by Bryan Litfin
“Rich blind lady,” Rex added.
Aratus shook his head with another laugh. “Bad idea. You don’t know that upper-class culture well enough. You’d stick out too much. What we really know is the army. So how about this? We’re former mercenaries from along the Rhenus. Our unit was disbanded, and now we’re hunting work. We’re just some soldiers of fortune whose lifelong dream has been to serve in the emperor’s bodyguard. Rome is our great hope and destiny.”
“Do the Praetorians admit Germani?” Geta asked.
“The Praetorian prefect is a man named Ruricius Pompeianus. He’s known to be cruel, vindictive, and utterly ruthless. He gets what he wants, and if that means using frontier boys alongside the Italians, he’s not above it. Show him a little courage and a strong arm, and he’ll enlist you among the Praetorians. Or you can try the imperial horse guard—it has always been composed of Germani. The times are gone when Rome can be snobby about who fights its wars. There are lots of barbarians in the army these days, and that number isn’t going down anytime soon. Yes, you can get in.”
“So we’ll be enlisted into the famous Praetorian Guard, or maybe even the Emperor’s Personal Cavalry,” Rex said. “But that means we’ll be fighting against our own side once Constantine shows up. We’ll have to switch back if it comes to a battle.”
“Right. I hope it’ll be as simple as riding over to Constantine’s battle line and exchanging your insignia. In the meantime, this mission will test your undercover skills. How well can you maintain your secret identity in the midst of your enemies? I guess we’ll find out.”
“You won’t be disappointed, sir.”
Aratus gave Rex a firm stare. “I’d better not be. I thought I was going to have to stop a civil war on the road today. Trouble seems to follow you wherever you go.”
“It wasn’t my fault! That dog came out of nowhere. Hierax was going to kill him.”
“Better the hound than you.”
“Sure! Like Hierax could manage that,” Rex scoffed.
“You’re not invincible, son.” Aratus tipped back his head and finished his hot wine, then set down the cup. “Alright, men, this is where we go undercover. I guess we’re now provincial mercenaries seeking work. We’ll ditch our armor and military uniforms. Just the rough clothes of the Germani from now on. Start growing out your beards. Your hair’s plenty long already. When we get to Rome, you should hide your combat skills. Fumble with your sword, ride a little awkward, perform just well enough to get enlisted. Act like farm boys from Germania trying to make a future for yourselves in the army. And whatever you do—don’t make a scene! Always stay in the background. We’re trying to keep a low profile and blend in.”
“Stealth,” Geta said. “The speculator’s most basic art.”
“Exactly.” Aratus rose to his feet. “Now follow me outside. I want to show you something.”
The three men went out to the cold, barren pass. The marble temple of Jupiter Poeninus glowed white in the pale moonlight—the very place where Rex had finished the race in triumph two years earlier. Aratus had ended his training that day, along with Geta. Now he commanded his two soldiers to stand next to the official milestone that marked the road’s high point. “Whose name is written there?” he asked.
Geta had somehow acquired a decent education despite his humble background, so he read the letters—and since Rex’s mother had taught him to read, he could follow along too. “It says, ‘Emperor Constantine, the caesar,’” Geta declared. “At least that’s what he was when the stone was made. Now he’s claimed the higher title of augustus.”
“Yes. And here at this spot, I want you to swear an oath of loyalty to him. Renew your vows to his genius. Pledge to give your lives to protect his divine personage.”
The two speculators placed their hands on the milestone and swore the oaths demanded by their centurion. When they were finished, they looked up at him. He had moved a few steps away in the snow. Behind him, the mountains receded toward the southern horizon. Beyond that were only the stars.
“At attention!” Aratus ordered in a crisp military voice. Rex and Geta straightened their shoulders and stiffened their backs.
“Three steps forward, then halt!”
The men complied.
Slowly, Aratus approached his two young speculators, looking them both in the eyes. He put one hand on the shoulder of each. Rex felt his commander give his arm a squeeze.
“You just crossed into Italy, boys,” Aratus said. “Your mission begins at dawn.”
They will not break me, Flavia vowed. I will not give them that satisfaction!
