Gingerly, Rufinus reached up and probed the cheek below his left eye. Even a week after the punch-up, he was tender in so many places that every movement of his body, no matter how small, caused him to draw sharp breath as the pain writhed and lanced through him.
It had been a short brawl, really, that afternoon outside his new room.
Had it been an official match in the ring, there would have been jeers and catcalls at its brevity. After an initial blow that had taken him by surprise, Rufinus had quickly recovered and made the fight his own. Scopius had been careful in selecting his accomplices this time, though, and both men had been strong and fast.
Though short, it had also been a hard fight, and he’d heaved a sigh of relief as the first man folded up, his eyes rolling into his head and the imprint of the door jamb on his forehead. The second guard had fought with renewed vigour and had broken two of Rufinus’ ribs before he managed to smash the man’s head onto the flagged floor and drive the wits from him.
True to form, after the first blow, Scopius had stayed back and let his thugs take the brunt of the fighting. As the second man passed into unconsciousness, Rufinus had looked up, gripping his painful side, blood swimming in his eyes, his ear burning and leg wobbling, threatening to give way, only to see the back of the retreating Scopius as the man escaped the scene entirely unharmed.
Exhausted, Rufinus had collapsed and passed out, gratefully. When he came to, a jovial little guardsman with a slight Greek accent had been crouching over him, a look of concern on his face. His new room-mate, Icarion, had come back from his training session to find the three unconscious guards lying on the floor outside his room. He’d been wondering what to do about them when Mercator had arrived, having finished his tasks early, to fetch Rufinus to the bath, and the pair had brought him slowly and painfully around.
The guards’ medicus had given them an appropriately sceptical and despairing look as they explained how the wounded Rufinus had been thrown from his horse. The medic had raised an eyebrow as he lifted the tunic and examined the red and purple ribcage, and had asked ‘how many times?’
The man had shown little surprise when, while finishing off tending Rufinus and salving his wounds, two more guardsmen had been shown in, one of whom was still unconscious and being stretchered. The other had fixed Rufinus with a baleful glare.
Revenge would come soon enough, when Rufinus could think of how best to accomplish it. Where the bruised thugs were today, he didn’t know, but for certain they had better duties than he. Icarion – only the second Praetorian to appear on the list of men Rufinus actually trusted – was back near the chariot, alongside Mercator.
Clearly, despite the small number of free bunks, Rufinus had been lucky in his assignment – or more likely Mercator had contrived to provide him with the best possible situation. Icarion hailed from Thessalonica. The son of a wealthy silk importer, he had tired of the mercantile life within half a year and signed on to the Fourth Scythica Legion, posted to Zeugma, on the Parthian border. There, he had fought in the campaigns of Lucius Verus, the former husband of Lucilla, winning great renown and honour during the sack of Ctesiphon. Along with the torc and phalera he had received, he also carried a locket on a chain around his neck that contained a piece of the Parthian royal palace he’d carved off with his gladius.
Though small and reedy, Icarion had proved to possess a steely strength that few would expect, an iron will, and a speed that would make him a dangerous opponent. These powerful soldierly qualities, however, were wrapped up tight in a pleasant, engaging personality that displayed a genuine love of life. Icarion was infectious. Just being in the room with him improved a man’s mood.
But that was no help today, with the Greek out of sight back among those with the honour of protecting the emperor himself.
A shout went up from an officer somewhere to the rear and was echoed along the line by every centurion, decurion and optio, every soldier in the column snapping to attention. The noise was like the roaring of the sea.
A carriage rolled to a halt a few paces from the column and the door opened before the wheels were even stationary. Commodus took two steps down and then lightly dropped the last three feet to the turf and stretched.
His armour was almost laughable from a military point of view. The great, burnished, golden breastplate, embossed with a complex image of Hercules struggling with the Lernaean hydra, would hardly stop a sharp stick, let alone a sword. Still, the purpose of the armour was not to protect the emperor, but to impress the crowd, something it would do with gusto. The leather strips that hung in twin rows from shoulders and waist, were brilliant white, bordered with imperial purple and with fringes of the same colour. The emperor’s cloak was a deep Tyrian purple, embroidered in gold with designs of Hercules’ other eleven tasks. The cloak alone would cost five years’ wages for the average soldier.
As the young emperor flexed his stiff muscles, grinning like a boy with a new toy, the figure of Saoterus descended carefully, his tightly curled, oiled black hair glistening in the sunlight, his chin dark with carefully-trimmed stubble. The emperor’s young favourite wore a simple tunic and cloak of undyed linen, deliberately plain to help draw all eyes to his master. Pausing, Saoterus reached into the carriage and retrieved a gilded crown of laurels and a military sceptre of plain white and handed the sceptre to his master.
Commodus examined the baton for a moment and then clasped it in both hands behind his back, rocking on his heels.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. I trust everyone is well?’
He grinned as a ripple of good humour ran along the column.
‘As a commander, many times I’ve had to order a column of men to march. It’s always a tiring affair, I know, and usually with a scuffle at the end of it. I hope the same will not be true today!’
Another ripple of laughter.
‘Today is a triumph granted me by the senate, in their infinite wisdom. Would that my father were still alive to receive it, given that the campaign was his work. And so I would have you all remember, while I bask in the adulation of the crowd, that I accept all acclaim not only in my name, but in the name of Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus, who will be watching today from his seat among the Gods.’
A roar of approval ran through the column and Commodus waited patiently, still rocking on his heels, for the clamour to die away.
‘There is more to today than imperial grandeur, though. You are the backbone of imperial power, you men who shed blood for the security of Rome. You are the arches upon which the empire is constructed. And so, today is as much about each of you as it is about my father and I.’
Thousands of burnished steel figures cheered once more and Commodus smiled indulgently. ‘Revel in the adoration of the crowd and, while it is not possible for each of you to receive personal blessings and honours, rest assured that I have arranged for a small gift for each of you that will be distributed by your officers this evening, when the triumph is over and the city revels.
Another cheer, louder than ever. Coin, no matter the quantity, was a guaranteed way to secure the love and loyalty of the army. The emperor’s name would be toasted in every bar, gambling den and whorehouse from the Capitol to the outskirts’ last building tonight.
Raising his free hand, the sceptre in his left, Commodus saluted the crowd as he bounced lightly across the grass and leapt up into the chariot. Saoterus strode across and climbed up behind him. Turning his head, Rufinus could just see the two men high in the chariot, beyond the crowd of slaves and the column of lictors. Saoterus already had his arm extended, holding the golden victory wreath above the emperor’s head. Then figures moved, obscuring the view of the great man.