Without comment or pause, Perennis took two steps toward the furious woman and drew his gladius with a bone-chilling rasp. Rufinus risked a quick glance. The tribune’s face was emotionless. He was clearly both quite capable and willing to carry out his master’s orders without a second thought, regardless of the earthshaking consequences.
The world hung in the balance for one heartbeat and another as a chill pervaded the room.
‘Caesar?’
Paternus stepped between Perennis’ gleaming blade and the furious Lucilla. ‘Caesar, this is not the way to honour your father’s so-fresh memory. There will be many challenges to meet, but not today.’
Commodus continued to glare at his sister for a long moment and finally turned his head to the Praetorian prefect. With visible effort, he calmed, his shoulders sagging.
‘You are right, of course. Perennis, sheath the blade.’
Lucilla was shaking with rage, but silent.
‘There will be much to do, but not yet. We must attend to father for a time, while good Paternus makes the arrangements for the funeral. At the fourth watch I will make the appropriate announcements in the forum. We will hold the funeral tomorrow morning, on the parade ground.’
He flashed a glance at his sister before turning back to the two Praetorian officers.
After which, Lucilla will be returning to Rome along with father’s ashes to see them safely interred, while I tie up the matters in Vindobona with the aid of father’s close advisors.’
Once more, Lucilla’s mouth opened but a warning hand went up from Commodus and Perennis’ fist gripped his sword hilt and drew it out just a couple of finger-widths, enough to make a horrible metallic slithering sound. Silently, she glowered at her brother.
‘Paternus,’ he continued, ‘you will take most of the guard with you and escort her back to Rome. There will likely be troubles and a great deal to do and it will take your knowledge of my father’s business and all your legendary tact and diplomacy to see it done. I am relying on you to prepare Rome for our return. Perennis, I’m granting you the powers of Praetorian Prefect, alongside Paternus. You will remain in Vindobona with me and the First cohort until we are ready to return to the city.’
Rufinus felt his heart skip a beat. He was to stay in Vindobona for a time yet, in Commodus’ personal guard. It would be a great honour - tempered, however, by having Perennis as his direct commander for the duration.
Lucilla turned and stormed away through one of the other doors, the guard by the side rushing to open it for her. Her husband hurried away behind her, giving the room a last apologetic look. Commodus stood still as a statue for a long moment, taking deep, ragged breaths. At least his anger had returned some colour to his pallid, grief-drained cheeks.
Paternus and Perennis shared a look and Rufinus realised just what had happened there. The prefect, the former emperor’s most trusted man, had just had half his power ripped away and passed to his underling. Somehow, through a superhuman effort, Paternus managed to maintain his steady, reasonable expression as he bowed and moved out into the garden.
Commodus watched him go and gestured wearily at Perennis.
‘Make arrangements for a public announcement in the forum at the fourth watch. I’ll want the First cohort in dress uniform with me, so have everyone scrubbed up well.’
As Perennis nodded and strode out into the large garden, the emperor turned to the medicus who seemed to have been ignored throughout the confrontation and who stood by the door to the emperor’s resting place, his face ashen and embarrassed.
‘Do what you must with my father to prepare him and then have the city’s chief priests sent here. I’ve not studied the matter, but I’m sure the priests will have to do something before father can take his place with the Gods.’
The medicus, grateful for the opportunity to flee this uncomfortable room, bowed and retreated through the door, closing it as he went.
Commodus stood still for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.
‘Jove, drive this damned headache away’ he muttered and opened his eyes, apparently surprised to see the mismatched red and white guardsman standing in the centre of the room with a gleaming silver spear.
‘Rufinus?’ he said quietly. ‘I quite forgot that I’d sent for you, though for the life of me I can no longer remember why. My sister’s machinations seem to have driven every useful thought from my mind.’
Rufinus took a deep breath and looked up, wondering whether it was a terrible breech of etiquette to meet the emperor’s gaze. Commodus had a strange sad smile on his face.
