The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  “What do you know about men, kitchen girl? The only men you know are cooks and pastry chefs.”

  Refusing to take Zoticus’s bait and argue with him, Flavia offered a warm smile instead. “All girls feel the same way about angry men,” she said. “Trust me.”

  “Bah!” Zoticus scoffed, swatting at the air with his hand.

  Flavia sighed and turned away. The wall in front of her was covered in scribbles. “Comicus is leaving the school,” one grateful boy had written. There were several pictures of gladiators and racehorses, as one would expect in a school that adjoined the Circus Maximus. Flavia was considering what to say to Zoticus when her eyes fell on a much more shocking graffito. She sucked in her breath as she read the inscription, scrawled in crudely executed Greek. “Alexamenos worships God,” it said. A man clad in a simple tunic was depicted raising his hand in prayer. Above him was a man nailed to a cross—except he had the ludicrous head of a donkey.

  Flavia whirled to face Zoticus. “What is this?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice calm despite the outrage she felt at the blasphemy.

  “How should I know? I didn’t write it.”

  “Who did?”

  Zoticus only shrugged, but the fact that he was blushing and avoiding eye contact made Flavia doubt his sincerity.

  “Jesus Christ doesn’t have a donkey’s head! He’s not some disgusting monster like the Aegyptian gods.”

  “Of course not,” Zoticus said impudently. “Jesus was a stupid Jew who got himself crucified for challenging the authority of almighty Rome.”

  It was all Flavia could do to hold her tongue. Lord, give me wise words, she prayed, and help me not to slap this smug kid!

  “So you disagree with your teacher’s Christian faith, Zoticus?” she asked, keeping her voice level and her tone sweet.

  “It’s a stupid religion.” The boy shook his long hair out of his face in a way Flavia found prissy. “Anybody who would follow that faith is a jackass, just like the drawing shows.”

  “Alexamenos follows it. You don’t respect him?”

  Zoticus sneered but said nothing.

  “How much do you know about Christianity? Have you ever visited a church? Read the scriptures? Talked to a priest?”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time doing any of that, kitchen girl.”

  “Yet you’re convinced Christianity is stupid. Why? On what facts is your opinion based?”

  “I just know it’s a dumb religion. And don’t try to convince me otherwise. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “Well, Zoticus, it seems you’re the one acting like a donkey here. You’re being stubborn, ignorant, irritable, and unpleasant.”

  The remark visibly angered Zoticus, but Flavia didn’t mind. She had intended her words as a challenge. Over the years she had found that younger boys actually cared a lot about what an older, pretty girl might think, even if they wouldn’t admit it. Now Flavia hoped to leverage that influence and break through the youth’s hard shell.

  But Zoticus’s veneer of arrogance held firm. No matter what Flavia said about Christianity, no matter how many mistaken notions she corrected, Zoticus refused to have an open mind. He apparently enjoyed arguing and hurling insults. At last Flavia asked, “Are there any gods you do like? Any you think aren’t a waste of time?”

  The boy’s face clouded. “I’m saving money for an offering to Aesculapius,” he declared.

  Aesculapius? The god of healing?

  Flavia crossed the room and came over to Zoticus, who was sitting on the edge of his bed. She knelt on the floor beside him. “Is someone in your life suffering?”

  Zoticus shook his head and stared at his feet. Only when Flavia gave him a soft pat on the hand did he finally mumble, “My mother’s sick. She might die.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Zoticus. Does she live in Rome?” A nod from the boy was his only reply. “Does your mother pray to the gods?” Flavia asked.

  Again Zoticus shook his head, his lip curled in a frown. “She follows the Christian God. A lot of good that’s doing. She’s been bedridden for nearly a year, and still no change despite all that wasted breath sent up to heaven.”

  “No prayer is wasted when it’s sent to the one true God. You can be sure he hears our prayers, even if his answer doesn’t come right away.”

  Zoticus finally lifted his head and looked at Flavia’s face. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “What?”

  “I said, who are you, Flavia? You arrive at this house out of nowhere to live with us while you work up in the palace kitchens. And you don’t act like the other girls. They just want to steal wine from the cellars and have sex. You want to debate religion and philosophy.”

