by Bryan Litfin
The prefect raised his eyes to the idol of Mars in the camp shrine. Firm and resolute, Mars gazed back with the placid expression that all gods should have as they considered the petitions of mortal men. The nude statue stood in the apse of a little hall at the center of camp, spear in one hand, shield in the other. On either side of the idol were the standards of the illustrious Praetorian Guard, emblazoned with eagles’ wings and jagged thunderbolts. The spiritual power of Mars inhabited the very fabric of those flags. Worship of military standards was as old and venerable as the legions themselves.
“O great and holy Mars,” Pompeianus prayed as he sprinkled incense into a smoking brazier, “hear my request and lead us to my enemy’s daughter. I worship you with fragrant myrrh and frankincense, that you might give me success.”
Would it be enough? One never knew with the gods. They could be capricious. But at least they could be coerced with gifts. It gave humans a certain measure of control.
Pompeianus walked outside into the cold October drizzle, hunched into his cloak, and crossed the cardinal street to the headquarters building. For a fortress as important as the Praetorian Camp in the capital city, the headquarters wasn’t much of an edifice—less impressive, really, than you’d find at a good-sized frontier outpost. Yet that was the nature of the Praetorian Camp. Because it was attached to the defensive wall of Rome, its internal gate emptied into the city streets, where plenty of nearby buildings could be rented for administrative functions that normally would be housed inside a fort. Thus the Praetorian Camp was used almost exclusively as a tight-packed barracks. Four thousand footmen were billeted here, the infantry’s counterpart to the New Camp of the emperor’s horsemen. Together the foot soldiers and cavalry made an impressive fighting force for the city of Rome.
Though Pompeianus lived in the luxurious Lateran Palace and ran the army from there, he felt he needed to show up occasionally at the Praetorian Camp and mingle among the rank and file like a good commander. If the headquarters building was a little spartan, well, that would only make him seem more like a hardy field general than a rear-lines military bureaucrat. Pompeianus believed his reputation among the men was an important means of controlling them.
“Have the guards arrived yet?” he asked the junior tribune as he entered the command center and flung off his wet cloak. He handed it to a servant who had just delivered a tray of food. The slave shook the droplets from the cloak and hung it on a peg, then scurried out.
“Not yet, sir,” said the tribune. “But they’re on the way. I expect them shortly.”
Pompeianus eyed his camp administrator, an up-and-coming officer in his late twenties. Efficient and clever, he was one of those military functionaries who had managed to climb through the ranks without a lot of duty in dangerous combat situations. Lacking that wartime résumé, the man knew his advancement depended on currying favor and delivering results. It was a great skill set in a fortress administrator—as long as a horde of barbarians wasn’t clamoring outside the walls. Fortunately, no barbarian army had attacked the city of Rome for seven hundred years.
“Son, let me give you a lesson in leadership,” Pompeianus said to the eager young man. When he had the tribune’s attention, he clasped his hands behind his back and assumed the air of wise mentor. “Our problem is that when we lost the girl, we lost prestige. We declared her to be outcast from society—fit only to be food for the beasts. She needed to die a horrible death. We publicly committed ourselves to that outcome. All our plans were unfolding just as we had decreed. That makes us seem invincible, you see? Then some gladiator pops up from below the arena and whisks her underground. Now we have no idea where she is. But wherever she may be, she isn’t lion’s caca right now. Her powerful father and his supporters will surely view that as weakness. The ability to impose your will is the essence of leadership. Don’t forget it, son! When you declare what shall be, you had better be prepared to make it so. Otherwise people will treat your words like morning fog—a harmless vapor that can be ignored at will.”
“A good lesson, sir. I certainly won’t forget it.”
“See that you don’t. Aha! I think I hear our guests.”
The tribune went to the oaken door of the headquarters and ushered in three common soldiers of low rank. They had arrived under armed escort, their wrists cuffed. Pompeianus signaled that the guard should remove the men’s shackles. After doing so, the guard saluted and left the three soldiers alone with Pompeianus and the tribune.
“You had one simple job,” Pompeianus said flatly, “and yet you failed. What happened?”
The guardsmen exchanged nervous glances, each remaining silent lest he draw the prefect’s attention. Finally, one of the men spoke up, a big dullard with an obvious mean streak. “We delivered that little canicula to the amphitheater just like you said. She was right there in front of the beasts! What more could we do? How could we know one of the gladiators would decide to run away with her?”
“Who was he?”
“No one knows. None of the gladiator companies will admit they’re missing a man. He might have been a new guy from the northern frontiers, still unregistered. He looked pale-skinned like the Germani.”
Pompeianus frowned. “That girl was condemned to die by the decree of the all-powerful Senate. Now she’s running free somewhere in our empire. How did that tiny waif trick the soldiers of the greatest army in the world?”
“She didn’t trick us, sir!” The big man held up his palm. “Look here. I beat her into submission with this hand. Chained her up like a dog! When I left that girl, she was locked in a cell under the amphitheater. It was them show planners that let her get away! The people who turn the cranks and hoist up the beasts in cages. Not us!” The emphatic statement elicited vigorous nods from the two soldiers on either side of the spokesman.
