At the utterance of this despicable name, many in the crowd jeered and booed. Others cried out their love for Maxentius, especially women. The handsome young emperor’s grandiose mourning for his dead son Romulus had won him the sympathy of every mother in Rome.
Zenobius observed the emperor closely. Never had he seen such an exalted look on any man’s face. Maxentius was transfigured. The adoration of the crowd seemed to vindicate all he had done over the last six years, lavishing attention on Rome in a way the city had not enjoyed in a very long time. Now Maxentius had assumed the role of savior of the city. He had tied his fate irrevocably to the fate of Rome. In return, he was asking the people to tie their fate to his. No stage for such an event could be more appropriate than the Amphitheater, where all of Rome could gather in one place and gaze upon itself. In that moment, city and people and emperor were one.
When Maxentius raised his hands and began to speak again, an unearthly silence fell on the crowd. Every face was turned in his direction. Every eye was upon him. “People of Rome, we have a choice to make. Constantine will lay siege to the city, perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Rome can withstand such a siege, I have no doubt. Since I became your emperor, we have strengthened the city gates and made the walls of Aurelian even stronger and taller. In recent days, our loyal soldiers have been fitting catapults and ballistae on the walls and stockpiling projectiles to hurl destruction on the enemy from a distance. Rome will not be taken!
“But is that the proper course? Should we stay here within our walls, and await whatever is to come? Or … should we go on the offensive? Should I, as your emperor, your champion, march out of the city at the head of our legions, meet the threat head-on, and put an end to it?”
Looking at Maxentius’s face, Zenobius realized that the emperor genuinely had not yet decided which course to take. Other emperors might have sought guidance from generals or philosophers, from omens or oracles, but Maxentius was looking to the city itself—to the genius of the city as incarnated in its people—to make up his mind.
“Which should it be?” cried Maxentius. “Siege, or battle? Battle or siege? Raise your voices! Shout your answer!”
At first, only scattered voices answered, some saying one thing, some the other. Then more and more people began to shout. Like the howling that had preceded it, this noise rose in volume until it was almost deafening. Both words were being shouted over and over, until each resolved into a steady chant.
Battle, battle, battle!
Siege, siege, siege!
Only very slowly, very gradually, did one word win over the other, and as it gained ascendance, those on the opposite side were won over. An unseen force seemed to steer the people toward a choice that was unanimous, inevitable, irrevocable. One word was settled upon, and every voice in the Amphitheater began to chant it in unison, with a slight pause before each utterance, so that the word rang out as clearly and distinctly as if shouted by a single, thundering voice.
“Battle!—Battle!—Battle!—Battle!”
If Constantine and his army had heard the howls before, they were surely hearing this battle cry, which was even louder and more sustained. The city of Rome would not passively wait for the would-be conqueror to make his move. The city was ready and eager to take the battle to the enemy. The decision was the right one, Zenobius had no doubt. Rome was always the conqueror, never the conquered. So the gods had ordained. Read a thousand years of history, roll the dice a thousand times—the outcome was always the same. Constantine was mad to think he could cast the dice and get a different result.
On the emperor’s face, Zenobius saw a look of calm resolution. The decision had been made. Maxentius was at peace. He raised his hands. The chanting ceased.
“It is what you want,” he said. “It is what the gods want. It is what I want. Rome will not cower behind her walls. Tomorrow, Rome goes to war!”
* * *
The emperor’s anniversary games were as splendid as anyone could have wished. The blood of many gladiators was spilled, each death a sacred offering to the gods. But after the spontaneous howling and the emperor’s rousing speech, all that followed was anticlimactic.
As soon as the games were concluded, the Roman Senate convened in emergency session. In his role as Pontifex Maximus, the emperor brought forth the Sibylline Books. The priests consulted calendars and indices. An oracle was found to show that on the very next day, “The wretched enemy of Rome shall die a wretched death.”
The emperor burned incense and prayed before the Altar of Victory. After him, Zenobius and all the other senators solemnly did the same. They followed him to the unfinished New Basilica, with its great room many times larger than the Senate chamber. Maxentius ceremonially took off his purple and gold toga and put on the gilded armor and purple cape in which he would do battle the next day. Young and handsome, smiling serenely, he inspired confidence in every man present.
Zenobius had no doubt. Maxentius would prevail.
* * *
“I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”
“But Father, it’s true! Everyone says so! The battle is over. The enemy has won. Maxentius … is dead.”
As the news spread, the sound of wailing echoed through the city. Many people were already in temples, having arrived that morning to pray continuously for the emperor’s victory in battle. Now their prayers turned to lamentation.
Like a hot wind, a thrill of panic swept through the city. Where would any man or woman be safe? More people streamed into the temples, desperate to find sanctuary.
But amid the wails and shrieks, there were scattered noises of celebration from those who had secretly hoped for Constantine’s success. Who even knew that such people existed? They had been silent the previous day, in the Amphitheater. Now they shouted from windows and rooftops, and some even dared to dance in the streets. Outraged Romans loyal to Maxentius jeered at the celebrants, but no one dared to attack them. If the unthinkable was true, and the emperor was dead, then these people were the winners. Very soon they would have the upper hand in the city.