  “I’m not . . . I mean, it’s okay to be different . . .”

  “You’re different, alright! You sound like a Christian! And you also seem like a rich girl, with your smooth skin and all your smart talk. You were reading the graffiti. How did a scullery maid learn to read Greek?”

  Flavia rose to her feet, unnerved by the boy’s probing questions. “I’m just a girl from the countryside who’s trying to be your friend, Zoticus,” she said. “Just because I had a good tutor before my father fell into debt isn’t a reason to suspect me. People from all walks of life find themselves in slavery. Misfortune can strike anyone.”

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  Flavia sensed it was time to leave before the boy’s questions became even more pointed. Enough had been said already, and Flavia wanted to leave while Zoticus had accepted her story. She bid him a good day and retired to her room.

  The rain outside had not let up. Flavia returned to her window and stared at the plain apartment block, which, she now knew, contained a church. Some of the rainwater ran down the roof tiles and dribbled onto the pavement, but Flavia knew most of the water was being channeled into the building’s central impluvium. Baptisms of converts to the true faith probably happen there, she mused.

  Though Flavia kept trying to clear her mind, Zoticus’s suspicious accusations refused to leave her thoughts. The boy’s bitter anger was clearly a cloak for his pain. Even so, he seemed dangerous. Everyone knew a wounded animal was the most apt to bite.

  Perhaps I ought to leave it to Alexamenos to deal with him.

  Flavia left the window and sat down on the edge of her bed. The only other couch in the room belonged to Chloe, her cheerful, heavyset roommate who now carried the baby of an unknown imperial page. Burdened by the many needs around her yet grateful for Alexamenos’s steady presence, Flavia stood up and faced the window again. She lifted her palms. After offering some prayers toward the sky for her new friends, she finally felt a sense of peace return.

  At last the rain slowed. The reduced patter of raindrops caused a quiet hush to descend on the house. It was afternoon now, and most of the boys were probably napping. Flavia let out a heavy sigh as she examined her surroundings. Like Zoticus’s room, the plaster walls here were etched with graffiti. I might as well leave my own mark, she decided.

  She snatched one of Chloe’s hairpins and approached the wall. Still bothered by the graffito she had seen earlier, she scrawled a reply to the accusation that her friend worshiped a ridiculous, donkey-headed god. In reality, the Greek schoolteacher was a good Christian man doing a difficult job. He didn’t deserve to be mocked. “Alexamenos is faithful,” she wrote in Latin. Setting down the pin, Flavia vowed to be equally faithful in this strange little house at the foot of the Palatine Hill.

  Livia winced as the ornatrix plucked yet another hair from her eyebrow. “Careful!” she cried, though there wasn’t anything else the slave could do.

  “Sorry, my lady. Only a few more.”

  The bony waif with the too-big eyes continued her work with the tweezer. Despite her personal ugliness, the girl was actually a good ornatrix. She knew the art of feminine beauty well. She just didn’t have the looks to pull it off herself.

  Once Livia’s eyebrows were tweezed into two slender a
rcs, the ornatrix went to work on her face. She applied rouge to her mistress’s cheeks, pink paint to her lips, and gold-flecked liner to her eyelids. An array of brushes, powders, oils, and perfumes smoothed and perfected the look. The whole process of painting Livia’s face took about an hour. Yet there was no question it was time well spent. Livia needed to look her best. She was about to make love to the most powerful man in the world.

  The fact that her husband, Pompeianus, was prostituting her to the emperor didn’t bother Livia. She had learned long ago that sex with powerful men was a useful tool, nothing more. If any pleasure was to be had from intercourse, it was to be obtained from slaves. But the point of sexual relations with a husband—or with an influential politician—was to achieve an objective, not enjoy the moment. And no objective was more important than causing Senator Neratius Junius Flavianus to fall out of favor with Maxentius.

  “I think, my lady, that you are ready to go,” the skinny ornatrix said. She held up a silver mirror for her mistress.

