The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  Sophronia’s words were so earnest and heartfelt that Rex felt a little choked up. He blinked his eyes a few times and swallowed the lump in his throat. “I was happy to be of service. It was my privilege to help.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Flavia is a lovely girl.”

  Lovely? Why lovely? Stupid! What is her mother going to think of that?

  Though Rex kicked himself for his inept remark, he was relieved to see Sophronia smile. “I certainly think so,” she said sweetly. “You’ve noticed it too?” She arched her eyebrows at him.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. She’s definitely lovely. I mean, she has a lovely character. Full of virtue.”

  Shut up, Rex. Just stop now.

  “As you get to know her, I think you’ll find she is lovely in many ways. Of course, she has her rough spots too—though nothing a good man couldn’t help her overcome.”

  “I . . . um . . . I hope she finds that someday, my lady.”

  “Me too, Rex.” Sophronia began to head toward her carriage, smiling as she backed away. “Me too,” she said again. After giving Rex a little wink, the aristocratic lady turned her back and left Rex mulling her words in the Christian cemetery of Callistus.

  FEBRUARY 312

  The Royal Hall atop the Palatine Hill was an architectural space designed to awe its visitors. As Senator Neratius Junius Flavianus walked down its length, his expensive red slippers softly slapping the marble floor, he couldn’t help but be impressed by what he saw. The ceiling was a huge barrel vault, so high and perfectly arched that Neratius felt he wasn’t in a man-made building but some kind of supernatural cavern. Magnificent statues of the gods lined the walls on either side, such as svelte Bacchus with an effeminate tilt of his hips, or mighty Hercules with bulging muscles that would make any man jealous. At the far end of the hall was the imperial throne itself, situated in an apse beneath a bronze chandelier. And on that throne sat Maxentius—though why he had summoned Neratius today, the senator did not know.

  He bowed deeply at the waist as he stepped into the presence of the augustus. “I honor you, my lord and savior,” he said with his arms swept wide. A few years ago, Emperor Diocletian had taken up the habit of making his subjects call him “lord,” and he even demanded they prostrate themselves and kiss the hem of his robe. Although Maxentius had embraced the title dominus as well, at least he did not require the weird Eastern practice of groveling on the floor.

  “Ah, look who it is! My childhood playmate, now serving as the city prefect. The second most powerful man in Rome! You seem so obedient as you bow before me, Neratius. Such a man could never be a traitor, eh?”

  A chill ran through Neratius at the ominous words. Nobody wanted to be associated with the word traitor in Maxentius’s mind. It usually resulted in a death sentence, just in case it might be true.

  “I do not know what you mean, Excellency. But I can assure you, the evil connotations of that word have never entered a heart like mine, so enraptured am I with your greatness.”

  “The omens suggest otherwise, my old friend.” The way Maxentius emphasized the last words had a definite ring of sarcasm. Neratius was scared now.

  “Any soothsayer who says my loyalty is in doubt has misread the omens. Either his ritual was errant or the spirits have given confusing signs.”

  “The entrails of the most innocent do not lie,” Maxentius said with a cryptic smile. Neratius remained silent as the emperor rose from his throne and took a step closer, though he did not leave the apse of the hall. “Nevertheless, the omens are open to different interpretations,” he went on. “Therefore I propose a test for you. A true test of your loyalty.”

  “Name it, my lord, and it shall be yours.”

  “I want to lay with your wife.”

  Neratius’s knees went weak. He started to take a step back, catching himself only because proper senatorial protocol required him to stand firm and speak with confidence no matter what troubles assailed him. Yet it was all Neratius could do not to stagger under the weight of these words and flee the room. Maxentius wants to disgrace me! The choice before Neratius was stark: deny the direct request of the Divine Augustus or allow him to take Sophronia to his bed.

  “Your Highness, I . . . uh—”

  “You would deny my wish?” Maxentius asked through clenched teeth. “Others have agreed to it. So should you, if you are truly loyal to me.”

