Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  Zenobius’s final act of loyalty to the emperor was to see that these treasures were safely hidden. Would the son of Maxentius retrieve them some day, and wield his father’s scepter? It seemed very unlikely. Young sons of fallen emperors did not live long.

  They did not linger, but hurried back up into the light. Zenobius closed the hidden door behind him. “And that,” he said quietly to Kaeso, “is all that is left of the Unconquered Augustus and his dazzling court.”

  * * *

  The summons from Constantine came a few days later.

  Putting on his toga, Zenobius felt a tremor of fear, but also curiosity. He had refused to attend Constantine’s triumphal entry into the city, quite a vulgar affair from all he had heard, so this would be his first look at the man.

  The new emperor was holding court at the New Basilica. The vast space teemed with aides and courtiers all looking quite busy and very important. The murmur of voices and the patter of footsteps echoed off the marble walls. Zenobius felt calm at stepping inside the familiar surroundings, a place where he had spent many hours as a planner and builder, conferring with Maxentius. He was determined to maintain that composure.

  Constantine sat on a throne on a high dais in the apse opposite the main entrance, from which he could see and be seen by everyone in the room. Zenobius had expected to see Constantine in armor, but the emperor had put on a purple and gold toga. Perhaps it was the same toga worn by Maxentius, for it fit him rather tightly. Constantine was considerably broader than his predecessor, not just across the shoulders but across the middle as well. On his head the emperor wore a fillet of golden laurel leaves.

  As Zenobius took the long walk across the chamber, he got a closer look at the man. Maxentius had had a dimple in his chin, but Constantine’s broad, clean-shaven jaw had a deep cleft, and his nose was very large. So were his eyes, which seemed to flash as he turned his gaze to look down on Zenobius.

  Zenobius was formally announced. Then Constantine spoke. “Senator Pinarius, I am looking to recover an item of the imperial court that seems to have gone missing: the scepter.”

  Zenobius tried to swallow, but could not. He loudly cleared his throat. “A scepter, Dominus?” he managed to say.

  “Not a scepter, the scepter. The scepter my late brother-in-law wielded. Surely you know what I’m talking about, Senator.”

  “I do, Dominus. Yes. The scepter, yes … I do…”

  “I’ve asked everyone else, so I might as well ask you. No one seems to know what’s become of it. My agents managed to trace it to—and I quote—‘a fellow who was seen lurking about the Forum, carrying a long bundle and wearing a hood.’ The fellow has since been apprehended and is even now being questioned under torture. Of course, no one need be tortured, if someone could produce this scepter for me.” He smiled. Constantine had a pleasant voice, measured and calm and deep, like the steady purring of a cat.

  Zenobius finally managed to swallow. The lump felt hard in his chest. “Is it so important that this item be found? Surely it’s of little value, compared to many other imperial treasures.”

  “The metal and glass are mere trinkets, true. But certain objects are sometimes invested with a special kind of power.”

  “True. A loyal citizen bows to the imperial scepter—”

  “I mean something more than that. A power invisible, but not intangible.”

  “If Dominus is speaking of … magic … I can assure you that Maxentius never resorted—”

  “Magic? Yes, perhaps magic—in which case the scepter is best destroyed. I’ll have no sorcery around me. Or perhaps the scepter possesses a power that is the opposite of magic—a power not corrupt, as is all magic, but truly divine.”

  Nervously, Zenobius touched the fascinum hidden under his toga.

  “I thought perhaps you, Senator, as one of his chief architects, would know of any secret chamber … or hidden treasure room…?” Constantine raised his large eyebrows.

  Zenobius managed to keep his face a blank. He shook his head.

  “Well, perhaps this missing scepter is of no importance. Perhaps it’s just a stick, and nothing more. It certainly did Maxentius little good. Never mind. I called you here on more important business.”

  Zenobius thought about the man who had given him the scepter, who even now was being tortured. Would the man die before speaking? Would he betray Zenobius?

  But Constantine was talking. He tried to listen. “First, you will make out for me a list of all statues, monuments, and buildings that Maxentius constructed or refurbished.”

