The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  The emperor arrived on the sandy floor of the circus dressed in golden armor, with a sword belted to his waist and a plumed helmet on his head. Around him were several gladiators of the “huntsman” type, armed with whips, nets, and spears. Bringing up the rear were two Praetorian guardsmen, each wheeling a small ballista that could shoot heavy darts made of lead. The machines had been known to pierce oaken city gates.

  Once the fighters had assembled in a semicircle around the mysterious crate, Maxentius turned to face his audience. “Watch now, my friends, as I bind myself to an old patron of my family! Behold the god indwelling me!”

  Maxentius spun toward the crate and took up a position behind one of the ballistae. The hunters yanked the cloth from the box, revealing it instead as a cage. Another man opened its door. The audience gasped as a thick-maned lion emerged into the bright sunlight.

  Pompeianus immediately understood the significance of the fearsome cat. Maxentius is binding himself to Hercules, the slayer of lions! It made perfect sense. His father, Maximian, had been declared a Herculean by Emperor Diocletian, the founder of the Imperial College. Now Maxentius was claiming that same Herculean mantle as a legitimate augustus. He was identifying with his now-dead father, while at the same time declaring his father’s executioner—Constantine, who had rejected his Herculian identity—to be a mortal enemy. It was a savvy political move, dripping with symbolism that the pagan aristocrats of Rome could hardly miss.

  The lion squinted in the sunlight, apparently more confused by its surroundings than hungry for human flesh. Maxentius did not wait. He tripped the mechanism of the ballista in a point-blank shot. The thick dart smashed the cat in the rump and knocked it off its feet. It struggled up again, letting out a thunderous roar, but before it could get away Maxentius ran to the second ballista and put another easy shot into the lion’s flank. The beast tumbled across the track, coming to rest on its side. It lay motionless, except for one huge paw that spasmodically raked the sand.

  A hunter handed Maxentius a massive wooden club, just like the one used in Hercules’s first labor when he slew the Nemean lion. Maxentius struggled with its weight, needing both hands to lift the huge olive-wood log above his head. Uttering a loud cry, he smashed the lion’s skull, then jumped back. The beast heaved itself to its feet once more, its face a bloody mess. Hunters stepped in with whips, but they weren’t needed, for the lion collapsed to the sand again. A second time, Maxentius crushed the animal’s head, and this time it lay still. Then, in a final ceremonial act, the emperor straddled the beast from behind, reached under its bushy mane with gauntleted hands, and mimicked the death grip of Hercules. The lion never moved, and the fatal charade was complete.

  Maxentius removed his helmet, the sweat of exertion running down his face. “I bind my soul to thee, O great Hercules Victorious!” he shouted to the heavens. “Let the statues of Constantine come tumbling down! On him I declare war—the usurper, the false augustus! O mighty Hercules, make war against Jesus! May you, O god, give me strength against my foe!”

  Pompeianus could only smile at the clever stagecraft. The act was the perfect way to symbolize Maxentius’s identification with the legitimate college that ruled the empire. Hercules Victorious was a long-standing patron of Rome, a god whose distinct round temple and Great Altar in the cattle market were landmarks as ancient as the city itself. Maxentius’s adoption of his father’s god would inevitably cast Constantine as the murderer of Rome’s rightful ruler Maximian—a deed that must be avenged by his son. No one would want to associate with the upstart Constantine and his foreign deity drawn from Eastern, Jewish superstition.

  As Pompeianus turned to leave the viewing box, his eyes happened to fall on Neratius. Surprisingly, the man’s expression was distraught. Apparently, he had not liked what he had seen. Although Neratius thought he wasn’t being observed, Pompeianus watched him surreptitiously make the sign of the cross on his forehead.

  No! Can it be? Neratius is a Christian?

  Pompeianus wagged his head in disbelief. And yet now that he thought about it, there had been certain hints of this strange development. Neratius sometimes spoke highly of the catholic church. And that arrogant daughter of his had defended the “Highest God” to Maxentius.