  Though Neratius wanted to capitulate and make this problem go away, he found himself unable to agree to the emperor’s demand. It wasn’t a matter of love for Sophronia; an aristocratic marriage wasn’t about romance. What bothered Neratius instead was the great shame attached to such a weak and undignified action. Disgrace would haunt him forever if he so easily handed over his conjugal rights. Adultery was a theft of the most intimate sort: the invasion and conquest of territory that was solely one’s own to command. No stranger was allowed to have that property, and a nobleman certainly didn’t give it up for the asking! Try as he might, Neratius couldn’t ignore such an ancient and inviolable principle of Roman matrimony. And as he thought about it, he also didn’t want to deal with the anger and criticism Sophronia would throw his way if he said yes. There was no way around it. He was going to have to evade this imperial demand.

  Perhaps I can make a counteroffer, he reasoned. Neratius, old boy, you have dodged opponents all your life with your smooth words. Now is the time for your best show!

  “Your Excellency,” he said, “I can assure you, there is no delight to be had from my wife in comparison to your many courtesans. But my loyalty to you is of the strongest sort, nonetheless! Do you not remember, Maxentius, how we used to throw leather balls back and forth? You always managed to catch more than I! Do you ever wish for those simple, carefree days”—Neratius waved his hand at the great hall—“before all this?”

  “I often do,” Maxentius admitted.

  “Look at me, my dear friend, and behold that I am loyal.”

  Neratius dropped to his knees, then allowed himself to fall forward on his stomach. He inched ahead until he could kiss Maxentius’s foot. “You are my great lord forever,” he said quietly, pressing his lips to the jewel-bedecked shoe.

  “Prove it, Neratius. I need to know.”

  “A million denarii will be delivered to your palace, to aid you in combat preparations.” A million! Ouch! But there’s more coming in every day from the Sardinian estates. I’ll make it back within a year or two. It’s money well spent.

  “That is very generous,” Maxentius said, “but mere silver isn’t enough to assure me of your loyalty.”

  “Then I will give more, Your Highness.” How much is it going to take? A million and a half?

  “Stand up.”

  Neratius rose to his feet, afraid now that Maxentius’s price would be the ultimate one. Surely he wouldn’t kill me. Neratius swallowed and waited for his master to speak. Put your life before your dignity, he told himself. Hand over Sophronia if you must. Better alive and cuckolded than virtuous and dead!

  “I accept your offer of a million denarii,” Maxentius said, “in combination with something else of great value to you.” The emperor picked a bit of dirt from his fingernail, then flicked it away and looked Neratius in the eyes. “I shall expect your letter of resignation from the office of city prefect by tomorrow. As supreme ruler of Rome, I require the most unquestionable loyalty in that position. This is my final decision. And now”—the emperor waved at Neratius with the back of his hand—“be off with you, Senator, before I decide to add anything further to my test of friendship.”

  MARCH 312

  Flavia was on her knees, scrubbing the floor of the imperial kitchen. “Why does a floor that the emperor never sees have to be clean?” she muttered to herself. She was alone in the room, so she felt she could complain. But to her surprise, a voice answered.

  “It’s so we don’t slip. A dirty floor can be a slick floor—and there goes the emperor’s dinner.”

  Flavia sucked in her breath as she
heard the reply. “Oh, sorry! I was just thinking out loud.” Fortunately, the speaker was one of the younger page boys, a cute little fellow of about ten or twelve. “Where did you come from, anyway?”

  The lad smiled mischievously. “Emperor’s mistress wants a pastry.”

  “But . . . you didn’t come through the kitchen door.”

  “Not the main one.” Again the impish smile.

  Flavia rose to her feet. “There’s a second door in here? Where?”

  The boy hemmed and hawed for a moment, unwilling to give away the pages’ secret. Only after Flavia pressed him did he finally cave. “This whole palace—maybe the whole hill!—is full of hidden tunnels,” he bragged. “We can get anywhere without being seen. It’s one of the first things they teach us. The older boys say new kids sometimes get lost and never find their way out. They say you can find skeletons in the dark corners.”