  “There are official lists—”

  “Yes, but it will take time for my secretaries to locate and scroll through all those lists, and they may overlook something. You will make a list for me yourself, and it will be complete. Understood?”

  “Yes, Dominus.”

  “Some things will have to be pulled down, of course—his statues, for a start. All of them. We mustn’t miss any. And something must be done immediately to correct the outrage he committed against the Colossus. Replacing the face of Sol! What was Maxentius thinking, to mock the sun god? If that was his idea of piety, no wonder I routed him so easily. Piety is very important. Do you understand?”

  “I do, Dominus.”

  “Do you, really?” Constantine pressed his fingertips together. “A few years ago, I was in the south of Gaul—this was right after my victory over Maxentius’s father, when the old man rounded up some troops and made his ill-advised bid to regain power. I came upon a small temple of Apollo by the roadside, and I felt compelled to stop and have a look inside. My men stayed back. I entered alone. The place was very dimly lit, but in the shadows I saw a rather lovely statue of Apollo. Our heads were at the same level, so that the god and I stood face to face. The longer I looked at the statue, the brighter it became, as if it glowed with light. The face that looked back at me seemed to be … my own face. It was uncanny, as if I looked in a polished mirror. And then I became aware of another presence in the sanctuary, a thing with wings, for I heard them rustle—Victory, it must have been, since she had just favored me on the battlefield. And the two of them, Apollo and Victory, spoke to me, saying the battle I won that day was only the first of many to come.”

  Constantine was quiet for a long moment. The entire basilica had gone quiet. One by one, the bustling courtiers had stopped to listen to the emperor’s story.

  “What I saw and heard there, in that temple of Apollo, seemed to be not of this world, yet not unreal—quite the opposite, it was more real than the ordinary things one sees and touches every day. Something like that happened again, the day before I met Maxentius on the battlefield. In the sky I saw a strange bending of the light. Others saw it, as well…” His voice trailed off. When he resumed he sounded no longer dreamy but very matter-of-fact. “They say it’s Sol who lights the sky, and isn’t Sol the same as Apollo, only with a different name and a different priesthood? And are not Apollo and Sol the same as Elagabalus, the sun as it is worshipped by the Syrians? There is only one sun, after all. And could there be any power greater than the sun?” He looked at Zenobius intently.

  “I’m not a priest or a scholar of religion, Dominus.”

  “Have you ever received a direct communication from a god? Seen a vision? Heard a voice?”

  “Like everyone, from time to time, especially when in doubt, I look for signs and omens, and sometimes I perceive them—”

  “No, I mean a voice—as clear as my voice right now. Or a vision, something manifestly—without any doubt—of divine origin.”

  Zenobius thought for a long moment before answering. “No, Dominus. I have not had that experience.”

  “Ah. But you knew Maxentius. You spoke with him often. You were perhaps his confidant. Did he ever hear or see such things?”

  “Not to my knowledge, Dominus. But he was a pious man—”

  “Yes, well, some of us hear voices and see visions—and others do not. And those who see and hear, like myself—are the
winners! Earthly success is proof of the favor of Divine Will. That Will also manifests itself in dreams. The day before the battle with Maxentius, I not only saw a sign in the sky. That night I had a dream. I saw a curious emblem—rather like an X with a perpendicular line through its center, and the top of the line curved round. In my dream I was told that if my soldiers painted this device on their shields I would be victorious. Rome would be mine.”

  Zenobius nodded. “I’ve seen the shields your soldiers carry, bearing the mark you speak of, Dominus. I’ve seen that mark before.”

  “Have you?”

  Zenobius took a deep breath. “Yes. It’s a combination of two Greek letters, chi and rho—the first letters of the Greek word chrestos, meaning good. It’s a bit of antiquated shorthand one sees in the margins of very old scrolls, to denote a passage of special importance. My grandfather taught it to me when I was very small, and I never forgot. I still use it myself sometimes, as a mark on architectural plans. Perhaps, when you were preparing for the battle, you saw the chi-rho somewhere—on an old plan or map of Rome—and remembered it in your dream.”

