by Bryan Litfin
Rex nudged Flavia. “Here it comes. The bread is being brought out. See the baskets?”
“What do you think will happen?” Flavia asked, feeling the butterflies in her stomach. “I’m so nervous!”
“Just watch and see.”
And pray, she reminded herself.
Several drivers-in-training rode onto the sand with baskets hanging from their chariots. Drawing close to the stands, they started tossing buns into the lower tiers. Other slaves descended the aisles with baskets of their own. They began to distribute the fresh bread into the upper rows of the circus, one loaf per person. The bread was made with good wheat flour, much better than the barley or rye the commoners usually ate. It was a lavish imperial gift in this time of shortage.
Flavia tore her loaf in half and poked around inside it. “Nothing,” she said.
“Me either. But we know it’s coming.”
The crowd enjoyed the free treat while waiting for the next race. Many people had brought their own flasks of olive oil, or soft cheeses wrapped in cloths, in anticipation of the delicious gift. Unfortunately, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No one was finding the hidden medallions. Flavia had begun to suspect the secret bread had not yet been distributed when someone yelled, “A coin!”
“I got one too!” someone shouted down the row.
A stir of excitement buzzed through the crowd. People began to rip their bread apart. Across the tiers, shouts of triumph erupted from the lucky few who had found the money. With its coating of silver, the little medallion was worth about a day’s wage—no small sum for a working man. Yet in all the excitement, no one seemed to be paying attention to the coin’s message.
“They must not be able to read it,” Flavia whispered urgently.
“The common people are more literate than we think. They might not write poetry, but that doesn’t mean they can’t read advertisements or graffiti.”
Flavia clutched the skirt of her tunic in both hands. Please, God, let them get the message! Make them recognize that tyrant for who he really is!
Most of the audience was standing up now. They clustered in small groups, examining the medallions. Rex rose to his feet. He had donned one of the cheap straw hats that the spectators used to block the sun. Its brim was pulled low, shading his face. In his hand was one of the silver coins. He raised it up.
“Vinci . . . non . . . posse!” he declared in a slow, deliberate voice. A moment later, he repeated the slogan. After the third time, a man two rows away joined the defiant cry.
The crowd didn’t need further prompting. Flavia’s whole section burst into a unified chant. “Can’t . . . be . . . defeated!” they shouted over and over. People began to stamp their feet and shake their fists. The taunt spread down one side of the circus and up the other, its energy growing to a deafening roar.
“Look!” Flavia cried. “The emperor is furious!”
“And none of his military men know what to do!” Rex added.
The generals and tribunes in the viewing box were urging Maxentius to leave, but the petite man in the purple toga couldn’t tear himself away. He could only stare at the angry crowd, his eyes bulging, his mouth agape. At last his new Praetorian prefect, a tall ex-soldier who dwarfed the diminutive emperor, gathered some officials around their lord. The gaggle of men conversed with agitated gestures.
Now a rumor began to race through the stands. Apparently, someone in the audience had declared—whether accurately or not, who could say?—that Constantine had broken camp and was on the march. He would arrive before the walls of Rome tomorrow. Dread seized the crowd at the prospect of invasion. Would Constantine be merciful, or would he punish Rome for tolerating Maxentius so long?
Flavia glanced at the imperial box again, then shook Rex’s arm. “Something’s happening up there. See? All the men are leaving.”
Rex watched a junior officer relay a message to the high-ranking officials. The Praetorian prefect nodded his agreement, then ordered everyone out of the box.
“Are they going to retaliate, Rex? Should we get out of here?”
He shook his head. “It’s something else.”
“What?”
“Those men are all in Maxentius’s inner circle. It looks like his advisers are being summoned to a council.”
“What should we do?”
Rex turned and looked Flavia in the eye. His face was surprisingly stern. “I think it’s time you showed me your secret passage,” he said.
