The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  “Alright, listen,” the prefect said, turning back to his guest. “Let’s say we win a capital judgment against the girl. Honorables are usually decapitated. Quick and painless. But could we make the beheading noteworthy so as many people as possible would see it? Maybe schedule it on a busy day outside a major gate? Put up signs about it? Pass out anonymous flyers?”

  “Ha! You forget what kind of advocate you’re dealing with here,” Tertius bragged. “I can do better than that. Even if Lady Junia wasn’t involved in a violent plot, there’s plenty of legal precedent for revoking honorable status for insults to the imperial majesty. Give me a month or two to line up all the bribes in the jury, and I can have the girl reduced to the rank of a humble. Then all her legal protections would be gone. I think you know what that means.”

  Excited, Pompeianus glanced over at the lawyer and was gratified to receive a confirmatory nod. The final piece of the plan had just fallen into place, for the humble class was subject to the most horrific execution of all. Snatching up his goblet, Pompeianus raised it high. “Fantastic work, my dear friend. I propose a toast.”

  Tertius also lifted his cup. “Yes, a toast! To whom?”

  “To the wild beasts of the arena!” Pompeianus cried, then threw back his head and drained the last of his wine.

  OCTOBER 311

  The dark day when the soldiers came was one Sophronia would never forget.

  It was cold and wet outside, for it was October now and the constant summer sunshine had begun to give way to autumn’s frequent squalls. Sophronia was resting in the tepidarium of her home’s small bath, enjoying the pleasant warmth after a long soak in the hot water. The first sound to suggest any trouble was the jingle of armor and horse tack outside. Rude shouting quickly followed. Because the window was too high to see out, Sophronia didn’t know what was happening in the street. Yet the commotion had an ominous ring to it.

  “Bring my gown and stola,” she said to the bath attendant. “Then go make sure the outer doors are barred. It’s probably nothing to worry about, but let’s be cautious just in case.”

  The servant girl scurried away after bringing the garments. Sophronia tried to convince herself the sounds meant nothing. However, by the time she had dressed, she could no longer deny something was terribly wrong. The shouting had moved inside the house, and all the servants were running about. Then a male voice let out an agonized groan, accompanied by a high-pitched female shriek.

  Sophronia hurried to the atrium, not caring that her hair was wet and loose on her shoulders. She found the doorkeeper sprawled on the floor, clutching his upper arm in his bloody fingers. His wife, the ornatrix of the house, knelt beside him with a look of horror on her face. Eight Praetorians were assembled around the atrium’s pool, their swords drawn. One of the blades glistened red.

  Realizing this was no time for timidity, Sophronia marched boldly into the room. “I am Lady Sabina Sophronia, mistress of this house! My husband is a member of the ancient Senate! How dare you barge in here and injure my servants!”

  “There is one power in Rome higher than the Senate, and that is the law itself,” said the soldier with the bloody sword. His insignia revealed him to be the decanus, the squad’s leader. “No man is above the law—and certainly no woman.”

  “If you have a legal matter, I am confident it can be handled without violence.”

  “That depends on whether you cooperate. See here.” The decanus showed Sophronia a wax tablet in a folding case, which she snatched from his hand. As she began to read it, a twisting knot of fear gathered in her gut. Dizziness threatened to engulf her, so she put her hand on a column for support. The document was an arrest warrant signed by the Praetorian prefect himself. And the accused—

  No!

  “She’s not here!” Sophronia exclaimed, glancing around at the soldiers. “She’s out.”

  “We’ll see about that.” The decanus gestured toward the rest of the house with his sword. “You boys search the whole place. Check every room. Make sure anyone who gets in your way looks like this guy.” He tossed his head toward the wounded doorkeeper on the floor. “Bring the girl to me if you find her—unharmed.”

  Sophronia started to ease away, but the decanus quickly moved to block the exit. He sheathed his sword and took back the tablet. “I’ll just keep you company here, fancy lady,” he said with a smirk.