  Constantine looked thoughtful. “Possibly. I had been looking at maps and other documents, diagrams of catapults and such, in case there was a siege. Yes, well, it was a good thing that I defeated Maxentius—quite chrestos indeed, eh? The Divine Will is a mysterious thing. Whence comes it, and by what name should we call it? Mortals worship so many gods, and each god has so many different names and attributes. Or could it be that there is only one?”

  “One … god?” What was the point of this long digression? At least Constantine was no longer talking about the scepter. “The great Apollonius spoke of a divine singularity—”

  “Apollonius, the wonder-worker of Tyana, you mean? So you are a religious scholar.”

  “Not at all, Dominus. But I do know a bit about Apollonius, from family lore. An ancestor of the Pinarii knew him and was a devout follower. And my grandfather knew Philostratus, who wrote the biography of Apollonius.”

  “Ah, yes, a very famous book. Rather full of nonsense.”

  Zenobius frowned.

  Constantine saw his reaction. “Well, I haven’t read the book myself, but it was read aloud to me by my wife. I like to have books read to me, while I fall asleep. My wife has a lovely voice.”

  Was Constantine illiterate? Maxentius had said so.

  “Philostratus does have a way with words,” Constantine continued, “and he does keep the plot moving. But who could take seriously that bit about swans surrounding the mother of Apollonius and assisting her to give birth?”

  “A very beautiful and poetical scene in the book—”

  “Laughable, I would say. Can you imagine a flock of swans flapping their wings and squawking encouragement to a woman in labor? I think Philostratus never witnessed a birth, to invent such a silly detail. Or spent any time around swans. Nasty creatures! The whole book is about Apollonius traveling hither and yon and practicing magic in one way or another, even though the author repeatedly insists the man was not a wizard. No one brings the dead back to life without practicing magic! As for the wise man’s so-called philosophy, it’s all down to the Fates. According to Apollonius, if a man is destined to be a carpenter, he will be one, even if you cut his arms off at birth. If destined to win the race at Olympia, so he will, even if you break both his legs the night before. And if meant to be a great painter, so he will be, even if you blind him. Ha! I should like to see any one of those examples tested in the real world. I can tell you how it would turn out. Oh, I know the counter-argument: if you do blind some poor fellow, that means he was not destined by the Fates to paint. So it’s just a circular argument, of no practical use to anyone. Fate is what happens. What happens is Fate. Put aside silly books, I say, and get along with the business of living. Show me the god who rewards a loyal follower, and tell me how to please him.”

  Zenobius could not suppress a sigh. The emperor took no notice.

  “But I didn’t call you here to talk religion. I am told that Maxentius trusted you with a great many large-scale projects, not least among them this magnificent building around us.”

  “Yes, Dominus.”

  “I’m also told that you are competent, honest, and punctual.”

  “If others say so—”

  “They do. As for your skill and good taste, your projects speak for themselves. How soon can you build me a triumphal arch?”

  Zenobius was startled, then felt such a rush of relief that he could not speak. Only now, when his fear was alleviated, did he realize just how frightened he had been, ever since receiving the emperor’s summons. Many of the senators closest to Maxentius had vanished in recent days.

  “I don’t mean a small arch, or a plain one,” said Constantine. “I want a triumphal arch every bit as big and impressive as the one the emperor Titus built after he conquered the Jews. I want it beautifully inscribed, covered with sculptures depicting my liberation of Rome, all exquisitely painted.”

  Zenobius pictured the Arch of Titus in his mind. He nodded slowly. “The sculptures would present the largest challenge. To produce so many, I mean, and on such a large scale.”

  “Why is that?”

  “To be frank, Dominus, there is a scarcity in Rome of sculptors of the very highest skill. It has been so all my life. Plague, war, the death of so many old masters, the lapse in training—the extraordinary level of quality such as one sees in the Arch of Titus was made possible only by maintaining certain high standards from generation to generation, without interruption.”

