The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. “I knew it was either that or the Carcer. You were just trying to get us out of there.” And with those words, Flavia did something surprising: she reached over and slipped her arm into Rex’s as they walked.

  “If I have to be somebody’s wench, I might as well be yours,” she said, looking up at him with a tentative smile.

  Rex pursed his lips and gave a little shrug of agreement. “I’ll take ya,” he replied.

  The two friends couldn’t help but meet each other’s gaze, which caused them to break into embarrassed laughter. Rex patted Flavia’s forearm where it was entwined with his, and they both lapsed into a comfortable silence again.

  It was near sunset by the time they reached the domus of the bishop. A doorkeeper escorted them into the atrium and gave them cold water from a jug. While they waited for their host, Rex examined the niche in the wall for the household gods. Instead of idols, the niche held some books; but since they were in Greek, he could make out only a few words. From the writings’ theological nature, he guessed they were probably some of the Christian scriptures.

  When Bishop Miltiades arrived, he greeted Flavia with a chaste kiss and bowed his head to Rex. Quickly, they explained their plight to him. The stately priest with oiled silver hair listened as if no one else in the world mattered. “We have some hidden rooms for situations like this,” he told Flavia with a sly smile. “The catholic church bought this house in a time of persecution. We know how to hide our own if we need to.”

  “So you can take care of her until this is all sorted out?” Rex asked. “It won’t be long. Pompeianus is about to be stopped.”

  “Are you so certain, my young friend?”

  “I’m going to make it certain. Permanently.”

  Flavia put her hand on his arm. “Rex! What are you saying?”

  He turned to meet her eyes. “Look, it’s Pompeianus who’s driving all this hostility against you! You’ll never be safe until he’s dead. It’s either him or you! At least that’s the way I see it.”

  “Murder is no solution, Brandulf Rex,” said the bishop.

  “But he would murder her in cold blood. He’s already proven it by trying!”

  “And do you aspire to be like Prefect Pompeianus—or something better?”

  Rex had no answer to that, for he certainly did not want to be a filthy brute like the man who constantly pursued Flavia’s life.

  “That is not the kind of man I wish you to be,” Flavia said gently.

  “I know,” Rex muttered. “You prefer gentle.”

  “Yes. Mighty like David, yet gentle and loving like the Son of David. Is that so hard?”

  “Harder than you’d think, Flavia.”

  “Perhaps instead of killing,” she replied, “we could ask God to protect us.”

  Miltiades took Flavia by the hand. “Yes, daughter. You have spoken wisely. Let us do that now, together, just as I often have prayed with your mother in this very room.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Rex listened to the two Christians pray. They faced the compluvium in the roof, their heads tilted toward the evening sky, their eyes closed, their palms upraised. Though he did not disdain their faith, neither did he think their supplications would be effective. He kept putting his hand to his hip, feeling for the comfort of a sword hilt that wasn’t there. Because he was off duty today, he had left his weapons at the fort.

  When the prayers were finished, Rex committed Flavia to the bishop’s care. She said goodbye to him at the door—rather awkwardly, he thought, since several deacons were standing nearby. Outside, the streets were busy with wagon traffic, for vehicles could be driven in the city only after sundown. As he made his way back to the New Camp, Rex dodged all the carters, petty thieves, drunks, and prostitutes that made up Rome’s after-hours crew. Reaching his barracks block, he tumbled into his bunk and fell into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning, Rex rinsed his face with water and combed through his hair, then he spent the morning polishing his armor and washing his best tunic. Upon joining the guard he had been given an allowance with which to purchase his own equipment—except for his spear and shield, which were standard issues. Since one’s gear could make the difference between life and death, Rex had invested the full amount—plus some of his own funds—to obtain a high-quality kit. He had bought an old-style rounded helmet with neck and cheek guards, a long-sleeved chainmail tunic, a cavalry sword with an eagle’s-head pommel, an undertunic and leather trousers, and a fine pair of army boots. Good boots, he had found, were an often overlooked necessity.

