by Bryan Litfin
The governor raised his goblet in his pudgy hand. “I’ll drink to that!”
Neratius returned the toast, then called for more wine. The meal continued as more courses were served and the conversation turned to less political matters. After dinner, Publius’s daughter came up from the cabins to provide the entertainment. Though she was only fourteen, she had the sensual moves and skimpy outfit of someone much older. Neratius marveled that such a young girl could learn to dance so provocatively. When she finished her strutting, she bowed to the men in a way that accentuated her developing body, then disappeared below deck.
“That’s a marvelous daughter you have!” Neratius exclaimed to his host. “She’s quite an attractive little lady.”
Publius shook his head with a chuckle. “Vulcacia got her natural beauty from my ex-wife, but I think she must have learned those dance moves from one of my courtesans!”
“It was truly breathtaking,” Neratius agreed. “You say her name is Vulcacia?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Sweet little thing. You are a blessed man, Publius.”
The two men lapsed into a congenial silence. At last the sun began to set on the distant horizon, sending a red glow across the glassy surface of the sea. Neratius rose and went to the deck rail, gazing toward the west. He knew his own estates on Sardinia lay directly across the water, though at a distance too great to see.
Publius joined him at the rail. All was quiet as the two men stared at the sunset. Finally, Neratius glanced toward his friend. “So we have a deal, right?”
“You have made a strong case for Licinius. Yes, I’m with you. But to make it official, let’s take an oath by the gods to bind our fates together.”
Neratius frowned. A warning voice in his head told him, Don’t invoke any pagan gods and risk angering Jesus. He’s your strongest patron. Stay on his good side.
“My word is enough of a bond,” he said out loud.
“Did you know, Neratius, that some people say you are Christian?”
“What? No I’m not!”
“Good. Then by Jupiter the Highest and Best, I swear to join with Licinius against Maxentius.” The governor gripped Neratius’s shoulder. “Do you join me in this?”
“Yes, I join you.”
“By what god? Jesus or Jupiter?”
“J-Jupiter, of course.”
Publius reached to a potted fern and dipped his finger in the soil, then dabbed a cross of dirt on the ship’s deck. “Spit on it,” he ordered.
“What?”
“If I’m going to enter into treason with you, Neratius, I need to know I can count on you. Just two old pagans doing a backroom deal like senators have been doing since they threw out Tarquinius the Proud. I don’t work with Christians. I have to be sure about this. If you’re not one of that cult, bend over and spit on the sign of the cross.”
“Publius! Come on, my friend! You know me. We don’t need to make silly gestures.”
“Probably not. But humor me.”
“Fine. As you wish.”
Neratius looked down at the crisscrossed smears of mud and gathered saliva in his mouth. It means nothing, right, God? This isn’t a sacred cross—just a smudge of dirt!
He let a gob of spittle drop from his mouth. It spattered onto the cross.
“Excellent! I knew I could count on you,” Publius said.
“Of course you can,” Neratius replied, still contemplating the dirty mess at his feet.
Lord God, what have I done?
Zoticus had never had a massage. He thought it must feel nice, because men in power always got them. They lay there on the table, oohing and aahing as some huge slave worked out the knots in their muscles. Someday, he vowed, I am going to get a massage.
Staring through the peephole into the new Palatine baths, Zoticus realized he could identify all the important officials who had gathered today, for it was his job to know who was who in the palace. Maxentius was uncharacteristically late, but no doubt he would soon show up, for he never missed his daily bath and rubdown. Several other senators and high-level bureaucrats were there already. The most powerful among them was Ruricius Pompeianus, the prefect of the Praetorian Guard and commander of the Emperor’s Personal Cavalry.
Down in the circus, the charioteers were getting ready to practice. A race was coming up soon and the whole city was talking about it. The Blues were expected to win, though Zoticus had always favored the Greens, and he hoped they might pull it out. When the men in the bath were finished with their massages, they made the slaves arrange their padded resting benches so they had a good view of the turning post. The most spectacular crashes always happened as the charioteers rounded the spine of a circus. Although they wouldn’t be going full speed today and nobody was likely to crash, the gilded turning post at the far end of the track was still the most exciting place in a chariot race. Maybe something interesting would happen. At the very least, the watchers could get a sense of how the four factions were likely to perform.