‘See to what horrors I have introduced you by dragging you into the guard? I told you that night on the way to the baths that camps were forming and that I had to be sure of where the loyalties of my men lie. What say you of loyalty, hero of the Quadi wars?’
Rufinus frowned. Somehow the dry throat and inability to speak that he’d felt that other night were no longer affecting him. He sighed.
‘I am your man, Caesar.’
Commodus gave a sad little laugh and nodded.
‘This is good. I will have need of such men in the coming months and years. Now get yourself back to barracks, get changed and requisition whatever you need. You will be needed in the forum this afternoon. And bring the ‘trinkets’ too. Anything that helps put a positive note on this afternoon’s tidings is a good idea.’
Rufinus saluted and turned to leave, casting a last glance at the young emperor.
He was capricious and mischievous, flighty and changeable, but he was also intelligent, witty, thoughtful and, apparently, kind. What an emperor he could make.
Despite everything the day had brought, Rufinus couldn’t help but smile as he strode out into the newly-falling flakes of snow in the precious garden.
Quickly, aware of the press of time, he stepped around the doorway and hurried along the garden, a fresh dusting of white sprinkling his shoulders, and ducked back inside, following the reverse of the route that had brought him here. The corridor filled with the busts was blocked with people and an argument seemed to be in full flow.
Squinting into the gloom of the corridor after the bright white of the beautiful garden, he tried to pick out the details of the small crowd.
The figure of Paternus was clear enough, his hands resting on his hips in a pose of defiance. Two guardsmen, clad in white, stood at his shoulders, blocking the passageway. Beyond was a crowd of half a dozen men in tunics and togas. Rufinus paused and concentrated on the raised voices.
‘Go back to your quarters and wait. The emperor will send for you when he needs you.’
A tumult of voices greeted Paternus’ statement.
‘So Aurelius is truly gone?’
‘I need to see him!’
‘Commodus will require my counsel desperately!’
‘Let us past!’
‘QUIET!’ bellowed Paternus, the noise ceasing immediately at the steel in his voice. ‘Announcements will be made in due course. None of you, no matter how important, has any business with the imperial family until they request it! Go to your quarters before I have you forcibly ejected!’
Sounds of indignation and clearing of throats filled the corridor.
‘GO!’
Half the group were already disappearing down the corridor, their sandals slapping on the marble, before the two guards behind Paternus put their hands meaningfully on their sword hilts, a move that sent the rest scurrying away.
‘Idiots!’ snapped the prefect as the men beside him relaxed again. ‘Come on.’
Rufinus, breathing slowly, hurried to catch up. ‘Sir?’
Paternus glanced over his shoulder and spotted the new guardsman.
‘Rufinus? Where are you bound?’
‘The emperor wishes me to return to barracks and get myself prepared for his announcement this afternoon.’
‘Yes?’
Rufinus shrugged uncertainly. ‘Respectfully, sir, I’ve not been allocate
d quarters or told where to go?’
The prefect nodded wearily. ‘Go to the headquarters and find the Praetorian clerk’s office. He can sort you out.’
Rufinus bowed and then strode along behind them at a respectful distance. The four Praetorians passed through the light-well and into the richly-decorated corridor, only to find two more figures waiting half way along. Rufinus saw the prefect’s shoulders rise and slump as he sighed in resignation.
A young man, perhaps the same age as Commodus and wearing a deep blue tunic and expensive sandals, sat in a decorative chair by the wall, a look of sorrowful concern on his face. His dark hair was oiled and tightly curled, a two day growth of stubble on his face apparently an affectation rather than an accident. Blue eyes the colour of the sea below Tarraco stared out from beneath bushy black eyebrows that furrowed slightly.
Behind him stood a man considerably older, wearing tunic and breeches of plain grey, a practical cloak about his shoulders. His face was full and slightly chubby, lined with the cares of years and wrinkled around eyes that were disconcerting: a steely grey with a slight, peculiar shine. His brown, wavy hair was giving way to white at the temples and beginning to thin at the front, while his beard, fully grey, was clipped neatly. There was something about the man’s expression that instantly put Rufinus on his guard.
