by Bryan Litfin
Even Flavia, who was used to beautiful buildings, had to admire the grandeur of this hall. Coming in from the courtyard, visitors’ eyes were immediately lifted to the high ceiling. Columns of pink granite and milky marble supported its great height in three distinct stories. To the right and left, the hall was open to more courtyards, each adorned with a stately oval fountain, so that the sound of trickling water and natural light filled the entire space. The walls were painted with bright colors and designs, rivaled only by the intricate pattern on the marble floor. Tables and couches had been set up everywhere, arranged according to the social rank of their intended occupants. And if this vast hall were not enough, more guests could be accommodated in the many dining rooms that surrounded the octagonal fountain. Probably a thousand people would be in attendance tonight, all from Rome’s upper crust. The one noteworthy guest who would be absent was Maxentius himself. He was said to be out in his suburban mansion on the Appian Way, fretting about rumors of war.
Once the banquet had commenced, the scullery maids retired to the downstairs kitchens, leaving the table service to the page boys. Flavia, however, realized the event would present a unique opportunity to gain intelligence, so she found an excuse to linger on the periphery of the hall. The guests did not stay on their couches the whole time, gulping wine and scarfing plump dormice. Little groups formed here and there, often wandering out to the fresh air of the courtyards. As Flavia lurked in the dim peristyle with an ornate amphora of wine in her hands, she was no more noticed by the banquet guests than a piece of furniture. She knew the whispered conversations among the senators, generals, bureaucrats, and courtiers might only reveal who was conducting an illicit affair—but they might also reveal a battle strategy or rebellion plot that would be important to Constantine’s cause.
Flavia listened for tidbits of information for almost an hour, but unfortunately, she heard nothing of value. Glancing at the main hall, she didn’t see Zoticus, though she did recognize several other young pages. All of them were looking smart with their plaited hair and tailored uniforms. The guests ate and drank their fill, laughing and chatting the whole time. Seated in the exedra, a band of pipers and harpists added their musical contributions to the convivial atmosphere. Wine flowed freely as the waiters filled cup after cup. Because it was November, the hall grew dark rather early, but the pages lit oil lamps on high stands. With the Jupiter Dining Room suffused by a soft evening glow, the tipsy revelers began to turn their attention to after-dinner activities.
A horde of dancing girls was ushered into the hall amid masculine shouts of appreciation. Many of the matrons now left the feast, though a few wives and courtesans stayed to enjoy the show. The scantily clad performers pranced and undulated around the room in the way that always transfixes the eyes of men. One dance in particular caught Flavia’s attention. The girls rolled in an ornate box on wheels, then swirled around it with gauzy kerchiefs as they went through their routine. At the climax of the dance, all the girls fell prostrate before the box—and with a trumpet fanfare, out of it popped Maxentius himself.
A gasp went up from the crowd as the emperor strode down the center of the feasting hall in his purple robe and pearl diadem. His hair was waxed close to his head, and his cheeks were slathered with a pink rouge that stood in weird contrast to his stubbly beard. Though traditionally he had been regarded as a charming young man, the strange glint in his eye gave Flavia a squeamish sensation. Gone now was the capable politician who had been running Italy and Africa. This man who was waving to the onlookers and soaking up their acclaim was nothing but a decadent carouser with a colossal ego. In fact, Maxentius’s mind seemed touched with insanity.
A whisper at Flavia’s side made her turn her head.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” It was Chloe, up from the kitchens below. She looked pretty with her red-gold hair tied at the nape of her neck. “Where have you been?”
“Just observing the banquet. Look there! The augustus has come.”
Maxentius had taken up a position not far from the two watching girls. A retinue of sensual dancers and pretty boys trailed behind him like the sparkling stardust of a god. He gestured to a group of aristocrats reclining on a couch, all of them holding goblets made of expensive blown glass. “What is this?” he demanded in mock outrage. “Senators drinking wine but no cup for their lord? Some would call that treason!”