  When Rex was dressed and ready, he left the fort by the main gate and headed to the adjacent Lateran Palace. The ancient building had first been given into the hands of Maxentius’s sister, Fausta, but she was far away now and hadn’t seen it in years. Since Maximian’s execution, the emperor had assigned it to his favorite general, because Maxentius bitterly despised Fausta for betraying their father. It would be interesting to see what would happen to the mansion once Constantine arrived and captured the city. Fausta might even insist that she and her husband take up residence there. But until then, it was home to Rex’s foremost enemy: his supposed commander, Ruricius Pompeianus.

  A guard stopped him at the palace entrance, blocking his way with a spear. “What business?”

  Rex showed the man a wax tablet with a clasp on it. “An important message from the tribune to the prefect,” he said roughly, though the tablet was actually blank. “I was ordered to deliver it personally to our master in his private quarters.”

  “Wait here,” the doorman said.

  Rex stood in the palace atrium for a long time, his heart beating fast. Can I really get away with this? As a speculator, he had been trained in infiltration, assassinations, and poisons, though he had never actually carried out such a mission. Yet if he got the chance, all he needed to do was rely on his training. Be ready for whatever opportunity presents itself. Don’t think. Just react.

  When the sentry returned, he shook his head and waved Rex away. “You are not expected by anyone. Be off quickly, or I’ll write you up.”

  “But the Praetorian prefect—”

  “Is right behind you.”

  Rex spun and was shocked to discover who had spoken. Pompeianus stood there with a gruff expression. Behind him were the two tribunes of the Old and New Camps, along with a gaggle of other officers. All the men were wearing expensive ceremonial arms, clearly on their way to some important official function.

  “What do you have for me, soldier?”

  “A secret message. But it’s one you should only read privately.”

  Pompeianus snatched the tablet. “I’ll read it whenever I want.” He

  lifted the clasp, flipped open the cover, and glanced at the blank wax, then he raised his eyes and glared at Rex. The scar on his cheek wrinkled as a scowl came to his face. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I was told it was a message for you.”

  “Looks like you were told wrong.”

  Rex nodded.

  “Listen, boy, I have no time for foolishness. As you’re about to find out, things have just gotten serious. Draw your sword.”

  Rex immediately recoiled. Pompeianus slid his gilded weapon from its sheath. “I said, draw your sword!” he snarled.

  If he comes at you, go for the head. This is your chance to kill him!

  However, no sooner had Rex armed himself than he realized the prefect was only playing with him. He moved slowly through the standard swordsman’s positions. One . . . two . . . three. Rex responded with the proper moves—briskly and efficiently. Parry and thrust. Parry and thrust. Parry and thrust. At last Pompeianus took a step back, his blade held wide and out of action.

  “You’re quick,” he said. “You’ll do nicely.”

  Thoroughly confused now, Rex could only respond by asking, “For what?”

  “For our expedition.” The prefect jerked his thumb toward the offic
ers behind him. “When was the last time you saw all of us gathered in one place? We’re about to make a big announcement to the troops. The augustus is sending us out.”

  “He . . . he isn’t leading us himself?” That’s strange, Rex mused. Riding out with the troops was what emperors did. The very word emperor originally referred to a military commander.

  “Maxentius received a divine oracle commanding him to remain in Rome. He’s sending me instead to lead the campaign. Or should I say, sending us. We can use a good swordsman like you on that mission. Tell your centurion I said to include you on the deployment list.”

  Rex frowned. Though this wasn’t what he had expected when he came to the palace today, he was getting important intelligence and wanted to keep pressing with questions. “And what is our mission, sir?” he finally asked.

  Pompeianus shoved his spatha back into its scabbard. With a flick of his head, he indicated to his entourage that it was time to keep moving. The party of officers began to head toward the door. “We’re deploying to northern Italy at dawn tomorrow,” the prefect declared, “and I’ll be thrown to Hades before I let any false emperors get into my peninsula!”

