The Great Game by S. J. A. Turney Page B

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.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Father slips away into the abyss and you have the gall to stride out of the room and proclaim yourself to the purple, just because father let you share with him for a few years! You presume too much, little brother.’
    The young emperor seemed to be genuinely baffled, the confusion cutting through his grief and making him sit up straight.
    ‘The succession is clear, Lucilla. Father has been grooming me for years for this day. But I have claimed nothing yet. Today is not the time for such announcements. Today is a time to grieve!’
    ‘You snivelling wreck. Look at you! All gone to pieces because father isn’t here to hold your hand any more. The empire can hardly function with a blubbering mess at its head.’
    Rufinus drew in a sharp breath as he saw the sudden cold anger pass across Commodus’ eyes.
    ‘Have a care, sister. Grieve for father as you should.’
    ‘There is no time for grief, you idiot. Rome cannot be without an emperor, even for a day. You should continue your role
as it is
, while I step in to replace father, as was intended when I was married to my beloved Verus.
    Her second husband barely blinked at this insult. Clearly her low opinion of him was hardly news. He simply looked tired and uncomfortable, much how Rufinus felt and, for the first time, he started to feel a little sorry for the Syrian.
    Commodus rose from his seat and crossed the room to stand before his sister. They were of a height and curiously similar when seen so close. Rufinus had the sudden epiphany that there had been many battles of wits between these two over the years and that they were roughly equally matched in both intelligence and will, though the elder sister appeared to have become detached from her emotions; something Commodus seemed unable to do.
    ‘You think to take the purple with me? To guide me as that benighted bitch Agrippina guided Nero? As wicked Cleopatra steered Antonius to his doom? I think not, sister. Your claim to power died with that