It’s a busy day today. There’s a long line of people struggling up the steep hill to our gate. Our optio, Marcus, delivers the traditional challenge. The voice in my head always wants to shout out “It’s bloomin’ obvious, they want to get in, don’t they?”. But rules are rules, and the optio must challenge the travellers, and the rest of the squad must look smart, two with ceremonial spears blocking the narrow archway into the building, two to pat down the supplicants, and apply the wands that check for illicit chemicals and EM signatures.
That’s me – the spear-holder to the left of the arch, attempting to look impassive, disguising the fact that I’m clenching my buttocks in time to show tunes to keep the blood moving around my body whilst I stand here. It also helps to alleviate the boredom, a little.
The optio is a twenty-year man. He’s mulling over whether to stay on for another twenty years or take his land-grant and retire. He looks good in his uniform. His skin is leathery from years spent out under suns on myriad worlds, but it contrasts nicely with his body-armour, the chest plate embossed with the traditional abdominal six-pack, the golden emblems indicating his rank, length of service, valour.
Me? Yeah, I’m the odd one out for sure. I’m not from Nova Roma. I’m a refugee. Military service seemed like the simplest way to gain citizenship, although who knows what that will mean in the long run. I’ve been lucky though – no off-planet wars to fight in so far. Instead, gate-duty.
It’s strange how quickly you get institutionalised though. This guy here, with his super glossy black hair – he’s not a local. It’ll be subtle, but he’ll get worked over just that little bit more than a home-grown Citizen. The next senior person in our squad is Francesca, and she really doesn’t like off-worlders. Yep, there it is, an extra pat down, legs kicked a little further apart. She’s not going to get promotion though – she’s a good enough soldier, but not leadership material. Cassie will get promoted before her, but new optios don’t get the squad they came from, so if we lose Marcus and Cassie, there’s a good chance they’ll break us up and ship us to different squads, possibly completely different postings.
Titus is the poet. That’s him, with Francesca, doing the pat downs. He won’t do the full twenty. He’ll probably just do his National Service, get his SPQNR stamp on his docket and…he says he’s going to travel, but I reckon he’ll just end up back in the family bakery.
The guy with the thick black hair is waved on. Cassie and I stamp to attention, spears to the upright to allow the man to pass. He glances up at the aquila carved into the archway and makes his way inside the cool marble halls of the Senate building.
The next traveller steps up.
© David Jesson, 2021