Praetorian: The Great Game

by S. J. A. Turney

  The second cheer was less enthusiastic, though Paternus either ignored the fact or failed to notice it as Perennis stepped forward to his side. Reaching out, Paternus took the shield from the flushing legionary before him and set it aside on the wooden stage. As Perennis passed his commander a folded white tunic and breeches, he reached out and draped them over Rufinus’ shoulders. Turning once again, the Praetorian tribune passed his master a shield of hexagonal design, bearing the scorpion emblem of the Praetorians. Paternus held the shield out so that Rufinus could grasp the handle, which he did with no small trepidation.

  As the cheering continued, Paternus leaned forward.

  ‘Now step to the back of the dais behind tribune Perennis and stay there looking impressive.’

  His mind still reeling, Rufinus did as he was bade, stepping back behind the Praetorian officers, where a small knot of guards stood on duty. He was relieved to see Mercator grinning at him from the rear ranks.

  He returned the guardsman’s smile with a genuine, slightly embarrassed one of his own, but his heart skipped a beat as Mercator’s grin instantly vanished from his face to be replaced by a rictus of fear, his mouth an ‘O’ of shock. The world slowed and time became thick as honey. Every guardsman’s eyes had risen to look past Rufinus, over his shoulder. The horror evident on Mercator’s face was mirrored in every other expression.

  Rufinus turned, almost infinitely slowly, already horrible sure of what it was he was going to see. As he spun, the prized silver spear falling, forgotten, from his grasp, the men of the Praetorian Guard were already reacting, breaking into leaden slow runs.

  Rufinus stared at the falling form, sunlight glinting off the golden curls as they dropped through the air so slowly.

  Commodus, his eyes wide, his face suddenly ashen, was leaning forward and down, too late to help. Paternus, close by, was also diving for the wooden boards.

  The still form of Marcus Aurelius hit the floor of the dais with a thud and suddenly everything sped once again into a blur of activity. Commodus, Paternus and Lucilla were down, crouched by the emperor’s body, only the lower legs and their magnificent boots visible from this angle. Perennis was yelling a series of commands to the guards as the Praetorian’s medic ran forth with his leather bag. The legions below were in chaos, the crowds moaning in panic.

  As the world revolved around him, spinning faster and faster out of control, Rufinus stood, aghast and alone on the platform as he watched his emperor die.

  V – Grief in many forms

  RUFINUS looked around nervously and shrugged out of the slightly sweat-stained crimson tunic, letting it fall to the floor in an undignified manner. Taking a deep breath, he struggled into the freshly-pressed white tunic of the Praetorians and carefully pulled it down so that there were no rucks or creases that would irritate beneath armour before gathering the crimson mess and hanging it over his scabbard and baldric.

  It had been a mad, horrible half hour.

  On the platform in front of the population of Vindobona, the Praetorian medic had announced that the emperor was still breathing, though unresponsive. Commodus, his eyes already red-rimmed with tears and worry, had refused all aid in raising his father from the floor – in truth the frail old man must only have weighed the same as a child despite the armour – and had lifted him onto the makeshift stretcher that had been formed from Rufinus’ former legionary shield along with three cloaks for comfort. The air was charged with fear and shock, a strange tingle adding to the cold winds that had sprung up, threatening the return of the endless snow.

  As Aurelius had been carried from the dais, head rocking back and forth and legs, from the knees down, dangling over the bottom of the shield, Paternus had stepped to the front of the stage, taking on the duty of crowd control. With a clear, strong voice, he informed everyone that the emperor was not dead but was suffering with an illness brought on by the conditions here and that the strain of the morning had adversely affected him. The legions were to return to their barracks and await further announcements. There should be no panic. If the emperor was still too weak to speak publicly, Commodus would make an announcement in the forum later in the day. People should go about their business and send the Gods wishes for the emperor’s speedy recovery.

