Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  Zenobius was stunned. He looked toward the nearby imperial box. The children looked happy and excited by all the noise and colorful activity of the races, but Constantine and Fausta were as stiff as statues. Hannibalianus and Julius also sat very still and stared straight ahead without expression.

  Then, beginning with a glimpse from the corner of his eye, Zenobius perceived a subtle motion that seemed to take place everywhere in the crowd at once, something quite different from the constant, chaotic movements of waving arms and pennants. He was not the only one who had turned to look at the imperial family. Thousands and thousands of others, from one end of the circus to the other, were doing the same thing—they suddenly stopped their frantic waving and turned to stare at the emperor. There was a change in the constant roar of the crowd, as the cheering was replaced by an undertone of many gasps and exclamations of surprise, and even a sort of menacing sound, like a growl of disapproval. The rumor of Crispus’s death had spread like wildfire through every part of the Circus Maximus.

  When Zenobius looked toward the imperial box again, he saw the emperor’s young sons and daughters and their attendants, but Constantine and his wife and half brothers had vanished.

  The next race was announced and the competing chariots appeared at the starting gate. Some semblance of normality returned to the crowd as chants were shouted and pennants were waved. The murmur of confusion grew quieter, but persisted nonetheless. Many of the spectators looked anxious or alarmed.

  “Death by strangulation?” whispered Zenobius. Fausta’s father, Maximian, and the last of Constantine’s rivals, his brother-in-law Licinius, had both died with ropes around their necks. And now Crispus, who to all appearances had been the apple of his father’s eye. Striking closer and closer, the cold hand of death had now reached into the very heart of Constantine’s family.

  “I wonder if they allowed him to be baptized first?” said Kaeso quietly, staring thoughtfully into the distance.

  * * *

  Summoned by the emperor, Zenobius arrived at the Lateran Palace with great trepidation. To his surprise, he was not shown to a reception room but conducted into the family quarters, and then to the private baths used by only the imperial family.

  Several days had passed since news arrived in Rome of the death of Crispus. The Vicennalia celebrations were winding down. Everything had gone smoothly—there were no more unpleasant incidents like the stoning of the emperor’s statue—but the mood of the city had become subdued, almost sullen. One sensed that Rome had had enough of Constantine, and that Constantine had had enough of Rome.

  Crispus, handsome and in the prime of manhood, had been presented to the people of Rome as a sort of ideal warrior-prince, not just heroic and brave but also charming and lovable. Perhaps too charming, perhaps too lovable, if one believed the wild rumors that had circulated since his death. Rumors were all one had to go on, since no official explanation had yet been given for his apparent execution. The mystery generated endless gossip, some of it so dangerous it could be shared only in nervous whispers.

  Zenobius had tried to ignore all these rumors, deciding there was no use in holding an opinion until the truth of the matter was revealed, if indeed that ever happened.

  Waiting alone in the antechamber of one of the private baths—the summons had specified that he should bring not even a scribe with him—Zenobius cast a critical eye on his surroundings. He was quite familiar with these baths, having overseen their construction and decoration as part of the transformation of the House of the Laterani. Testing with his fingertips, he detected a loose tile or two, but all in all the mosaics underfoot and the beautifully painted ceilings were holding up very well.

  He sighed at the repetitious simplicity of the images, which were not at all of the sort to be found in the older bathing establishment in Rome. Here there were no depictions of erotic stories or images of what Constantine called “pagan” deities and demons—no gods and goddesses seducing hapless mortals, no satyrs and nymphs cavorting, no Bacchus celebrating the joys of wine, none of the often wonderful, sometimes tragic stories passed down through countless generations, now superseded, in Constantine’s view, by tales of Moses and martyrs. Here the images were all of gardens and woods and seascapes, of birds and beasts and sea creatures—nice enough, but a considerable step down from the highest attainments of Roman art.

