The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  “Centurion, may I speak?”

  Aratus huffed and swatted at the air, then turned away.

  “Since we arrived in Rome,” Rex continued in a quiet voice, “have you joined the army like we planned?”

  “Of course not! I’ve been too busy looking for my missing soldier!”

  “Have you infiltrated the imperial palace?”

  “Don’t be stupid. You can’t just walk into the emperor’s war room and ask for details.”

  “Have you met any influential conspirators seeking to bring Maxentius down and install Constantine in his place?”

  Aratus stared at Rex as if he were crazy.

  “What if I told you, sir, that since the day I disappeared, not only have I been enlisted into our enemy’s cavalry unit, but I have also cultivated two high-value informants and have furthermore connected with a group of senators plotting the emperor’s downfall? One of my sources has been embedded in the imperial bureaucracy for many years, while the other I have managed to install directly in Maxentius’s personal kitchens on the Palatine Hill. In addition, I have joined forces with powerful insurgents whose members include some of the oldest aristocrats of Rome. Knowing this, would you still continue to believe I’m a deserter?”

  Aratus’s jaw dropped. He started to speak, clamped his mouth shut, started to speak again, then fell silent.

  “It’s true,” Rex said, still keeping his voice near a whisper. “I’ve done all those things. I can give you details if you want.”

  “But why did you go chasing after that girl?”

  “Sir! Do you really think I’m some foolish youth, led along by my member instead of my mind? You always taught us: ‘The good speculator finds a way to the goal; the great speculator creates one.’ When opportunities come, you have to seize them without hesitation. Fortune brought Lady Junia Flavia across my path. I saw an opening toward the goal, so I jumped in with both feet and followed the path where it led. And by the gods, it led to some good results.”

  Aratus stared at the floor a long time. With one hand, he rubbed the flat top of his close-shorn hair. Finally, he looked up at Rex.

  “You should have reported in,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “You should have gotten my permission first.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You should execute the approved plan, not just follow your instincts.”

  “I should do that, you’re right.”

  “And you should work with your partners, not on your own whims.”

  “Right again, sir.”

  Aratus sighed, wrestling with his thoughts. “Rex?” he said quietly. “One more thing.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I take back what I said. You’re a great speculator.”

  Rex broke into a wide grin. “Correct once more, Centurion.” He saluted his commanding officer, clasping his fist to his chest with a bow of his head. “And thank you.”

  It was the ninth day before the Kalends of December, the feast day of Saint Clement. To Sophronia’s way of thinking, this great saint was the perfect person to honor at the suburban shrine of Peter and Paul on the Appian Way. Long ago, in the days of Jesus’s apostles, Clement had helped to establish the church at Rome. Hadn’t Paul called Clement his beloved coworker at the end of his letter to the Philippians? Hadn’t the African theologian Tertullian proved Clement was the second bishop of Rome after Peter? As Sophronia took her seat in the dining room at the suburban shrine, she thanked God that men like Clement had laid such a solid foundation for the catholic faith.

  Bishop Miltiades reclined at the dining room’s head couch, with Neratius on his right and the young priest of the Aventine house church, whose name was Felix, on his left. Sophronia sat behind the bishop on a chair near his feet. A few other leaders of the house church, along with some high-ranking servants from Neratius’s household, had joined the others on the cushioned benches—about twenty diners in all. Beyond these, out in the flagstone courtyard, a hundred or so of the Christian poor from the Aventine Hill had been invited to the feast. Several pots of stew bubbled over charcoal braziers, while a long table had been spread with more fruits, cheese, fish, and wheat bread than these needy folks had ever seen in one place. The wine being served wasn’t the cheap vinegar of the masses, but a good, white vintage that only the wealthy could afford. This feast had been Flavia’s personal request of Bishop Miltiades, paid for out of her own dowry. Now, in honor of her missing daughter, Sophronia intended to carry out every detail of the request just as Flavia had wanted it.

