by Bryan Litfin
“Did you win?”
“Of course I won! The monsters fled, and the troops fell before us. We had armor on now, and we were victorious. Then I woke up.”
“Surely it is another sign from Apollo, Your Majesty.”
Constantine gave a little laugh and shook his head. “I don’t know what to think about the gods anymore. I keep seeing crosses. So I’m starting to think we’ve had it wrong.” He stepped back from Rex, resuming his typically authoritative demeanor once again. “Listen to me now, soldier. I have a job for you. You know my son’s tutor, the professor Lactantius? He’s a Christian. Have him assemble the most important bishops in Gaul for a meeting in the Palace Hall. I’ll pay whatever it costs. Let’s do it by the Ides of October. Tell Lactantius to gather all the best theologians, because I have some weighty matters to discuss with them. Go find him right away. It’s dawn now, so he’s probably awake.”
Rex saluted his lord and left the imperial bedchamber. The African rhetorician Lactantius was well-known around the palace, so he wasn’t hard to locate after a few inquiries. When Rex told him what the emperor wanted, his face lit up. Lactantius said he would make the conference his foremost priority and that it could certainly happen by the Ides of October. Since the professor had a good relationship with the palace financial secretary, who was likewise a Christian, Rex knew his assignment was complete and the matter was in capable hands. He reported back to Constantine’s chamberlain that the conference would take place on time.
As the day approached, Rex was surprised to discover he had been invited to the conference in a ceremonial role. He and several other speculators—the youngest and most handsome ones, he noticed—were given fancy uniforms of luxurious silk, then ordered to hold spears and stand at attention along the sides of the basilica. No cost had been spared in decorating the hall. The windowpanes had been cleaned, silver lampstands brought in, and a fine scarlet rug laid on the floor. The furnace was running at full blast to take away the autumn chill and make the guests comfortable. Apparently, the council was going to be a momentous affair.
When Rex arrived at the basilica, he found chairs had been set up in a semicircle around the imperial throne. The chairs all had placards with the names of the attending bishops: Ossius of Corduba, Maternus of Colonia, Reticius of Augustodunum, Marinus of Arelate, and several others. The lead spokesman was to be Lactantius, who had been given a small lectern off to the side. When all the Christian clergy were in place, a trumpet fanfare announced the emperor’s arrival. He seated himself on his throne, welcomed the bishops warmly, and proceeded to describe his heavenly vision and recent dream.
“At first, I focused on those arcs of light,” Constantine said. “I assumed they were laurel wreaths promising me victory and long reign. But then I had the dream. The glorious man showed me a shield with a cross on it. Now I realize the vision in the sky was about the cross as much as the laurels. I know the cross is an ancient sign with great magical power. The Aegyptians revered it long before the rise of Rome. Every crossroads is a place of choice, where one path or another can be taken—a mystical moment. The cardinal directions of the earth also make a cross. And of course, I am aware the cross is especially important to the Christians. It is because you are experts in the words of God that I have assembled you today. I wish to learn about what the cross truly means.”
The bishops murmured, and some conferred among themselves. Lactantius finally indicated that one of the more senior of them, Ossius of Corduba, should speak. The distinguished Spaniard leaned forward in his seat. “Great Augustus, let it be known to you that the cross is assuredly a saving sign. Yet its power lies not in its magical shape, nor the symbolism it conveys. The power of the cross comes from a historical event—and a shameful one at that! It was on an executioner’s cross that the Son of God was put to death, crucified for our transgressions, though innocent of them himself. In weakness and humility, the Savior died the bloody death of a criminal. But what you must understand, O Great Emperor, is that the true Emperor of the cosmos did not stay in the grave—no! He was raised by the power of God, ascended on high, and now sits at the right hand of glory. You are indeed correct that the cross has power, for it offers life beyond death to all who recognize Jesus as Lord.”
