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.
Silent and bleak, Commodus had stood with his family watching, apparently impassively, as his father passed from the world of men and grey-clad mourners with their tragic masks swayed around the square, wailing and sobbing. The watching crowd added their moans and cries of anguish, the whole cacophony brought to horrendous climax by the ear-rupturing addition of the legions’ musicians, blaring out the funeral dirge.
Commodus was the first to take one of the blazing pitch-soaked torches and touch it to the pyre, watching as the flames ripped through the incendiary wadding between the timbers. Lucilla was close behind, followed by her husband, the Syrian Pompeianus, then Commodus’ wife Bruttia – stunning even in her plain funeral garb. Paternus and Perennis added their flames, and then others: many more, one after the other, until the pyre became a great orange inferno, the features of the former emperor lost to the ravages of the fire.
As the pyre collapsed in on itself, taking with it the charring remains of Marcus Aurelius, the crowd’s moaning slowly turned from wails of despair to hollow calls of respectful loss and finally someone in the crowd had shouted ‘Hail Aurelius… Hail Caesar!’ to the burning morass.
The rites and ceremonies over, Commodus had made a speech to the grieving populace, reminding them that the great man was not simply dead, but had been transformed and now watched over them in a far more powerful manner, from among the Gods. He had reminded the people that, despite the sadness of the day, there was still reason for them to celebrate, as the ever-present threat of the barbarians at their door had been broken. He had promised to rule as wisely as his father and to always hold the people of Vindobona and the province of Pannonia dear to his heart as the foundation of his tenure as emperor.
The army had ‘hailed Caesar’ for his largess when he had announced their return to Rome, but Rufinus suspected no one would have cheered as loud as the defeated tribes. Commodus had brokered a deal with the captive leaders that was, in retrospect, marvellous for all concerned. Marcomannia was a poor, unproductive land and so, instead of Roman settlers trying to eke out a living in this barren land, trying to turn a profit and send their goods to Rome, the barbarians would retain their own lands, using them to supply Rome with grain, goods, gold and men. Rome would benefit, replenishing some of the finances lost in the wars, while the barbarian leaders showered the emperor with praise, gratitude and personal gifts, not only for their sudden and unexpected freedom, but for the right to retain control over their former lands.
Hail Caesar!
Here: a new salute; a first salute to a new leader; a man with youth, strength, vision and intelligence. The peasants and freedmen along the sides of the Via Flaminia bellowed their chant again and again, just like that cold day back in Vindobona. There had been two such cries that day, and for very different reasons.