Aghast, the senators waved frantically to the page boy stationed behind their table. The waiter’s face contorted into a terrified grimace as he signaled that his jug was empty. Now the tension in the room was palpable as the incompetent servants tried to find a cup of wine for the waiting Maxentius.
The page boy Bassus glanced into the shadowy peristyle and noticed the amphora in Flavia’s hands. “Bring it to me!” he hissed.
“Go on!” Chloe urged.
Flavia shrank back. “I can’t! He’ll see me!”
“You have to! Everyone’s waiting!”
“But—”
Chloe snatched the amphora and marched into the brightly lit feasting hall. Bassus had found a goblet at his station and was about to take the jug from Chloe when the emperor’s voice stopped them.
“Now there’s a faithful Roman girl!” he declared. “At least somebody here is ready to give her lord some wine. And look! She has quite the curves as well. See what fine women we Romans produce?”
Bassus and Chloe bowed their heads as Maxentius approached. Horrified, Flavia watched the exchange from behind a column. The emperor took the goblet from Bassus. “Fill my cup, pretty lass,” he said to Chloe.
She held the ceramic jug in two hands and tipped its mouth into the cup. When it was full, Maxentius threw back his head and drained the wine in one long gulp. Tossing the cup aside, he exclaimed, “A fine vintage! Now give your lord a kiss.”
The emperor drew Chloe into a lusty embrace, pinching her rear and smothering her face in wet kisses while she awkwardly cradled the jug. The crowd in the feasting hall cheered him on, relieved at this happy turn of events. The dancing girls clapped and shouted their encouragement. Only Chloe seemed uncomfortable as she squirmed in Maxentius’s grip.
“What is this?” he demanded as he pulled back from her. “No love for your master?”
“No, sir . . . I mean yes, sir . . . I love you, my lord . . .”
Maxentius glanced around the room. “What do you think? Should I have her whipped for disrespect?”
A mixed shout went up. Some cried yes, others no.
“I can’t hear you,” the emperor said, “but I think you called for a hard beating with the scourge, eh?”
Chloe fell to her knees and clutched her stomach with one hand. “Please, sir, have mercy! I have a baby.”
Maxentius put his hands on his hips as he loomed over Chloe. “Oh, so you’re pregnant, are you? You invite common slaves to your bed, but when a god on earth grants you a kiss, you writhe about like an eel?”
“I’m sorry, Augustus . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
In the shadows, Flavia could stay still no longer. While everyone’s eyes were fixed on the drama unfolding in the hall, she sneaked to one of the lampposts and tipped it over, withdrawing before the heavy bronze lamp struck the ground. The loud crash made everyone turn. Flaming oil cascaded across the floor and began to lick the edge of a tapestry. The guests at the nearest tables scrambled away.
“You there! Boy! Put it out!” Maxentius shouted to the nearest page. The youth stomped on the fire to no effect. A commotion consumed the feasting hall as everyone stared and pointed at the uncontrolled blaze.
“I’ll fetch water, lord,” Chloe said at the emperor’s feet. He scowled and waved her away with the back of his hand. She dashed out of the room.
Flavia realized it was time to make her escape as well. The fire would soon be put out, and then people might start asking questions. It was a close call, but she and Chloe had managed to dodge the emperor’s cruel intent.
May t
hat be the end of it, Lord, she prayed as she hurried down the staircase to the kitchens.
The long, boring wait in Maxentius’s private chambers wasn’t the hard part for Livia. It was knowing she was missing the lavish banquet in the Jupiter Dining Room next door that really bothered her. All her friends were over there, dressed in their best gowns and draped in fabulous jewels. Livia loved fancy parties like that. She hated to skip the festivities.
But power always has its price.
She glanced at the water clock. The dial indicated it was already the sixth hour of the night, and still the banquet had not ended. Perhaps Maxentius would come back so drunk he wouldn’t want to make love? Livia hoped that wouldn’t happen. Sex was her most effective tool for achieving her goal. Without a romp in bed, this visit would be wasted.