‘Ah, Paternus. How is our young master bearing up at this most unfortunate time?’
The prefect fixed the speaker with a flinty look, meeting those shiny grey eyes as though negotiating with an enemy commander. Rufinus, close enough to hear Paternus’ teeth grinding, paid careful attention. ‘Master Cleander. I should have known you would be hovering at the edge of today’s events, waiting to swoop down and take the richest pickings.’
The older man, a wealthy or important freedman judging by the dress, simply smiled indulgently. ‘Don’t play games with me, Paternus. You haven’t the wit. Is Commodus open to visitors or have you sealed his quarters shut as tightly as that arse of yours?’
Paternus’ teeth were grinding again and suddenly the young man stood, holding his arms up placatingly.
‘Gentlemen, this is hardly the time for such vitriol.’ His voice was silken, smooth and quiet, like listening to well-played lyre music. Rufinus felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck in response.
Paternus turned his gaze on the slight young man and Rufinus was surprised to find that the baleful glare the prefect had cast at ‘Cleander’ had been replaced by a look of such scornful contempt that it barely registered the speaker as human.
‘I have no doubt you will squirm your way into his presence soon enough, but not yet. Give the family time to deal with today’s events before you start injecting your poisons.’
The young man’s face fell. He looked genuinely hurt by the comments and stepped back, lip quivering. Cleander smiled a slightly feral smile.
‘Your hold over the empire is weakening, Paternus. Commodus will not indulge you as his father did.’
‘What the emperor chooses to do in the wake of his loss is his affair and no more mine than it is yours. Get out of this house before I lose my temper.’
Cleander shook his head sadly and laid a hand on the tearful young man’s shoulder. ‘Come, Saoterus. Let us partake of food while we await the emperor’s summons.’
The pair stood and made their way back along the corridor, out into the atrium. Paternus stood for a moment, perhaps allowing time for them to disappear from sight before he moved on.
‘Vultures! Aurelius isn’t even cold yet and they’re already gathering to hook their talons in the boy. Snakes, vultures and catamites, the lot of them. If half Aurelius’ friends in the senate were here, these vermin wouldn’t dare poke their faces out into the light.’
Rufinus kept his mouth carefully closed and waited until Paternus sighed and walked on before continuing behind and trying to remain more or less invisible. Today’s events were becoming more and more complex with every turn and he was ill-prepared to deal with it all.
Silently, he followed them out through the corridors and rooms of the commander‘s house, the prefect clearly seething as he strode on ahead, the other two guards remaining carefully quiet. A moment later they strode out into the grey of late morning, already half a hand-width of snow beneath their feet and more falling from the sky in increasing quantity with each passing moment.
Without pausing or exchanging words with him, Paternus and his two men turned away and walked off toward the Praetorian barracks. Rufinus, his senses numb, battered by the input they had received this morning, stood in the doorway, the flanking guards watching him warily. His gaze dropped to the floor where snow was settling on his boots. Three fresh sets of footprints led off in the wake of the commander and his guards. Two more, clearly that of the two freedman, disappeared the other way, out toward the main street.
Briefly, he considered following the pair, but such foolishness would likely only lead to yet more nerves and discomfort.
Shrugging, he strode out and made for the clerk’s office. He was a Praetorian now and his emperor had need of him.
PART TWO: ROMA
VI – Journeys and recollections
RUFINUS sighed wearily and slumped a little further in the saddle. The front horns of the leather seat had been rubbing his hips raw for five days now and every step the beast took was a fresh hell of scraping pain. The segmented plate armour, never a good choice for horseback travel, felt as heavy as Atlas’ burden. The cohort was not a unit of Praetorian cavalry as such, but speed of travel was Commodus’ highest priority and so the cohort had been mounted for the journey.