  Livia inspected her face and found that, indeed, it was appealing. The slave had done an excellent job once again. By the gods, I look pretty good for a twenty-nine-year-old, Livia thought. Setting the mirror on the dresser, she rose from her cushioned chair and went to find her husband.

  Pompeianus was in his study, waiting for the emperor’s guards to arrive. He wouldn’t invite them into that formal room, of course. Only men of equal rank could join him there. Yet the study adjoined the atrium, a suitable place to meet the visitors and hand over his gift to the great Emperor Maxentius. Along with his wife, he would probably send a flattering note and an amphora of good wine. That was the thing about Pompeianus. He always knew exactly how things should be done.

  “You look suitable,” he said to Livia as she entered. He set down his stylus and wax tablet and leaned back in his seat. “The emperor will have no complaints.”

  “I shall leave him breathless.”

  Pompeianus broke into a smile and gave a little shake of his head. “I’m sure you will. That is exactly the sort of thing you were made for.” He rose and traced a finger along Livia’s jawline. “You’re a good woman,” he said appreciatively. “Be sure to leave a positive impression of me.”

  The tinkle of a silver bell signaled that the majordomo had come to the doorway with news. “The emperor’s representatives are here, my lord,” he said.

  “Admit them to the atrium and offer them refreshments. The soldiers of the empire are always welcome in the Lateran Palace.”

  The majordomo looked hesitant. “If I may say, sir, these men aren’t Praetorians. In fact, I find them to be rather—”

  “What?” Livia asked.

  “Common.”

  “What do you mean, common?” she pressed.

  “Like . . . street thugs. Professional procurers.”

  “You mean pimps.”

  The majordomo nodded.

  “Admit them anyway,” Pompeianus ordered. “Keep them at a distance from me, and offer them no drinks. But be cordial.”

  The majordomo disappeared. Soon the sound of voices at the main entrance of the residence indicated the men had been let inside. Pompeianus rose from his desk. Sweeping aside the drapery that separated his study from the atrium, he strode out to meet the visitors. Livia followed her husband with a stately and dignified gait.

  The men truly were common pimps from the streets—expensively dressed, suggesting they were good at their trade, but part of the rabble, nonetheless. That must be Maxentius’s strategy, Livia thought. Push the senators to the limits of their shame, then see who’s truly willing to submit.

  A few brief pleasantries were exchanged, but a lot of talking wasn’t necessary. Everyone knew what was happening here. The pimps returned to the street, while eight of Livia’s slaves arrived with the house’s most fancy litter. They set it down and returned to the vestibule until their mistress would signal she was ready to go. Livia was about to climb into the plush, upholstered box when a shout rang out in the atrium.

  “No! This is wrong! You should not let it happen!”

  Though the statement was bold, the voice itself was notably high-pitched. Livia whirled to confront the speaker but was taken aback when she realized who it was.

  Agrippa!

  Her chubby son stood at the entrance to the atrium. Though he was only ten years old, Livia could already see that he would never be his father’s equal in terms of confidence, ambition, or sheer ferocity. The boy might make a good philosopher someday. Perhaps even an orator, if he were given enough training. But he would never run a military machine like the Praetorian Guard.

  Pompeianus’s face turned dark as he strode across the room to chastise his son. To the boy’s credit, he did not flee but instead hurried to stand between Livia and the waiting litter.

  “How dare you challenge me in my own home!” Pompeianus roared.

  Agrippa cringed but stood his ground. “My duty—”

  “Your what?”

  “My duty,” the boy continued bravely, “requires me to protest this action.”

  “Get out of my sight, Agrippa, or I’ll have you whipped like a houseboy!”

  “I know I can’t stop you, Father. You might even cast me out of your home. Even so, I have to speak against this violation of ancient Roman laws.”

  The words rendered Pompeianus speechless for a long moment. He just stood there, seething, his face contorted in a grimace, his fists clenched like eagle’s talons. The scar on his cheek made him seem all the more monstrous. Yet as terrible as he looked, his quivering silence seemed preferable to the storm that was surely gathering within him.