Rex thought Constantine seemed impressed by this announcement, though it was hard to tell for sure. The books of the Christians were brought forth and a vigorous intellectual discussion ensued. Apparently, the Christians believed in a supreme God in heaven whose Son came down to earth. Though he was crucified during the reign of Tiberius, he did not remain dead but rose up and walked around before returning to heaven. All who chose to follow the Christian way and receive its ritual of washing would go to paradise after death.
And there was much more. The priests seemed eager to explain their faith in detail. After more than two hours of overhearing such weighty matters being discussed, Rex’s mind began to drift. His stomach was growling, and he was glancing at the windows to assess the sun’s angle when he heard a female whisper behind him.
“Psst! Soldier! Turn around!”
Rex glanced over his shoulder. The Empress Mother!
“Come to me,” Helena ordered, and Rex did not believe he had the right to disobey. “Give this note to my son,” she said, pressing a slip of parchment into his hand.
“You mean—later?” Rex asked hopefully.
Constantine’s headstrong mother shook her head. “Do it right away. I will take responsibility.”
Rex went back to his place. Yet now, instead of having a guard’s calm demeanor, he was wracked with nervous energy. I’d rather face a Frankish army than interrupt this council! But the Empress Mother had given him a direct order. Rex took a deep breath, laid his spear on the floor, and walked into the semicircle of chairs.
Lactantius broke off midsentence. “Guardsman! What are you doing?”
Several other speculators immediately closed around Rex, their spears lowered in case he was up to mischief. But far worse than their threats was the look on the emperor’s face. Rex could hardly stand the disapproving stare of Constantine, whose fierce eyes seemed to bore holes in him. Tentatively, he stretched out his arm. “A note from your beloved mother, Augustus!”
“Bring it here, Lactantius,” Constantine said coldly. Rex bowed his head and remained uneasily in his place.
When the emperor had read the parchment, he ordered the volume of the four Gospels to be brought forward. “My pious mother directs us to read a text in The Gospel according to John. Let us now hear the account of the crucifixion in that book.”
Lactantius laid the book on his lectern, located the passage, and began to read. He described how Jesus was mocked, flogged, and crowned with thorns, despite being declared innocent by the judge. But when Lactantius recited the words “Crucify him!” he paused uncertainly, then lifted his gaze to look at Constantine. “I think I know what Empress Helena wished you to see,” he said.
“Show it to me.”
Lactantius carried the book to the emperor, who took it into his lap. After reading it for a few moments, his eyes went wide.
“Keep reading,” Lactantius said. “The sign is there many times.”
“Rex, come here!” Constantine barked.
Rex ascended the dais and stood at the emperor’s side. Though he could not read much Greek, he could at least recognize the mark to which Constantine’s finger pointed. It was the saving sign they had discussed earlier: a cross with its head bent around, which they had called the tau-rho.
“This is just like the sign we saw in the sky, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Highness. And also like the one you saw in your dream.”
“It appears many times in the manuscripts of our scriptures,” Lactantius said, “but only as an abbreviation for one word: cross, or its verb, crucify.”
Constantine wagged his head back and forth, exhaling slowly. “Can there be any doubt, then? This sign was first written in the sky, then on the shield
in my dream—and now here it is in the sacred books of the Christian God! This is the mighty sign that gives divine power to mankind. The cross and the crown of victory go together!”
On impulse, Rex did something he couldn’t explain, but which seemed right, nonetheless. Recalling his earlier conversation with the emperor, he went to a military standard on the dais, removed the banner from the transverse bar, and lifted the pole from its stand. Constantine craned his neck to see what he was doing. Rex returned and handed him the tall wooden cross, then knelt before his lord.
Seated in his magnificent throne, the emperor raised the standard high and gazed out at the assembly before him.
“In this sign, you shall conquer,” Rex declared from his kneeling stance at Constantine’s feet.
“In this sign, you shall conquer!” echoed the audience in the hall.
“I surely will,” the emperor said.