On the bright side, the weather, which had been warming for months now, had improved dramatically as soon as the column had descended the southern side of the Alpes and made for Italia. Now, the blue sky was beautifully accompanied by the buzz of bees, the chirp of birds and the scratching of cicadas in the long grass. The height of summer may have just passed while the emperor remained in Vindobona, but autumn in Rome promised to be warm and comfortable.
The column had joined the Via Flaminia at Ariminium on the Adriatic coast and then turned southwest for the almost two hundred mile crossing of the mountains. Fortunately they were travelling outside the snow and avalanche season, and there was a sense of weary gratitude among the men as they closed on the last leg of the journey. The grey-brown pall that hung in the air over the next rise indicated the presence of the greatest city in the world, a city that was the ancestral home of the Rustii, even if Rufinus himself had never set foot there.
The change in weather conditions over the past six months was echoed in the changes visible in the emperor and his entourage, and yet more in the newest member of the emperor’s guard. Gone were the shaggy black hair and itchy beard. Rufinus was, as he had always wished to be, neatly trimmed and manicured, clean-shaven and tidy.
Months had passed in Vindobona as the emperor developed the frontier and Rufinus settled into the routine of the guard, which was greatly different to that of the legions. The few men he had known since the beginning, those he had fought alongside in that snowy woodland dell, became good friends, particularly Mercator. The majority of the First cohort, however, would only exchange words with him as required by duty and a few, whose names had been permanently etched into his memory, had taken a serious dislike to him.
The troubles, instigated by three men in particular, had begun with the traditional ‘cold shoulder’ and quickly moved on to petty tricks. Rufinus had taken it all stoically; such trickery was the norm with a new man in a unit. But the third week had seen an escalation that had driven the feud to unacceptable limits: the theft of his silver spear, the ‘hasta pura’, had finally broken his composure.
That evening, as the ringleader, Scopius, entered the latrine to relieve himself after his evening meal, Rufinus had slipped through the door behind him, closing and bolting it. A quarter of an hour later he had emerged, having revealed to Scopius in very physical terms his background
in inter-unit boxing. The bulky, sneering guardsman who had plagued him for three weeks spent nine days in the hospital and would complain of his left knee during wet weather for the rest of his life. Unsurprisingly, the silver spear had mysteriously reappeared on Rufinus’ bunk that same night.
The following months had settled into seething disaffection with no overt moves and the whole situation had calmed to an uncomfortable simmer. Indeed, the pasting Scopius had received, though no evidence as to the identity of his assailant could be found, had earned Rufinus a certain grudging respect among a number of the older veterans. Perhaps things would change now they were returning to their home.
The column, strung out along the Via Flaminia, was beginning to pass the first structures, sporadically dotted by the roadside and carefully constructed just far enough away from the great tombs, funerary monuments and columbaria of the rich and famous as to be respectful and proper. Small pockets of folk appeared outside their residences or places of work, gawping at the great column as it passed.
Guardsmen rode alongside the carriages that held the emperor and his companions, keeping the ordinary folk at a safe distance. Commodus’ carriage was particularly fine and large, almost a moving palace, with two separate rooms, containing couches, tables, a bed, cushions and curtains, drawn by four oxen, each titanic in size. The two carriages that followed on close behind carried the new emperor’s circle of friends and advisors.
One of the commoners, standing in the shade of a veranda and wheezing after his labours, bellowed ‘Hail Caesar!’ and threw up his straw hat into the air in an expansive gesture. The shout was taken up by the rest of the citizenry and soon became a deafening roar of acclaim that accompanied them toward the crest of the hill beyond which lay the Porta Fontinalis and the great city itself. The cry echoed round Rufinus’ memory and brought back images of that northern city on the border of the empire:
Standing in the snow on a bitter afternoon a few days after his transfer, in the rich, grand forum of Vindobona, white tunic and gleaming armour lost among hundreds of identical figures, Rufinus had watched the passing of the only emperor he had ever known and had seen the young man who had co-ruled Rome for two years slide seamlessly into the role.
Praetorian: The Great Game Page 9