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

of the great podium, on display for the public to jeer and spit at, Praetorians with drawn weapons watching them keenly. The braver of the townsfolk threw rotten vegetables at the fallen Quadi and Marcomanni warlords, even smallstones. Only the braver, though, for the possibility of accidentally striking one of the Praetorian guards was ever-present.
    In addition to the Praetorians on the platform, guarding the prisoners and gathered in small contubernia at strategic points for crowd control, the bulk of the guard surrounded the entire structure and its occupants: gleaming white forms, attentive and impressive, alert for any threat to their emperor and his companions.
    Slowly and with stately pace, the Tenth moved to its assigned position and, as he gratefully came to a stop, settling his shield into position along with the rest, right hand by his side, Rufinus scanned the area. The sound of the crowd cheering and shouting back away from the assembled troops, some sitting in precarious positions on the scaffolding, managed to almost drown out the creaks and clanks of the assembled legions. As the last men of the Tenth moved into place, already the Third Italica was visible between the buildings back on the main street as they moved toward the assembly.
    The imperial family stood on the platform, their feet at shoulder height to the men. Lucilla and her husband had contrived somehow to look even more irritated and bored than they had that evening in the headquarters, while Aurelius and his son stood in full armour, glittering and impressive. Close by, Paternus watched the assembling units with a professional eye, while tribune Perennis stood at his shoulder with his usual glower.
    The assembled legionaries watched their co-emperors with a sense of awe and respect that was almost palpable, much as Rufinus had always done. The men of the legions saw only a great gesture of unity and the tight imperial family bond, as Commodus turned to his father and clasped his wrist in the age old gesture of comradeship, leaning in to speak in his father’s ear. Rufinus, his eyes now opened to the truth, had seen not a gesture of family closeness, but a desperate move of support. Doubtless none of the ordinary soldiers had noticed the slight stumble in the emperor’s step and the look of concern that briefly passed across Commodus’ face as he moved in to prevent his father from falling.
    Strangely, while Paternus seemed to have noticed the stumble and had turned his concerned gaze on his master, Perennis, at his shoulder, shot a look at the back of Paternus’ head that was filled with so great a malice and hatred that Rufinus was amazed no one else seemed to have spotted it. Did he loathe his commander
that much
?
    As the remaining legions moved into position on the square, followed by the few auxiliary units that had been granted the privilege of sharing in the parade, Rufinus kept his keen gaze locked on the dais.
    The emperor had quickly recovered and was smiling at his legions, though Commodus never moved more than a foot or two from his father’s side, keeping his hands free and his arms unfolded in case he might need to make a quick move. In a similar manner, Paternus had straightened his own arms and his fingers flexed regularly as though he too were prepared to make a desperate lunge for the emperor.
    Tribune Perennis continued to flick his evil gaze to and fro, occasionally fixing it on a man who somehow especially irked him. Rufinus found himself staring at the second in command of the Praetorians, trying to weigh him up.
    Initially, he had thought that the man simply coveted Paternus’ position and harboured a grudge. The more he watched, however, the more he was beginning to come to the conclusion that there was no
special
enmity between the two Praetorian officers, but more that Perennis simply hated everyone on a roughly equal basis, and was incapable of forming anything other than a disapproving frown on those sour