  “Keep that edge sharp, boy,” the tribune of the New Camp called over his shoulder. “You’re going to need it.”

  And with that stern admonition, the leaders of Rome’s most ancient cohort left Rex alone with his thoughts in the atrium of Fausta’s house.

  Constantine’s troops made the trek to Lugdunum in three weeks and caught two days of rest while they waited for the supplies to arrive. Resuming the march, they continued south, then turned off toward the Alps. The men left Brigantium at dawn and traveled up a river valley with a gradual incline. By midmorning they were facing their first true challenge: the steep switchbacks that climbed up to Mons Matrona Pass. If Hannibal and his elefanti could do it, so can I, the emperor told himself.

  Patchy snow clung to the shady places and north-facing slopes, but the road itself was clear. That was good, because a lot of men and horses would be using it today. The centurions had taken a census of the troops at Brigantium, and the numbers were fairly good. Forty thousand men were about to make their attempt at the pass, and a quarter of them were cavalry. Unlike in the age of Scipio and Hannibal, warfare these days wasn’t won by infantry in massed formations. The age of the mounted warrior had dawned.

  By the time the sun was declining, Constantine had topped out into the pass—a wide, flat place with grassy meadows just starting to emerge from winter’s icy grip. A few tribunes and centurions waited for their commander on the Gaulish side of a milestone at the highest point of the highway. Constantine met them, then rode past the marker and dismounted. A tiny yellow flower poked up through the snow, which he plucked and took back to his officers.

  “Look, men,” he said, holding out the flower. “Spring has already come to Italy. By summer, the peninsula will be ours.” The statement brought a patriotic cheer. Constantine glanced around at the Mons Matrona Pass. “Set up camp over there,” he said. “We’ll give man and beast one day of rest. After that, we descend to make war.”

  The day of departure brought a cold drizzle. Grumbling a little, the troops followed the long, narrow valley of the Duria River as it flowed down from the Cottian Alps toward the city of Augusta Taurinorum in the plains. Yet before Constantine’s forces could attack that citadel, the fortified town of Segusio stood in the way. It would be the first true test of the Italian army’s will to resist invasion. Maxentius would surely have garrisoned the town, though probably not too heavily. Because he didn’t know which pass Constantine might use, much less the entry point Licinius might choose from the east, Maxentius had to spread his troops all across the northern Italian landscape.

  “There’s no way he can hold the whole Padus plain against two invaders,” Vitruvius had declared. Constantine agreed with that military assessment, though he found his brother-in-law rather bold for trying.

  Segusio, nestled in a lovely mountain vale, had closed its gates when Constantine’s vanguard pulled up before the walls. A few brave souls were taunting the soldiers from the ramparts.

  So they want to fight? Then let’s give it to them.

  “Shall I draw up the engineers and ballista men, sir?” Vitruvius asked.

  “I think not. Array the whole army before the towers. Let’s make a frontal assault with fire and ladders and see if we can break their spirit.”

  The strategy worked beautifully. Bundles of sticks and flammable oil were spread against the wooden gate while archers and slingers on the ground kept the defenders on either side occupied. Once the kindling was lit, the gate quickly caught fire and the defenders retreated. Ladder men swarmed the walls. Then suddenly the burning gates were pushed open from inside—a sign of capitulation.

  “I’ll lead a party of raiders,” a junior tribune volunteered. “Let’s strip this city of everything we can use for the march ahead. We’ll need it.”

  “No!” Constantine’s voice was stern, even angry. “This is an Italian city, and I am its rightful ruler! I am here not to oppress it but to free it from tyranny!”

  “But it’s aflame, sir. We just attacked it.”

  “Necessary at first. But now they have surrendered, so we will treat them as loyal subjects. Have our men help put out the fire, and prevent them from looting or raping. I am the rightful Augustus of the West, and these are my people.”

