Praetorian: The Great Game

by S. J. A. Turney

  Strangely, while Paternus seemed to have noticed the stumble and had turned his concerned gaze on his master, Perennis, at his shoulder, shot a look at the back of Paternus’ head that was filled with so great a malice and hatred that Rufinus was amazed no one else seemed to have spotted it. Did he loathe his commander that much?

  As the remaining legions moved into position on the square, followed by the few auxiliary units that had been granted the privilege of sharing in the parade, Rufinus kept his keen gaze locked on the dais.

  The emperor had quickly recovered and was smiling at his legions, though Commodus never moved more than a foot or two from his father’s side, keeping his hands free and his arms unfolded in case he might need to make a quick move. In a similar manner, Paternus had straightened his own arms and his fingers flexed regularly as though he too were prepared to make a desperate lunge for the emperor.

  Tribune Perennis continued to flick his evil gaze to and fro, occasionally fixing it on a man who somehow especially irked him. Rufinus found himself staring at the second in command of the Praetorians, trying to weigh him up.

  Initially, he had thought that the man simply coveted Paternus’ position and harboured a grudge. The more he watched, however, the more he was beginning to come to the conclusion that there was no special enmity between the two Praetorian officers, but more that Perennis simply hated everyone on a roughly equal basis, and was incapable of forming anything other than a disapproving frown on those sour features.

  Whatever the truth, if Commodus had indeed spoken to them and requested that Rufinus be placed in the co-Emperor’s guard, that evil-looking officer would soon be his direct commander and he would clearly be a man to be careful around. A new worry to add to the myriad fears and discomforts flitting around his skull.

  Pondering on the interaction between the two officers turned his thoughts back to the night of his arrival and his first presentation to the imperial family, a recollection that, in turn and inevitably, brought to mind the form of the fascinating young slave girl who had accompanied Lucilla. He was now closer to the stage and its occupants. Trying subtly, and without moving his head enough to draw the ire of the nearby optio, Rufinus craned to look over the shoulders of the men in front but, try as he might, he couldn’t spot her enthralling form at the base of the podium with the other slaves.

  With a sigh, he drifted off into a very private reverie that threatened to colour his cheeks again.

  The Third Italica was now settled into place and another legion beyond them was entering the square. As Rufinus’ mind continued to wander along peaceful and pleasant corridors, following that spicy intoxicating scent to its warm, soft, imagined conclusion, the rest of the army settled into position.

  He almost jumped as the general background hubbub was shattered by a deafening fanfare from the various horns of the legions and the guard.

  Blinking and trying to draw his mind back from the soft linen sheets of his imaginary surroundings to the reality of the cold parade ground, he straightened his head and concentrated on the podium. The emperor took a step forward and threw out a traditional military salute in a move calculated to play the crowd. At the instigation of the senior centurions, the legions raised cheers for their emperors, whistling and pounding their free hands on the wooden shield surfaces in a deafening thunderous cacophony, all accompanied by the roaring applause of the civilians around the periphery.

  Slowly the noise reached a crescendo and then died away as Marcus Aurelius, a paternal smile across his features, held out his hands in a gesture to calm the crowd.

  ‘Victory!’ he bellowed, and then settled back to wait once more as the noise rose to another deafening clamour.

  Again, he held out his hands and waited.

  ‘The Marcomanni and the Quadi, who have long held designs on the rich and gentle, yielding lands of Rome, who burned this very city and killed and raped its people so recently, are finally cowed!’

  Again a roar rose, this time more from the civilians than the military. Once again the emperor waited with an indulgent smile.

  ‘Now begins the struggle for peace. Decades, we have been forced to fight again and again to preserve this border, a third of Rome’s military gathered on the Danubius year after year. Now we begin the process of colonization. If we are to prevent the tribes from ever again threatening Vindobona, we must draw them into our bosom, make them appreciate what it is to be part of the empire.’