  Even so, it hardly seemed possible that a senator with such high standing would follow such a ridiculous cult.

  But if it was true . . . then what?

  I will find a way to use it against him, Pompeianus decided with a self-satisfied chuckle. His political aspirations will come to nothing. This man and his family are finished in Rome!

  Rex had learned long ago that his commanding centurion, Aratus, held a firm commitment to early departures. There was only one way to explain how a man who had grown up as a street urchin and common thief could have become so self-disciplined: the Roman military. The army was Aratus’s salvation. It took a back-alley brawler and turned him into the efficient war-making machine he now was. He was a stern and unforgiving commander. All his men were a little afraid of him—though their fear was born out of respect.

  “Saddle up, soldiers,” the centurion said. “It’s light enough now to depart. We need to be in Saravus Village by nightfall.”

  Rex and Geta mounted their horses, along with a thick-lipped Scythian speculator named Hierax. There was going to be some hard riding for the foursome in the weeks ahead, but the augustus had said speed was essential for this important mission. “Go to Rome,” Constantine had ordered. “Spy it out, learn what you can about the people and the Praetorians. Find out the level of support Maxentius has. Sow discord if you can. Live there through the winter. Then be ready to give me a full report whenever I arrive.”

  Handpicked by Emperor Constantine for an undercover mission in the capital! Rex couldn’t help but think that his father, King Chrocus of the Alemanni, would have been proud.

  Outside the city walls, tombs lined the road on both sides. The four men had already gone a hundred paces from Augusta Treverorum when a guard at the massive northern gate hailed them from behind. The riders turned to see a chariot emerge from between the gate’s round towers. A tall, commanding figure, his identity obscured by the morning twilight, stood next to the chariot driver. But as he drew nearer, Rex discerned it was Constantine himself.

  The speculators saluted their lord when he reached them. “Long live the Divine Augustus!” Aratus said.

  “Ah! You wish me to live long? Then listen closely, men. Maxentius has declared war on me, and powerful gods stand ready to help him. He is well-known as a practitioner of the magic arts. Therefore I have come to send you off with my personal blessing, that you might know how important this mission is to me. And also”—the emperor reached beneath his cloak—“that I might give you these.”

  Aratus extended his hand and received four items from Constantine. The centurion swiveled in his saddle and pitched one each to Rex, Geta, and Hierax. Rex caught the item and held it up by its leather thong: a small, round pendant that had been gilded and engraved. An amulet!

  “Behold the sign,” Constantine said.

  Rex cupped the necklace in his palm and inspected it more closely. It was marked with the magical tau-rho—the special sign of the Christian deity. Such a powerful amulet would probably do some good, serving at least as a lucky charm or protective talisman. Grateful for the honorable gift, Rex tied the pendant around his neck and tucked it beneath his tunic.

  “We will serve you faithfully unto death, Your Highness,” Aratus vowed. “We go now to Rome, the first step in your glorious liberation of that city from tyranny!”

  “Yes. You are sworn to me, and I know you will defend me with your lives. Together we will take Rome back from the usurper Maxentius.”

  “Bless us, my lord, as we depart.” Aratus signaled to his men to align their horses side by side on the road, facing the destination. The centurion urged his mount into a brisk walk, then up to a canter. The other three horses kept perfect pace as the expedition set out.
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  Constantine raised his arms over the riders like a benevolent priest. “May the power of the cross guard you!” he called after them.

  It wasn’t long before the party rounded a bend and lost sight of the emperor and the city. Dew was still on the grass, but the morning fog had lifted, and a warm light bathed the road ahead. Rex withdrew the amulet from his collar and gripped it in his fist as he rode along.

  “I’ll ask for your help if I ever need it, Jesus,” he whispered to the rising sun. “But for now, I think I’ve got this mission under control.”