As the chariot practice got going, the group of rich, naked men in the bath began to make wagers on who could turn the bend first. Pompeianus was foremost among them, shouting the loudest and laying the highest bets. Soon the relaxed camaraderie of the tepidarium gave way to the competitive frenzy of the racetrack. When Pompeianus’s Green chariot rounded the post behind the White, he leapt from his couch and kicked over a side table. “Curse the Whites!” he cried.
“Fortune will smile on you another day,” the winning senator said.
Pompeianus only made a guttural sound in his throat. “Boy!” he shouted to the ceiling. “Bring my purse!”
That was Zoticus’s cue to move. He darted from the peephole and ran to the dressing room. Under the watchful eye of the attendant, he retrieved the prefect’s purse and started toward the bath. “Don’t try anything with that money,” the attendant said, but Zoticus ignored him.
The purse was bulging with coins, and the young page couldn’t resist a peek inside. He found not only an abundance of common bronze nummi washed with a silver coating to give them value but also many gold coins: the brand-new solidi, and even a few of the old aurei. So much wealth right here in my hands! Where did he get it? What does he do with it all? It just didn’t seem right. This man had a sack of money he wasn’t even using, while Zoticus had to scrimp and save to buy one votive offering to Aesculapius. The injustice demanded to be rectified.
Do I dare take a coin? Maybe one little nummus?
Zoticus couldn’t do it. All these rich men had accountants who kept track of their funds down to the penny. No doubt the current value of the moneypouch was recorded somewhere. Any discrepancy would be attributed to the page boy who retrieved it, probably at the loss of his right hand. It wasn’t worth the risk.
If only I had something to sell him! Perhaps I do . . .
The air in the tepidarium was warm and pleasant as Zoticus approached the bathers. He bowed before Pompeianus. “Your purse, my lord.”
“Wait here until I get what I need. Then return it to the attendant for an accounting.”
The prefect rummaged in the sack and withdrew the amount he owed—enough to buy ten sacrifices to Aesculapius. It’s so unfair! He throws money away on stupid betting, while I can barely get by! Zoticus gritted his teeth but said nothing.
“Take it back and put it where you got it,” Pompeianus said, jingling the coins in one hand as he extended the purse in the other. “Then go fetch me a cup of chilled wine.”
Zoticus received the bag with a subservient bow. Pompeianus began to move away.
Now or never, Zoticus. You have to do what you must to survive in this world!
“Sir?” he asked, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice.
The prefect turned and stared down at the page with an imperious glare. “What is it?”
“Would you grant me a small reward if I brought you important information?”
“Depends on the information. I don’t really care which imper
ial page has become a senator’s latest boyfriend.”
“It is . . . it is a substantial matter, sir.”
“Speak. I will decide if it’s worth something.”
Don’t think. Just do it.
“I have learned the whereabouts of a missing person,” Zoticus declared.
“Who?”
“The woman you sentenced to death by the beasts. Lady Junia Flavia.”
Pompeianus’s face was unreadable. “She’s dead,” he said at last. “I have it on good authority.”
“With respect, sir, she is alive. And I can lead you to her.”
The Praetorian prefect simply glared at Zoticus—stern and unmoving, like the naked idol of some furious Olympian god. Only when Zoticus had stared back at his face for an unbearably long time did he notice his master’s jaw muscles twitching. Suddenly Pompeianus’s hand shot out toward the waiting boy.
Zoticus yelped and jumped back. But the prefect wasn’t trying to strike him. He simply held out his open palm.
“Give me the bag,” he ordered. “That information deserves some gold.”
11
APRIL 312
Though the morning dawned cold, clear, and windy, Constantine ordered the firemen not to heat the furnace in the Palace Hall of Augusta Treverorum. Better, he thought, to start doing away with the little comforts of civilized life. It was time to get ready for war.