She had made that promise more times than she could count since the soldiers brought her to the prison. But in truth, she wasn’t so sure anymore. She could feel her resolve ebbing, along with her body heat, into the cold stones on which she lay.
Life in the infamous Carcer had been about as bad as Flavia could have imagined. Everyone knew the prison’s reputation: it was the dank holding cell at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, where Rome’s most notorious prisoners were kept until they were paraded to their executions. The place was almost completely dark, lit only by whatever light trickled between the stone blocks of the walls or beneath the ironbound door. The air reeked of excrement and body odor and moldy straw. Flavia’s wrists were rubbed raw by her shackles, the cuffs now sticky with blood. A bribe from a Christian deacon had assured that bread crusts and lentils were provided daily, along with a jug of brackish water and a chamber pot that was exchanged when it was full. But these were Flavia’s only comforts. She passed the time in darkness, fear, and boredom. Through two long days and nights, Flavia had languished in the Carcer with no visitors allowed. Now it was the third day—and Flavia was praying for a triumphant resurrection just like the Lord Jesus Christ’s.
But it did not come. She dozed off and on, grateful for the snatched moments of sleep, since there was nothing else to do. Outside, a rainstorm developed, dropped its water, then passed. The sun came out again and the prison grew warmer—a welcome relief from the chill.
Suddenly the door burst open and bright sunlight flooded the gloomy chamber. Flavia squinted against the glare, trying to discern who had entered. From the jingling sound of armor, she realized the men were Praetorians.
“Get up, canicula!” one of them said. “It’s judgment time.”
Flavia was hauled to her feet. The nice woolen dress she had been wearing the day of her arrest was filthy now, and her expensive sandals had been confiscated as “payment” for the jail’s “hospitality.” With her hair tangled and her feet covered in slime, Flavia knew she looked more like a street orphan than a member of the senatorial class. Surely Father will be waiting outside, ready to put an end to this travesty! But the only people in the street were gawkers and guards.
The Praetorians escorted Flavia to the Senate House next door. She had been here on several prior occasions, though never while the congress was in session. Now a few important men sat in the rows of chairs, wearing elegant togas with purple stripes while servants and bureaucrats in less impressive garb scurried here and there on unknown errands. Flavia craned her neck, trying to spot her father among the other aristocrats, but it soon became obvious he wasn’t present. The only face she recognized was that of Ruricius Pompeianus, the stocky Praetorian prefect with the nasty scar on his cheek. He stood next to the Altar of Winged Victory at the rear of the chamber. Another man stood next to him—handsome, fashionable, and self-assured. His satchel was made of expensive leather. He had the slick look of a lawyer.
The guards brought Flavia to the altar, where Pompeianus was waiting. He gazed at her with disapproving eyes, looking her up and down. “Dirty little thing,” he muttered to the lawyer next to him, not even lowering himself to insult her to her face.
“What do you expect? I’ve been kept in the Carcer for three days,” Flavia said, trying to be bold.
Pompeianus didn’t answer but only waved at some senators who had congregated in a c
orner of the hall. They began to shuffle over, their expressions cold and aloof. Dread clawed at Flavia’s heart. Surely these men aren’t my jury? Can this be my trial? Where is my advocate? My witnesses? My impartial judge?
And great God, where is my father?
When twenty or so senators had seated themselves around the Altar of Victory, Pompeianus signaled for their attention. “Esteemed colleagues,” he began, “I thank you for your service on behalf of the great Maxentius. The wise and ever-busy augustus cannot grace us with the scintillating illumination of his glorious presence today. In fact, his placid mind does not even need to be disturbed with news of trifles like this! Therefore we shall protect his sensibilities and leave it to you, O illustrious senators, to render a verdict in the case of”—he swept his hand at Flavia—“this infection upon the face of Rome.”
The senators mumbled at the prefect’s effective preamble. Flavia glanced from face to face, pleading with her eyes, but no one offered any support.
“Lest it seem that this case is one-sided and justice has been miscarried,” Pompeianus went on, “Lady Junia Flavia has been provided with legal counsel today.”