“Your job was to guard Lady Junia until she was dead. Not until she was in the House of the Vestals. Not until she was delivered to the amphitheater. Not until she was standing on the arena floor. Until she was dead.”
The three guardsmen could only stare at the ground. “We’ll find her, sir,” the big man muttered at last.
“I am confident of it. Even so”—Pompeianus paused dramatically—“I feel compelled to hold one of you responsible for the disappearance.” The assertion sparked a forceful barrage of accusations and recriminations. Pompeianus let the men fight it out. Finally, two of them ganged up on the third and assigned sole blame to him. The wide-eyed man was defending himself when Pompeianus cut off the arguments by drawing his sword. “Kill him,” he said, handing the hilt to the hulking leader.
“No! It’s not my fault!” screamed the third man, but his cry was futile. The second held him still while the leader ran him through. When the bloody blade was withdrawn, the scapegoat collapsed to his knees, then toppled onto his face. Beneath his belly, a dark red stain began to ooze across the tiled floor.
Pompeianus nodded crisply as he took back his ornate officer’s sword. He wiped it on a towel. “Well done, soldiers of Rome. You are dismissed.”
The two survivors saluted, trying to be brave, though the prefect could see the tremble in their hands as they put their fists to their chests. Chastened, they headed for the door. They were about to exit the headquarters when Pompeianus called out to them.
“Soldiers!” he barked.
The pair held still for a moment, then slowly turned back around.
“I blame one more of you. Since we cannot get the testimony of two witnesses in this instance, we will let the gods decide who has sinned.”
Pompeianus walked over to a wooden trunk and rammed the sword’s point into its lid. He watched it quiver there for a moment, then looked up at the guardsmen. They, too, were staring at it, trying to comprehend their commander’s intent. He gestured at the blade with an open palm. “May the gods aid the innocent.”
The soldiers’ eyes grew large and round, and their jaws dropped. Suddenly they burst into a mad scramble for the weapon.<
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The battle was brief. One tackled the other and they both hit the ground. The adversaries clawed their way across the room, kicking and dragging each other as they extended their arms toward the trunk. The bigger man finally smashed his heel into his opponent’s face, which gave him the advantage he needed to spin around and reach the sword first. He wrenched it from the trunk and plunged it into the top of the second man’s shoulder as he lurched along the floor in a last, desperate dive. The blade slid all the way in without meeting resistance. The big man let go of the sword as his opponent went limp, the ivory hilt protruding from his collarbone.
Pompeianus came and stood over the winner, who was breathing heavily. “The gods have decided the matter,” he said. “Now stand up.”
The big guardsman got to his feet. Though sweat glistened on his brow, and four claw marks ran down his cheek, the wild exhilaration of victory lit up his face. He had been tested by the gods and found innocent.
“Retrieve my sword, soldier, and bring it to me.”
Immediately the victor bent to the second man’s corpse and extracted the blade from the length of his torso. He bowed to Pompeianus, offering the hilt to his lord.
“Keep it for yourself. Clean that fine blade and strap it to your side as a reminder to do your duty in the future.”
“Yes, my lord,” the big man said, visibly relieved though still shaken. “I will do my duty forevermore.” After offering another tenuous salute, he hurried to the door and took the latch in his hand.
“One more thing, Praetorian!”
At the sound of his commander’s voice, the big man instinctively spun around. With the practiced arm of many years on distant battlefields, Pompeianus hurled a weighted javelin through the soldier’s chest. The force of it pinned him to the oaken door. He grunted and began to wriggle, his arms dangling at his sides. The fine officer’s sword clattered to the ground.
The prefect approached the delinquent soldier and stared into his eyes as they fluttered erratically. Blood welled up in his mouth and trickled down his coarse military tunic.
“Today it is your duty to die for your failure,” Pompeianus declared. The man’s eyes fell shut and his whole body sagged. Pompeianus yanked the spear from the door and allowed the corpse to tumble to the floor. He whirled away and shot a firm glance to the white-faced tribune. “That, my son, is how you rule men. Now go find someone to clean up this mess.”
Rex examined the cut on his forearm, the worst of several nicks he had taken in the battle against the five Praetorians in the dead-end alley. He had treated it with a poultice made from wild garlic that he had found growing on the side of the road. Thanks to that herbal remedy, the wound was healing nicely. It was hard to believe he had come out of the fight with only a few minor injuries. In truth, he should be dead—and probably would be, if not for two things. One was the intervention of his friend Geta, always a rival yet faithful when it counted. The second intervention, the one behind Geta’s fortuitous arrival, could only have been divine. Hercules had smiled on Rex that day—leading Geta through the streets, helping him catch up at just the right time, giving victory in battle. Now Rex intended to thank the god for his heavenly favor.