  Within hours, the people of Segusio, who had just been hurling threats and missiles at the besiegers, were cheering their arrival and hailing Constantine as lord and god. They brought out supplies of wheat, wine, and oil. Blankets and horse fodder were donated too. The city fathers even sent out doctors to tend the wounded soldiers, though there were relatively few since the attack had been brief. Yet while the acclaim felt good, Constantine did not linger in the pleasant valley. Taurinorum awaited.

  The city of Augusta Taurinorum sat at the edge of the alpine foothills where the lively stream of the Duria Minor emerged onto the wide plain of the Padus River. This ancient Celtic settlement of the Taurini tribe had been conquered by Caesar Augustus and turned into a Roman colony. Today its towering walls made a nearly perfect square around the city, with the amphitheater being the only major structure outside. The strength of Taurinorum’s fortifications and the manpower of its garrison meant victory here would be much more difficult than at Segusio. And it certainly wouldn’t be decided by a siege, Constantine realized. It would come down to a pitched battle on the open field.

  General Vitruvius could see it too. “I’ll line up the cavalry three deep,” he said as he sat astride his horse next to Constantine.

  “The scouts are reporting they have the riders called ‘oven men.’ They’re fully armored, along with their horses.”

  “With respect, Your Majesty, we have men like that too.”

  “Yes, but not nearly as many.”

  “Sir, let me tell you something about those oven men. The Persians love heavy infantry like that, and we Romans have picked it up from them. And it’s true, those riders can be devastating in a straight-on charge. Every bit of them is covered in armor—their faces, their arms, their legs. Even their horses are helmeted and draped in scale. They look like bronze statues come to life! But those troops were nicknamed oven men for a reason. It’s got to feel like they’re fighting inside iron cookstoves—sweltering and exhausting. Every movement takes an effort to lift all that metal. After the first charge, they’re nearly spent. And their horse armor means they can’t wheel and turn with ease.”

  Constantine stroked his chin for a moment. Normally he was clean-shaven, but now he had a few days of stubble. “Let’s put our heavy cavalry across from them,” he said. “Lure them into a direct charge but let them break straight through. Then outflank them with light, fast skirmishers. Arm our men with shepherd’s crooks and long hammers. Blades aren’t effective against that armor, but you can swarm the riders from the sides and behind. You don’t have to breach thei
r armor, just smash it hard. Or hook them and pull them from the saddle. Once the oven men fall, the rest of the troops will be demoralized.”

  “It shall be done, my lord.”

  Though Constantine knew the tactics were sound, when he saw the size of the enemy army, he immediately called for his chaplain Ossius and asked him to say a prayer. The field scouts estimated fifty thousand fighters stood in opposition to Constantine’s men. It was a fearsome array made all the more terrifying by their magical empowerment from demons.

  “Remember the power of the one true God,” Ossius urged the emperor when his prayer was done. “It is said in our scriptures that Jesus himself is a rider on a white horse. His robe is dipped in blood, and a sword of iron shoots from his mouth.”

  “I should like to see a warrior like that charging into battle ahead of my army,” Constantine said wryly.

  “He’ll be there, Your Majesty, even if he can’t be seen.”

  Ossius’s bold prediction was proven true: the rider on a white horse must have been fighting for Constantine, because the battle was a total rout. It happened just like the emperor had planned. When the opposing oven men came thundering across the field in a pointed wedge like the tip of a spear, Constantine opened his ranks and let them charge through. Then the skirmishers galloped in from the sides, swinging their hammers at the enemies’ heads and inflicting crushing blows on the horses even without piercing their armor. They dragged the oven men down with crooks until they were helpless and thrashing on the ground. Once unhorsed, destroying them took no more effort than squashing an overturned beetle underfoot. At the sight of this disaster, the rest of the enemy broke and ran—and praise be to God, the people of Taurinorum acknowledged their true emperor. They closed up the gates and gave no refuge to Maxentius’s fleeing troops. The men were slaughtered before the walls while the citizens watched and cheered from the ramparts. When the bloodshed was complete, the city fathers welcomed Constantine inside as a liberator and hero.