  “Take me into the tunnel.”

  The boy pursed his lips and shook his head. “I can’t. It’s not allowed.”

  “Well, then, show me the door.”

  “I guess I can do that.”

  Flavia followed the page into the larder. The walls were lined with wooden cabinets whose shelves were stacked with sealed jars, wheels of cheese, and dry goods. Yet one cabinet at the rear protruded from the wall a little more than the rest—something Flavia had never noticed before. It would be easy to miss.

  “See here?” said the boy, slipping behind a cured ham dangling from the ceiling. Flavia peeked around the side of the cabinet to see where he was pointing. A tiny keyhole was camouflaged in the grain of the wood. Apparently, the cabinet had a false back that was actually a small doorway.

  “Open it. Let me look in.”

  “No! The keys are for the pages only. We each have one, and we have to keep it hidden or we’ll get a hard beating.”

  Flavia sighed and nodded. “Okay. Run along, then.” She didn’t want the little tyke to get in trouble. But privately she vowed to discover a way into the secret passages.

  By early afternoon, Flavia had finished her scrubbing duties. Back at Gelotiana House, she found Alexamenos in the dormitory’s little library. All the Latin classics were there: Virgil, Cicero, Tacitus, Seneca, Livy. But Alexamenos was reading a more recent writer: the Christian apologist Tertullian, who had lived in Carthago about a hundred years ago. Sophronia admired him greatly, so Flavia had grown up reading his fiery and audacious works. Though he could be harsh at times, nobody gave it to the pagans like Tertullian. He was a complex man with a brilliant mind.

  “Which volume do you have, Magister?” Flavia asked, adopting the title all the schoolboys used for their teacher.

  “It’s his Apology. He proves Christians aren’t immoral, nor any threat to our society. Even so, the pagans still persecute us. But that just leads to more believers. ‘The blood of Christians is seed.’”

  “I remember that slogan! I once heard Bishop Eusebius shout it against a heretic who denied the sanctity of the martyrs.”

  “Do you know what it means?”

  “I think so. He’s saying when the persecutors kill us, many people see our faith and come to Christ themselves.”

  “That’s right. It’s an agricultural reference. When you harvest a field of wheat, some grains fall behind and start to grow. The more stalks you cut down, the more new wheat springs up. Remember what the Lord said about this? Until the seed falls to the earth, it remains a single seed. Only when it dies and is buried does it bring forth fruit.”

  Flavia recalled the passage from The Gospel according to John. “He who loves his life will destroy it,” she quoted from memory, “but he who hates his life in this world preserves it for eternal life.” She looked at the wise Greek teacher—a man who had become her own mentor as well. “Are we really supposed to hate our lives, Alexamenos? Does God want us to throw them down the sewer like waste?”

  “God values life and never wants us to waste it. Consider what Maxentius did to Chloe. It was a horrific deed, a thing utterly against the will of God. Life is precious to him! Yet neither should we cling to our earthly life so closely that we never take risks. We Christians are free to sacrifice our lives when necessary, because we know the rewards of heaven are far greater than anything earth can offer. That is what the martyrs understand better than anyone.”

  “Like Agnes. Or Perpetua. Women who were willing to give up everything for God.”

  “Maybe like Flavia too, in her own way.”

  The words were sobering, and the two friends fell silent. “The blood of Christians is seed,” Flavia said to herself, turning the words over in her mind. It didn’t seem far-fetched that bloodshed would be required of her. Persecution was still happening in other parts of the empire and could easily start here again. Mortal dangers had already come her way, and now the city of Rome was on the brink of war. Not since the Celts of Brennus seven hundred years ago had the city fallen to an invader. But once again, Rome was under assault. Two generals were rumored to be closing in on Rome, each leading an army. Flavia’s new friend Chloe had just been brutally murdered, and Flavia herself had no more rights than any other imperial slave, whose body could be violated at will. Danger lurked all around, so the notion that she might be required to shed the blood of testimony was not an abstract thought. Make me worthy if that day should come, she prayed. Thanks be to God!

