He reached out a hand towards the eagle, pointing to a deep score on the underside of its left wing, then opened the stained tablet and read from the notes scratched into its wax.
‘Scratch, two inches long, incurred in battle against the Batavian traitor cohorts. Vengeance delivered.’
Commodus nodded slowly, passing the eagle to Cleander.
‘Well now, it seems that the tribune here has indeed earned the right to interrupt his emperor, at least on this occasion. Chamberlain, you are hereby instructed to have this eagle refurbished and returned to the Sixth Legion, and to remove any stain from the legion’s records connected with its loss. It seems that Legatus Sollemnis was the victim of yet more of the former praetorian prefect’s poisonous ways …’ He paused, a peculiar smile crossing his face. ‘But before you do, I’ve an idea. You, come here.’
He beckoned a praetorian guardsman standing by the throne-room’s door with a spear held upright in his hand. The soldier, long conditioned to instant and unquestioning obedience, strode across the room and snapped to attention, his eyebrows rising as Commodus reached out and took the spear from him. The emperor held out a hand while he considered the weapon’s long wooden shaft, staring closely at the point where its iron head was connected to the wood.
‘Sword!’
The soldier obeyed promptly, unsheathing his spatha and presenting it to the emperor hilt first. Commodus took the sword and held the spear out in front of him, raising the spatha and hacking down at a point just below the base of the long iron blade to send it clattering to the floor, leaving a clean stump of wood where the spearhead had been attached. He nodded in satisfaction, holding the sword out to its owner.
‘Nice and sharp, just like a soldier’s sword should be. Dismissed!’
He waved the bemused soldier back to his place by the wall, contemplating the denuded spear shaft for a moment before walking across to Cleander and taking the eagle back from him.
‘Knowing how the military does love to make everything with more than one purpose, I’d imagine that this standard fits quite neatly …’ The emperor slotted the eagle’s hollow base down onto the shaft, nodding in satisfaction. ‘There, just as I thought, a perfect match. So, Perennis …’ He walked across to the disgraced prefect with the spear held lightly in one hand. ‘All this time I’ve treated you as a man whose only concern was with his duty, and with the good of the empire, and, in return, all this time you’ve been plotting to murder me and replace me on the throne. You had a dynasty in mind as well, didn’t you, with those two boys of yours in command of the Pannonian legions? A nice quick march down through Italy and you’d have had half a dozen legions to back up your claim alongside your freshly purchased legions from Britannia. I’ll have them both killed, of course, and the only pity is that you won’t live to see it happen. Cleander?’
The freedman stepped forward, his face expressionless despite the scale of the triumph he had engineered over his rival.
‘Caesar?’
‘Send parties of fast horsemen to summon this traitor’s sons back to Rome, in their father’s name mind you. Let them believe that he’s taken the throne, and doubtless they’ll provide conclusive evidence of his treachery. Once they’re detached from their legions, they are to be killed and buried where they’ll never be found.’ Cleander bowed and turned away to do his master’s bidding. ‘Oh, and Cleander …’ The emperor’s servant turned back with a knowing look.
‘Caesar?’
As Marcus watched, the same strange smile crept back onto the emperor’s face.
‘Call for the Knives. Have them come to me here.’
‘As you wish, Caesar.’
Commodus turned back to the disgraced prefect with a flourish of his improvised standard.
‘And so, Perennis, the wheel turns full circle. You recruited my Knives to do the dirty work necessary to maintain the empire, and now I will unleash them upon your family. Your line will be expunged from existence with the same thoroughness you ordered them to use with the Quintili clan, the Aquila brothers and-’
‘Aquila!’ Perennis’s eyes were locked on Marcus, wide with sudden recognition. ‘It’s him! He’s Aquila! He’s the son, the only survivor. He’s different, older, but it’s him, I know it!’
In the depths of his terror at impending death he had latched on to the name of Marcus’s family and finally made the connection that had evaded him moments before, belatedly recognising the Tungrian centurion standing before him. Tearing an arm free from his captors he pointed an accusatory finger at Marcus, his voice close to hysteria.
‘He served in the Guard, before his father sent him to Britannia to save him from imperial justice, and he murdered the men I sent to arrest him and return him to Rome.’
Commodus turned slowly to look at the young centurion, who stared rigidly at the wall behind Perennis.
‘Really? You’re trying to tell me that an equestrian officer serving in the army of Britannia is the son of a senatorial family you liquidated three years ago? Let’s put that claim to the test, shall we?’ The emperor addressed Marcus, who stiffened his body as a sign of respect. ‘So, Centurion, what is your name?’
Marcus spoke without hesitation, knowing that he could end up dying alongside the man who had ordered the deaths of his family if he failed to convince the emperor of his assumed identity.
‘Caesar! Marcus Tribulus Corvus, Caesar!’
‘And where were you born?’
‘Here in Rome, Caesar, in the Caelian!’
Commodus pondered.
‘I see. And how did you come to be serving in an auxiliary cohort? Wouldn’t the son of a member of the equestrian class be better off taking a position with one of the legions?’
Marcus creased his lips to simulate a gentle but uncontrollable amusement, lowering his voice from the harsh bark he had used to answer the emperor’s previous questions.
‘My father, Caesar, served with the same cohort when he was my age. It was his opinion that it would be more character forming for me to be exposed to the rougher elements of the army.’
Commodus smiled.
‘Did he, indeed? Fathers have a habit of wanting what they believe to be for the best for their sons, even if their opinion sometimes runs counter to what their sons might prefer. My own father, may the gods rest his departed spirit, insisted that I study with a succession of tutors when all I really wanted was to learn how best to wield a sword.’
Encouraged by his wistful smile, Marcus chanced one last comment.
‘Whereas for myself, Caesar, training with weapons always came before the classroom.’
The emperor nodded absently, turning away even before the young centurion’s sentence was complete, gesturing to Marcus with a hand.
‘Men like this are what have driven the empire to the successes it has achieved, sons of Rome happy to serve in the most arduous of conditions to secure our frontiers. And you, Perennis, have the temerity to traduce this man’s good name by comparison with that of a known traitor!’
Nostrils flaring as he involuntarily sucked in a lungful of air, Marcus fought his instinct to leap upon the emperor, as Commodus unknowingly repeated the false accusation that had seen his entire family slaughtered out of hand. Just as he was about to surrender to the overwhelming urge to snap out a hand and crush the emperor’s windpipe, the big man turned away, hefting the improvised legion standard in one hand as he strode back towards Perennis, the anger swelling in his voice as he neared the cringing prisoner.
‘I went with my father to Germania ten years ago or so, along with half a dozen legions, and I remember vividly the victory parade after we’d crushed the Marcomanni. There was an eagle bearer out in front of his legion, one arm in a sling, the other holding his eagle held proudly in the air, and my father walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder, turning back to me with a proud smile. “This is my sort of soldier, Lucius,” he said, “a man who will fight to the death for his eagle even when the enemy swarm all round him.”’