OCTOBER 310
Flavia sat on a stool in the enclosed garden of her home, trying to hit the right notes on her double flute. Though her tutor was typically a patient man, he was more frustrated today than usual.
“Are you focused on your music, Lady Junia? You seem distracted.”
Flavia let out a sigh. “Perhaps another day would be better? My mind is divided.”
The slave acquiesced and took his leave, so Flavia wandered from the garden to her father’s study, where she found him sorting some books and papers. Neratius’s bald head was tipped down as he focused on his work. When she greeted him, he glanced up and welcomed her, though he continued to organize his desk.
“I’m sorry about the city prefect job,” Flavia said. “You would have made a good one.”
“It still might happen if I bide my time. Volusianus was the obvious choice because he put down the rebellion in Africa. But does he have the grain flowing again? No—and you know as well as I do the people are growing more restless by the day. They won’t be happy until the wheat supply is restored. Remember what the Satires of Juvenal said the mob really wants?”
“Bread and circuses. And right now, they have neither.”
“Maxentius had better provide both very soon or the mob might start calling for a new augustus.”
“I knew he was concerned about the bread dole—but circuses too? Is the emperor going to throw some games?”
“Yes, it’s part of his strategy. I’m actually headed to a race today at his private circus.”
“Perhaps some races will distract everyone from their hunger.”
“Ha! Races might help, but to keep the people of this city satisfied, you have to give them more than chariots running in a circle. They want gladiators! Romans crave blood, and they’ll get it one way or another. Death in the amphitheater is better than in the streets.”
Flavia shivered. “I hate that you have to live in that world. It must be hard for you.”
“It’s life in the aristocracy,” Neratius said with a shrug. “When I’m the city prefect, I’ll do what I can to minimize it. So keep praying for me.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, then added, “Pray for God’s curses to fall on the head of Pompeianus. He is the primary obstacle to my advancement. I have to admit, he worries me sometimes.”
Normally Neratius was a stiff and formal man who didn’t talk much about his professional life, so Flavia felt honored that he had offered such a personal insight to her in a moment of candor. “Tell me about Pompeianus,” she said, hoping to keep the conversation going.
“He’s the new Praetorian prefect, which means he runs the army in Rome and all of its police and judicial functions. So it’s an extremely powerful position. I think he wants to combine it with the office of city prefect, which is the top political job in the civic bureaucracy. Those are the two highest-ranked offices in the city. If something happened to our augustus, a man occupying both of those positions would be—”
“The next emperor?”
“Well, let’s just say he’d be in an excellent position to take over. And that’s why Pompeianus sees me as his biggest threat. Emperor Maxentius was my schoolmate back when we were youngsters. I’m a senator from an old, wealthy family. And I’ve done my time in the course of offices. All that makes me a logical candidate for city prefect.”
“I’d like to meet this Pompeianus,” Flavia said, “and tell him what a great man you are.”
Neratius glanced at his daughter, then looked down and fiddled with a parchment for a moment before finally setting it aside. He rose from his desk and came close to her, as if to speak of conspiratorial things.
“Flavia, how would you like to come to Maxentius’s villa today?”
A little gasp escaped Flavia’s lips. That’s the last place I should go, said the rational part of her mind. She was confident no one knew about her secret visit to the underground cemetery, for the Christian groundskeeper had let her and her mother go with nothing but a stiff warning. That was two months ago, and nothing had happened. Still—what good could come of mingling with the cruel and unpredictable Maxentius?
“Uh . . . w-why would I do that, Father?” Flavia asked at last.
“Maxentius always has a bunch of his illegitimate children running around. He really dotes on a couple of them. So I thought if he were to see you playing with them, being so pretty and sweet, it might reflect well on our family. You know how it is! A good girl from ancient Roman stock, taking care of children, doing all the right things. It makes me look respectable.”