  The bishop had begun the festivities with a fine sermon about Clement’s adventures as Peter’s traveling companion. All the poor had listened with rapt attention, along with some sanctified virgin sisters who were attending the feast in their veils. Now it was time to eat, so the kitchen staff of Sophronia’s mansion were ladling out the stew as fast as the hungry Christians could extend their bowls. The clergy and household members in the dining room would wait until all the brethren had been served before beginning their own meal.

  “There is some debate about the authenticity of the Clementine texts,” Bishop Miltiades told the waiting diners as they reclined at a table. “A new history from the pen of a certain Eusebius, bishop of Caesarea by the Sea, discounts them. Yet many of our local scholars accept them as genuine.”

  “And what is your opinion, Father?” Neratius asked.

  As distinguished and stately as Miltiades was, his words always carried great weight. “I am inclined to accept the historical essence of the tale,” he said, “though as always with popular literature, fantastic legends get added over the years.”

  “We know at least that Clement was a real historical figure, for the holy scriptures mention him,” Sophronia said. “The stories just give us more detail.” Miltiades stroked his oiled beard and nodded sagely at this.

  In due time, after the other guests at the charity feast—or the agape, as the Greek Christians called it—had been served their food and had lapsed into pleasant conversation, the servants brought a meal for those waiting in the dining room. Sophronia munched on a sardine and gazed out at the contented picnickers relaxing in the warm sun or under the shady porch. Blessed are you poor, she thought, for yours is the kingdom of God.

  Although the dining room was enclosed on three sides, its fourth wall was open to the courtyard, forming a pleasant loggia with a light and airy feel. The structure was fifty years old, and over that time, many prayers to Peter and Paul had been scratched into the red plastered walls, for the mortal remains of the two apostles had been transferred to this secret place for safekeeping during an outbreak of persecution. “Please hear my petition” or “Keep me in mind” the scribblers had asked the saints, often providing their own names as a reminder. Many Christians had also recorded the banquets they had sponsored. Observing that same tradition, Sophronia’s faithful doorkeeper Onesimus had just used the sharp tip of his spoon to write, “Flavia gave a refreshment on IX Kal Dec. Protect her, Peter and Paul, in God.” Touched by this affectionate gesture, Sophronia whispered her own prayer: Yes, holy apostles of the Lord! Protect her and bring her back safely!

  When the meal was finished, a general merriment broke out in the courtyard and spilled into the surrounding cemetery. Children ran around playing games, some of the young people danced, and more than a few guests seemed to have had too much to drink.

  Bishop Miltiades, however, had more serious matters on his mind. “Do you know the history of this place?” he asked those around the dining table. When everyone shook their heads, he continued. “It was originally an open quarry pit for making cement. The Greek word for a scooped-out bowl is kymbe. The phrase kata kymbas means ‘down in the bowls.’ As you can see, we are in a natural valley here, and there were once many other mining pits in the vicinity. Therefore we call this place the Cemetery at the Catacombs, because it’s the cemetery down in the bowls.”

  “I see no pit here,” Neratius observed.
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br />   “No indeed, Senator! But trust me, that staircase in the courtyard goes down to a spring next to ancient graves. The pit was abandoned as a quarry long ago, but then several mausoleums were built into it, including some Christian ones. Eventually the catholic church bought this place for burying its own people. One of my predecessors filled in the pit and erected this little dining room so we could give charity to the poor and feast in memory of the apostles in the presence of their holy bones.”

  “But not like the pagans do when they commune with the departed shades,” Sophronia added, making sure her husband understood the practice. “Saint Paul clearly said, ‘You cannot partake of the Lord’s table and the table of demons.’ So we remember the saints and share our food with them as friends who are alive in Christ’s presence. Certainly we ask them to pray for us, because in heaven, all is prayer. Yet we don’t conjure up their spirits or feed them meals like dead ancestors.”

  Neratius arched his eyebrows and gave a shrug of indifference, then reached for a honeyed date and popped it in his mouth.