  4

  AUGUST 311

  Pompeianus had always believed that Fausta, the homely sister of Emperor Maxentius, didn’t deserve such a grand house atop a famous Roman hill like the Caelian. She was a traitor—a willing supporter of her husband, the devious and arrogant Constantine. Far more fitting, Pompeianus assured himself, that a mansion like this should belong to me, the Praetorian prefect. And someday the city prefect?

  Only time would tell.

  Pompeianus stood at a high window of the so-called House of Fausta, more properly known as the Lateran Palace after its original owners, the Laterani clan. The vista below formed a landscape of lazy opulence and vigorous power at the same time. The formidable city walls curved off into the distance, while in the foreground, the “New Camp” of the Emperor’s Personal Cavalry bustled with activity. This famed unit of elite riders, founded by Trajan two centuries earlier, had now essentially become the cavalry counterpart to the infantry of the Praetorian Guard. Though the Praetorian footmen had a camp of their own farther around the walls, the imperial horse guard was based here, in a district of luxurious gardens and mansions, where there was a suitable residence for the commander of so great a unit as the Praetorians. Rome was not some frontier outpost with no home for the general but a hut in the middle of fortified barracks. The Praetorian prefect deserved to be housed in a palace like this, overlooking his splendid horsemen. Emperor Maxentius understood this truth—thank the gods—so he had converted the home of his traitorous sister to a much nobler use. Never again would Fausta tarnish the reputation of this historic mansion!

  A chamber steward approached Pompeianus from behind as he gazed out the window. “Your visitors have arrived, my lord.”

  The prefect turned from the view and walked to a carved chair inlaid with ivory. “Bring them to me,” he replied as he seated himself. “And bring me some wine.”

  The two arrivals made a remarkable pair. One was a bulky commoner with dirt under his fingernails and the coarse tunic of a laborer. The other was a wiry man with tight ringlets of hair and black skin as dark and shiny as obsidian. “Burnt face,” they called slaves who were imported from south of Aegyptus. The Greek word for “burnt face” provided the name of their homeland: Aethiopia.

  “I’m thirsty. Bring me the cup,” Pompeianus said irritably. The steward brought a silver goblet filled with an excellent Falernian wine—golden, sweet, and satisfying. When his thirst was quenched, Pompeianus turned to his visitors. “What do you want with me?”

  The big laborer stepped forward, evidently the spokesman. “Sir, we heard you’re paying for information about crimes committed by Christians. We have some news for you.”

  “Go on,” Pompeianus said, taking another sip from the goblet.

  “My friend here”—the laborer pointed to the Aethiops—“has been following a girl who goes to the Christian temple in Trans Tiberim. Recently he found out where she lives. It’s a mansion on the Aventine.”

  “So what? Christianity isn’t illegal here in Rome. The only colleague who has the guts to eradicate those vermin is Daia. He’s persecuting again in the East. But Emperor Maxentius received a divine message to hold steady on the Christian question. It’s disgusting, but it’s the law. For now, at least.”

  The Aethiops spoke for the first time. “The girl lives in the home of Senator Neratius Junius Flavianus,” he offered in a shy voice.

  Pompeianus sat up in his seat so quickly, he spilled wine on his white toga. Ignoring it, he leaned toward his visitors, who had backed away in case he was angry. “Come here to me, you two! I’m not going to hurt you!” The men edged closer. “Tell me about the girl. Was she a dark-haired little thing with long eyelashes? Not yet twenty?”

  “I . . . I think so. I believe she’s the senator’s daughter. Dresses like a rich girl. Goes about with the son of an equestrian merchant who has dealings in Sicilia.”

  Pompeianus stared at the floor as he considered the matter. So . . . the father crosses his forehead and the daughter goes to church. That’s two pieces of evidence the Junii are Christians. Even if it’s not illegal—how could I use it?

  “There’s something else,” the big laborer said. An arched eyebrow from Pompeianus was enough to encourage the snitch to continue. “My boss is a groundskeeper for some cemeteries on the Appian Way,” he went on. “I dig the grave niches in the tuff. About a year ago, this same girl came to a cemetery with her mother—”

  “Lady Sabina Sophronia?”