The door to Maxentius’s bedroom burst open and slammed against a wall. Though the sharp bang startled Livia, she managed not to cry out. It wouldn’t do for a noble lady in mourning to make such undignified sounds.
She turned and faced the emperor. Even through the black veil that draped her face she could see he was livid. A slave had already warned her of the thunderstorm that was coming, yet words couldn’t do justice to the depth of Maxentius’s fury. It was a fearsome thing to stand before such terrible rage from someone so powerful.
Watch your step, Livia warned herself. You’re on a knife’s edge here.
“They shamed me!” Maxentius shouted. “The people of Rome shamed me in my own circus! How dare they!”
Livia glided toward Maxentius with her head bowed. “The rabble shall pay for their sins against their rightful augustus. The gods will take vengeance on them.”
“I will take vengeance on them!”
“And they will deserve it, my lord. You are a great man, worthy of respect. The people should love you.”
Livia’s soothing words had their usual calming effect on Maxentius. He stood silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. The emperor seemed to enjoy Livia, unlike his many courtesans, as an actual human being. Since the night he first brought her to his bed, he had been summoning her often. Though he did have a legal wife, the truth was that Maxentius despised her. Livia believed a divorce from that annoying shrew—if not an execution on some trumped-up charge—was imminent. And when that happened, Maxentius would need a respectable new woman at his side. Now that Pompeianus had fallen at Verona, the widowed Livia was ready and willing to be the next empress of Rome.
But only if I play him right.
Maxentius took a seat in a cushioned chair and gazed out the window at the circus far below. Another race was being run, though not yet the grand finale with twelve chariots, each drawn by four stallions. All of Rome had money riding on the outcome of that contest. Maxentius had even wagered one of his estates in Corsica on a Green victory. But now he turned away from the window.
“Bring me wine, dear Livia,” he said. “Then come rub my shoulders. I am tense.”
Livia unstopped a pewter decanter and poured the honeyed Falernian into a crystal goblet. She crossed the room and handed the glass to the distraught emperor, then went around behind him. “Drink it slowly, Your Highness. Savor the taste while I rub your tight muscles.”
Livia proceeded to administer a gentle massage while Maxentius closed his eyes and uttered murmurs of contentment. Periodically he would sip the wine, at which times Livia tickled the back of his neck with her fingernails. She knew it was intimate moments like this, even more than sex, that drew a man’s affections. When enough of those interactions had accumulated, men would start to think about marriage.
But matrimony wasn’t on Maxentius’s mind right now. “The people believe Constantine can’t be defeated,” he said bitterly, staring into his cup. He swirled the wine around as he spoke. “I’m tired of being viewed as a political emperor, Livia! I want the people to see me as a field general like Marcus Aurelius and Trajan and all the great ones.”
“But you are a great general, my love.”
I called him, “My love!” O Holy Venus, guide me.
Maxentius swiveled his head and glanced up at Livia. A smile that appeared to be appreciative came to his face. “Well, I am glad you think so, at least.”
“I do, Maxentius.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone does.” The emperor grimac
ed and shook his head. “There was a coin hidden in the bread. It said ‘Constantine can’t be defeated.’ Those coins didn’t get there by accident! Somebody put them in the loaves. I want the traitors found!”
Now is the time, Livia realized. Use what you know. But be careful!
“I believe, my lord,” she ventured, “that I may have a way to help you get your revenge.”
Maxentius was instantly intrigued. “Really? What is it?”
“There’s a page boy who was supplying palace gossip to my late husband. Lately, he’s been doing the same for me. His name is Zoticus—a watchful little fellow who always seems to know what’s happening behind the scenes. The boy just left here a while ago. He gave me some valuable information about your enemies.”
“Tell me!”
“Zoticus noticed that the bakery slaves were up to something. He got one of them drunk and learned that someone bribed the prefect of provisions to allow the medallions into the bread supply.”
