The Great Game (10 page)

Aurelius stepped toward him and Rufinus held his breath as the shiny, burnished disc bearing the image of a roaring lion was pinned to his shoulder plate’s buckle. The emperor struggled for a moment, his shaking fingers completing the task with some difficulty. The great man’s breath smelled strange and sickly-sweet, almost like rotting flesh. It was all Rufinus could do not to reel away from it. Finally, the aging emperor finished his task and stood back.

‘Such reward is fitting for an act of this magnitude. One might say, however, that it is a paltry thing when the rest of this man’s actions are taken into account.’

The officer at the rear of the dais stepped forward once more and handed something else to Aurelius, who took the item and gripped it. Rufinus’ eyes widened.

The emperor stepped forward, grasping the silver shaft of a spear, perhaps six feet in length. The tip was pointed but without the head that would accompany its battle-ready counterparts. A simple silver rod, tapered at the end. Rufinus’ head spun. Even if it were really an iron shaft, merely coated with gleaming silver, it would be worth a year’s pay.

But it was worth more than that; this award was worth far more than the sum of its construction, worth more than most men’s lives.

‘The hasta pura!’ the emperor intoned, raising the silver shaft so that all could behold it, the cold winter sunlight glinting off it as the orb made a sudden rare appearance between the clouds. ‘Granted to a man who saves the life of a notable citizen. Granted in this case to a selfless legionary who, by his courageous actions, prevented the untimely death of my Praetorian prefect, the general in the field!’

The silver shaft was held out to him, the hand that gripped it beginning to shake a little with the effort. Rufinus stared at it for only a moment and then reached out and grasped it, more to prevent the emperor losing his grip than anything else. Aurelius stepped back, a look of relief passing across his face.

Rufinus stared at the brilliant, gleaming spear in his hand. He only became aware of the roar of cheers, whistles and calls as it began to subside, Paternus having stepped forward, holding out his arms to quieten the crowd.

‘It is my pleasure…’ he began, but fell silent again, largely unheard over the cheering, waiting for quiet. As the last whistles died away, he straightened again. ‘It is my pleasure to announce the transfer of legionary Rustius Rufinus to the Praetorian Guard, in which he shall henceforth serve.’

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.