Blinking and trying to draw his mind back from the soft linen sheets of his imaginary surroundings to the reality of the cold parade ground, he straightened his head and concentrated on the podium. The emperor took a step forward and threw out a traditional military salute in a move calculated to play the crowd. At the instigation of the senior centurions, the legions raised cheers for their emperors, whistling and pounding their free hands on the wooden shield surfaces in a deafening thunderous cacophony, all accompanied by the roaring applause of the civilians around the periphery.
Slowly the noise reached a crescendo and then died away as Marcus Aurelius, a paternal smile across his features, held out his hands in a gesture to calm the crowd.
‘Victory!’ he bellowed, and then settled back to wait once more as the noise rose to another deafening clamour.
Again, he held out his hands and waited.
‘The Marcomanni and the Quadi, who have long held designs on the rich and gentle, yielding lands of Rome, who burned this very city and killed and raped its people so recently, are finally cowed!’
Again a roar rose, this time more from the civilians than the military. Once again the emperor waited with an indulgent smile.
‘Now begins the struggle for peace. Decades, we have been forced to fight again and again to preserve this border, a third of Rome’s military gathered on the Danubius year after year. Now we begin the process of colonization. If we are to prevent the tribes from ever again threatening Vindobona, we must draw them into our bosom, make them appreciate what it is to be part of the empire.’
He paused and turned to smile at his son. There was a look on Commodus’ face that Rufinus couldn’t quite identify, but it perturbed him. Was it disapproval? Aurelius continued in a clear, oratorical tone.
‘But this is work for the future and no cause for such a gathering. Today we celebrate the victory of Rome and her valiant warriors. People of Vindobona, I give you the sons of Hercules; masters of the world; thunder that shakes the walls of Hades themselves! I give you the legions of Rome!’
The clamour was once again deafening as the legions crashed their heels together, saluting their emperor with a noise that echoed through the woods for miles, the people of the city roaring their gratitude and approval.
The emperor, a genuine smile still plastered across his face, stepped back and, watching intently, Rufinus could see his chest heaving with the effort of such public speech. Commodus quickly whispered something in his father’s ear, something that led the emperor to shake his head. He would not be deterred from today’s glory.
Gradually, the noise abated once more and Aurelius turned to his left. Commodus, standing to that side, stepped back slightly, leaving the emperor facing Paternus.
‘Rome and her people owe a great debt of gratitude to the commander of the Praetorian guard, Publius Tarrutenius Paternus, general of the army and the man who finally ended the war for you, driving the iron tip of the eagle standard into the very heart of the Quadi.’
Rufinus was surprised to see the prefect hunch over a little as though in embarrassment. Clearly he had not been expecting to be presented in such fashion. The crowd cheered this reluctant hero and Rufinus’ respect for the Praetorian commander rose a little, bringing the question of Perennis and his sour looks once more to the fore.
‘As is the tradition at the conclusion of a successful campaign, it is the most pleasant duty of the army’s commanders to recognise and award bravery where it is most due.’
Standing back, he gestured to one of his adjutants who stood nearby, a man wearing an officer’s armour, with the military knot tied across his burnished, decorative breastplate. The pale, tall man with a stretched face and tightly-curled beard stepped forward to the front of the dais as four Praetorians rushed forth with a small wooden set of steps that they placed before the platform for quick access from the front.
Taking a small wax tablet from his waist, the officer snapped open the case and peered at the names held within. Taking a deep breath, he addressed the massed crowds.
‘Marcus Julius Proculus: signifer of the fourth century, second cohort of the Second Italica, step forth!’
To the cheers of his fellow legionaries, the man stepped out of line, the heavy bronze and silver standard firm in his powerful grasp, the huge wolf pelt wrapped around his shoulders and draped over his helm, heavy and hot. The man moved with a slight limp and the extra bulk beneath one leg of his breeches spoke eloquently of the wound he must have received in the recent action.
Rufinus concentrated. Likely his own name would come up soon and he would want to know what was expected of him. The standard bearer from the Second Italica marched out to the front and approached the platform close to the stairs that had been recently placed. Rufinus was impressed with the man’s calm and steadiness as he mounted the wooden platform, given his recent injury and the extreme weight under which he laboured.
He also noted with care that the stairs fell slightly short of the dais in height and that the last step was half as deep again as the others. Given his history of hapless accidents and falls, it was important in such a situation to note every potential problem.
He watched the signifer’s presentation, only half-heartedly listening as the man was acclaimed for managing, despite his own burdens, to take up the legion’s eagle when its bearer fell in the battle and use it to dispatch three barbarian warriors before falling back into his own lines.
Rufinus watched as the man stood, straight and proud. He watched as the staff officer stepped forward and hung a third phalera on the man’s harness, already proudly displaying two awards won in previous actions. A cheer went up among the assembled legionaries and civilians and, as the signifer stepped back, he and the officer saluted one another before he turned and made his way safely back down the steps and fell into position with his unit.
Another potential problem, Rufinus thought, would be stepping back after receiving the award. The signifer had been perhaps a little more than a foot from the edge of the dais at that point. Only his own flawed judgement and the will of Fortuna would stand between him and a long back step that would see him crash down bodily to the dirt of the parade ground.
Deep in thought, he’d missed the second name being called out, though a legionary stepped out of the lines of the Third Italica and approached the steps. Built like an ox and shield-less, his splinted arm slung against his chest, he approached the stage. Rufinus found himself, with immense irritation, realising that the man was newly shaven and had perfectly neat, short hair. Almost as if to purposefully mock him, an errant curl of black, shiny hair suddenly sprung from beneath the rim of his helmet and dangled before his left eye, momentarily obscuring the irritatingly clean-shaven ox of a man.
The big fellow stood powerful as he was acclaimed for being the first man to reach the Quadi supply wagons, having been at the forefront of the wedge that had broken their lines. He received his glinting torc that was pinned to his shoulder plates, returned the officer’s salute and made his way back to his unit.
And on it went. Man after man stepped out from the lines of the legions, even one from an auxiliary unit, and stood proudly on the stage, erect and powerful as Mars himself while their martial accomplishments were announced, every one of which sounded far more impressive than pulling an officer bodily from his horse into the muck. Each one received their phalera or torc or armband, some with financial bonuses, some attaining field promotions or duplicarius status. Two men who were near to their retirement age and had acquitted themselves particularly well were granted their honesta missio early, receiving a small plot of land in the area and a sizeable fiduciary settlement.