  A bloody martyrdom did not come that day, however—only the boring routine of a scullery maid. Flavia went to bed that night as tired as always, yet not unhappy. One by one, the days slipped by with little to differentiate them—until the Ides of March, when Flavia found the opportunity to inspect the secret passage.

  A holiday for the war god Mars was coming soon, and the kitchen was busier than normal in preparation for the festivities. Flavia was helping Zoticus transport some amphoras of wine into the imperial residence, when he abruptly held up his hand. “You can just leave them there,” he said, pointing to the floor at the entrance of a storeroom beneath the palace.

  “I might as well take them into the pantry for you, Zoticus. I’ll just put them on the shelves and leave you alone.”

  “The floor outside is fine.”

  Flavia scanned the hallway in both directions, then stepped close to the page when she saw they were alone. “I know about the tunnels, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Zoticus narrowed his eyes. “What tunnels?”

  “The ones opened by that key around your neck.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Look, I won’t tell anyone. Let me help you carry these jugs all the way to where you’re going. They’re heavy. It would save you a trip.”

  “Alright, come on. But keep it quiet.” Zoticus darted into the storeroom.

  The entrance to the secret corridors here was a low door hidden behind a row of heavy stone barrels. Zoticus crouched and withdrew a key on a long string from his tunic. The key slipped into the lock and made a clicking sound as it turned. Pushing the door aside, he stooped and went through.

  “Hand me the amphoras,” he said from the opening.

  Flavia passed him the four wine jugs. On the other side of the door, the hallway was high enough to stand erect. She picked up two jugs and followed Zoticus through the maze.

  “How do you keep from getting lost?” she asked.

  With his foot, Zoticus tapped two stones set into the floor. “White stones always point toward the imperial residence. Black stones point back to the slave quarters. Just follow me.”

  After twisting and turning through the narrow passageways by the glow of oil lamps and an occasional skylight, the pair finally stopped at a staircase. “That goes straight up to Maxentius’s new baths,” Zoticus said. “He soaks there every day and drinks chilled wine to refresh himself. Look at this.”

  Squatting, the page grasped the ring of a trapdoor and yanked it open. A rush of cool air billowed out.

  “An icebox?”

  “Aye.
Lined with chunks of ice brought down from the mountains. And packed with straw to keep it from melting. Quick—pass me those jugs. We don’t want to let the cold out.”

  When the wine was safely stowed for later consumption, Flavia glanced at the staircase. “Take me up, Zoticus,” she urged, then put her hand on her friend’s arm. “Please? For me?”

  “Fine. Just this once. But we have to be quick.”

  The stairs led to another long hallway. Soon it started to feel uncomfortably warm. When Flavia reached out and touched the wall, she found it was heated.

  “We’re at the baths,” Zoticus announced. “Peek through here.” Flavia put her eye to a tiny peephole. It offered a view into Maxentius’s private bathing facility, a marble-lined room with comfortable benches and massage tables in the center. Large floor-to-ceiling windows looked across the cityscape of Rome. As Flavia twisted her head and craned her neck, she caught a glimpse of the turning post down in the Circus Maximus. Apparently, after a good soak, the emperor could relax in his tepidarium and watch the chariots go charging around the bend. And if he cared to look, he could probably even see Flavia’s family mansion atop the Aventine Hill on the other side of the stadium. The thought was a little unnerving.

  “I’ll show you something else,” Zoticus said. “Stay here and watch this.” He darted around a corner. A moment later Flavia spotted him through the peephole, down in the empty tepidarium. He reclined on one of the benches. “Boy!” he called, “I’m thirsty! Bring me wine!”—and Flavia could hear him perfectly. Evidently, the room’s shape was designed to bring the emperor’s commands within the servants’ hearing. Excited at what this might mean, Flavia filed the secret discovery in her mind, though she was unable to suppress a smile at the advantage her sleuthing had just uncovered. Rex is going to think I’m the best female speculator ever!