  Rufinus had seen the old man hit the wooden planks and had known instantly that no matter how much he still breathed, Marcus Aurelius had passed from the world in that moment, his body now an empty shell containing the world’s power with no will or thought.

  As Aurelius had been stretchered from the dais to the becurtained litter that stood behind the screen with its crew of four burly Germanic slaves, Commodus had rushed alongside, his hand never leaving his father’s still, pale form. Rufinus had watched with interest as Lucilla had turned and followed on, her husband in tow. There was a curious look on her face that he could swear was an uncomfortable mixture of grief and relief. At least the oily Syrian who shuffled behind her had managed to produce a facial expression that conveyed something other than aloof boredom for a change.

  The Praetorian Guard had gathered in a protective cordon around the imperial family as the medici of three legions and several of their more senior orderlies rushed to intercept. Moving off, they had conveyed the panicked, grief-stricken party from the parade ground, along the thoroughfare and back to the fortress.

  Rufinus, shock and confusion wrapping him in their bewildering folds, stood on the dais, a pillar of stillness while the world seethed this way and that all around him. In response to Paternus’ bellowed orders, the legions had begun to move away from the square, the Tenth among them. No one from his former legion had bothered shouting for him. Was he still in the Tenth? His shield had been taken away and he’d been given a Praetorian uniform, but as yet he’d not been signed into the guard or allocated a unit.

  In a strange limbo, unsure of where he was supposed to go or what was expected of him, Rufinus simply watched in sadness as the emperor disappeared along the main street, bobbing up and down in his enclosed litter, accompanied by family and close advisors, a solid wall of white and steel surrounding the whole group.

  He looked down at the floor. A silver spear lay at his feet, forgotten in the sudden panic. It was one of the most prestigious awards that could be given to a soldier and, along with the phalera that hung from his shoulder and the promotion that would bring with it an almost unimaginable pay-rise, this should be the happiest occasion in his life.

  He bent slowly to pick up the silver staff, catching the white linen tunic and breeches that slid from his shoulder as he did so.

  ‘Come with me, and get that tunic on as soon as you can.’

  He’d looked up to find Paternus, having finished addressing the assembly, gesturing for him to follow. The rest of the Praetorians present had moved off with the imperial party, leaving the legionary detachments to keep order as they moved out. That answered that, then. He was, at least unofficially, part of the Guard now.

  It had taken quarter of an hour to reach the fortress, travelling now-deserted streets, the wailing of distraught citizens echoing from side roads and buildings. Like Rufinus, many would have seen the fall as the end of the emperor, regardless of any consoling words from the prefect of the Guard. And Marcus Aurelius could hardly have been counted among the long-gone emperors of Rome as anything less than a genius, a scholar, a victorious general; a great man in every respect. His passing would leave a hole in the world.

  Paternus had spent the hurried journey in introspective silence and, despite a surprisingly desperate need for human contact in this strange, bewildering uncertainty, Rufinus allowed the man his space.

  The fortress was eerily quiet, the Tenth legion already back in barracks and attending to their ordinary daily tasks as though one of the most world-shaking events had not just occurred. Passing through the gate, the prefect had led Rufinus, still struggling with carrying his hexagonal scorpion shield, silver spear and new uniform, up the Via Principalis and to the legatus’ house,
flanking the headquarters building.

  Like almost every other man in the legion, Rufinus had never had cause to set foot in the house of the commanding officer. Occasionally a man was required to enter to deliver messages or packages, but the house was usually only visited by the commander, his family, their slaves and servants and other high-ranking officers or civil officials.

  Where two men of the Tenth would routinely remain on guard, to either side of the commander’s front door, half a dozen Praetorians now stood, stony faced and proud. They came to attention and saluted as their commander approached with the strange new recruit in tow.

  The huge residence, almost as large as the headquarters building itself, presented a blank face to the outside world, three sides consisting of solid walls, lacking any apertures, the fourth butting up against a series of small store rooms that faced the main street. Built around several gardens, the light that filled the airy household came from internal light wells. This house, nestled in the centre of a great legionary fortress, was roughly the same size as his father’s opulent villa back in Hispania and, if he had to be honest, a great deal better appointed.