Zenobius had been in the House of the Beaks with his aged father, waiting for news, when Kaeso arrived, out of breath from running.
“The battle took place on the far side of the Tiber—across from the Milvian Bridge,” he gasped.
His grandfather spoke up, stirred by a vivid memory of long ago. “Why, that was the very place where the barbarians made camp and threatened to invade when I was a young man, and we used the threat of plague to scare them off!”
But this time the enemy did not retreat, and neither stratagem nor force of arms had been able to save the city.
In the middle of the night, to prevent Constantine from easily crossing the Tiber, Maxentius had preemptively destroyed the center of the Milvian Bridge. Watching as his engineers located the weakest points of the stone bridge and went to work with staves and rams, Maxentius was overheard to say: “‘Horatius dared to bring down the bridge!’” How like him that was, to quote Virgil and evoke the memory of one of Rome’s earliest heroes.
So that his own troops could cross to the far side, pontoon bridges were put in place. These were easily and quickly assembled by the engineers, and steady enough, as long as men crossed in regular order. Many thousands of Maxentius’s troops were already stationed north of the river, forming a bulwark against the invader. When Maxentius rode out of the Flaminian Gate the next morning and crossed the pontoon bridges at the head of his cavalry, both sides assumed battle formations and the combat commenced.
For Maxentius, the day was an unmitigated disaster. Constantine’s men were battle-hardened after years of fighting in Gaul. Their morale was high from their string of victories on the long march to Rome. Maxentius’s men, gathered from many provinces, were greater in number, but strangers to each other. They were no match for the enemy. They broke ranks and fled. Many died under a hail of arrows that struck them in the back. The bravest, who fled last, tripped over the bodies of those who fl
ed first.
On horseback with his sword drawn, Maxentius repeatedly tried to rally his men, but the advance of Constantine’s soldiers pushed him back to the Tiber. As his horse cantered onto one of the pontoon bridges, a rush of men and horses came stampeding behind him.
The pontoon bridge broke into pieces and instantly collapsed under the weight of so many horses and men. Wearing heavy armor, Maxentius sank beneath the churning water and vanished.
Witnesses from both sides spread the news. The remnants of Maxentius’s troops were utterly demoralized. Many were slaughtered. Many fled. Some were allowed to surrender. The battle was over. Constantine’s victory was complete.
Like so many when they heard the news, Zenobius was in a state of shock. He had allowed himself to believe, along with the emperor, that the gods were entirely on the side of Maxentius—on the side of Rome! How could it be otherwise? And yet … Constantine’s reputation as a general was formidable. Some said he had never lost a battle. Maxentius, on the other hand, had never really proved himself in the field. His successes in Africa had been won by surrogates. When Severus and Galerius each invaded Italy and were turned back, it had been the sheer number of Maxentius’s troops, the disloyalty of their own men, and their intimidation at seeing the walls of Rome that sent them into retreat. It had seemed at the time that these bloodless victories had been god-sent. In retrospect, it might have been better if Maxentius and his troops had been tested in battle before taking on the likes of Constantine.
“Did I let religion blind me?” muttered Zenobius. “Did Maxentius do the same? Did we fool ourselves into thinking he was invincible because the gods wanted it so, when the superiority of Constantine as a general should have been obvious all along? Or … is this the will of the gods? Did the gods turn against Maxentius? Do they now love Constantine? But how can that be? I still can’t believe it. I won’t—not until we know … for certain … that Maxentius is dead.”
“But, Father,” said Kaeso, “there can be no doubt—”
Gnaeus spoke up, his voice quavering. “Did you see him drown, my boy, with your own eyes? Did anyone?”
“They say the river was so filled with corpses, a man could walk from one bank to the other.”
“Amid so much carnage,” said Zenobius, “how could the body of one man be found? As long as there is no absolute proof—”
They heard a sudden noise from the direction of the Forum—a tumult of screaming, wailing, and cheering. Loudest of all was the blaring of the horns traditionally used to clear the streets for a procession.
Gnaeus looked alarmed. The old man blinked his rheumy eyes and shivered.
“Father, stay here,” said Zenobius, heading toward the door.
“I’m coming with you!” said Kaeso.
“If you must.”
The mass of people heading toward the Forum displayed every possible emotion, from dismay and horror to giddy delight. Zenobius spotted a number of senators wearing their togas, as he was, and moved to join them. Then he saw that they seemed to be celebrating and congratulating one another—men who only the day before had prayed with Maxentius at the Altar of Victory. Zenobius angrily forced his way toward one of the senators, the latest of his line to bear the name Titus Messius Extricatus. There had been hostility between the two families since the days of Zenobius’s grandfather.
“What does this mean, Senator Extricatus? What are you smiling about?”
