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 fromside 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.
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 himto. 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
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 fromside 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.
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 himto. 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
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