Unable to contain his anger, Maxentius leapt to his feet and faced Livia. The red flush had returned to his cheeks. “Curse him!” he shrieked. “I’ll have the prefect dismembered and fried in oil! Along with the man who put him up to it!”
“Believe it or not, Your Highness, the instigator wasn’t a man.”
“What? A woman is behind all this?”
Maxentius stamped his foot on the marble floor with such force that Livia took a step back. A fierce look had come into the emperor’s eye, a gleam she had never seen before. It was a vicious, almost serpentine expression of insane evil and lustful revenge. “I’ll use that woman like a common harlot before I strangle her!” Maxentius roared. “Who is she?”
“That haughty canicula, Sabina Sophronia.”
“Argh!” Maxentius spun away from Livia and hurled his cup against the wall, shattering it in an explosion of glass. “I want her in my chamber by tomorrow! She escaped me once, but Neratius can’t shield her this time. He’ll be a widower by this time tomorrow, or may the gods slay me!”
“The gods would never slay you, Augustus!” Livia parted her veil of mourning and looked Maxentius in the eye. “You are under the watchcare of almighty Hercules.”
A subtle grin came to the emperor’s face, then widened further as he let out a satisfied cackle. “Your words are truer than you know. I am the god’s beloved son. And with power like that behind me, whom should I fear?”
“There is no one to fear in all the heavens,” Livia declared.
Rex knelt behind a row of stone barrels. Just as Flavia had promised, a door to the secret passages beneath the imperial palace was there, though it couldn’t have been seen except from a crouching position. “Hand me the key,” he said over his shoulder.
Flavia gave him the key, stolen from one of the pages’ rooms. The latch turned, and Rex shoved the door. After crawling inside, he helped Flavia through, then shut the portal behind him. He heaved a sack of potatoes onto his sweaty shoulders—his excuse for being in the tunnels if anyone asked. As for the scullery maid, Rex reasoned this probably wouldn’t be the first time a girl had been sneaked into the secret hallways. He’d make up an excuse about a tryst if he needed to.
“You know your way around?” he asked Flavia.
She tapped her foot on a white piece of marble set into the floor. “These show the way to the emperor’s residence.”
Rex nodded and followed Flavia’s lead. They ascended a staircase and, after a long walk, came to a heated part of the palace. Rex touched the walls. “The furnaces must be on the other side. We’re at the baths.”
“That’s right. And Maxentius always comes here in the late afternoon. He’ll probably watch the final race while he gets his massage.”
“And then go to his war council. But let’s hope the generals start talking early.”
“Here it is,” Flavia said, pointing to the peephole that gave a view into the baths. “You can hear every word they say. It was designed that way.”
“The page boys stand here and watch?”
“Mm-hmm. And jump into action whenever they’re summoned.”
Rex gestured to a door at the far end of the hall, which controlled access to this wing of the palace. “Does our key work in that latch? We’re going to need some privacy.”
“Yes, the older boys have that key. Ours should work.”
Rex locked the door, then returned and pressed his eye to the wall. “Looks like some of the lesser officials are already in there. The servants are passing out drinks.”
“Anything else?”
A smile came to Rex’s face. He turned and gestured toward the peephole. “No. Just ten naked old men. Do you want to see for yourself?”
“Thanks, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“You Christians are so prudish,” Rex said with a little laugh.
For the next hour, he stood next to the peephole and eavesdropped on the men’s conversations. Over that time, more bathers arrived, along with the emperor himself. Though all of them were military officers, including the new Praetorian prefect, their banter with Maxentius was the ribald talk of the baths, not battle planning. And of course, the final chariot race captured the bathers’ attention for a time. The Greens must have won, for Maxentius leapt from the warm pool, stark naked, and danced like a madman at this one bright spot in his otherwise troubling day.
The sun was starting to set, and the men were lounging on divans, snacking on fruit and cheese, when the conversation finally turned to military affairs. Rex signaled for Flavia to be silent. Every word now could be vital intelligence to relay to Constantine.