  Not for the first time, Zenobius pondered a large and looming question: If Constantine prevailed, what was to become of all the great art that did not fit with the worldview of the Christians? The citizens of Rome would never stand for desecration of their age-old treasures, but what about other cities around the empire where the Christians were now in ascendance, their fortunes buoyed by the emperor’s largesse? What about the new city Constantine was building? To decorate such a vast expanse, the emperor spoke of “importing” treasures from other cities. Did he mean to loot only marble columns, floral and fish motifs, and portrait statues, or were “pagan” images of gods and heroes also to adorn Constantine’s new hippodrome and his imperial palace? What would the hand-picked senate of the new city, presumably made entirely of Christians, make of that?

  Such were Zenobius’s thoughts when he abruptly realized that the emperor was present in the room. Not a single courtier attended him, which was very odd. Zenobius had never actually been alone with Constantine. Suddenly coming face to face with the emperor, with no ceremony or ritual whatsoever, was disconcerting. So were Constantine’s first words.

  “You are not a Christian, are you, Senator Pinarius?”

  Zenobius felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. What was the point of this question? Did the emperor intend to strip Zenobius of his ongoing projects in the new city, purely on account of his religion? Or was Constantine about to insist that Zenobius become a Christian?

  “No, Dominus, I am not a Christian.”

  “Good. You will advise me on a delicate matter. You will be completely honest, and completely discreet. You will repeat not one word of what we say here, to anyone. Do you understand?”

  Constantine’s gaze was so intense, so grim, that Zenobius felt slightly terrified.

  “I understand, Dominus.”

  “I believe you have a thorough knowledge of these particular baths and how they are made to operate.”

  “That is correct, Dominus. Are they in need of repair?”

  “No. I want to know how a person might be made to die in one of the heated rooms. Not from water, you understand, but from the heated air itself. Such a thing is possible, yes?”

  Zenobius blinked once, twice, and then rapidly several times. He managed to take a deep breath. He was reminded of something his father had taught him, that there is seldom any point in trying to anticipate what a rich and powerful client will request. What such men will ask is likely to be something you cannot possibly anticipate. That was certainly the case here.

  He could see that Constantine was deadly serious. No wonder they were meeting with no other mortal present—Zenobius was being asked to take part in a murder! He felt suddenly lightheaded, and wanted to shout: Can the victim not be strangled? That appeared to be Constantine’s usual mode of execution. Why was Zenobius to be made complicit?

  He swallowed his consternation and proceeded to answer as dispassionately and as factually as he could. He did in fact know of instances where a person had died in an overheated room, though in those cases the victim had been either elderly or in poor health. But it seemed likely that any person could be made to die if a room was made sufficiently hot, and if, of course, the person was unable to leave the room.

  Constantine wanted him to look at a specific room in the baths, to see if it might be suitable for such an event to occur, given the source of its heat and other particulars. They walked down a narrow hallway. Constantine opened a thick wooden door, and they stepped into a circular, modestly proportioned room tiled on all sides, with a tiled bench in the center to sit on. A soft, glowing light came from an elaborate polycandel
ion overhead.

  This was the room. To achieve the desired result, what problems might be anticipated, and how could they be solved? Constantine’s manner was completely unemotional, as if he were asking perfectly normal questions of the sort any client might ask any builder.

  “I must stress,” he said, “that the operation must be absolutely foolproof.”

  The small room was a good choice for the task. Not only the floor but the bench and the lower portions of the walls were all heated by means of a hypocaust, with hot air piped directly from the nearby furnace room. If one deliberately wished to do so, those surfaces could be made quite hot—so hot that a person could not bear to touch them.

  “Do I understand you to say,” asked Constantine, “that the floor would be so hot that a person could not stand on it? That the bench would so hot that a person could not sit on it?”

  “That seems entirely possible, Dominus. We’ve all been in baths where patrons complained that the floor was too hot, which is never the operator’s intention. The solution is simply to mix cool air with the hot air in circulation, so as to regulate the heat. But if one shut off the cool air … if making a floor unbearably hot was the actual goal … yes, I believe that could be done.”

  “And death would occur…?”

  “I’m not a physician, but I suspect the victim would suffocate, or the blood would thicken, causing a stoppage of the heart. The four humors would be thrown completely out of balance.”