  “I don’t know her name. It took us a long time to figure out who she might be, just by asking around when we had a chance. But, yes, the lady lives in the Aventine house. I think some Christians meet there too. Lots of people coming and going around sunrise.”

  “You were saying? About the cemetery?”

  “Yes, sir. So this lady and her daughter bring a body into the cemetery. By themselves, mind you. No mourners. They go through a hole in the wall and go underground and lay the corpse in a grave. Then my boss catches them.”

  “Women burying bodies? It happens all the time. Someone has to do it. It’s not a crime.”

  The two visitors exchanged triumphant glances. Excited now, the gravedigger continued his tale. “But, sir, this body belonged to Bishop Eusebius, brought back from Sicilia! I heard the girl tell it to my boss. How she planned it all, had him embalmed, brought him to Ostia, and shipped him up the Tiberis to Rome. She even paid for it with her own money.”

  Though Pompeianus had always believed it wasn’t dignified to show emotion in front of commoners, he couldn’t hold back the huge smile that spread across his face. “That’s illegal!” he said triumphantly. “The Divine Augustus exiled that man!”

  “Not only that, sir,” the Aethiops added, “but the cemetery was the one called Callistus—a Christian property that was forbidden to them.”

  Now Pompeianus rose to his feet. “What? You mean that girl shipped an exile’s body back to Rome and snuck it into a confiscated burial ground? There’s no way that isn’t injured majesty!” At the men’s blank stare, Pompeianus explained the legal term. “Injured majesty—it means high treason against the glory of the emperor.”

  “Our information pleases you, then?” the gravedigger asked.

  “Indeed, it does.” Pompeianus waved the steward over. “See that these men each leave here with a month’s wages. And go find Tertius right way. Tell him I have an urgent legal matter to discuss.”

  The steward escorted the two informants out the door, returning an hour later with the distinguished advocate Tertius, a freedman whose keen mind and polished eloquence had helped him rise through the lawyers’ ranks. Pompeianus welcomed him warmly, for unlike the earlier visitors, this was a man of substance. The two reclined on couches, sipping the Falernian and pairing it with various cheeses.

  “So what’s this about injured majesty?” Tertius finally asked after sufficient pleasantries had been exchanged.

  “I have a case I want to run by you, to see what you think the maximum penalty could be. It involves a couple of Christians, but I can’t take that angle. Has to be purely legal—a violation of the existing laws of the state.”

  “We can’t persecute, but we can always prosecute,” Tertius said around a mouthful of alpine goat cheese.

  Pompeianus explained the full case against Flavia and Sophronia. “So what do you say?” he asked when he was finished. “You think that would count as injured majesty?�
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  “Absolutely. The violation of an emperor’s direct order is clearly treason.”

  “And it’s provable?”

  “Probably not for the mother, if she didn’t conspire to move the body to Italy,” the lawyer replied. “But for the girl—definitely.”

  “Excellent! For the humbler class, treason would carry the death penalty. But this girl is among the honorables. Do you think we can win more than a sentence of banishment against her? Can she be executed?”

  “Banishment is for rich people whom the emperor wants to spare. If we press for capital punishment, I think we can get it. The rules aren’t as strict as they used to be.”

  Pompeianus wiped his lips and leaned back on the couch. His mind was working feverishly now, leaping from one idea to the next. The city prefect position had come open again, and this time, everyone expected Neratius to get the job at last. Unfortunately, that outcome probably couldn’t be stopped. But the execution of his daughter would shame him just as he assumed the prestigious new office. His Christianity would be exposed too—a foreign and superstitious cult unworthy of a senator. The emperor would surely toss Neratius aside.

  Then who would get the job but me? But Maxentius mustn’t suspect my motives. This has to be a case of neutral courtroom justice taking its normal course, or the augustus will think I’m persecuting Christians against his command. The problem is, neutral courtroom justice is boring. For this to shame Neratius, the execution has to become infamous throughout the city. I need this to be legal and sensational at the same time! How?