  When the thunder and lightning finally burst forth, Livia feared that real violence was about to be done to her son. Pompeianus cursed him like a cur on the street. He screamed that the boy’s high-paid tutors had filled his head full of lofty ideals that sounded noble in books but were far removed from the real exercise of power in a blood-soaked world. Bending low, Pompeianus delivered a vicious tongue-lashing to Agrippa, who—again to his credit—scrunched his eyes and weathered the storm with his feet planted firmly in place.

  “I married that woman for the sake of my career!” Pompeianus shouted, jabbing his finger toward Livia. “Now I’m sending her to the emperor for my career! Listen to me, boy, and listen well. Learn this lesson early if you want to have any hope of success in your pitiful life! Love is a luxury reserved for the commoners. Patricians like us deal only in power!”

  Agrippa thrust out his chin. “Patricians like us do not pimp out our wives.”

  The room fell silent. The majordomo, who had been watching the tirade from the corner of the atrium, edged toward the door. Even Livia was afraid now.

  Pompeianus’s hand shot from his side. He grabbed his son by the throat and lifted poor Agrippa onto his tiptoes as the boy clawed at the fingers that choked off his breath. Pompeianus dragged him to the pool in the center of the atrium and threw him into the water, then splashed in after him and thrust the boy’s head underwater. He held Agrippa down for a long time despite his furious thrashing.

  Livia willed herself to stand still. Holy Isis, Great Mother in Heaven, don’t let him kill that boy!

  After what seemed like an age, Pompeianus yanked Agrippa’s head from the water and left him gasping on his hands and knees in the pool. With unnatural calmness, Pompeianus removed his outer mantle, the hem of which was now soaked. He used a dry fold of it to wipe the moisture from his shaved head, then summoned the majordomo with a flick of his fingers and handed him the garment.

  “Take that robe and have it washed,” he said.

  “As you wish, my lord.” The majordomo bowed and turned to go, but Pompeianus stopped him.

  “Also take the boy and have a slave administer a beating with rods until he passes out. Then send him to his room and have the physician attend him.”

  “Y-yes, lord,” the majordomo said with another bow. At these words, Agrippa scrambled out of the pool an
d fled the room. The servant exited behind him.

  Pompeianus let out a heavy sigh and crossed the atrium to Livia. She stood rooted in the same spot from which she had watched the conflict unfold.

  “You fault me?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, lord.”

  “Why not?”

  “Power always has its price.”

  Pompeianus nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed it does,” he said at last. After patting Livia gently on the shoulder, he turned and walked toward the door that led to his study. Just before leaving the atrium, he glanced over his shoulder. “Give Maxentius my warmest greetings, Livia,” he said, then parted the curtains and disappeared.

  “So you think you can ride, eh, German?”

  Rex kept his expression pleasant. “I grew up in the saddle, my friend. The Alemanni love the horse. My father was the manager of the king’s stables, so I’ve been around riding my whole life.”

  My father was actually the king, Rex thought, but you don’t need to know that.

  The riding instructor at the New Camp of the Emperor’s Personal Cavalry—a man known as an exerciser—looked skeptical despite Rex’s claim of good equestrian credentials. “It’s one thing to dodge falling chestnuts in a barbarian forest,” he said, “and quite another to hold a full gallop while enemy javelins are coming at you.”

  “I know a little about war. I was a mercenary for a while, so I’ve got some training. And like I said, I’ve been riding since I was a child. If you let me join the cavalry, I will serve the great Maxentius well.”

  “Can you throw while wheeling?”

  “Yes, sir. Either right or left.”

  “You can wheel left? Only our better riders can do that.”

  “Up in Germania, we learn all the arts of horsemanship. I can wheel left, shift my shield, and make a throw across my body.”

  “Hmm. So you claim. We’ll see whether you can back up your words on the field.” The exerciser turned and beckoned to some seasoned cavalrymen. They sat light in the saddle as they approached, their leathery faces etched with the lines of men who had spent much time in the sun. “This recruit thinks he can ride and throw,” the exerciser told the horsemen. “Push him hard, and let’s see what he’s made of.”