  “Are you saying there are no sculptors of adequate skill to decorate my arch?”

  “A scarcity, I would say, not a complete absence. That is to say, if you wish to create large-scale works that can be compared to those on the Arch of Titus, there are only so many sculptors with that level or artistry, and they can work only so many hours a day—”

  “It must be done quickly. As soon as possible.”

  Zenobius remembered how straightforward and easy his working relationship with Maxentius had been. That Constantine wanted to retain him at all was wonderful, but working for him might be difficult, perhaps very difficult. His heart sank further when Constantine made a helpful suggestion.

  “Can’t you simply reuse bits and pieces of old sculpture? I’ve seen an awful lot of top-notch stuff, all over this city. Rome really is an amazing place, at least when it comes to architecture and statues. If today’s artists can’t match the standard of yesterday’s artists, then I say, use the work of yesterday’s artists today!”

  Zenobius winced. “Is Dominus suggesting that sculptures should be removed from existing monuments? That might pose some problems. To do so could inflict damage to the existing monument, indeed, might even require its demolition. If the monument in question has been religiously sanctified, as almost all of them have been, then priests would need to be consulted, and proper rituals observed—”

  “Then leave those monuments alone, and use the bric-a-brac that’s lying all about the city.”

  “Bric-a-brac, Dominus?”

  “It’s all over the place, wherever buildings were torn down to make way for Aurelian’s wall, or demolished for some other reason. Statues and medallions and tondi, whole stacks of them. You must know what I mean.”

  Zenobius nodded slowly. “Yes, there is a certain supply of cast-off items. Does Dominus suggest that such pieces could somehow be used on the new arch?”

  “I don’t see why not. Just be sure to work my image into them.”

  “Your image, Dominus?”

  “My face, you silly man! If the statue is of some other emperor—say, Hadrian—re-carve it so that it looks like me. Chisel away the beard, give the face my nose, my mouth, and so on. How hard can that be? To satisfy a whim of Maxentius you made the Colossus of Sol look like a teenage boy! Make an inventory of available artwork and figure out how those pieces can be used on the arch. Some new sculptures will be required, as there are certain
very specific scenes that must be on the arch—Maxentius and his men toppling into the Tiber, for instance. What a spectacle that was!” He laughed harshly, savoring the memory. “People must never forget the complete humiliation of his defeat. One of my secretaries will give you a list of tableaux to be depicted. I shall expect some plans and drawings from you as soon as possible. Very soon! I have no desire to dawdle here in Rome any longer than I have to.”

  Zenobius nodded mutely.

  “What else? Ah, yes, there’s a very large house—a palace, really, a sprawling place with baths and terraces and wings—where my wife wishes to have some private apartments.”

  What sort of person was Fausta, Zenobius wondered. She was the wife of Constantine—but also the daughter of the Diocletian’s co-emperor Maximian, and sister of Maxentius, both of whom had been destroyed by her husband. She was said to be quite young, not much older than Crispus, Constantine’s son by his first wife. Maxentius had never talked to Zenobius about his sister. Even if Fausta was entirely devoted to Constantine, surely she had felt a twinge of sadness when her father hanged himself and her brother drowned in the Tiber.

  “Perhaps you know the place?” Constantine went on, talking about his wife’s choice of residence. “It’s on the Caelian Hill. I remember, it’s called the House of the Laterani, though I have no idea who these Laterani were, or are.”

  “I know the building, Dominus. No one named Lateranus has owned it for quite some time. Nero confiscated it from them. Severus gave it back. Aurelian got his hands on it somehow.”

  “How you Romans like to hold on to the old names of things! I suppose we can call her wing of the place the House of Fausta. You’ll help her find decorators, yes? Honest ones, I mean. She’s young and a bit naive.”

  “Certainly, Dominus.”

  “But the place is much too big for Fausta alone. I’m thinking another wing would make suitable living quarters for the bishop of Rome.”

  Zenobius frowned, not sure he heard correctly. “Bishop?”