by Bryan Litfin
Maxentius stooped and kissed the sandaled foot of the idol, then turned and faced his companions. “On this day six years ago, I donned the purple robe of an emperor,” he announced to the senators who served as custodians of the Sibylline Books. “Now I come as protector and guardian of the city, seeking wisdom from one of our most ancient patrons.”
A senator stepped forward, the leader of the priestly college called the Fifteen Men for Performing Sacred Duties. He offered a slight bow before daring to speak. “Your Majesty, our city’s first emperor was the son of a god. Caesar Augustus himself built this temple! Now you are worthy to be his successor. We believe Apollo will hear you and speak forth a divine word.”
“Then let the chests be opened and the books be brought forth. I shall retire outside and await the oracle.”
The senator withdrew a key from the folds of his toga and unlocked a golden box at the base of the sacred idol. Maxentius watched him remove a heavy, brittle scroll. It was one of the Sibylline Books, a collection of ancient prophecies hidden in Greek poetry. For centuries, the Roman Senate had consulted these texts in times of crisis. And now is such a time, Maxentius thought. Surely an invasion army at the gates of Rome counts as a crisis!
Once the scroll had been unrolled on a table, the emperor exited the marble temple and waited on the porch. A breeze, gusty and chilly, wafted among the columns. Maxentius tightened his fur-trimmed cape around his shoulders. Although the weather the past few days hadn’t been unpleasant, the biting wind suggested an autumn cold snap was coming. Even so, he wasn’t about to go back inside. The reception of oracles was a priestly function, a divine task to be carried out by the Fifteen Men. Surely the god would look with no favor on any breach of protocol.
At last the leader of the Fifteen Men emerged from the temple. His face was grave, though not discouraged or downcast. “We have received a word from heaven,” he declared.
Maxentius remained aloof as befitted an emperor, though inside he felt jittery and his heart began to race. “Speak it, then.”
The senator lifted a slip of parchment, squinted at it in the dim light, and said, “Hear the word of the sibyl! ‘On this very day, the enemy of the Romans shall perish.’”
Yes! A prediction of victory! Lust for vengeance surged through Maxentius’s body. By sundown tonight, Constantine’s bloody corpse would lie at his feet. This enemy who had dared to attack Rome would perish. It had been prophesied long ago. The gods be praised!
Now the fourteen other senators emerged from the temple and assembled before Maxentius. He raised both hands to them, taking on the aspect of a general addressing his troops. “Send heralds into the streets!” he barked into the early morning stillness. “The great Apollo has told us what to do. Today the legions of Rome ride to war. Let the people of Rome come out of their homes and rejoice in their salvation!”
“Long live Maxentius!” the leader of the Fifteen replied, joined immediately by the rest of the priestly college. “Long live Maxentius!” they shouted in unison.
Those jubilant words were still ringing in the emperor’s ears when his armorer finished dressing him an hour later. Although the armor was recognizably that of a Praetorian, the protective scales were covered in gold leaf, so the tunic’s weight was far greater than what a normal soldier would bear. Yet Maxentius didn’t mind. His job today was not to fight but to inspire. The sight of the great augustus riding around on the battlefield—as dazzling as Apollo himself—would surely encourage the men.
The emperor shuffled to the stable and stepped onto a mounting block with the help of his groom. A spirited charger stood beside the block, pawing the cobblestone floor with its foreleg. The stallion’s white coat provided sharp contrast to its tack of red leather and shiny brass. The horse was a specimen to admire: a rippling and masculine beast with lively eyes, a proud neck, and great, bulbous testicles. A glorious thought popped into Maxentius’s mind: What this creature is among horses, I am among men! The emperor swung his leg over his mount’s back and settled heavily into the saddle. The royal groomsman grasped the halter and led the horse into the streets of Rome.
Accompanied by hornblowers and pipers, a martial parade made its way along Broadway toward the Flaminian Gate. Crowds lined the wide avenue and cheered the imperial horse guard and other cavalrymen riding in ranks behind their glorious leader. The sky was overcast now, and a chill was settling in, but on a day like this, nothing could stop the people of Rome from turning out to behold such a splendid sight.
