‘You alright?’
Rufinus blinked, shaking his head, blinked more and then nodded.
‘Thank you.’
The guardsman grinned. ‘That hairy son of a German whore nearly had you’ he said as he looked around the depression. ‘Mind you, looks like you made good account for yourself first.’
‘That’s what we’re paid for’ Rufinus shrugged.
The guardsman wiped his blade on the barbarian’s fur, then took a small linen rag from his belt and carefully cleaned the sword to a metallic shine before sliding it back into its scabbard.
‘You’re the one who pulled the vulture off his horse?’
It was phrased as a question, though there could hardly be any doubt. ‘Yes sir. Couldn’t think of another way of preventing the attack without warning them all in the process.’
‘Swift thinking. He wasn’t best pleased until he realised what had happened. The horse is probably done for, if we ever find it.’
Rufinus took a deep breath. ‘The vulture?’
The Praetorian laughed. ‘Tarrutenius Paternus: the prefect.’
Rufinus stepped back and blinked again, this time in surprise. The man he had unhorsed was the commander of the Praetorian Guard, trusted general of the Emperor and senior commander of the army in the field. He might as well have grasped the emperor by the boot and yanked him out of the saddle. He swallowed nervously.
‘Is he…?’
The guardsman nodded. ‘Fine. He’ll be interested to meet you. All he saw last time was a crimson blur that burst out of the undergrowth, floored him and then ran off into the woods.’
Rufinus baulked and shook his head, but the Praetorian was already hustling him toward the path, where an opening had been forced through the undergrowth by other guardsmen.
A second white figure appeared as if from nowhere and held out Rufinus’ gladius and pugio, both already cleaned to pristine, glinting steel. Rufinus gave the man a nod of gratitude as he took the blades and sheathed them; he’d already lost a helmet and a shield in this action and would be paying for replacements out of his wages for months.
A moment later, walking as though in a dream, he stepped out onto the track, the snow churned into muddy slush underfoot with hoof-prints and the boot tracks of numerous soldiers. Most of the horses had been moved on, led by a few guardsmen, while the rest were waiting for their journey to resume. The other soldiers had either piled into the woods to deal with the unseen attackers or gathered around their commander.
Paternus, the third most powerful man in the empire, had adjusted his helmet and straightened, regaining his composure and some of the dignity he’d forfeited during his fall. As the guardsmen escorted Rufinus across the crunching white ground toward him, the prefect caught sight of them and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘This is the legionary, sir.’
Paternus looked at Rufinus as though he was something that had just plopped out of the cloaca maxima sewer in central Rome and bobbed away along the Tiber. As the man placed his bony hands on his hips and turned, Rufinus caught something about the way he moved that was distinctly bird-like. His gaunt face and aquiline nose added to the impression and it was instantly clear how the prefect’s nickname had come about.
With a hoarse cough, the prefect pinched the bridge of his impressive nose before returning his hand to his hips.
‘Identify yourself.’
‘Duplicarius Legionary Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus of the Third Century in the First Cohort of the Tenth Gemina Legion, sir.’
Paternus frowned and walked around him in a circle, giving him an appraising glance that seemed to find him lacking in some way.
‘You are a mess, legionary… though I am aware there are mitigating circumstances.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A grand name for a common legionary? Patrician blood in that name if I’m not mistaken?’
Rufinus sighed inwardly and tried not to let his shoulders slump. ‘Far enough back, yes sir.’
‘It seems that I owe you a debt of gratitude, legionary Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus?’
Rufinus shook his head in a self-depreciating manner but Paternus looked up past him at the two Praetorian guardsmen standing at his shoulders.
‘Get him cleaned and reequipped. The guard returns to Vindobona within the hour to report the glorious success of the Emperor’s army. The legions and auxilia can follow on when they’ve finished cleaning up, but this man comes with us. Such reckless bravery is deserving of reward.’
Rufinus stared as the Praetorian prefect turned and gestured for one of the horses. The first flake of a fresh shower of snow landed lightly on his nose. He looked around, bewildered, into the surprisingly sympathetic expression of the guardsman who had escorted him from the woodland. The man gestured for him to face front.
Amid the bustle as the prefect re-mounted, a tribune trotted up from the rear of the gathering – a short, heavy-set man with a dark, curly beard and a single eyebrow that ran the full width of his face. The man spoke briefly to one of the guardsmen and scanned the gathering until his eyes fell on the crimson cloak among the white. The face he pulled was so like the expression Rufinus’ father usually reserved for him that it took him by surprise and he blinked and averted his gaze. By the time he looked back, the tribune was deep in heated debate with the prefect.
‘Who’s the one with the beetle-brow?’ Rufinus asked, leaning closer to the guardsman. The man looked past him, frowning, and peered at the gathering until he realised who was being indicated.
‘That’s Perennis, tribune commanding the First Cohort. Watch out for him; he’s got a temper and he plays the game just as well as the prefect.’
‘I don’t think he likes me.’
The guard laughed quietly. ‘That’s because he doesn’t know you. He never likes the unknown very much. When he does get to know you, that’s when he’ll begin to really despise you.’
Rufinus threw the man an uncertain smile, not at all sure whether that had been a joke. There was certainly something about the tribune’s face and demeanour that suggested he was a man it would pay to avoid.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the guardsman on an impulse.
‘The lads call me Mercator, like in the Plautus comedy. Now shut up, face front, and pay attention and do whatever the prefect tells you until we reach Vindobona.’
Rufinus sighed. To think that today had started out with the simple fear of facing a horde of slavering Quadi?
II – The city at the edge of the world
THE frozen sun had reached the western horizon by the time the great sprawl of Vindobona and the heavy fortress at its centre became visible. The hillside sloped gently away, clear of obstructions down to the Danubius River – a wide avenue had been cut through the woodland at the time of the city’s rebuilding following the Marcomannic raid which had utterly destroyed it. A strong timber bridge marched across the swift, deep torrent to the great Imperial centre – a bridge that was a tenuous link between the Roman world and the lands of the barbaroi which would one day be rebuilt in stone, when the newly conquered lands were incorporated into the empire as the province of Marcomannia.
Vindobona, the largest settlement in this Gods-forsaken corner of the world, was home to thousands of loyal subjects of the emperor from all walks of life, from the ancient Roman noble blood that controlled the ordo – the city’s council – down to the local traders and metalworkers who had barely a word of Latin. Smoke rose from the roofs of hundreds of houses and workshops lining the roads which radiated out from the centre, a mark of Vindobona’s success and prosperity.
And yet all of this was just the periphery of the conglomeration. The focus of Vindobona and the reason for its creation, growth and importance remained, as always, the army. At the centre of the spider web of roads, lanes and buildings stood the great fortress with its high stone walls, water-filled surrounding ditch, towers and red-roofed internal buildings. The fortress that had played host to four legions in its various incarnations, the latest being Rufinus’ own, was powerful and imposing and now held the centre of administration for the entire empire, due to the presence of the Imperial family during this protracted campaign. The column moved down the wide avenue, trudged across the bridge in the dim light and reached the artificial island which housed the massive fortress.