  He paused and turned to smile at his son. There was a look on Commodus’ face that Rufinus couldn’t quite identify, but it perturbed him. Was it disapproval? Aurelius continued in a clear, oratorical tone.

  ‘But this is work for the future and no cause for such a gathering. Today we celebrate the victory of Rome and her valiant warriors. People of Vindobona, I give you the sons of Hercules; masters of the world; thunder that shakes the walls of Hades themselves! I give you the legions of Rome!’

  The clamour was once again deafening as the legions crashed their heels together, saluting their emperor with a noise that echoed through the woods for miles, the people of the city roaring their gratitude and approval.

  The emperor, a genuine smile still plastered across his face, stepped back and, watching intently, Rufinus could see his chest heaving with the effort of such public speech. Commodus quickly whispered something in his father’s ear, something that led the emperor to shake his head. He would not be deterred from today’s glory.

  Gradually, the noise abated once more and Aurelius turned to his left. Commodus, standing to that side, stepped back slightly, leaving the emperor facing Paternus.

  ‘Rome and her people owe a great debt of gratitude to the commander of the Praetorian guard, Publius Tarrutenius Paternus, general of the army and the man who finally ended the war for you, driving the iron tip of the eagle standard into the very heart of the Quadi.’

  Rufinus was surprised to see the prefect hunch over a little as though in embarrassment. Clearly he had not been expecting to be presented in such fashion. The crowd cheered this reluctant hero and Rufinus’ respect for the Praetorian commander rose a little, bringing the question of Perennis and his sour looks once more to the fore.

  ‘As is the tradition at the conclusion of a successful campaign, it is the most pleasant duty of the army’s commanders to recognise and award bravery where it is most due.’

  Standing back, he gestured to one of his adjutants who stood nearby, a man wearing an officer’s armour, with the military knot tied across his burnished, decorative breastplate. The pale, tall man with a stretched face and tightly-curled beard stepped forward to the front of the dais as four Praetorians rushed forth with a small wooden set of steps that they placed before the platform for quick access from the front.

  Taking a small wax tablet from his waist, the officer snapped open the case and peered at the names held within. Taking a deep breath, he addressed the massed crowds.

  ‘Marcus Julius Proculus: signifer of the fourth century, second cohort of the Second Italica, step forth!’

  To the cheers of his fellow legionaries, the man stepped out of line, the heavy bronze and silver standard firm in his powerful grasp, the huge wolf pelt wrapped around his shoulders and draped over his helm, heavy and hot. The man moved with a slight limp and the extra bulk beneath one leg of his breeches spoke eloquently of the wound he must have received in the recent action.

  Rufinus concentrated. Likely his own name would come up soon and he would want to know what was expected of him. The standard bearer from the Second Italica marched out to the front and approached the platform close to the stairs that had been recently placed. Rufinus was impressed with the man’s calm and steadiness as he mounted the wooden platform, given his recent injury and the extreme weight under which he laboured.

  He also noted with care that the stairs fell slightly short of the dais in height and that the last step was half as deep again as the others. Given his history of hapless accidents and falls, it was importan
t in such a situation to note every potential problem.

  He watched the signifer’s presentation, only half-heartedly listening as the man was acclaimed for managing, despite his own burdens, to take up the legion’s eagle when its bearer fell in the battle and use it to dispatch three barbarian warriors before falling back into his own lines.

  Rufinus watched as the man stood, straight and proud. He watched as the staff officer stepped forward and hung a third phalera on the man’s harness, already proudly displaying two awards won in previous actions. A cheer went up among the assembled legionaries and civilians and, as the signifer stepped back, he and the officer saluted one another before he turned and made his way safely back down the steps and fell into position with his unit.

  Another potential problem, Rufinus thought, would be stepping back after receiving the award. The signifer had been perhaps a little more than a foot from the edge of the dais at that point. Only his own flawed judgement and the will of Fortuna would stand between him and a long back step that would see him crash down bodily to the dirt of the parade ground.

