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.