The conversation with Flavia over dinner had solidified Rex’s desire to offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving for the god’s protection. Though the experience of worshiping at a temple was new to Rex—at least, temples on such a grand scale like they had in Italy—he was determined to give it a try now that he had come to the heart of the empire. Flavia could observe her Christian religion of peace and charity, an entirely appropriate form of devotion for a wealthy girl living a comfortable life on the Aventine Hill. But soldiers needed a different kind of patron. Despite the current diversion from his mission, Rex hadn’t forgotten that Emperor Constantine was on his way to Rome, and he wasn’t coming to pick poppies in a meadow with Maxentius. He was coming to make war, a war in which Rex expected to fight mortal enemies with swords in their hands and bloodlust in their eyes. Therefore Rex needed a victory god. And who could be more victorious than a hero who had attempted twelve impossible labors and achieved them all?
The famous Sanctuary of Hercules Victorious sat on the brow of a ridge at Tibur, keeping watch over the plains around Rome. Several cataracts poured over the ridge at the temple’s base and tumbled into the valley, just one of the many places in Tibur where waterfalls could be seen. The temple had been laid out on an artificial terrace that gleamed white in the midday sun like the summit of Mount Olympus itself.
Yet as Rex followed the road that led him to the foot of the temple, he quickly realized the place was not only a religious hub but also a commercial one. The Tiburtinian Way served as a major highway that passed through the rustic mountains around Rome, where shepherding was a way of life. As the herders approached Tibur with their sheep, goats, and cattle, they were channeled into a tunnel that ran beneath the temple’s terrace. There, in that narrow chute known as the Covered Way, the animals were counted one by one and taxed. This meant the road was, essentially, a kind of money pipeline—and the priests at the Temple of Hercules were raking in an enormous income.
Rex stepped inside the Covered Way, immediately grateful for its cool shade, though not its stench of fresh manure and wet wool. While a few cows and goats were in the stream of livestock today, for the most part sheep were moving through the chute right now. The sound of their bleating, combined with the cries of the shepherds and the haggling between tax collectors and overseers, created a bizarre cacophony in the barrel-vaulted passageway. At intervals, the roof’s length was penetrated by skylights that let in not only light and air but also hooks suspended from the booms of cranes. The sheep selected as taxation were being hauled up by belly straps into the market, their black legs dangling and their tongues lolling out of their mouths as they were separated from the flock. Men with tally books counted each animal snatched away from the peasant farmers. It was a stark reminder of what Rex knew all too well: the empire always takes its cut.
Rex approached one of the shepherds and asked about buying a lamb. The man beckoned to his overseer, who came over and offered a steep price. Rex worked him down a little and finally struck a more reasonable bargain. The shepherd reached into the steady flow and hauled out a fluffy lamb with no obvious defects. Rex paid the overseer, then cradled the animal under his arm and left the Covered Way. He ascended a staircase to the market above.
The spacious plaza around the temple of Hercules was surrounded on three sides by a colonnade. Most of the shady walkway, which might have been designed by its architect for a leisurely stroll, was instead being used as a public market. Vendors in their stalls offered all manner of products, from leather goods to woolen fabric to roasted chestnuts. Other vendors had set up awnings in the plaza for selling cuts of meat from the newly slaughtered livestock. And, of course, the money changers had their booths as well. The volume of commerce pouring through the holy sanctuary required a team of bankers to maintain the pipeline’s constant flow.
Rex stopped at a stall dealing in local honey. “Where can I find a priest?” he asked.
The beekeeper pointed to a doorway a short distance along the colonnade. “That’s the hall where they feast. But they’re all senators from the city or the top local magistrates. They probably won’t admit the likes of you.”
“We’ll see,” Rex said, and headed for the banquet hall.
The priests of Hercules, known as the Salii, were identifiable by their special caps crowned by a spike of olive wood. Rex peeked into the dining room and was greeted with a scene of extravagant decadence. Nine fat noblemen in their spiked hats reclined on three couches around a table overflowing with meats and other delicacies. Busty girls in gauzy linen shifts scurried back and forth, filling the priests’ goblets with wine.
The walls were adorned with gold mosaics, and the floor was paved with expensive Tuscan marble. At the rear of the room, an idol of Hercules rested on a padded couch with a tray of food
in front of him so he could join the feast. Apparently, the god wasn’t hungry, for he hadn’t yet touched his food.
One of the serving girls approached Rex at the doorway. “The priests can’t see you now,” she said in a breathy voice, “but I’d be glad to meet you later to receive an offering in private.” A little wink signaled the wench had nighttime duties around the temple in addition to her day job.
“I wish only to make a blood sacrifice,” Rex said, dipping his chin toward the lamb squirming in his arms. “Can you direct me to a priest who can help?”
“One of the acolytes at the altar can do it, but you’ll have to pay.”
“I have to pay? I already had to pay for this lamb.”
The girl shrugged. “You have to buy a token. Only then will the acolyte make the sacrifice. It’s the rule. I can sell you one.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five common denarii.”
Rex tsked and shook his head. “A day’s wage just to make the sacrifice?”
“Usually I charge fifty and keep half for myself. But I have a weakness for handsome men.”
Frowning, Rex fished the amount from his moneypouch and paid the girl, who gave him a token stamped with the image of muscular Hercules holding his club. As she handed over the little clay disc, a sly smile came to her face.
“Come to the theater tonight,” she invited, leaning close. “I have a small part in the play. I’d be happy to serve you afterward.”