The pointer on the clock had moved halfway into the seventh hour when the doorkeeper finally announced the emperor was on his way. Livia inspected her face in a mirror, touching up her lip paint and dabbing her neck with perfume before settling into a plush divan in the antechamber of Maxentius’s bedroom. He rarely used this residence because he preferred to stay in his suburban villa, away from the bustle of Rome. However, the threat of possible invasion had forced him to spend more time in the traditional residence of the emperors up here on the Palatine. This was no time for a life of country retirement, even if that’s what the timid Maxentius would have preferred.
A few moments later, he arrived. The emperor was indeed drunk, but not so much that he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—do what was expected. Livia thought he greeted her rather stiffly. Something was clearly bothering him, weighing down his mind. She vowed to use whatever it was against him.
“I hated to miss the banquet, Divine Augustus,” she purred, “but a night with you makes a sumptuous feast seem like a bowl of lentils in comparison.”
“Eh, well, you didn’t miss much. Standard fare. The only excitement was when the dining room caught fire.”
Livia put her hand to her breast and inhaled sharply. “How dangerous and thrilling!”
“It was no great matter. The servants put it out with wet sand.”
“How did it start?”
Maxentius frowned. “I had just surprised the guests with my dramatic entrance. Everyone adored me! I was starting to seduce a kitchen wench, but she was less than amorous. I rebuked her, and the crowd loved it. Then a lamppost toppled and the whole place burst into a frenzy. I lost their attention after that. Stupid girl! She was curvy, though. I like them like that.”
“A man like you appreciates women of every shape and size.”
Maxentius’s gaze flicked over to Livia. “I appreciate your shape and size.”
She smiled coyly and narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
“I need a tonic,” Maxentius declared, crossing to a medicine cabinet. “I have a pounding headache.”
“Let me do it for you, my lord. Just sit and rest.”
Maxentius took a seat while Livia prepared a concoction of vinegar and willow bark. It wouldn’t taste good, but it was known to be very effective. She gave the drink to the emperor, who gulped it down and winced.
Now is the time, she decided. Hit him while he’s weak.
“My husband tells me Rome is about to be invaded, Augustus. I must admit, it worries me. People are saying both Licinius and Constantine are strong. That is the real reason I have come here tonight: to remind myself of the vigor and fortitude of our great protector. Only in your arms shall I feel safe.”
Maxentius uttered an expletive and pitched his empty vial of medicine across the room. “Curse them both! They won’t claim the prize of Rome. I won’t let them!”
“Of course not! Let it be known that my husband, the esteemed Ruricius Pompeianus, feels as I do. We are behind you without fail, Your Highness. And that can’t be said for the whole Senate.”
The comment made Maxentius’s head swing around. “The Senate is disloyal, you say?”
“Some of the senators are. You will know who is obedient when you summon their wives. Only when a man is tested with a heavy burden can you learn his true level of devotion. If he values his mere wife more than the command of his divine lord and king, would he not just as likely change sides and go over to any invader who shows up at our gates with an army?”
Livia could see the lines of fear and exhaustion etched on Maxentius’s face. Everything about him was disheveled. His hair was askew, his rouge was smeared into his whiskers, and dark circles underlined his eyes. The man was a mess. Good . . .
“Surely there are not many senators who would stab their emperor in the back!” he cried, leaping up from his chair. “I am the father of the fatherland! The beneficent provider for my people! The preserver of my city! Like the first augustus, I found Rome a city of brick and made it a city of marble!”
“Calm your nerves, my lord,” Flavia soothed. She stroked Maxentius’s shoulder and gently pressed him back into his seat. “I know of only a few men with traitorous intent.”
“Like who?”
“Senator Neratius Junius Flavianus, for one.”
There. It is done.
The emperor’s face paled. “You know this?”
“I suspect it. You would have to inquire. Test his loyalty like the rest of the Senate. I feel certain that he loves his modest wife more than his caesar.”
“I don’t believe he’s a traitor,” Maxentius insisted. “We have been friends since childhood. Neratius would not betray me.”
Livia fiddled with her bracelet and considered her next move. She had not expected Maxentius to be so trusting of Neratius. How can I convince him otherwise?