  As the sun went down and the crowds began to disperse, the servants from the Aventine mansion drew water from the well and started washing the many dishes. Sophronia lingered near the Apostolic Monument, the marble edifice that held the sacred relics. She marveled that the bones of Peter and Paul were in her presence. The tangible reminder of such holy men was a comfort to her.

  “Psst! Lady!”

  Sophronia turned. One of the consecrated virgins, her face veiled, was beckoning from behind a nearby mausoleum.

  “Lady!” the girl repeated. “I beg you, come join me for a moment.”

  The holy sisters were held in high esteem by the church, so Sophronia was happy to comply. Yet strangely, when she reached the quiet place behind the tomb, the girl was gently weeping with her head bowed low.

  “The peace of Christ be with you, sister,” Sophronia said.

  “And with your spirit, Mother,” came the reply. The girl did not lift her head, so her face remained hidden. Instead, she pressed a note into Sophronia’s hand, stifled a little cry, and hurried away without another word.

  Sophronia watched her go, not troubled by the encounter, yet somewhat confused. She looked down at the scrap of parchment. Unfolding it, she read its words. No sooner had she finished than she dropped the note and staggered backward, leaning on the brick wall of the tomb for support. A cry of joy escaped her lips.

  O Jesus, my Lord, and all your saints, thank you! Thank you! She’s alive!

  Praise God, my daughter is alive!

  10

  JANUARY 312

  “Look at you!” Rex exclaimed. “Geta with short hair? I guess only the Roman army could make you lose that golden princess braid!”

  The teasing remark caused boisterous laughter to rise above the other sounds along the crowded, narrow street. Rex stood up from the edge of the curb where he had been waiting for his best friend. The two soldiers clasped hands and gripped each other’s shoulders in a gesture of warm affection.

  “It took me all my life to grow that braid down to my arse,” Geta said, “and then with one snip of the scissors, it’s on the floor of a tonsor’s shop. But if Mars wants his boys short-haired and clean-shaven, I guess that’s the sacrifice I’ll have to make for the glory of serving with the emperor’s horsemen.”

  Rex rubbed the fuzz on the back of his own head. “That’s right. We’re true Romans now. Wild barbarians no more.”

  Geta pointed to the hot-food restaurant behind them. “Come on. I want to hear about your enlistment. I heard you knocked one of their best riders out of the saddle! The guys at the camp were talking about it yesterday. And my own go-round had a few tales worth telling too. Let’s order some lunch and swap stories.”

  The friends stepped up to a bar under an awning. For a few coins they were served thick, steaming mussel stew from a clay pot recessed into the counter—a welcome dish on this chilly winter day. Crusty bread was also set before them in a basket, along with a savory dipping sauce made of fermented fish guts called garum. Two cups of diluted vinegar rounded out the meal. The men leaned on their elbows as they ate their food, each recounting his experience at the parade ground of the New Camp. Rex told how he had unhorsed his opponent Decimus, while Geta regaled Rex with his own exploits in the Cantabrian Circle.

  The bar was not crowded, so Rex took the opportunity to lean close and confer with Geta about the status of their mission. Following standard espionage protocol, the two spies had been operating independently over the past few months, establishing contacts in the army and integrating into Roman military subculture. Though their tryouts had been separated by several weeks, the outcome had been the same for both warriors: they were immediately offered enlistment in the Emperor’s Personal Cavalry as cadets in training. Since they were tall, blond provincials with handsome looks and well-built physiques, they were exactly what the imperial horse guard had always wanted, ever since Caesar Augustus, the first emperor, established his private Germanic bodyguard. Every emperor since then had used the guard not just to protect his welfare but to awe the populace with impressive specimens of beautiful, robust manhood. Of course, as newcomers, Rex and Geta still had to win the trust of their comrades. Yet they were true soldiers of Rome now—not frontier legionaries but elite guardsmen of the capital city. Aratus had commended them for the achievement, announcing that the first phase of their secret mission was complete.

