Further opportunities to marvel were torn from him, however, as the column turned before the great ellipse and trotted off up a wide street. The most notable difference as the cohort moved into the packed residential district of the Viminalis, hugging the slope, was the smell. A constant drone of flies accompanied the smell of dung, both horse and human, that clung to the drainage channels in the road, regardless of the combined efforts of bucket-men and the rain. The centre of the great city with its painted marble coating seemed to be largely faeces free, no doubt as a result of the great sewer that flowed beneath it and of the effort of public workers. Not so the rest of the city.
The ride up the long, straight road that cut through the heart of the district seemed interminable, the stink filling his nostrils and making him gag. His interest in his surroundings waned as the city became more and more slum-like, occasional grand entrances leading to palatial residences that remained well back from the grotty streets, enveloped in their own landscaped parks.
Finally, after an eye-watering quarter of an hour, the column approached their destination. A high, crenellated wall of brick loomed over the nearby houses, a respectable distance separating them. The camp of the Praetorian Guard, was enormous; the size of a legionary fortress and close enough to the city that it was, to all intents and purposes, part of it. The gates swung open for the approaching column and the First cohort passed within gratefully.
At another signal from Perennis and an accompanying blast from the musician, the column came to a halt on the dusty open area within. Rufinus reined in with the rest, his eyes taking in the barracks that would be his home for the next twenty years.
The main street stretched away from this gate to a counterpart some four hundred paces away, and was lined with huge blocks of white-plastered buildings, tiled with red and often sporting a veranda with a colonnade. It was considerably more grand and spacious than any legionary fortress, with wide avenues leading off. Men moved about on their business here and there, giving the fort its own seething life, like a small, enclosed military city. Somewhere roughly half way along, Rufinus could just make out the grand entrance to the headquarters building with its enormous marble pillars and triangular pediment full of carved figures.
A pair of identical temples faced each other near the gate through which they’d entered and a huge functional fountain with little in the way of ornamentation revealed that one of the city’s many aqueducts fed the camp before even reaching the urban sprawl.
His attention was drawn back to Perennis, who had dismounted, handing his reins to one of his senior officers. ‘See your mounts to the stables, report to the duty clerk, and then you can do as you please for the rest of the day. I recommend the baths be your first priority.’
The men grinned and sagged with relief.
‘Don’t get too relaxed, though. I want you all formed up in full, clean kit an hour after seventh watch.’
Rufinus slumped in the saddle. An hour after the seventh watch would mean it would still be dark at first muster. And regardless of being given the evening as their own, the prefect clearly expected the whole cohort to clean and polish their gear tonight.
‘Dismissed!’
As the prefect strode off toward the headquarters, Rufinus dismounted with the rest and led his horse, falling in at the back and following in their wake until they disappeared beneath a huge archway into a massive structure with only small, slit-like apertures in the facing walls. Passing beneath the arch, he saw that the building was constructed around a large central courtyard that smelled of warm horse shit.
His eyes locked on men ahead, he sighed with dismay as he felt his boot sink up to the ankle in a pile of manure. Pausing to look down at his stinking, shit-covered boot, he started as a fresh clod of brown mess slapped into his leg just below the knee.
He looked up in surprise. Three men were standing in the shadows beneath the arch, by the side wall. They had been clearing the entranceway of the inevitable conglomeration of manure and all had shovels, two leaning on them as they stood next to a huge pile of dung, the third grinning as he lifted his shovel back from the surprisingly accurate throw.
Rufinus stared in a bewilderment that slowly became infused with anger.
He’d never met them before and it was impossible, surely, for them to have picked out the one new man returning? The last time he’d been around another cohort, he’d been bearded and with flowing locks. He frowned.
The man who had flung the manure straightened and, with a mean grin, said ‘Welcome to Rome, ‘argentulum’.’
Argentulum! ‘Little silver’ indeed!
Rufinus took a deep breath as he felt a wave of anger wash through him again. The hasta pura that was his great reward for actions in Marcomannia was wrapped in a section of spare tent leather and carried with his two pila. It would require a great leap in judgement for a guard to pick out the extra missile and identify him as the former legionary who had transferred into their ranks in Vindobona.
He was wondering why such malice was being levelled at him and how they had singled him out so easily, when he saw the figure of Scopius standing in the open courtyard beyond the arch, gripping his horse’s reins and massaging the nose that had never quite regained its proper shape after Rufinus had flattened it across his face. Scopius gave him a look of malignance and walked away, disappearing from sight.
Rufinus turned back to the three shit-shovellers and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘Go on, argentulum. Fuck off and kiss Paternus’ arse while we get on with real work.’
The two men next to the speaker sneered. Rufinus made a step toward them and all three took a shovel full of dung and hefted it.
‘Come on lad. Piss off. Don’t start anything you can’t finish.’
Rufinus stopped for a moment, weighing the three men up and came to the conclusion that he could possibly take all three with little difficulty. He shook his head, took a deep breath and turned, walking his horse on toward the central courtyard. Now was not the time. Behind him the three men jeered and yelled names, flinging more dung in a futile gesture, given that they’d have to clean it back up.