A skinny man with an unruly shock of white hair and a beak-shaped nose was introduced as the lawyer Gracchus. He would speak on behalf of Flavia, while the distinguished lawyer standing next to Pompeianus—Tertius, his name was—would prosecute on behalf of the Senate and People of Rome.
With a gravity and solemnity more suited to an assassin caught in the act of regicide than a seventeen-year-old who had buried a priest, Tertius paced before the circle of senators and spun a tale of Flavia’s devious misdeeds. Though she was forbidden to speak, she wanted to correct nearly every sentence that oozed from the lawyer’s mouth. His exaggerations and insinuations put her in the worst possible light. Several senators were nodding vigorously, while others were daydreaming or taking a few desultory notes on wax tablets. Flavia could see that, unless Gracchus was the best rhetorician since Cicero, this wasn’t a case she could win. In fact, even Rome’s greatest orator himself couldn’t have won this case after all the lies Tertius was spewing.
The oily lawyer was building to a climax now. “Not only did this rebellious woman have the audacity to bury a despicable Christian bishop,” he declared, “it seems she is one of those fanatics herself—”
“Wait! Stop!” Pompeianus held up his hand and called for the stenographer’s attention. “Scribe, strike that statement from your report. The religious status of the defendant is of no concern to us today. We are only considering her crimes against the emperor’s majesty under time-honored Roman law.”
With the correction made, Tertius finished his case with a flourish, indulging in a stream of vituperation against the frivolity of upper-class girls in Roman society. Satisfied, he took his seat and ceded his place to Gracchus.
The beak-nosed advocate was, as Flavia expected, no Ciceronian orator. He defended his client with such amateurish rhetoric that half the senators in the jury turned up their noses at his infelicitous wording while the other half dozed off. His actual rebuttals were few, and the many accusations he left unrefuted were damning. Tears gathered in Flavia’s eyes as she realized the verdict was now certain to go against her. After a brief consultation, the most powerful men in Rome returned their decision: guilty of treason and degraded in rank to “more humble” status.
“I am the daughter of the sitting city prefect,” Flavia said firmly, trying to mask her hurt and frustration at the injustice. “Senators of Rome, I respectfully ask why he is not here today.”
Pompeianus flicked his hand dismissively. “A messenger was sent to summon him. But how can we help it if those lazy messengers get distracted and stop at a tavern along the way? The work of the law must go on, despite any human shortcomings.” He bowed toward the jury. “Gentlemen, your work today is done. Rome thanks you.”
As the senators dispersed, Pompeianus turned to Flavia. “And now, Lady Junia, it seems it is my prerogative to hand down your sentence. I have mulled it over carefully, and I have even prayed to holy Jupiter for wisdom. The highest and best god has made it clear to me what the penalty must be.” Though the prefect’s thin smile attempted to feign civility, the scar on his cheek only made his grin look maniacal. “I am very sorry to say you will have to be damned to the wild beasts.”
No more terrifying words had ever been uttered in Flavia’s presence. The prospect of being mauled by animals and devoured alive as entertainment for the masses was a fate too horrific to comprehend. Her mind reeled at the idea, rejecting it as unreal. What’s going on here? This can’t be happening! When will this nightmare end?
Two guards approached at Pompeianus’s signal. “Praetorians, escort the lady straight to her accommodations. The games begin tomorrow morning. We’d like her to be well rested so she can give the lions some strenuous exercise before they dine.”
“You can’t throw me into the amphitheater!” Flavia exclaimed. “I’m of the honorable class—free from corporal punishments!”
“Not anymore, little one. You’ve been degraded as part of your sentence. No more legal immunity. The beasts it is.” Pompeianus waved away the guards with the back of his hand. “Go on, now. Take her back to the prison. In fact—drop her into the Tullianum this time.”
No! Not the dungeon!
The Praetorians hauled Flavia to the Carcer, dragging her whenever she dug in her heels. She quickly realized there was no point in resisting, for the men were far too strong. Back at the prison, the soldiers forced her toward a hole in the floor. When the trapdoor was opened, the gush of putrid air made Flavia retch. That wasn’t just the stink of human waste—it was decomposed human flesh.