Unfortunately, the bishops and lesser clergy gathered in the throne room hadn’t come prepared for the lack of heat, so they stood shivering and rubbing their arms as they awaited the arrival of their leader, the Spanish bishop Ossius of Corduba. Ever since last October, he and the elderly professor Lactantius had been working on a special item. Today it would be revealed—the great day for which it had been made. Constantine believed the momentous occasion required the presence of all the churchmen from the region, even if it meant they had to shiver through the presentation ceremony.
“Lactantius told me the flag is very grand,” said the boy sitting on a stool at his father’s feet. “I believe it has great magic power. Some people are saying rays of light will shine from it and blind the troops of Maxentius.”
Constantine dipped his chin and regarded his firstborn son by his former concubine Minervina. The handsome youth had big brown eyes and a mop of reddish hair like his mother. Although Constantine had set Minervina aside when he married Fausta five years ago, he still doted on Crispus, who was just coming into manhood and had all the makings of a good future emperor. “I don’t think it shoots any brilliant rays,” he corrected the boy, “but it is certainly powerful against the enemy.”
“I can’t wait to see it, Father.”
Constantine raised a finger toward the rear of the hall. “You won’t have long to wait. Look—here it comes now.”
Bishop Ossius entered the reception hall through the grand middle door, accompanied by four deacons carrying a long wooden case with handles on both sides. Just behind the bishop was Lactantius, the esteemed Christian rhetorician and tutor of Crispus. Royal guardsmen with plumed helmets and upright lances lined the central aisle as the guests approached the emperor. A trumpeter played a brief military fanfare. When the party reached the imperial throne, they bowed low at the waist with their eyes closed and their palms held out.
“I greet you all as friends,” Constantine said. “The priests of the one true God are always welcome in my hall.”
The assembly of churchmen murmured. It wasn’t the kind of treatment they were used to receiving from the government.
Ossius lifted his gaze to meet the emperor’s. “Your Highness, we are honored to bring you a mighty gift today, just as you commanded. May it be a sign of the coming victory in your righteous war against tyranny.”
“I shall be pleased to receive it. You may bring it forth.”
While the deacons held the case, Ossius opened the latches. The box was lined with purple fabric, upon which rested a spear that had been turned into a military standard. Constantine motioned over his shoulder to his general Vitruvius, who was standing behind him. “Go get it,” he said.
Vitruvius removed the spear from its case and lifted it into one of the sunbeams that streamed through the high windows. As it caught the light, a collective gasp went up from the room, and even Constantine couldn’t help but marvel at the quality of the workmanship. The entire length of the spear’s shaft was covered in gold. Affixed to its top, instead of a blade, was a gilded wreath interspersed with gems. The Greek letters χ and ρ had been superimposed inside the wreath to form a chi-rho: ☧.
Beneath this, a beautifully embroidered cloth hung from a transverse bar, giving the whole banner a cross shape. Attached to the square flag was a gold medallion that depicted Constantine’s face with an air of tranquil confidence. Truly this was a magnificent battle standard, a worthy object with which to lead men into war.
“Well done!” Constantine exclaimed. “Be sure the jeweler receives a generous bonus from the imperial treasury for such fine work.” The emperor tilted his head, examining the standard more closely. “But why the chi-rho? I seem to remember a tau-rho in my dream.”
Lactantius stepped forward, gathering the folds of his robe with his forearm like a distinguished senator about to give a great speech. “We debated the merits of both symbols, Your Highness, for both are found in our scriptures. The tau-rho is used whenever the scribe writes the word crucify or cross, so of course it is very important. Since it is composed of a ρ on top of a τ, it even looks like a small figure of a crucified man.” Lactantius paused and used his finger to trace the shape in the air: ϼ.
“However, the chi and the rho are the first two letters of Christ,” he went on. “Our scribes use the chi-rho when they write the name of the Savior in the holy scriptures. Because there is victorious power in that name, we thought this symbol must surely be put upon the banner.”
