation and upgrading of kit had given him something to do this past five days, though, and for that he was extremely grateful.
Those events that had taken place on his return to Vindobona with the guardsmen almost a week ago seemed now like a dream that had flitted away upon waking with the first tendrils of a new dawn. One evening of near panic-inducing nerves upon being introduced to the most powerful people in the world, a burst of most unseemly familiarity from the man who would soon rule the empire, and then it had evaporated like mist and left a mundane normality that had rendered Rufinus flat and slightly confused.
Only six days ago, Commodus had escorted him to the bathhouse and treated him with deference and respect for a short time before turning his capricious attentions elsewhere. As soon as the young co-emperor had spotted a pair of tribunes he knew well floundering in the water, an instant clique had formed and, once again, Rufinus had found himself alone.
In a way, he’d been grateful. To be singled out by men of such power was a thing both wonderful and terrifying, and the chance to relax a little, lower his guard and enjoy the simple acts of cleansing and recuperating had been well-received.
It had mattered little to him that he had no clean kit with him at the baths. With Commodus’ attentions suitably diverted he had slunk away quietly, borrowing one of the bath-house’s robes and carrying his kit in weary arms to the Praetorian barracks. A few eyebrows had risen at the manner of his arrival but, once Mercator’s name was given and the friendly guardsman came strolling out to meet him, all had settled again.
His escort had arranged for freshly-laundered russet tunic and breeches to be set out for him, along with dry boots and even fresh undergarments. Shown to the room that had been put aside for him, he had not even bothered disrobing before sinking gratefully into the relative softness and comfort of a fortress bunk.
He’d spent two days occupying that room on his own, a bunk-filled space designed for eight, his only company being the guardsmen who had been his escort, and even then only on the rare occasions that their duties had allowed. The oak-beamed room with its four double bunks, armour racks, table and chairs and small hearth for warmth was surprisingly dingy even at the height of the day’s sun, and the room depressed him.
With the Tenth legion still out in the field, Rufinus had no duties and no compatriots in Vindobona and the next morning had brought with it a level of boredom and ennui hitherto unknown to him, kicking his heels in the bright coldness of early Martius. By now, spring would be making herself felt on the shores of the Mare Nostrum, in Hispania and Italia; flowers bursting into bloom and animals gambolling on the hillsides. Here in the barbarian north, blankets of fresh snow still covered much of the landscape and the cold, crisp, white sky with peripheral cloud promised further blizzards.
He made a point of visiting the baths again several times, partially through the sheer bliss of being able to remain clean, but mostly in the continued hope of a haircut and shave. In an almost farcical turn of events, though, every visit seemed to coincide with the resident barber being out on some ‘important business’ or other and so he remained hirsute and itchy, despite his best efforts.
The second afternoon, as he’d sat alone in the room, humming a little ditty from his childhood while polishing out a rust spot on one of his back plates, Mercator had dropped by with the first news from higher up in two days: The legions had decamped in Marcomannic lands and were returning to base, leaving their small occupying garrisons to control the freshly conquered territory. In response, the First Adiutrix were moving out of the fortress and constructing a temporary camp on the far bank.
Rufinus could only imagine how popular they all were among the First at the moment, having to vacate their comfortable barracks of the past few months for life under leather tents in snow and mud. Still, the war was over. Soon most of the legions drawn in for the campaign would be returning to their home fortresses in Pannonia and Noricum and as far distant as Germania and Thracia. The inconvenience of sharing one fortress would soon have passed. The Tenth could settle back into garrison life at Vindobona… he, of course, could be anywhere if the Praetorian Guard were taking him into their ranks; most likely back to the great thriving heart of the empire.
Vindobona had immediately exploded into a chaos of reorganisation as men who had occupied barrack blocks for months were required to collect together their kit and march out across the Danubius. As had become the norm, there was no task or assignment for Rufinus and he found himself ejected from the Praetorian quarters and sent to his old room in the strangely empty fortress, a single man occupying quarters for five thousand.
Two more days had passed with an increased sense of solitude, the First busy in their temporary camp across the river while the few Praetorian cohorts manned the walls and gates of the fortress, awaiting the return of the Tenth to retake its position as garrison. It had been strange to return to barracks, comforting in some small way, with the familiar walls covered in lewd graffiti, but made more hollow and peculiar by the loneliness that accompanied it and the knowledge that as soon as his transfer was made official, he would be leaving the room again forever.
Such a sense of solitude should have disappeared when the Tenth returned, marching in triumph down along the thoroughfare cut into the woods across the river, buccinae blaring out, flags waving, men cheering. It did not.
The various returning legions scattered to create temporary camps around the periphery of Vindobona while the Tenth marched into the fortress, the camp prefect performing a brief ceremony and receiving the passwords from the Praetorian tribune as his men filtered out through the fortress, already taking guard positions.