  The legatus lived comfortably.

  And now Rufinus found himself in that great residence, nervously waiting in the atrium as Paternus spoke with the imperial major domo; shrugging on his white tunic as the prefect had told him to. He wondered briefly whether there would be time to change his breeches, but removing his trousers in the commanding officer’s house seemed too wrong to contemplate. Stripping to the waist had been strange enough.

  Reasoning that few people would be concentrating on his thighs, he tucked the white breeches into his belt and picked up his segmented plate armour. It was a major chore to pull on without the help of a tent-mate, but he’d perfected a way of doing so that resulted in the fewest possible pinches and pieces of trapped skin and only occasionally failed and required a second attempt. Thrusting his arms through the shoulder sections, he closed the front and threaded the leather throng through the eyes to lace it up.

  In all, and in what he considered a super-human feat, he’d managed to change his tunic and replace his armour in less than a couple of dozen heartbeats. Looking up, he realised that Paternus and the slave had disappeared and he felt a moment’s panic, standing alone in the open, colonnaded space with its ornamental fountain.

  He was just pondering what to do when another slave appeared around the corner on the far side of the small atrium and bowed. Gesturing him to follow, the small, reedy man disappeared again. Hurriedly, Rufinus collected his shield and the gleaming silver spear from where they rested against the wall, next to the small shrine to the house’s protective spirits.

  Dashing round the corner, he caught up with the slave, who led him along a corridor painted with exotic scenes of African beast hunts, round another corner and past a small open, veranda’d light well, along another vestibule lined with small pillars, each bearing a bust that resembled the others, and out into a magnificent garden that must have stretched most of the length of the house. The flowers and plants were lifeless and snow-covered, but the ornamentation and the statuary, the octagonal fountain and the small shrine were magnificent. Rufinus found himself wondering why legionary commanders were always so hungry to move on into politics in the city when they had the opportunity to live in places like this.

  On they rushed, his eyes picking out every detail, trying to keep his mind off where they were heading and what might await him there.

  A small suite of rooms led off the immense garden, more or less a miniature villa within the main complex. Once again, Praetorians stood by the entrance; they nodded at him as he approached, presumably already apprised of his presence. Somehow, despite their judiciously blank faces, they managed to convey a sense that they looked down on him. In some circumstances it would have been very disconcerting; in the current situation there were far more important things to think about.

  The large chamber into which they strode was decorative and pleasant, gleaming white and gold marble underfoot accentuating the crimson-painted walls. Chairs and cabinets stood around the edge and a gurgling fountain complete with leaping dolphins and well-endowed Gods occupied the centre. Three doors led off into the more private areas, each with its complement of guardsmen. Today, the Praetorians were ever-present, leading him to wonder yet again where he was expected to be.

  He’d hoped to find Paternus here, waiting to give him some sort of instruction, but was a little dismayed to find the room empty apart from the guards. The slave bowed to him and retreated from the room, leaving Rufinus once more alone and confused, unsure as to why he was here, other than the fact that the entire complement of the First Praetorian cohort, to which he would become attached, appeared to be on duty at the imperial residence.

  Almost as if his thoughts summoned the man, a door opened to the right hand side and Perennis, the tribune of this cohort strode out.

  ‘Guardsman Rufinus, good.’

  Defying his words, the tribune’s face suggested that the young man’s presence was anything but good.

  ‘Sir!’ Rufinus snapped to attention, silver spear at his side.

  ‘There’s a small bath house at the far end of the gardens. Get back there and get yourself suitably attired. Those red breeches are hardly appropriate for a member of my cohort. And find somewhere to secure that spear. This is the imperial household. We don’t carry unsheathed weapons, no matter what they’re made of!’