Oh God, please . . . not that!
The men paid no attention to Flavia’s squirming and frantic begging. They lifted the hem of her dress and forced a board between her thighs, making crude remarks the whole time. The board had been fastened to a rope by which to lower her into the pit. Flavia was forced to sit on the edge of the hole, her legs dangling into the blackness.
“No! Stop! Don’t make me—”
Cruel hands gave her a hard shove in the back. Flavia screamed.
She landed in a puddle of vomitus that could only have trickled from the mouth of Satan himself. The thick paste reeked of death and decay. A sudden yank on the rope snatched the board from between her legs, scraping her skin and overturning her into the cesspool on the floor of the Tullianum. Flavia gagged as the stench filled her nostrils.
“Next time, be a good girl and obey your betters,” one of the Praetorians said from the circle of light above. He guffawed and began to close the trapdoor.
Flavia reached her hand to the ceiling. “Wait! Wait!” she cried weakly.
The world went utterly black. No way out.
Deafening silence.
Ocean waves of fear washed over Flavia. The subterranean walls seemed ready to collapse, to press in, to suffocate and extinguish all semblance of life and breath and hope. The earth had swallowed her whole. She couldn’t move. She forgot to exhale. All she could do was clutch her skirt in her fists, fighting to keep from going insane.
And then a blood-chilling voice spoke from the darkness. “Hello, my lovely,” it croaked. “Come over here and see me. We’re going to have some fun.”
Oh no . . . I’m not alone.
The big gate at the suburban villa of Maxentius on the Appian Way was ominous and overbearing. Sophronia hated the very sight of it. Only one impetus was strong enough to bring her to the emperor’s residence: the love of a mother for her child.
Bishop Miltiades had visited Pompeianus a few days earlier, but his petition about Flavia had been rebuffed with cruel disdain. The godly priest had practically been tossed from the House of Fausta by force. Neratius was likewise thwarted by the politics of the matter, for Pompeianus deeply resented being passed over as city prefect, and he was powerful enough to keep the case tied up in legal wrangling for the time being. And while
the men bickered, maneuvered, and hashed things out, poor Flavia was languishing in a filthy dungeon! It was more than Sophronia could bear. Surely the emperor will have regard for an anguished mother, she told herself as she stared at the foreboding gate. Perhaps he will receive a petition from an old acquaintance begging at his door? It was worth a try, at least.
And so she rang the bell.
The gatekeeper emerged from his booth with an irritated frown. He scratched himself and yawned. “Who are you?”
“Sabina Sophronia, a senator’s wife. I have a petition for your master, the augustus of Rome.”
“Does he expect you?”
“No. But he knows me. We attended parties together in our youth.” The statement was not a lie. Sophronia and Maxentius were approximately the same age, and when both were in their teens, they had known each other casually in aristocratic circles. She had been under her father’s authority then: a daughter of the Sabinus clan whose roots went all the way back to the Republic. In her teenage years, she had been known as Sabina, and she had acquired her identifying name of Sophronia, which meant “chastity,” in part because of the moral restraint she had displayed as a Christian in those decadent circles. Upon marrying Neratius, she had not been given formally into his hand but remained instead under the legal jurisdiction of her family of origin and retained the clan name. Either way, the Junii and Sabini were families of high esteem, so an audience with the emperor did not seem out of the question.
Unfortunately, the gate attendant was unimpressed by Sophronia’s credentials. “If you have something to pass along, I will give it to the chamberlain. Otherwise you can sit right here, because the Divine Augustus is headed into the city at noon.”
He’s coming out? Thank you, gracious Lord!
“I will remain here and wait,” Sophronia said, then retired to the shade of her carriage.
The sun had dropped passed its zenith when the gate finally swung open and an imperial procession emerged. The emperor’s carriage was obvious, for its every surface was gilded. Sophronia knew that when the procession reached the city walls, Maxentius would transfer into a litter, because the noise of vehicles was forbidden on urban streets. For now, though, he rode along in golden splendor behind four white stallions. This quiet spot in the countryside was the perfect place to catch his attention.