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.