Rufinus had waited with a sense of anticipation and excitement for the other men in his contubernium to return to the room: men he had last seen in the woods of Marcomannia rushing to the signal before he stumbled across an ambush that had turned his life upside down. He had such things to tell them: he had met emperors, bathed in senior officer’ baths, ridden with the Praetorian cavalry. He yearned also to hear of the aftermath of the battle; the night after such a great action was always filled with drink and reverie as the survivors celebrated their continued fortune. Some of the best and funniest stories were born in such conditions.
They returned: five tired, dirty soldiers wandered into the room, chatting in a small group, telling stories and anecdotes and paying no attention to the desperately lonely man sitting on the bunk awaiting them. Only one of them even met Rufinus’ gaze before they dumped their kit and went to find food or the baths without extending an invitation to their long-term roommate.
Deflated and unhappy, Rufinus had wandered out and among the men of his legion as they went about the business of settling back into quarters long abandoned, putting to rights the changes made b
y their temporary occupants. He’d always been a reasonably popular man, except with those that had foolishly bet against him in fights. Now, though, hardly anyone seemed inclined to speak to him and few even made eye contact.
As he’d travelled around the fortress, moving like a ghost, unnoticed amid the chaos, the clouds gradually lowered and the first flakes of damp, soggy snow settled on his shoulders. Even the weather seemed to have turned against him.
A little judicious listening-in on supposedly private conversations had led him to the conclusion that he was no longer considered a legionary by the Tenth. Having been taken by the Praetorians and seemingly treated as though he were somehow different, the men of the Tenth had already labelled him ‘one of them’. His continued absence had reinforced their opinions, and it looked like there was little Rufinus would be able to do to return things to normal. He had been taken by Praetorians and was no longer welcome among the Tenth.
And so the last day had been thoroughly soul-destroying, with men he had long counted friends ignoring his very existence. Even the centurions and optios seemed already to have more or less forgotten about him, and his name failed to appear on any duty rosters. To prevent the boredom and depression overcoming him completely, Rufinus had devoted all his time to his kit and preparations.
And now here he was, sliding his gladius into its scabbard and reaching for his helmet with the stiff, red horsehair crest. The room was empty; the entire block was empty, the rest of the men already on their way to the assembly. He’d have been the first man out had he not suffered a last moment panic, misplacing his sword, though a small, bitter part of his mind suggested to him that his former companions might have hidden it simply to aggravate him.
The blade had turned up eventually, propped in a corner behind the piles of mud-spattered kit strapped to their marching poles.
With a sigh, he jammed the helm on his head and turned to leave, tying the chin-straps together as he left. Across the fortress, the buccinae rang out with the second call. By the third such blast the legion had to be in position, and punishments would be handed out for failure to attend in time. Grasping the heavy, rectangular crimson shield by the door frame, he strode out into the bright, crisp, cold morning and jogged along the street. The snow had let up early this morning as the sun began to show on the horizon, almost as if the emperor had commanded a good day for the gathering of the eagles.
Other men were still filing out of their quarters here and there, rushing for muster, jamming on helmets and struggling to carry their kit while fastening cloaks. The fresh snow in the streets of the fortress had already become a soggy slush, brown and unpleasant, which soaked into the boots and numbed the toes no matter how thick one’s socks were.
Out onto the Via Praetoria he jogged, turning with the other tardy men, rushing toward the headquarters and its gathering. There the Tenth would finish mustering before marching out to present themselves as part of Aurelius’ victorious army. Past the granary, the hospital and the bathhouse Rufinus hurried, finding himself in a cluster of men pushing their way through the entrance to the great complex. As they burst through into the courtyard within, men rushed to find their place and fall in with their centuries.
Ducking past two panicked-looking legionaries, Rufinus slowed his pace and made for his unit, the centurion giving both he and the three other latecomers a black look. The third and final blast rang out from the legion’s chief musician and the men were in position, the last few still settling into place, looking miserably forward to a few days of unpleasant duties for their tardiness, mucking out latrines or similar. At least, if the proposed transfer actually occurred, he would avoid such punishments.
Barely was the assembly complete before the centurions began to bellow out calls and the buccinae blared again, the legion turning to move off by cohort and century in full parade form and at a slow march toward the gathering.
Slowly, with a sedate and impressive pace, eagle, flags and standards glinting and fluttering, the Tenth Gemina filed out of the great gate of the headquarters, along the Via Principalis and out of the fortress. The legatus and his tribunes led the column, riding immaculately-groomed horses, their cloaks flapping in the breeze, each cohort and century following on in line.