  The seven Praetorians scattered and began ransacking the house. Sharp yells and the crash of broken items echoed from the rear rooms and upper stories. It was all Sophronia could do to stand still and listen. Oh God, she prayed, let Flavia slip out of a window! Let her find a hiding place! You are her shield and defender!

  A breathless servant burst into the atrium from outside. “The master is coming!” he announced. Then Neratius entered his home.

  “Guardsman!” he barked to the decanus. “I am the new city prefect of Rome! Come here to me at once.”

  The soldier thrust out his chin and locked eyes with Neratius. “My commander is Ruricius Pompeianus, prefect of the Praetorian Cohorts. I answer to him alone.” For several moments, the two strong-willed men engaged in a stare down. Finally, Neratius said, “What is that document?” The decanus handed the tablet to Sophronia without breaking eye contact with Neratius. “Here. Take that to your husband.”

  Neratius opened the tablet and glanced down at it. His eyes widened as he read it.

  “It’s an arrest warrant,” he said softly.

  “You must prevent this travesty!” Sophronia urged. “You’re now the city prefect . . . do something!”

  Neratius put his hand on his wife’s arm. “It will all be worked out soon, dear,” he soothed, then looked back at the Praetorian, who was still giving him the evil eye. “I will not forget your impudence,” Neratius vowed.

  The soldier shrugged indifferently but never averted his gaze.

  “Found her, sir!” shouted one of the searchers from Neratius’s adjacent office. He entered the atrium with Flavia’s wrist in his grip.

  Sophronia cringed. Oh, Jesus Christ, help my precious girl!

  “Let go of me!” Flavia said, wrenching her arm away from her captor. “Father! Don’t let these men take me!”

  “They accuse you of trespassing the forbidden cemeteries.”

  “Those burial grounds aren’t forbidden anymore, by order of the emperor!”

  “But they were off-limits at the time,” the decanus snapped. “Take her outside, men.”

  As the soldiers forced Flavia toward the vestibule, Neratius spoke into her ear. “You have to go with them now, daughter. But don’t worry. I will take care of this.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Flavia said. “I’m in God’s hands.”

  In the street, Flavia mounted the horse that had been brought for her. She sat erect in the saddle, soaking wet in the rain, yet dignified and unwavering. The household servants, along with many onlookers in the doors and windows of nearby houses, stared in quiet awe at the spectacle. Neratius went up and squeezed Flavia’s hand, but Sophronia could only watch from the vestibule, clinging to the doorpost to remain upright. Tears finally came to her eyes as she watched the squad of Praetorians ride away with Flavia.

  “I will make a petition straightaway,” Neratius said when the riders had disappeared.

  So will I, Sophronia decided, for it is God’s intervention we need most.

  Two hours later, she was at the house of Bishop Miltiades. He lived in a small yet comfortable domus in the Trans Tiberim neighborhood near the Hall of the Church. The residence was well appointed and tastefully decorated, since it was important for outsiders to see that the leader of the catholic church was honored by his own people. Nevertheless, the home was unusual in many respects. All the household servants were male, and several deacons lived there, too, in a holy brotherhood. Many rooms that would have been devoted to luxuries were used instead as storerooms for charitable goods. And the bishop’s residence certainly did not have the shrine to the household gods t
hat most homes had. In the idol niche normally reserved for ancestor worship, Miltiades had placed a beautiful copy of the Greek Old Testament, along with a lamp by which to read the volumes.

  The bishop observed right away that Sophronia was distraught. He escorted her to a comfortable couch next to a fountain, urging her to sit and explain what was on her mind. When he learned Flavia had been arrested, his brow furrowed, and a resolute expression came over his face. With his eyes closed, he began to stroke his whiskers—perhaps thinking of possible solutions or maybe even praying. Sophronia hoped he was doing both. Finally, he lifted his eyes to meet hers.

  “Dear sister, I will go straight to Prefect Pompeianus about this,” he promised. “Let us keep the matter away from Maxentius for the moment. Perhaps we can resolve it without the emperor learning of it.”

  “Do you think the prefect will respond to your petition?”