With a sense of foreboding and weariness, he led the horse out into the large open area. The stables were massive with stalls for three hundred horses, more than enough mounts for the Praetorian cavalry force. Briefly he wondered whether they also played host to the riders of the imperial secret service who carried out the will of the emperor with authority greater than that of any mere military officer.
No. Such men would not quarter themselves with the Praetorian Guard. Their barracks would be elsewhere. He became aware that he was standing foolishly in the courtyard’s entrance with his horse waiting patiently while every other beast had already been led to their stall. Grumbling and aware that a dozen men were watching him with amusement, he spotted an empty stall and led his horse toward it.
A short while later he had settled the beast, stripped it of its tack and saddle, brushed it hastily down, hooked a feed bag over its head, and wandered back out into the bright sunshine with his kit. An optio, white helmet crest and feathers still pristine somehow despite all the dust, stood a few paces away, deep in conversation with Mercator. Rufinus paused, momentarily panicking that he had done something wrong. As Rufinus closed the stall door behind him, the officer broke off his chat and peered at him.
‘You need to be assigned quarters and get familiar with the camp. Leave your kit with the horse for now. There’ll be little time for you to rest, lad, but try to fit in a bath.’ His staff of office wavered toward the brown gloop that clung to Rufinus’ leg. ‘You’ll need one after that almighty slip, and you’ll have to wash your uniform.’
For a moment, Rufinus faltered, trying to decide whether to bring up the matter of the three insolent dullards in the archway, but decided against it. An open confrontation could lead to disciplinary measures, but reporting them to an officer would end any hope of peace and would likely lose him
the few friends he had.
‘Mercator here has been uncharacteristically selfless and offered to show you around. I suggest you take him up on the offer.’
Ignoring the new recruit’s sharp salute, the optio turned back to the veteran. ‘Make sure he stays out of trouble, Mercator, and for the love of Venus get that shit washed off him. He smells like a mare’s rectum.’
Mercator grinned and clasped hands with the optio, who turned and strode off through a doorway. As Rufinus relaxed again, he fixed his friend with a helpless look.
‘Three brainless bastards in the arch threw all this at me!’
Mercator nodded, his smile fading. ‘Your fame has preceded you. I’ve heard people muttering.’
‘But none of them even know me!’
The veteran shrugged. ‘That’s what makes it easy for mouthy shitbags like Scopius to turn them against you. I fear you’ve not seen the end of unpopularity. In fact I’d be very careful in these first few months. These lads all know each other, and they know the camp and the city, while you’re hopelessly out of your depth.’
Rufinus sighed miserably. ‘How the hell has he set so many people against me so quickly?’
‘Quickly?’ said Mercator in surprise. ‘What makes you think he hasn’t been sending letters to his favourite thugs for five months? Scopius is not the sort of man to let the beating you gave him go unpunished.’
Rufinus looked up sharply. ‘The culprit was never found.’
‘Piss off, Rufinus. We’re not daft. Your big mistake was stopping while he was still alive. You’re a good soldier; you should know never to leave an enemy alive behind you.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘To be honest I had to stop myself from finishing him off. Murder is the sort of thing that gets a man a very permanent punishment.’
Mercator simply nodded. ‘Well you bought yourself some time with Scopius in the north, but he’s back on his home turf. Keep one eye open even when you sleep. Come on. Let’s get you sorted.’
Rufinus sagged again as he followed his friend across the courtyard and towards the arch. ‘Stables of the Praetorian cavalry and courier services’ Mercator announced, waving an arm expansively at the large building. ‘You’ll probably only see this place once in a handful of months, when you’re sent on courier duty. Stabling for three hundred and sixty horses, with accommodation above.’
Rufinus nodded professionally as the two men strolled back into the shade of the archway. The floor was once more clear of detritus, though a wet circle showed where a pile of dung had recently lain. The bulky thug and the dangerous one were resting on their shovels again next to the huge heap of manure while the insolent guard filled a bucket from a water trough to swill the cleared floor. All three men looked up as Rufinus entered, and then looked away sharply as Mercator met their glances with a steely gaze. Clearly the veteran had a reputation; a fact that suited Rufinus very well.
‘Manlius’ Mercator said quietly. ‘If I hear there’s been any more trouble from you, I shall make it my goal to spend every denarius I can lay my hands on paying for filthy, brutal German slaves to go to that brothel you like and have their violent way with that Judean whore you’re so fond of. Do I make myself clear?’
The mouthy guard, Manlius, frowned. ‘No need for you to get involved, Merc.’
‘Every denarius, Manlius! Now get out of my sight.’
Turning his back, Mercator strode out into the camp. Rufinus momentarily caught the look in the thug’s eye and worried that the man might actually fling the bucket of rank water at the veteran. Instead, he turned a baleful glare on Rufinus, who sighed as he hurried out after his friend. It was possible that Mercator had just made things worse, for all his good intentions.