  Deep in thought, he’d missed the second name being called out, though a legionary stepped out of the lines of the Third Italica and approached the steps. Built like an ox and shield-less, his splinted arm slung against his chest, he approached the stage. Rufinus found himself, with immense irritation, realising that the man was newly shaven and had perfectly neat, short hair. Almost as if to purposefully mock him, an errant curl of black, shiny hair suddenly sprung from beneath the rim of his helmet and dangled before his left eye, momentarily obscuring the irritatingly clean-shaven ox of a man.

  The big fellow stood powerful as he was acclaimed for being the first man to reach the Quadi supply wagons, having been at the forefront of the wedge that had broken their lines. He received his glinting torc that was pinned to his shoulder plates, returned the officer’s salute and made his way back to his unit.

  And on it went. Man after man stepped out from the lines of the legions, even one from an auxiliary unit, and stood proudly on the stage, erect and powerful as Mars himself while their martial accomplishments were announced, every one of which sounded far more impressive than pulling an officer bodily from his horse into the muck. Each one received their phalera or torc or armband, some with financial bonuses, some attaining field promotions or duplicarius status. Two men who were near to their retirement age and had acquitted themselves particularly well were granted their honesta missio early, receiving a small plot of land in the area and a sizeable fiduciary settlement.

  Twenty seven men rewarded for their part in the battle, Rufinus mused, adding with a little rancour that only two of them were unshaven and unkempt and that both of them were heavily wounded and had probably only been released from the legion hospital this morning without the opportunity to visit the never-present barber.

  Of course, he could have shaved with his pugio and trimmed his own hair, but he’d done that once, early on in the campaign and after staunching the nine flows of blood from his tortured face, he’d endured two weeks of being called ‘duck-head’ after his unfortunate new hairstyle. Clearly he could only rely of the skills of a professional. Duck-head would not be likely to receive anything but scorn from the emperor.

  ‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus, duplicarius legionary of the Third Century, First Cohort of the Tenth Gemina! Attend!’

  Rufinus had begun to drift off into a reverie in which he was clean shaven and lying in soft linen sheets with…

  His mind reeled as he suddenly snapped back to reality, trying to push aside the images that were rising in the more private parts of his mind. He took a step sideways, trod on the back of a legionary’s boot and stumbled into him with a gentle crash. A helpful man nearby caught the rim of his shield as it fell and handed it back to him.

  Straightening, his cheeks burning the same colour as his tunic, he grasped the shield and stepped into the open space between cohorts. The optio, a man who knew him very well and had sparred with him in the ring countless times, glared with open disappointment at this display of ineptitude.

  Despite keeping his eyes locked on the path before him and the helmet restricting his view, Rufinus was horribly aware that every pair of eyes on this side of Vindobona was watching him intently. His cheeks flared anew and he began to feel hot and slightly faint. Swallowing nervously, he realised that his throat had become parched.

  Slowly, he marched across the dusty ground toward the steps, trying desperately to bring his body back under control. Throwing himself through scratchy woodland in deep snow with only a sword and dagger and facing half a dozen vile barbarians in combat held no fears when compared to the possibility of excruciating embarrassment in front of the imperial family and the entire army.

  He paused for only a moment at the foot of the wooden steps, just as a passing gull deposited its business on the wooden plank right in front of him. They said it was lucky when birds shit on you, but he was still rather glad this one had missed, in the circumstances, particularly given the astonishing quantity.

  Slowly and with as much grace as he could muster, he climbed the stairs and stepped out onto the dais. The adjutant had paced back and was saluting him. Close by, Paternus and Perennis were also standing erect and saluting with full military stance. Paternus’ face was unreadable; Perennis’ was not, though Rufinus dearly wished it was.

  The emperor had once more stepped forth from the rear of the platform, Commodus close by his side. Marcus Aurelius had a serene, regal expression, made all the more powerful by the pale, drawn skin and his glittering, dark eyes. A sudden gust of fresh air ruffled the emperor’s blond curls and he held up his hand. Rufinus thought he’d felt a first flake of fresh snow on the breeze.