  “I think all men respond when God moves their hearts. We must marshal the forces of righteousness on Flavia’s behalf. Let us ask everyone in the church to pray.”

  “Holy Father, I . . .” Sophronia’s words faltered, and she felt sweat break out on her brow. She started to squirm on the couch. “I’m so afraid for her! What are those men doing to her right now in that dungeon? Is she being—”

  “Peace, Sophronia. Do not let fear rule you. Think instead on the power of God.” The bishop rose and went to the book of the scriptures, flipping the pages until he found the text he sought. “Listen to these sacred words: ‘The Lord is my light and my Savior; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the defender of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evildoers drew close against me to consume my flesh, my persecutors and my enemies, they fainted and fell down.’”

  “Ah, the twenty-sixth psalm. Might I have a copy of it?”

  “I will have a scribe make one before you leave. In the meantime, let us pray together. Come stand by me.”

  Sophronia rose from the couch and took a position next to her bishop. The earlier rain shower had passed now, and a bright sunbeam from the skylight shone upon her. She lifted her palms and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face.

  “Apollo is not God,” Miltiades declared. “Sol is not God. Nor Hercules, nor Mars, nor even Jupiter. There is but one God in the heavens. Do you remember the words of your baptismal catechesis?”

  Without further prompting, the apostolic words came gushing from Sophronia’s lips. “I believe in God the Father Almighty, and in Jesus Christ, his only Son our Lord, who was born from the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, was crucified under Pontius Pilate, and was buried. On the third day he rose from the dead. He ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of the Father, from where he shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy church, the remission of sins, and the resurrection of the flesh.”

  After reciting the symbol, Sophronia opened her eyes. Miltiades was smiling broadly, and the sunlight made his oiled beard glisten. His tone with her was gentle yet firm. “Where do you put your trust, my sister?”

  “I cast myself on Jesus,” she said.

  “And he will not let you fall,” answered the godly bishop of Rome.

  Rex was pleased to find his current ascent to Poeninus Pass quite a bit easier than the footrace Aratus had imposed on his cadets two years earlier. For one thing, the autumn sky today was sunny and clear. And another benefit was that the imperial post mules were doing the hard work of fighting their way up the incline. All Rex had to do was stay in the saddle and let his mount carry him to the summit.

  The four speculators were making the trip in reverse this time, climbing not from the Italian side but from the Gallic lowlands to the inn at the crest. Somewhere up there was the imaginary line where Gaul stopped and Italy began. Aratus had started calling this “the true beginning of the mission.”

  “Not far now,” the centurion said, tilting his head back as he scanned the high peaks that loomed ahead. “Less mountain, more sky with every step we take. This road can’t keep ascending forever. Eventually it will top out.”

  The squad of soldiers—a typical Roman detachment of four tentmates—had left Octodurus at Aratus’s favorite time of dawn. With the hours of daylight short this time of year, combined with the need to take frequent rest breaks, their only goal for the day was to reach the crest of the pass. The journey was uphill the whole way: twenty-four miles along a steady 10 percent grade. A station at the halfway mark had allowed them to exchange their exhausted mules for fresh ones to finish the trip.

  Two hours before dusk, the squad reached the snow line. The way ahead became more treacherous, and Rex could sense that even the sure-footed mules were struggling to keep their balance. Though the snow wasn’t deep yet, daytime thawing had made it slick. More snow would fall on the road each night. It wouldn’t be long before this pass would be closed for the season.

  The Scythian speculator was in the lead now, his mule anxious to reach the stable. Rex could see he had swerved off the faint contours of the road, which curved sharply to the left. “Hierax!” he called. “That’s a shepherd’s trail! The road’s over this way!”

  Hierax had just started to turn back when a shaggy brown creature exploded from the nearby brush. Its resonant, low-pitched barking signaled it was some kind of mastiff. A Molossian hound! Rex knew the breed well. With its massive shoulders and huge jaws, it was a fearsome sight. The dogs were ill-tempered and fiercely protective.