Maxentius spun in the saddle and spoke to his field commander, the lanky general who had taken Pompeianus’s place. “Where are all the traitors now?” he sneered. “See how the people love me! That outcry in the circus yesterday was just an aberration.”
“Of course it was, Your Highness! You have the people and the ancient gods on your side. What more could you need in battle?”
“There is one more god whose favor I would seek,” Maxentius replied, then turned his back to the general and watched Rome’s gates swing open onto the Flaminian Way.
Outside the city walls, Maxentius reined up and the parade came to a halt. The groom rushed over with the mounting block and helped him reach the ground. Instinctively, the cavalry formed a protective semicircle around their leader, keeping the emperor’s sacred body safe from the crowd of curious plebeians.
Like the heroic generals of old, Maxentius understood that now was the time to offer inspiring words to the troops. Throughout Rome’s history, the leaders of her armies had been rhetoricians as well as warriors. But today Maxentius intended to surpass even the great Julius Caesar. He had decided to give an oration—punctuated with a dramatic action—that would never be forgotten as long as the empire lasted.
“Men of valor, I salute you!” he bellowed to the accompaniment of enthusiastic cheers. “Let it be known that today we ride out to a much greater contest than you might imagine. We are destined for a glorious battle—one fought not only by the strong arms of men, but a battle fought in the heavens among the gods themselves!”
The men cheered again, though less robustly this time. Maxentius could see his words had caught their attention, making them wonder as to his meaning. The troops were puzzled, yet they clearly wanted to hear more. So he gave it to them.
Using the eloquence that all aristocrats had been taught in their schoolboy training, Maxentius proceeded to paint a picture of a great heavenly conflict. The new god, the foul Jesus of the Christians, was a recent intruder into the Roman pantheon. This mangled and impoverished criminal draped naked on a cross surely didn’t belong there. He was despised, defeated, crowned with thorns instead of gold. What power could such a god have? Maxentius urged his troops to consider instead the muscular glory of Hercules. Here was a hero worthy of worship! The great Hercules had performed twelve mighty labors, including slaying the Nemean lion with a club.
“Could the pitiful Jesus do that?” Maxentius demanded, his taunt drawing guffaws from the gathered riders. “With what weapon, I ask you? The bloody nails in his own wrists?”
Maxentius turned and received a book from his servant. He held it up in the morning light. In his other hand he grasped an iron-bound club. “Behold the book of the Christians!” he cried. “This is their so-called gospel, a book of fables and legends! The Crucified One supposedly rose from the dead, but who can believe the testimony of peasants and dirty Jews?” After letting the scornful laughter subside, Maxentius continued. “Now look here! In my other hand I hold the club of Hercules—a weapon of war, a tool of conquest! Which will it be, men? Do we fight with mighty weapons or Jewish lies and myths?”
“Weapons!” the soldiers thundered.
“Let me hear it again! Weapons or lies?”
“Weapons!”
As the rowdy troops gave vent to their fierce aggression, Maxentius realized the moment had arrived for his unforgettable demonstration. He threw the Christian book to the ground and stamped it into the mud. Then, with slow and deliberate moti
ons, he lifted his armored tunic, dropped the waistband of his trousers, and exposed himself to the onlookers. Raucous cheers erupted from the crowd, signaling to Maxentius that his men were suitably impressed by his male anatomy. With a cocky grin, the emperor let loose a stream of urine onto the sacred scriptures of the catholic church.
No sooner had Maxentius started urinating than a commotion arose. Shouts and a couple of empty-handed grabs from the troops couldn’t prevent a commoner from darting into the circle of riders. The interloper threw himself onto the book, covering it with his body to prevent further desecration. He remained still, awaiting whatever fate would befall him.
Maxentius gestured toward the man on the ground. “Look here, brothers! We have a fine example of a Christian! Behold this fool groveling in the mud like a pig!”
“Kill him, Majesty!” a soldier shouted.
“Crush his skull!” added another.