  “Good. There is a man in the furnace room you will speak to. He expects you. You will explain to him in technical terms precisely what is desired. Work out with him any foreseeable problems. The event is to occur tomorrow at midday.”

  “Will I … must I … be present at the time?”

  “Absolutely not. You will be elsewhere. And so will I. I shall be with my mother, on my knees, praying at the Church of Our Savior. I would invite you to pray with us, if you, too, were a Christian. But since you are not, I suggest you go about your ordinary routine. And you will speak of this to no one—not even that clever son of yours.”

  Zenobius swallowed hard. His mouth was very dry. “I shall be as a mute, Dominus. As a man made speechless. Dumbfounded.”

  Constantine nodded. They left the tiled room. In the narrow hallway, without a word, Constantine pointed toward the furnace room. Zenobius headed in that direction. After a few steps, he turned and looked back.

  Constantine had vanished, though it seemed impossible that he could have departed so quickly. The whole experience was so bizarre, Zenobius almost thought he had imagined it. But he knew that the emperor’s request was all too real.

  Later, after conferring with the man in the furnace room, Zenobius passed by the tiled room and then through the antechamber and then down a long hallway that led him to a small reception room. No one was present in this neglected wing of the palace. Zenobius paused to steady himself and to catch his breath.

  This was one of the oldest rooms in the House of the Laterani, and one of the least affected by the recent refurbishments. The old decorations were still intact. The workmanship was exquisite. Zenobius found comfort in gazing up at the beautifully painted ceiling.

  A particular series of images caught his eye. They depicted the tragic story of Hippolytus, son of King Theseus. Gazing at the images in sequence, recalling the tale, Zenobius felt his blood run cold.

  Prince Hippolytus was young and handsome. His stepmother, Queen Phaedra, was seized by an uncontrollable lust for him. She attempted to seduce him. Rejecting her advances, pushing her roughly aside, he mounted his chariot in a mad rush to ride as fast and as far away as he could.

  In a frenzy of love turned to hate, Phaedra tore her clothes and told King Theseus that Hippolytus had raped her. Theseus believed her. Using magic, he caused the horses of his son’s chariot to go mad. Hippolytus was thrown from the chariot, but he did not fall clear. His feet were caught in the reins. As the horses stampeded wildly, he was dragged to a gory, agonizing death.

  Wracked by guilt, Phaedra committed suicide, but only after writing a letter to Theseus confessing her lie. The great king realized his error, but only after his son and his wife were both dead.

  Gazing up at the images, recalling the story, Zenobius felt a prickling sense of dread, but also a surge of religious exaltation. The story of Hippolytus was only one of the countless stories that made up what the Christians scornfully dismissed as the “old religion.” All those stories were interwoven like an endless tapestry extending to infinity in every direction, capturing in its threads every moment of every mortal life already lived or yet to be. Though their meaning was often mysterious, those stories and the people in them held up an uncanny mirror to the very real trials and tribulations of living mortals, offering a glimpse into some ultimate truth about existence. Here Zenobius stood, prompted by these images to recall the tale of Hippolytus, and at that very moment, in that very place, something very like that story was happening around him—and he was being made to play a part.

  Something terrible had taken place between Constantine, Crispus, and Fausta—for surely it was Fausta whom Constantine intended to murder in the heated room. How cruel, to roast a helpless mortal in an oven, scalding her hands and feet, scorching her lungs so that each breath became torture, thickening her blood until her heart grew rigid and burst from the strain. Fausta was not to be burned alive—Constantine’s preferred penalty for what he deemed sexual crimes—but this punishment was close enough. He would give her a foretaste of the flaming Hell he no doubt envisioned as her ultimate fate.

  Constantine mocked the gods. This had to be their revenge on him, this homicidal madness—the murder of his own son, and now his wife. He had fallen prey to the goddess Atë, who brought delusion, folly, and ruin to the heroes of the ancient stories. Hubris was the overweening pride that led the hero into error, but Atë brought the outcome, the horrible consequence. Even the gods were subject to Atë—even Jupiter, her father.