“Enough of all this,” Maxentius said, rising again to his feet. “I’m finished with conspiracies for the day. My headache has abated. Come, let us retire.”
“Indeed we shall, my lord. But may I say . . . ?” She paused.
“Go on, Livia.”
“May I suggest you truly should inquire about Senator Junius? I believe he may be more of a threat than you think.”
Maxentius shrugged. “How could I possibly find out the truth? He would deny it if I asked. And I cannot torture him. He is a noble.”
“There are . . . there are those who can uncover truths hidden from all other eyes.”
“Who? Speculators behind enemy lines? Household slaves who eavesdrop on their masters? They just lie whenever you turn the wheel of the rack. Some things are impossible to know.”
“The soothsayers could tell you.”
Maxentius fell silent for a long time. At last he turned and eyed Livia warily. “The haruspices? I had not thought of that. I have used them on occasion to read certain omens. But not to discern my enemies.”
“The entrails of living things do not lie. It is only a matter of obtaining a proper reading.”
“Ah, but that is the thing. Divination is always tricky. The spirits hide the truth as often as they reveal it. They part with their wisdom only reluctantly.”
“I know. But for the most important questions, you can assure yourself of a truthful answer by giving the spirits what they want.”
“And what is that?”
“The most innocent blood.”
Maxentius approached Livia slowly. She waited for him, then moved to meet him when he drew near. He caressed her cheek, his finger toying with the jewel that dangled from her ear. She closed her eyes and allowed a little smile to come to her painted lips.
“You are a dark woman, Lady Cornelia Livia.”
“Yes, I am. But we live in dark times, my augustus.”
The remark caused Maxentius to chuckle and shake his head, yet it clearly pleased him. He reached down and took Livia’s hand.
“I think I’m going to enjoy getting to know you,” he said.
This isn’t going to be fun, Rex thought.
But it had to be done.
He knocked on the door of an apartment in a block not far from the New Camp of the imperial horse guard. At first there
was no response. Then Rex heard a rustling inside.
“Who is it?” came the muffled voice.
Might as well get this over with. “Brandulf Rex, sir.”
For a long moment, there was total silence. Rex steeled himself, waiting for the door to explode from the frame and bang into the wall. But when it finally opened, it wasn’t hurled with the force he had anticipated. It simply creaked on its hinges until it was ajar. A man stood there. Centurion Aratus.
“Come in, soldier,” he said.
Rex followed his commanding officer into the little apartment he had rented. The room had no furniture, only a straw mattress on the floor. A chamber pot and water jug sat on one side of the bed, and a military rucksack had been dropped on the other. No other people were in the room.
“Sir, you are probably wondering—”
Aratus hit him.
The blow was like iron, and the centurion took nothing off it. If Rex were facing an adversary, he probably could have deflected the punch, but he hadn’t anticipated the attack, and his guard was down. Aratus’s fist struck Rex on the point of the chin and sent him reeling. He hit the wall hard and caught himself just before he fell to the floor. Dizziness engulfed him for a moment until his head finally cleared.
“I . . . I guess I deserved that, sir.”
Aratus, his teeth set on edge, glared at Rex. “I ought to have you flogged, soldier! If I had my vine with me, I’d do it myself! Then I’d discharge you for desertion.”
“Yes, sir,” Rex said, rubbing his chin. “But I can explain.”
“You sorry bag of filth! There’s nothing you can do but pack up and go back to the mud hut where your mother spawned you!” Aratus growled like a wild beast and shook his head. “I trusted you, Rex! I brought you here for a mission, but instead you catch sight of a pretty girl and go off for a fling. You disappear for more than two weeks! Curse you, boy! By Jupiter, Juno, and Jesus, you’re not worthy to be called a . . .” The walls were thin, so Aratus stopped short and did not utter the word speculator.
Rex rose to his full height and straightened his shoulders. The harsh words hurt. Aratus was more than just his commanding officer. He was a mentor, even a kind of father figure. Rex felt the pain of his criticism more acutely than the punch to his jaw.