Maxentius stared down at the man’s back. The worthless fellow was dressed in the coarse woolen tunic common among the lowest classes. His sandals were cheap, and his belt was just a scrap of leather. It would be easy to club him to death. But Maxentius had a better idea.
“Pick him up!” he ordered the nearest Praetorian, who wrestled the man to a standing position. Though his face and chest were covered in mud, his eyes were defiant as he clutched the book.
Maxentius marched to a nearby tree. Several Praetorians followed, dragging the Christian along. Enraged by the man’s brazen fearlessness, Maxentius seized the captive by the tunic and slammed him against the trunk. He grabbed the man’s wrist and pinned it above his head—then shoved his dagger through the Christian’s hand.
Though the man’s face crumpled, to his credit, he stifled his cry of pain. Snatching a dagger from the belt of a nearby Praetorian, Maxentius repeated his action with the captive’s other hand. “Now do his feet,” he ordered the guards. They impaled the Christian’s ankles, then stepped back and left him squirming and bleeding against the rugged wood. The muddy, bloodstained scriptures lay at his feet.
Maxentius spit in the man’s face. “Behold the follower of Jesus!” he cried. Curses and jeers rained down on the helpless victim.
The emperor returned to his stallion and mounted again. “Do not be afraid of your fate today, mighty warriors!” he shouted. “The outcome of the battle is already decided! Victory is ours! We ride out to meet Constantine, who fights under the sign of the cross.” Maxentius swept his arm toward the man hanging on the tree. “As you can see, my brothers, you need not fear! That feeble sign has no power in it!”
“To war!” the lanky general yelled with his sword lifted high. All the men took up the battle cry, for an ancient bloodlust had seized them now.
“To war!” they shouted in unison. And then, with a collective roar like a living beast, the army of Maxentius turned its back on the crucified man and surged north onto the Flaminian Way.
Rex blew into his cupped fists to warm them, though the action didn’t do much to take away the dawn chill. A cold fog lined the banks of the Tiberis River as it ran west to east at this quiet spot two miles north of the city. Countless Maxentian troops—Praetorians, horse guardsmen, and regular infantry from the Italian and African legions—milled around on the near side of the river. Across the water, somewhere not far to the north, Constantine’s forces were readying their attack. This meant the two armies would have to meet at the ancient Milvian Bridge, a stone crossing built four hundred years ago in the time of the Republic. However, while the famous bridge had stood there ever since, neither of the armies would be using it to cross the Tiberis today. Emperor Maxentius had ordered it cut it in two.
Rex stared at the ruined bridge, procrastinating because of the unpleasant task he was about to perform. Several of the stone arches had been demolished, rendering the bridge impassable. All traffic on the Flaminian Way had been shunted to a makeshift wooden bridge that rested on a row of boats anchored to the riverbed. The crazy-looking thing wouldn’t be a long-term solution, but it didn’t have to be. It only had to be sturdy enough to last through the battle.
“Maxentius did the job right,” Aratus observed. “Nobody’s getting across the Milvian today. Even the best horse couldn’t jump that crack. It’ll take a hundred stonemasons a month to repair it.”
Rex nodded. “He’s desperate to get Constantine onto that pontoon bridge. Flavia heard him say it’s the core of his plan. He thinks drowning his enemy in Rome’s river would be symbolic.”
“Real generals care more about winning than symbolism.”
“Apparently, Maxentius believes he can get both. He rigged that bridge to fail.”
“You think he intends to spring the trap himself? That would certainly be symbolic.”
“I doubt it. He’ll probably put another man in charge. Whatever he has in mind, we can’t let it happen.”
“Then you’d better get going.” Aratus gestured to the sky. “The sun is up, and this fog is thinning already. I’ll keep everyone away while you’re out there.”
“Still no sign of Geta?”
Aratus shook his head, grimacing and uttering a curse. “He’s supposed to be here. That stinking German! He’d better have a good excuse.”
“I’m German too, you know,” Rex said with a chuckle.
“Of course I know. You stink like the rest of ’em! It’s us Greeks who invented bathing. Now get out there before the fog lifts. If we don’t figure out how this trap works, our whole mission will be a failure.”
