Free The Great Game by S. J. A. Turney

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. Eventhe 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 heand 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