Taking a deep breath, he struggled into the freshly-pressed white tunic of the Praetorians and carefully pulled it down so that there were no rucks or creases that would irritate beneath armour before gathering the crimson mess and hanging it over his scabbard and baldric. It had been a mad, horrible half hour. On the platform in front of the population of Vindobona, the Praetorian medic had announced that the emperor was still breathing, though unresponsive. Commodus, his eyes already red-rimmed with tears and worry, had refused all aid in raising his father from the floor – in truth the frail old man must only have weighed the same as a child despite the armour – and had lifted him onto the makeshift stretcher that had been formed from Rufinus’ former legionary shield along with three cloaks for comfort. The air was charged with fear and shock, a strange tingle adding to the cold winds that had sprung up, threatening the return of the endless snow. As Aurelius had been carried from the dais, head rocking back and forth and legs, from the knees down, dangling over the bottom of the shield, Paternus had stepped to the front of the stage, taking on the duty of crowd control.