Hurrying along, he fell into step alongside the veteran and cleared his throat. ‘I might have to break a few skulls if I’m going to make it here.’
Mercator grinned. ‘Just don’t leave any evidence. And don’t have a go at one of the veterans. These little shits who’ve only been in a couple of years occasionally need knocking into line. You lay out a veteran though, and even Paternus’ patronage won’t help you.’
Rufinus shrugged. ‘The veterans don’t seem to be the problem’ he said, sagging again.
‘Come on.’
The pair wandered back toward the main street, Mercator gesturing as they went. ‘Campaign stores. You’ll find all the tent sections, stakes, mess kits and so on there. Still need to see a quartermaster and get a chit if you ever want to draw anything, but a word to the wise: the quartermaster is called Allectus and he’s a good man. If you get a broken mess tin or a cracked marching pole or anything, have a word and he’ll probably sort you out a swap off the books, so long as you’re good to him.’
Rufinus nodded. Minor corruption was hardly new among quartermasters, but it was always good to know who to approach.
‘That’s uniform storage. You’ll find everything there from spare socks to scarves, tunics and even baldrics.’
Another nod and they strode out into the cardo maximus where they had first dismounted. Mercator gestured left and right.
‘Temple of Augustus and temple of Victory. Once a week you’ll be required to do duty in one or the other.’ He lowered his tone. ‘It’s boring unless you’re very pious. If you’re lucky you’ll land duty when Passus is on. He tends to bring a jar of wine with him and there’s a dice school that runs in the back room.’
Mercator stopped and straightened with a sniff and a sour look. ‘Are you really bothered about a full tour now, or shall we get you rooms assigned and then head to the baths so you can stop smelling of shit?’
Rufinus nodded wearily. ‘I think so. If we’re going to be required to get up so early tomorrow, we should maybe get settled in. Why do you suppose the Prefect wants us mustered before dawn?’
Mercator shrugged. ‘First day back in the city. The emperor’s going to have to do a tour; show his face to the people, talk to the senate, get the blessings of Gods, do a bit of judicious donating to the most important priesthoods, announce a couple of meaningless but popular laws. You know the sort of thing.’
Rufinus nodded. Even the council members of the city ordo at Tarraco were lavish with gifts and public appearances when they were raised to office. To be made emperor would require a correspondingly huge display of largess, and the guard would accompany him on his tour.
The two men wandered along to the impressive headquarters building, where Rufinus was left examining the painted pediment which appeared to display a scene of the emperor Tiberius granting the camp to the Praetorian prefect, while Mercator disappeared inside for a while and organised matters with the clerks. When he returned, he was nodding, and gestured to a barracks two blocks down. He walked off, Rufinus falling in beside him again.
‘This is the one’ the veteran said with a wave of his hand, indicating the central of three identical huge blocks, built on two levels with a portico at the roadside. ‘Room twenty four will be the last one on the left. Turn left through the door and follow it round to the back.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘Where will you be?’ The idea of spending his first night in this huge, unfamiliar fortress on his own was not an attractive one.
‘I’m going to get someone to bring you your stuff from the stables and then I’m going back to my room for now. The baths are at the end of the Decumanus on the right, just before the south gate. Shall I meet you there in an hour? Then I’ll show you to the First cohort’s mess hall.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘See you there. Thank you, Mercator.’
With a wave, the veteran disappeared up a side street back toward the stables. Rufinus took a deep breath, looked up at the door, above which a sign read ‘Cohors I’ and, bracing himself, walked inside. Ahead, through another arch, a peaceful courtyard formed the centre of the structure, a pleasant little garden, decorative pool and fountain, half a dozen stone benches occupied by sunbathing guardsmen. It seemed a million miles from the camp life he was used to.
To his surprise, the room was quite spacious with a window that was currently shuttered against the hot sun. Most unusually it held only two beds and no upper bunks. The guard apparently had the unthinkable luxury of just two men to a room. As he wandered around the chamber, running his finger across the dusty table and examining the badly hearth and the other, slightly shabby furnishings, he wondered what his new room-mate would be like.
With another sigh, he threw himself back onto the bed and bounced. It was soft and comfortable, especially after the past two years of intermittent life in leather tents.
His mind flickered through shifting images as he recapped the amazing couple of hours since he had first spotted the roofs of Rome. It seemed astounding that he was now here, lying in his own room. While he’d have loved time to explore the city and find his bearings, tomorrow they would be escorting the emperor, so he would get his wish in part at least. With a sigh, he reluctantly raised himself from the cot and clambered to his feet to go in search of the nearest latrine before it became a matter of too much urgency. Whistling quietly, he walked out of the doorway.
The wooden marching pole caught him a heavy blow on the side of the head and sent him reeling, his head swimming. He reached up to his scalp as he bounced off the door jamb and his hand came away scarlet.
Slowly, his eyes swam into focus. Scopius and a pair of his cronies stood in the corridor, two with solid ash marching poles, the third with a wooden mallet. The two extra thugs he didn’t know, but Scopius was all too familiar, as was the look in his eyes.
Praetorian: The Great Game Page 11