  In the ruination of Constantine, Atë had made Zenobius one of her instruments. He left the House of the Laterani reconciled to his role in the drama.

  * * *

  The death of Fausta was reported as an accident, but the gossips of Rome said otherwise. Salacious stories abounded. She had seduced Crispus, but Constantine caught them in the act and ultimately killed them both. Or: she failed to seduce Crispus, then invented a rape, like Phaedra, and tricked Constantine into killing his son, then in the throes of guilt she committed suicide by locking herself in the hot room. Or: Fausta was entirely innocent, because Crispus raped her and then fled, but Constantine went crazy with suspicion and killed her unjustly. Or: like Lucretia of ancient days, she was raped by Crispus and, though she was innocent of any wrongdoing, shame drove her to kill herself.

  One of the more twisted variations held that Fausta had orchestrated a coldly calculated hoax: wanting to put her stepson Crispus out of the way so as to advance her own sons, she invented a rape; Constantine believed her and killed Crispus; then it was Helena, Crispus’s doting grandmother, who uncovered the deceit and insisted that Constantine put the wicked woman to death.

  Yet another rumor asserted that Fausta had deliberately plotted to bring as much pain as she could to both Constantine and his firstborn because she hated both of them with all her might. Why? The plausible catalogue of her grievances was long: her marriage was arranged when she was very young, she had no say in the matter, and she had never loved Constantine; her father had been forced to commit suicide after an alleged coup against Constantine; Constantine had then vilified the dead man with a lurid fiction claiming Maximian was plotting to kill Constantine, in which story Fausta was slandered as betraying her own father; Constantine’s attack on Rome had led to the ignominious death of Fausta’s brother, Maxentius, a humiliation compounded when Constantine ordered Maxentius’s corpse to be desecrated and beheaded, then proudly paraded this gory trophy through the streets of Rome, and even sent it to Africa to intimidate Maxentiu
s’s general there. One could only imagine the shame and terror Fausta must have felt, all the while putting on a show of being a loving and loyal wife—lest she be beheaded next! In this version of events, Fausta’s return to Rome for the Vicennalia stirred within her a whirlwind of repressed anguish. How could Fausta be in Rome and not think of her father and brother and their terrible ends, and all the other indignities she had endured?

  A particular detail the gossips liked to linger upon was the irony that Constantine, who upon arrival in Italy issued his self-righteous edicts to punish all sorts of sexual immorality, had been made to look a complete fool when cuckolded by his wife and son.

  There was even a version of events which involved no sex at all: Crispus, falling prey to overweening ambition, had plotted to usurp his father, was found out, fled Rome, was apprehended and executed—and the death of Fausta was accidental and completely unrelated. From the whispers that worked their way down to him from the inner circles of the court, it seemed to Zenobius that this was likely to be the version Constantine himself would eventually settle on. The official version would show the emperor in the best possible light—a grieving father betrayed by his son and given no choice but to execute him, a loving husband made a widower by a peculiar turn of fate.

  Sitting on a balcony of the House of the Beaks, the Pinarii discussed all these differing versions of events, as well as the latest twist, an anonymous couplet in elegant Latin that had been posted on small placards all over the city. The verses made reference to a famous cameo of exquisite workmanship and extraordinary size—almost a foot wide and half again as tall—carved from blue and white agate. It had been presented to Constantine as a gift from the Senate of Rome on the occasion of his previous visit, to celebrate his Decennalia. The cameo depicted Constantine, Fausta, and Crispus as a boy (but already dressed as a warrior) in a triumphal chariot pulled by two centaurs, who also happened to be trampling a pair of enemies meant to represent Maxentius and his young son. Winged Victory hovered over the scene, holding forth a wreath to lay upon Constantine’s head. The cameo had been publicly displayed and much talked about ten years ago, during the Decennalia, then had been stored in the imperial treasury, and then brought out again and displayed on a pedestal in the New Basilica to celebrate the Vicennalia. Day after day, citizens had been queuing up by the thousands to have a look at it.