  Satisfied by the food in their bellies, Rex and Geta decided to take a bath. The warm water sounded good to both men, to take the edge off the January chill. Though a big imperial bathing establishment wasn’t close by, a neighborhood balneum was around the corner. Such places had the same facilities as the government-built bathhouses but on a smaller scale. Rex and Geta paid their fee and left their garments with the dressing-room slave. After some exercise in a courtyard to work up a sweat, they oiled and scraped themselves, then settled into the hot pool to relax their muscles and open their pores.

  “If we’re going to be Romans, we might as well live like Romans,” Geta said with a deep sigh. He sank into the pool until only his face was showing. His forehead, nose, and cleft chin were like little islands protruding from the water.

  Rex splashed his friend’s face, making him sputter and sit up. Geta tried to punch Rex in the arm, but Rex squirmed away, laughing. They assumed positions at opposite ends of the caldarium in a kind of friendly truce. Periodically, each man would ladle a little cool water over his head from a bucket. Since no one else was in the thermal spa, they felt free to talk of the events that had transpired since Geta helped Rex and Flavia escape from Rome to Tibur.

  “You’ll never guess how we got out of the city after we left you,” Rex said.

  “I know you couldn’t have used a gate because of the guards, so I assume you went over the wall.”

  “No, through the wall.”

  Geta looked surprised. “The wall has a breach? That sounds like intelligence Constantine will want to know about.”

  “There’s no breach. We crawled through an aqueduct.”

  “Ew. Sounds tight.”

  “It was. Wouldn’t want to do that again,” Rex said.

  “So you went to Tibur after that?”

  “Yes. Nice little place in the countryside. Lots of waterfalls.”

  “Why there?”

  “Lady Junia has an uncle who helped us.” After glancing out the door to make sure they were truly alone, Rex told Geta about Senator Ignatius and the conspirators who wanted to bring down Maxentius. “We need to work with them,” Rex said. “Aratus knows about them now, and he approves.”

  “Good work! That’s a strategic connection. It seems your meeting with Lady Junia was predestined by the gods.” Geta gave Rex a good-natured smile across the pool. “A lot of benefits came from it, eh?”

  “For the mission,” Rex agreed.

  “And for yourself?”

  Rex gave a little tch but didn’t reply.


  “Is she good in—”

  “She’s a Christian,” Rex broke in. “They’re not like us.”

  “Too bad. She’s a beautiful woman.” Geta clasped his hands behind his head and gazed up into a corner of the room. “I bet she’d really look good—”

  “Hey!” Rex sent another splash across the pool. “Enough with that.”

  Geta brought his eyes back to Rex and sat up straight in the water. “You keep talking like she means something to you! Are you falling in love?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that. But we’ve spent a lot of time together the past few months. You know, visiting her at the palace and sharing a meal, things like that. I’ve gotten to know her in a different way—not like the girls around the camps, the girls who follow us around. Lady Junia is actually my friend. We talk like equals and discuss things. It’s strange. But I like it.”

  “That is strange. To be friends with a woman is weird.”

  Rex shrugged. “And yet it happened.”

  “So she’s not your lover?”

  “I told you, Christian girls aren’t like us. They only sleep with their husbands.”

  Geta snorted at this news. “Too bad for you, then! You’ll never get to enjoy that curvy little body. Her rich father would never let her marry the likes of you.”

  “I might be young, but I’m on the rise,” Rex said defensively. “Provincials are everywhere in the army these days. Sometimes they even rise to the rank of general! Italians have been known to marry Germani who’ve made it big in life.”

  “Not Italians from old aristocratic families like that one. Senator Junius isn’t going to let his only legitimate child marry a barbarian soldier unless you can bring something extremely valuable in return. And you’re poor. You don’t have anything that valuable.”

  “True love is valuable!” Rex replied, then realized what he had just said. “I mean . . . if I had true love, it would be valuable to Flavia.”