“The enemy has indeed broken camp,” the prefect said. “He’s coming down the Flaminian Way, and we expect to meet him at the Milvian—”
“Flavia!” a voice shouted. “You’re spying!”
Rex whirled to see a handsome youth standing at the far end of the hallway. A large amphora was in his arms. The boy began to edge away.
“Zoticus, wait! We’re friends!” Flavia cried.
The imperial page started to run, but Rex knew he wouldn’t get far. Grabbing Flavia’s arm, Rex pressed her to the peephole. “Don’t miss a word!” he ordered, then darted after Zoticus.
Rex snatched the boy’s tunic just before he started down the staircase. “Hold still, runt, or I’ll take you out!”
Despite the warning, Zoticus continued to struggle, so Rex spun him around and clasped the boy’s throat in the crook of his elbow. Though Rex didn’t clamp down, it would only take one hard flex of his biceps to cause a faint.
Zoticus heaved the amphora down the stairs, where it shattered with a loud crash. “Help me! Over here!” he screamed. “Someone call the Praetorians!”
“Oh, gods,” Rex muttered, and squeezed hard.
In the span of a few heartbeats, Zoticus went limp. Rex let him drop to the floor, then returned to Flavia. “We’re out of time. Did you hear anything important?”
“Yes! The battle is set for the Milvian Bridge. They cut the real bridge and built a temporary one on pontoons. And Rex—it’s trapped!”
“Trapped? What do you mean?”
“They’re going to flee before Constantine, but only to lure him onto the span. Then they’re going to pull a pin that holds the whole thing together. He’ll surely drown!”
Shouts sounded from down the hallway. Men were coming. Probably soldiers, though Rex couldn’t be sure.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “I need to be at the river tomorrow by first light. I have to figure out how the trap works, then tell Constantine. We can’t let him onto that bridge.”
At the top of the stairwell, Zoticus was moaning as he awakened from his stupor. He struggled to sit up. “Praetorians!” he yelled again. “This way!”
“What is it with him?” Flavia wailed. “Why does he always do that? He already betrayed me once!”
Rex’s head shot around. “That was the kid who turned you in to Pompeianus?”
“Yes! Eve
n though I’d never been anything but kind to him.”
Rex pointed down the hall toward a remote area with no voices or footsteps. “Start that way. I’ll catch up.”
“Where are you going?”
“To silence that kid again. Hurry!”
Flavia ran down the hall like she was told. As soon as she rounded the corner, Rex returned to the dizzy youth on the floor.
“The soldiers are coming,” Zoticus spat. “They’ll catch you! And get Flavia.”
Rex didn’t bother to reply. With a quick crisscross of his arms, he grasped the boy’s collar and put him in another chokehold. The supply of blood through the vessels behind his ears was cut off. Once again, the helpless victim went limp after a brief squeeze.
But this time Rex moved from a blood choke to a stranglehold. Now Zoticus’s air was cut off—not just the circulation to his brain.
Rex tightened his grip and waited.
Zoticus’s face drained of its color. His eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head. At last, even his chest stopped moving up and down.
“You made your choice, boy,” Rex said. “You compromised the mission.” He shoved Zoticus’s corpse down the stairs, then rose to his feet and started after Flavia.
13
OCTOBER 28, 312
Though few men dared to stare into the face of a god, Maxentius, as an augustus of the Roman Empire, considered himself worthy. He stood at Apollo’s feet inside his great temple on the Palatine Hill, letting the god gaze back at his beloved son. The idol’s expression was benign, placid, all-knowing. The early morning twilight and the flickering glow from a bronze lampstand illumined Apollo’s delicate features and long, feminine locks. A silence born from holy awe—the dread of mortals standing in the presence of a capricious god—had settled on the fifteen senators who accompanied Maxentius this morning. Dawn was near, and Apollo was basking in adoration. No moment could be more propitious to make a request. Surely the god would reveal his will on a morning like this.