Despite her reservations, Flavia’s desire to serve her father—not to mention her natural curiosity—overwhelmed her better judgment. She agreed to go, then hurried to her bedchamber and called for the ornatrix, who did her hair in the latest fashionable style and helped her put on makeup and a pretty gown. After adding jewelry and an outer wrap, she met her father at the front door and rode with him in the family’s most ornate litter down the slope of the Aventine. Though the air in an enclosed litter could be hot and stuffy, today was a beautiful autumn day, so Flavia enjoyed the ride more than she normally would have. At the Appian Gate, they changed to a horse-drawn carriage for the trip into the suburbs under a clear October sky.
The villa of Maxentius consisted of three main sections: the grand tomb of his son Romulus, the imperial residence, and the brand-new circus. Though not so grand as the Circus Maximus in the heart of the city, the oblong track was still plenty big enough to hold chariot races. “It can seat ten thousand spectators,” Neratius said. “Though it won’t be full today, a lot of important people will be there. Maxentius claims to be reviving the old Augustan Games. Proof of his status as an augustus, you see. He’s quite insecure about that.”
Flavia filed away the information and rode along in silence. After the second milestone along the Appian Way, they arrived at the villa’s gate and entered the complex. Neratius was ushered straight to the imperial viewing box, for his famous name and senatorial toga declared his status even to servants who didn’t recognize his face.
The private suite in the circus was connected to the residence by a long, covered walkway. Though the emperor had not arrived yet, a few of his children were playing with ivory figurines, leather balls, and a springy twig.
“Catapult!” they cried as they knocked down the toy soldiers, accompanied by boisterous laughter.
“Can I try?” Flavia asked. Before long, she had joined the little boys in hurling “boulders” at the “enemy troops.”
When Maxentius finally arrived, the mood in the box changed immediately. Only the boys seemed oblivious to his presence, while everyone else grew tense. The emperor’s aura of power was enough to unsettle anyone who wasn’t his illegitimate son. Flavia sized him up from the corner of her eye. He was a short, scrawny fellow in his midthirties, with bangs combed forward and a dimple in his chin. His beard was well maintained, shaved short in good Roman style. Though he was thin in the arms and shoulders, he had the pudgy waistline of a man who ate to excess. He’s homely and unattractive, but he doesn’t look like the mo
nster he’s been made out to be, Flavia decided.
Neratius took a place near Maxentius, alongside another man whom Flavia recognized from his description as the Praetorian prefect, Ruricius Pompeianus. In contrast to the mousy emperor, this man was muscular and stocky, with the close-cropped hair of a solider and an aggressive military bearing. A scar on his left cheek proved he had seen combat. Men like that always had a lot of blood on their hands. No wonder her father feared him.
Down on the track, the chariot race in the circus didn’t seem particularly competitive, so the aristocrats in the viewing box were using the occasion to play politics rather than enjoy the show. They made no attempt to keep their conversations private, for the slaves and children in the vicinity were nonpersons whose ears were irrelevant. Flavia pretended to play ball with the boys, all the while eavesdropping on the men’s exchange.
Maxentius appeared to be in a foul mood, for he had just been informed of his sister’s role in the arrest and execution of their father, Maximian. “A donkey take her!” he fumed. “Fausta turned against our family! What kind of Roman girl does that? I’ll throw her to the beasts if I ever get hold of her!”
“She has cast her lot with Constantine,” Neratius agreed. “No turning back now.”
“My spies in Arelate tell me Maximian’s death was clean,” Pompeianus said. “No torture, no shame. Just a simple hanging at the hands of a couple of speculators.”
“An execution by a speculator is the death of a criminal. Curse my sister for her treachery!”
Flavia didn’t know the word speculator, but she could tell the mood in the suite was souring. Gradually, under the pretense of playing with the boys, she scooted farther from the huddled men.
“I hate Constantine,” Maxentius growled. “Someday that son of a stable-maid is going to feel my blade in his gut.”