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.