  Hierax’s mule spooked as the hound barreled toward it. Slipping in the icy mess, the mule sent its rider sprawling. The Molossian looked like it was going to tear the helpless rider apart. Grabbing his javelin, Rex leapt from the saddle and sprinted to intercept the barking dog.

  “Easy, boy! Easy!” he said in an authoritative voice, waving his spear above his head to offer some intimidation. Though the animal halted, the fangs bared in its droopy jowls announced it wasn’t there to play. Rex had never seen such a thick, muscular neck on a dog.

  “Kill it!” Hierax shouted from his sprawl on the ground.

  “He’s only protecting his home,” Rex said, keeping his eyes on the Molossian. “These dogs are loyal to their master and their flock. They’ll find you in the snow if you ever get lost. Great noses. Good working breed too. We have them in the forests of Germania.”

  “My leg’s broke! That dog deserves to die!”

  “You went off the road. It’s your fault, not the dog’s.”

  The injured soldier muttered a curse, but Rex ignored him. He began to back away, making no sudden movements. Though the Molossian was still growling, it did not advance, suggesting the standoff might end with a peaceful resolution. Rex risked a glance over his shoulder—and was shocked by what he saw.

  Hierax stood braced against a boulder on one leg. His bow was in his outstretched hand, with an arrow nocked on the string. The man had seen action along the Euphrates River against the Persian bowmen. Like all Scythian legionaries, he was a skilled archer who rarely missed his mark.

  “Hierax! No!”

  Rex flipped his javelin around and grasped it near the head. Swatting the butt end at Hierax, he managed to jostle the man’s forearm as he released his shot. The arrow went wide and plunged harmlessly into a snowdrift. The dog let out a series of deep-throated barks but held its ground.

  “You raise a weapon against a fellow soldier?” Hierax roared, drawing his spatha from its sheath.

  “Calm down and put your sword away. Your leg is broken and you’re about to faint. I wasn’t attacking you. I just didn’t want you to kill the dog. Let’s get you up into the saddle. It will be dark within an hour.”

  Aratus and Geta arrived then, dismounting to help the injured legionary climb astride his mule while the hound watched suspiciously. The men returned to the main highway, riding in silence until they reached the military hostel on the pass just as the sun’s last rays were disappearing from the sky. A milestone stood outside the inn, inscribed with the letters IMP CAES C
ONSTANTINUS. Rex saluted the stone and offered a short prayer for the success of the emperor’s mission.

  That night after dinner, Rex, Geta, and Aratus gathered around the hearth fire with cups of hot mulled wine and a big bowl of nuts. Hierax was dozing fitfully in the next room, moaning occasionally.

  “It will take a while to get a doctor up from the valley,” Aratus said. “Hierax is going to need his fracture set and splinted. Then they’ll transport him by wagon back to Octodurus.”

  “I hope they can do that before the really big snows arrive,” Geta said, “or it’s going to be a long winter for him.” The other men nodded their agreement. They huddled into their blankets and stared at the flames.

  “Looks like it’s just us, then,” Rex observed after a thoughtful silence.

  Aratus shrugged, his demeanor steady and confident as befitted a Roman centurion. “Three is enough for the mission. We’ll be fine.”

  “What’s our cover?” Geta asked. “We’re obviously not Italians.” He gestured toward Rex with his cup. “Especially not this guy. With his yellow hair and those bulging muscles, the Romans are going to think Thor has descended from his thunderstorm straight into the Forum!”

  “And with that golden princess braid running down your back, they’ll think pretty Freyja has come with me!” Rex shot back. Geta pelted Rex with a chestnut, and the two men broke into boisterous laughter.

  Aratus chuckled at his men’s jests. “I would think you two hated each other if I only had your words to go on.” He rubbed his palm across the flat, close-cropped stubble on his scalp. “But you’re right. This Greek stuff will go unnoticed in the capital, but you fair-haired boys will stand out as Germani. I’m not worried, though. All kinds of people pass through Rome. We just need a good excuse to explain your presence there.”

  Geta raised his hand. “I volunteer to be the exotic barbarian lover of some rich lady.”