  Commodus, the same mischievous, even child-like, glint in his eyes, smiled widely at Rufinus. ‘The barber continues to evade you, then?’ he said quietly enough that no one beyond the stage would hear the words.

  Rufinus felt the blush on his cheeks again and managed a weak, hopefully deferential, smile. Commodus laughed and saluted, stepping back next to his father. Marcus Aurelius, father of Rome and ruler of the world, stepped one pace forward and Rufinus straightened.

  ‘Any battle’ the emperor said, his voice smooth and calm and yet carrying across the square as though he had bellowed, ‘has its heroes and its cowards. Today we have honoured men who have shown selflessness and bravery in Godlike quantities; we have rewarded those who had a personal hand in the victory of Rome over the barbarian. There remains one acknowledgement left to make.’

  The army was silent, the only noise the clink and clank of metal across the square, the gentle distant murmur of the civilians speculating over the reason for the emperor’s personal involvement, the caw and chirp of birds and the nearby rush and gurgle of the Danubius as it made its way to the distant Euxine Sea.

  Aurelius held out his hand to one side. A lesser staff officer standing to the rear of the dais placed something in it and the emperor turned back to face the front of the dais and the crowd beyond.

  ‘Single-handedly felling five enemy warriors while lacking much of one’s armour and equipment is an exploit worthy of note’ he announced. ‘If every legionary could fight with such lion-like strength and courage, a single legion would be sufficient to conquer the lands of the barbarian back to the impassable torrents that encircle the world. As is only appropriate for such valour, and upon the recommendation of his legatus, I hereby award legionary Rufinus with this phalera. May it be the first of many!’

  Aurelius stepped toward him and Rufinus held his breath as the shiny, burnished disc bearing the image of a roaring lion was pinned to his shoulder plate’s buckle. The emperor struggled for a moment, his shaking fingers completing the task with some difficulty. The great man’s breath smelled strange and sickly-sweet, almost like rotting flesh. It was all Rufinus could do not to reel away from it. Finally, the aging emperor finished his task and stood back.

  ‘Such reward i
s fitting for an act of this magnitude. One might say, however, that it is a paltry thing when the rest of this man’s actions are taken into account.’

  The officer at the rear of the dais stepped forward once more and handed something else to Aurelius, who took the item and gripped it. Rufinus’ eyes widened.

  The emperor stepped forward, grasping the silver shaft of a spear, perhaps six feet in length. The tip was pointed but without the head that would accompany its battle-ready counterparts. A simple silver rod, tapered at the end. Rufinus’ head spun. Even if it were really an iron shaft, merely coated with gleaming silver, it would be worth a year’s pay.

  But it was worth more than that; this award was worth far more than the sum of its construction, worth more than most men’s lives.

  ‘The hasta pura!’ the emperor intoned, raising the silver shaft so that all could behold it, the cold winter sunlight glinting off it as the orb made a sudden rare appearance between the clouds. ‘Granted to a man who saves the life of a notable citizen. Granted in this case to a selfless legionary who, by his courageous actions, prevented the untimely death of my Praetorian prefect, the general in the field!’

  The silver shaft was held out to him, the hand that gripped it beginning to shake a little with the effort. Rufinus stared at it for only a moment and then reached out and grasped it, more to prevent the emperor losing his grip than anything else. Aurelius stepped back, a look of relief passing across his face.

  Rufinus stared at the brilliant, gleaming spear in his hand. He only became aware of the roar of cheers, whistles and calls as it began to subside, Paternus having stepped forward, holding out his arms to quieten the crowd.

  ‘It is my pleasure…’ he began, but fell silent again, largely unheard over the cheering, waiting for quiet. As the last whistles died away, he straightened again. ‘It is my pleasure to announce the transfer of legionary Rustius Rufinus to the Praetorian Guard, in which he shall henceforth serve.’