As the legion traversed the causeway that crossed the fortress’ defensive ditches and moved into the street of the civil settlement, folk leaned out of windows and doors and cheered. Families stood beneath the wooden verandas of their buildings watching with awe and glee as the victorious Tenth passed by. Out of the corner of his eye, before they fully emerged from the defences and into the street, Rufinus caught sight of another legion marching across the open ground before the fortress, having just crossed the river. That was either the First Adiutrix or the Third Italica: the two legions encamped within the land that would soon become the province of Marcomannia, across the Danubius.
Every part of the emperor’s glorious army was parading today.
Past houses and tabernae, workshops and stables they marched to the cheers of the crowd, boots churning the endless slush and slurry of the streets, eyes on the sky, praying to a hundred different Gods to hold the weather off until they had returned to the cover of the barracks.
Past the new gleaming marble temple of Roma and Victory they marched, past the temple of Epona: a Goddess worshipped almost exclusively by the indigenous folk and cavalry troopers, past the animal market, the great granaries, the infamous ‘Grape Field’ tavern than had robbed so many soldiers of their pay and their senses in varying degrees, past the side road to the main docks with its endless stream of heavily-laden carts and wagons: past the thriving heart of civil Vindobona.
Finally, ahead stood the high, gracefully arched exterior of the new theatre, not yet opened, though nearing completion and due to be dedicated to the glorious name of Marcus Aurelius in Aprilis. Yet another avenue of celebration for the final quashing of the tribes across the river.
At the edge of Vindobona, the theatre stood some thirty feet high in its most complete section, covered with wooden scaffolding and hanging ropes like a shredded spider web. The wooden boards and platforms were packed with workers and civilians all trying to get a view of the great parade ground that had been designated on the wasteland opposite, the snow shovelled off early in the morning in preparation.
Already three of the legions had arrived at the great space and were standing to attention. Crowds of civilians heaved and jostled at the periphery, occasional over-excited members leaning out toward the assembled soldiers, though none were stupid enough to actually approach the army. This may be a great parade and spectacle, but every man and woman in Vindobona knew quite well how battle-hardened and prepared for trouble the assembled forces were. With the emperor present, even the slightest move forward from the crowd could be construed as a potential threat and the Praetorians were prepared to deal with any such infraction.
The imperial family, along with the senior commanders and a few of the more important civil officers in the city stood on a raised wooden dais at the riverward side of the ground, backed by a palisade that displayed trophies of captured Marcomannic and Quadi weapons, armour and shields, all interspersed with expensive furs.
The personal slaves of the most important attendees stood patiently at the foot of the platform, looking for all the world like a human shield between the nobles and the massed ranks of the legions. Rufinus tried, as he moved into position, to spot a certain young lady among them, but they were too numerous and distant.
Two groups of captive enemy noblemen stood chained, defeated and dejected, at each end of the great podium, on display for the public to jeer and spit at, Praetorians with drawn weapons watching them keenly. The braver of the townsfolk threw rotten vegetables at the fallen Quadi and Marcomanni warlords, even small stones. Only the braver, though, for the possibility of accidentally striking one of the Praetorian guards was ever-present.
In addition to the Praetorians on the platform, guarding the pr
isoners and gathered in small contubernia at strategic points for crowd control, the bulk of the guard surrounded the entire structure and its occupants: gleaming white forms, attentive and impressive, alert for any threat to their emperor and his companions.
Slowly and with stately pace, the Tenth moved to its assigned position and, as he gratefully came to a stop, settling his shield into position along with the rest, right hand by his side, Rufinus scanned the area. The sound of the crowd cheering and shouting back away from the assembled troops, some sitting in precarious positions on the scaffolding, managed to almost drown out the creaks and clanks of the assembled legions. As the last men of the Tenth moved into place, already the Third Italica was visible between the buildings back on the main street as they moved toward the assembly.
The imperial family stood on the platform, their feet at shoulder height to the men. Lucilla and her husband had contrived somehow to look even more irritated and bored than they had that evening in the headquarters, while Aurelius and his son stood in full armour, glittering and impressive. Close by, Paternus watched the assembling units with a professional eye, while tribune Perennis stood at his shoulder with his usual glower.
The assembled legionaries watched their co-emperors with a sense of awe and respect that was almost palpable, much as Rufinus had always done. The men of the legions saw only a great gesture of unity and the tight imperial family bond, as Commodus turned to his father and clasped his wrist in the age old gesture of comradeship, leaning in to speak in his father’s ear. Rufinus, his eyes now opened to the truth, had seen not a gesture of family closeness, but a desperate move of support. Doubtless none of the ordinary soldiers had noticed the slight stumble in the emperor’s step and the look of concern that briefly passed across Commodus’ face as he moved in to prevent his father from falling.
Praetorian: The Great Game Page 6