It sounded reasonable enough to Constantine. “You are the experts in the things of God. So be it.” He thought for a moment, then added, “But I believe I shall mark my soldiers’ shields with the tau-rho, for that is what I recall from my dream. I want to follow the instructions of the Christ exactly.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Lactantius said. “And does the banner have a name?”
Now it was Ossius’s turn to speak again. “Military flags are not mentioned in the books of God, so we do not find a divine word for it. Yet we must call it something. Therefore I have proposed to name it a labestauros.”
Constantine smiled at the new term. “A Greek word?”
“Yes. It means ‘a cross taken up and held in the hand.’”
“I do speak Greek, Bishop Ossius.”
“Oh! Of course you do! Your Highness, I did not mean—”
“Be at peace,” Constantine interrupted. “I know what you meant. My concern is that my soldiers will not adopt such a Greek-sounding word. Let us give it a more Latinized name. How about labarum?”
“Behold the labarum!” Ossius said, sweeping his hand toward the beautiful banner. Vitruvius lifted it high again, drawing a cheer from the clerics and soldiers in the Palace Hall.
Constantine, however, felt a twinge of concern. Signaling to Ossius, he asked, “Did I hear you say that banners like these are not mentioned in the writings of the Christians? How then can you be certain it will have the intended effect?”
“Do not fear, my lord,” Ossius answered. “It is true, no such banner is named in the sacred pages, but you may know for certain that the cross is indeed a mighty sign.”
Lactantius held up a book for all to see. “These are the scriptures of the Jews that we call the Old Testament,” he explained. “Listen to the story of Moses and the fiery serpents.” The wise philosopher then read a passage in which the wandering people of Israel were afflicted by venomous snakes, but the prophet Moses made a bronze serpent and set it on a pole. Anyone who looked at the pole after being bitten would live.
“So the mighty pole had God’s magic in it?”
Constantine asked doubtfully.
Bishop Ossius shook his head. “No, Augustus. The pole of Moses was not magic. Even the cross of Christ was not magic! It is not the device itself that has power but the God to whom the sign points. He alone brought healing to those people in the wilderness. They only had to show that they were looking to his divine sign. And in the same way, he gives victory to those who look to him in battle—for he is a God who trains the hands of his kings for war.”
“Listen also to this scripture,” Lactantius put in. He turned to a deacon and exchanged his book for another. After opening it, he said, “Hear now the words of Jesus from Saint John the Evangelist! ‘Even as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him might have eternal life. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only son, that everyone who believes in him might not perish but have eternal life.’”
Lactantius closed the book and looked straight at the emperor. “Let it be known today that this labarum has no power in itself. Instead, it is a symbol, a marker of spiritual intent. He who looks to the cross of Christ for salvation can be sure his prayers will be heard. He who receives the Son of God has entered into the light and favor of the only Father in heaven and earth.”
“What more can I ask than that, professor? Such favor is exactly what I seek.”
“Seek and you shall find, O great Augustus.”
Constantine mused on that exhortation for a moment, then rose from his throne. “Friends, with this banner in hand, the time has come for us to depart beneath the good eye of the Christian God. Let us be quick about it! General Vitruvius, meet me at the northern gate in one hour, ready to march.”
After leaving the throne hall, Constantine proceeded along a private walkway to the palace a few blocks away. He went immediately to his personal chambers, where his valet was waiting with a beautiful yet fully functional set of armor. Its crested helmet, coat of bronze scale, and shin greaves all glittered with gold ornaments and bright trim. With the help of the valet, Constantine donned the armor over a long-sleeved tunic of traditional legionary red, along with the sturdy leather trousers worn by all the soldiers along the northern lines. Over his shoulder he fastened a baldric, from which his ivory-handled sword hung close to hand. A luxurious fur-trimmed cape was fastened at his throat with a Roman brooch shaped like an eagle. However, in keeping with the Germanic origins of his troops, Constantine also wore a gold torque around his neck like a tribal chieftain who had been successful in war. In this gesture he hoped to show he was not a decadent emperor like Maxentius, living a life of pleasure and ease in sunny Rome, but a frontier general who fought alongside his men and bestowed on them the spoils of victory.