  Rufinus saluted, irritation beginning to mount. Why was he even here? Should he not be standing by one of the doors with a sour expression like the rest of the cohort?

  Perennis had turned his back and was marching towards a door when it swung open ahead of him. Rufinus, already half-turned on his heel to head for the baths, stopped in his tracks.

  Commodus was drained and pale. Gone was his sprightly mischievousness, his boundless enthusiasm. His hand was clenched around something so tightly that the entire fist had gone white.

  Perennis stopped dead. Behind Commodus came Paternus and a man in a white medicus’ robe, shaking his head sadly.

  ‘My father rises to sit with the Gods’ the young emperor announced, his voice cracking with emotion. His fist opened to reveal the emperor’s signet ring, lines and grooves dug into his palm from where he’d been gripping it too tightly.

  Rufinus lowered his eyes to the floor. Though he’d known it was coming this past half hour, the news still hit him like a physical blow.

  Perennis, his face dark yet missing its usual bitterness, straightened and came to a smart salute, facing Commodus.

  ‘Hail, Caesar, my emperor.’

  Commodus barely met his gaze, but simply nodded as though the tribune had been announcing nothing of more import than grain prices. Walking slowly across the room with a slight wobble, he collapsed into one of the decorative chairs at the periphery and dropped his face into his hands.

  Rufinus wondered whether this would be a good moment to slip from the room as he had been ordered. It felt wholly inappropriate for him to be here in this very private moment of grief. Still, another six guardsmen stood in the room, flanking the doors; he was hardly alone in his discomfort.

  ‘How dare you!’

  Every face turned to the open doorway in surprise. Lucilla was livid, her face a mask of fury, almost purple in colour beneath the thin layer of white lead. Her hand, pointing at Commodus, was shaking. Close behind her, her husband trailed, having the grace to look sheepish and embarrassed.

  Commodus raised his face from his hands, red-rimmed eyes dark.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Father slips away into the abyss and you have the gall to stride out of the room and proclaim yourself to the purple, just because father let you share with him for a few years! You presume too much, little brother.’

  The young emperor seemed to be genuinely baffled, the confusion cutting through his grief and making him sit up straight.

  ‘The succession is clear, Lucill
a. Father has been grooming me for years for this day. But I have claimed nothing yet. Today is not the time for such announcements. Today is a time to grieve!’

  ‘You snivelling wreck. Look at you! All gone to pieces because father isn’t here to hold your hand any more. The empire can hardly function with a blubbering mess at its head.’

  Rufinus drew in a sharp breath as he saw the sudden cold anger pass across Commodus’ eyes.

  ‘Have a care, sister. Grieve for father as you should.’

  ‘There is no time for grief, you idiot. Rome cannot be without an emperor, even for a day. You should continue your role as it is, while I step in to replace father, as was intended when I was married to my beloved Verus.

  Her second husband barely blinked at this insult. Clearly her low opinion of him was hardly news. He simply looked tired and uncomfortable, much how Rufinus felt and, for the first time, he started to feel a little sorry for the Syrian.

  Commodus rose from his seat and crossed the room to stand before his sister. They were of a height and curiously similar when seen so close. Rufinus had the sudden epiphany that there had been many battles of wits between these two over the years and that they were roughly equally matched in both intelligence and will, though the elder sister appeared to have become detached from her emotions; something Commodus seemed unable to do.

  ‘You think to take the purple with me? To guide me as that benighted bitch Agrippina guided Nero? As wicked Cleopatra steered Antonius to his doom? I think not, sister. Your claim to power died with that alcoholic lunatic, Verus. The succession is clear, and I will not sully this day with further argument.’

  Lucilla’s eyes blazed and she stepped forward, her mouth opening, spittle at the corners, ready for a fresh tirade. Commodus turned and, seeing the look in his eye, Rufinus lowered his gaze urgently.

  ‘Perennis’ the young emperor said quietly and calmly, ‘draw your sword and, if my sister utters a single syllable, you will give her cause to regret it. Clear?’