Rex shed his armor and undertunic and slipped into the river wearing only his leather trousers. The fog provided good cover, and no one was paying attention anyway, so he felt certain he hadn’t been seen. As expected, the river’s icy chill took his breath away. Yet there was nothing to do but swim. Rex knew the exertion would warm his body, and he would grow accustomed to the frigid temperature.
The pontoon bridge consisted of thick wooden planks nailed to a line of identical boats. Each boat was held in place by four anchors, making the edifice sturdy enough for horsemen to cross. Rex swam to the middle of the span and slipped under the planks between the center two boats. Though the gloom made it hard to see details, when he reached up and felt around, his hand closed on a rope. It was taut against the underside of the planks, running back toward the riverbank on the city side. Rex kicked his feet and slid through the water, following the rope to its other end.
The line terminated at an iron pin. Here the planks formed a critical juncture between the northern and southern halves of the bridge—yet the only thing connecting them was the bar of iron. Though Rex was no army engineer, he could see that more nails and another pontoon should be at this spot. The bridge’s stability depended on its being a single unit whose ends were secured on the riverbanks. Sever the two halves, and the whole structure would become unstable. Certainly it wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of an army.
Rex jiggled the lynchpin, expecting it to be tight, but it was surprisingly loose. The cold probably shrunk the metal, he surmised. One hard yank on the rope would free the pin and bring the bridge down. The engineers had done their job well. If Constantine were to mount this bridge in full armor, he would be in deadly peril. Pulling the pin would send him into deep water. He had to be warned right away.
Rex could hear low voices on the riverbank as he swam back to the place where he had left his clothing. He ducked in the water and held still. One of the speakers was Aratus. The other, unfortunately, wasn’t Geta.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Aratus barked to the intruder. “I was ordered to watch the bank and keep everyone back. Move along, guardsman!”
“But I’m thirsty!”
“Orders are orders. Get going!”
After a few more complaints about his empty canteen, the soldier grunted and left. Rex emerged from the river, dripping and shivering. The centurion handed him an old saddle blanket. Rex toweled off and quickly redressed.
“It’s a dangerous setup,” he t
old Aratus. “There’s just one lynchpin holding the whole thing together in the middle. It should be strong enough for us to cross. But that bridge can be collapsed at any time by a lone man tugging a rope.”
“Then we have to get across and warn the augustus. Can you swim it in armor?”
“Not without holding on to a horse. And that would certainly draw attention. I’d get a javelin in my spine for my effort.”
“What if I created a diversion while you galloped across the bridge?”
Rex shook his head. “Stakes are too high, sir. Too much chance of failure in that scenario.”
“I know. I was just testing you.” Aratus clapped Rex on the shoulder and gave him an approving wink. “It looks like we’ll have to slip away as soon as Maxentius leads his army across the bridge. I expect a lot of confusion. You know how it is—everyone milling around and forming ranks. There’s some thick brush on the far side. We can disappear and make a run for Constantine’s lines as soon as we get out of sight.”
“I’ll have to get rid of my shield first,” Rex said, pointing to the insignia from the imperial horse guard, “or I won’t exactly receive a warm welcome.”
“I don’t care if you run naked into their camp waving a white flag. You’ve got to reach Constantine before he advances to the bridge.”
“I will, sir. You can count on me.”
“I wish Geta were here,” Aratus muttered.
“He’ll show up soon. I’m sure of it. You know better than anyone how we like to compete and trade insults. But the truth is, we’re brothers forever. He’ll come, even if at the last moment. He’s always ready for a good brawl.”
“Yes, he’s a good man, and a great fighter. But Rex—you are his superior in battle.” The centurion conveyed with his expression the sincerity of the compliment. Aratus didn’t do that often.
Rex turned the idea over in his mind. “Why did you tell me that, sir?” he asked at last.
“To give you confidence. The best warriors believe they’re invincible. They believe they can’t be stopped. They charge into combat with no expectation but total victory. Constantine is like that. And so are you.”