“Why, it’s Senator Pinarius Zenobius!” Extricatus twisted the cognomen on his tongue, as if there were something unsavory or scandalous about it. “Ignorant of the facts, as usual. There has long been a faction in the Roman Senate sympathetic to Constantine—secret partisans, if you will, covertly working on his behalf.”
“Spying, you mean?”
“If you like. There is no sin in being a spy for the emperor chosen by the gods.”
“You impious wretch! Only yesterday you stood by while Maxentius consulted the Sibylline Books. I saw you nod and cry, ‘Thank Jupiter!’ when he read the text.”
“Of course I did. What did the text say? What were the exact words?”
“It said, ‘The wretched enemy of Rome … shall die … a wretched death.’” Saying the words aloud, Zenobius felt a chill.
“And that is precisely what happened! Maxentius was the enemy of Rome, you idiot, not Constantine! And now he’s dead, just as the oracle foretold—a truly wretched death, with river moss up his nose and minnows in his lungs.”
“You don’t know that! Maxentius may still be alive, and if he is—”
“Open your eyes, you fool!” Extricatus pointed to a cordon of soldiers who were clearing the way for a procession. Horns blared. Zenobius was filled with dread.
Atop a long spear, held aloft so that all could see, was a disembodied head. Gore oozed and spilled from the severed neck. The jaw was broken, and the sharp end of the spear projected from the gaping mouth. The wide-open eyes stared upward as if in shock, reproaching the heavens. Despite its twisted features, the head was undeniably that of Maxentius. The defender of the eternal city, the champion of Mars, the Unconquered Augustus had reentered Rome with his head on a spike.
Zenobius staggered and would have fallen had Kaeso not been there to steady him.
“Fool! Idiot!” Extricatus wrinkled his nose. “But what can one expect from the son of a Palmyrene whore?”
Above a roaring in his ears, Zenobius heard the insult, but was too stunned to react. Extricatus and the other senators turned away, laughing and cheering as they followed the emperor’s head up the Sacred Way.
“Are you Senator Pinarius?” The gruff whisper came from a hooded figure who suddenly stood before him. The man’s face was in shadow.
Zenobius nodded. “What do you want?”
The man stepped closer. Two more hooded men stood behind him. He carried something. He raised both arms.
Zenobius flinched and braced for a blow. Had it come to this, that a senator loyal to Maxentius was to be assassinated here in the Forum, in broad daylight, in front of his son?
But the thing the man held forth was not a weapon. It was a long bundle of some sort, wrapped in coarse wool and tied with thin rope. “I bring this to you from the emperor himself,” the man said, speaking barely above a whisper. “He told me that I was to give this to you, Senator Pinarius—to you and only you.”
“What is it?”
“Take it. Unwrap it in private, and see for yourself. The emperor said you would know what to do with it, that you would make sure it doesn’t fall … into the hands … of the usurper.” The words ended in a sob. A spot of sunlight piercing the shadow of his hood shone on gaunt cheeks wet with tears.
Zenobius took the bundle. He opened the woolen wrapping a bit. He caught a glimpse of silk and the glint of colored glass. He was puzzled for a moment, then knew what the man had given him. He knew at once what he must do. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and stood upright, no longer needing Kaeso to steady him.
“There is more,” said the man. The two hooded figures stepped from behind him. They also carried bundles.
“The three of you, follow me,” said Zenobius. His dizziness was gone. His voice was calm. His gait was steady as he led the way.
He had been given a final mission by his emperor.
Zenobius led Kaeso and the hooded men toward the Temple of Venus and Roma. The crowd was thick at first, but people reflexively made way at the sight of a senator’s toga. The crowd thinned as they left the crush along the Sacred Way. They ascended the steps of the temple and entered the sanctuary.
There were people inside the temple, but they were too busy weeping and praying to notice as Zenobius stepped into a shadowy alcove off the vestibule.
“Leave your burdens here, with me,” he said to the hooded men.
They looked to their leader, who seemed to hesitate.
“Leave them here, I said. By my authority. By the authority given to me by the emperor.”
The
leader nodded. They put down the bundles and slipped away.
By a mechanism known only to Maxentius and a handful of others, Zenobius opened a hidden door. He and Kaeso descended into an underground chamber, carrying the bundles.
The secret room had been commissioned by Maxentius when the temple was rebuilt after the fire early in his reign. In the event of extreme catastrophe or utmost crisis, this was to be a safe hiding place for items of great value, which could then be retrieved later.
The opened door from above provided the only light. By its faint illumination, Zenobius and Kaeso undid the bundles and took inventory of the treasures. Wrapped in pennants of linen and silk were three lances and four javelins, and a base in which these battle standards could be set upright. Along with these insignia were three large spheres made of glass and chalcedony. Most precious of all was the imperial scepter. The staff culminated in a metal flower, its petals holding a blue-green globe. Zenobius remembered how brightly that globe had glinted in the sunlight when the emperor held it aloft the previous day at the Amphitheater. Maxentius had carried it again in the Senate House, and then in the New Basilica when he put on his armor, full of hope and certain of victory.
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