by Bryan Litfin
“And so is Maxentius.”
“Perhaps. What’s your point?”
Rex shrugged. “Self-confidence isn’t necessarily a virtue. A man like that keeps pressing until he wins. He stops at nothing. And I mean nothing, Aratus.”
“So what? Such a man will always triumph, simply through sheer determination.”
“Over everyone but himself.”
Aratus frowned at this. “Winning feels good no matter how you achieve it.”
“Maybe. But is that what I want—to win at any price?”
“You should try it and find out. Listen to me, Brandulf Rex! You’re the kind of person who can reach the top. Not many people can. You might like it up there.”
Rex remained silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “I probably would.”
“Good. I’m glad you recognize it. Now let’s get back to the lines. We’ve been away long enough.”
The two men fell into step and trudged up the steep riverbank toward the Maxentian encampment. Rex’s hand rested on his sword’s pommel, its eagle’s head firm and comforting in his grip. Today he would thrust that weapon into the flesh of other men, draining the life from them. Aratus was right—Rex would charge into combat without the slightest expectation that anyone on the field could defeat him. His skills were too sharp. His moves were too quick. He was truly invincible. If he wanted to, Rex knew he could kill his way to the top. Yet even as that thought struck him, his own question flashed into his mind again. Is that what I want?
Yes, Rex admitted. Yes, it is. The realization immediately prompted another, more sobering question. Is that who I really am? A killer? A tyrant?
“If that’s what it takes,” Rex whispered aloud, forcing the grim truth to become real.
Yet you can choose a different way, countered a delicate voice in his head.
A trumpet sounded in the distance, piercing the morning fog and dispelling Rex’s thoughts like mist. It was the signal to mount up.
“Here we go,” Aratus said with a cocky grin. “Remember, now—we disappear into the forest as soon as we cross. Whatever you do, find Constantine before he hits the bridge.”
“The mission has come down to this. I won’t fail you, sir.”
The centurion reached out, and the two men clasped each other’s hands as brothers-in-arms.
“No one can defeat you, my son,” Aratus declared.
He’s right, Rex thought. But can I defeat myself?
In the end, it wasn’t Emperor Constantine who started the great battle. It wasn’t even a general, nor a knight, nor even a common foot soldier.
It was a pheasant.
When the bird exploded out of a patch of dense foliage near the Red Rocks cliffs, the scouting party from the Twenty-Second Firstborn—one of Constantine’s favorite legions—knew exactly what had caused it. Pheasants didn’t flush without reason. The enemy was in the field.
“Form up, men,” Constantine ordered. Unlike most emperors, who stayed in the rear, he liked to ride out with the vanguard. He considered himself a good commander, experienced in war and at home on the battlefield. Yet this wasn’t a fight in which he should personally engage. The elite scouts of the Twenty-Second Firstborn would destroy whatever Maxentians were lurking in the underbrush.
In short order, the horsemen were rumbling across the grass, drawing out the enemy like the bird they themselves had flushed. The Maxentian riders emerged from their hiding places and began to advance toward their attackers. A hail of javelins flew across the battlefield, crisscrossing in midair as each side bombarded the other. Though a few of the horses took hits and tumbled to the ground, most of the spears missed. For a long, tense moment, the two forces careened toward each other with a throaty battle cry. And then the riders engaged.
Even from a distance, the impact of the clash was a tangible, physical force. “Fight well, brave warriors!” Constantine shouted from the saddle as he watched the confrontation. Enthralled, he stared at the melee. There was no sound but the thunder of sword against shield, the clang of blade on blade, and the unquenchable screams of men releasing their souls into the waiting sky.
“We’re taking them, sir!” exclaimed the tribune at Constantine’s side. “Look! They’re falling back. It’s about to turn into a rout. Shall I call for the rest of the army to head for the bridge?”
“No. The Firstborn can chase down this rabble and finish them off. But we won’t let Maxentius dictate the terms of our advance. I have no intention of letting battle lust upset our well-laid plans. We will proceed at a measured pace.”
“Ho! Ambush from the right!” yelled one of the emperor’s bodyguards.
A party of light cavalry—African Moors from the look of their dark skin and long-legged horses—had just burst from the craggy red cliffs. Every soldier feared these auxiliaries for their rapid-fire archery and hit-and-run tactics. The Moorish riders were on an interception course with the Twenty-Second Firstborn, whose flank was exposed and undefended. The Moors’ hail of arrows, unreturned by the forward-facing riders who were chasing down the enemy, would be deadly.
“We go now, men!” Constantine cried. “We won’t abandon our brothers!”
“No, stay here, Your Highness!” the tribune urged. “We’ll handle it!” But Constantine was already on the move.
He cantered onto the field, then immediately rose to a gallop. The stallion between his thighs was a splendid creature, a battle-hardened warrior who responded to even the most subtle commands. Constantine’s armor, though decorated, wasn’t the ornamental nonsense that military pretenders liked to wear. Other than the trim, it was the same light, strong scale that real cavalrymen wore. His shield was thick, and his spear was stout. No one was going to defeat the Augustus of the West today.
“Archers, give them a volley!” he shouted.
A moment later the sky above and ahead was filled with deadly missiles arcing toward the Moors. The whispering danger in the air and the awesome sound of thundering hooves made the enemy horsemen look away from their quarry. Only a few Moorish arrows had been released toward the Twenty-Second Firstborn. Now the ambush party of mounted archers was forced to wheel away. Since speed was their primary tactic, they weren’t armored for close combat. The Moors knew they couldn’t withstand a charge from heavy horse. Escaping on their fast African steeds was their only hope now.
But God and his green earth had different plans. Surveying the terrain ahead, Constantine could see the Tiberis River swerve toward the rust-colored bluffs, creating a narrow place unsuitable for a fast escape. The ground was too rough for a gallop, so the fleeing Moors bunched up and began to panic as the heavy cavalry bore down on them from behind.
“Press on!” Constantine cried, urging his stallion forward. “Spears down! Hit them hard!”
The climax of a full-out cavalry charge can be appreciated only by men who have experienced it. Though Constantine had participated in many such charges, each time he was shocked by its raw force and the sudden explosion of violence. Like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, or like a woodcutter’s ax on a tree, the cavalrymen smashed into the Moorish enemy with devastating effect. Blood, bone, and pulp created a rosy haze around the furious warriors. Horses screamed as their forelegs snapped and they tumbled to the earth. Men wailed as spears impaled them or hurled them from the saddle. Death was king now, and hell was hungry for fresh meat.
Constantine gripped his lance in two hands and aimed for the spine of a terrified Moorish rider. The spear burst from his enemy’s belly to bury its blade in the horse’s neck. Constantine released the weapon. Though the Moor and his mount went down, the emperor’s stallion sidestepped the obstacle and barely broke its stride as it surged toward the next foe. The sharp edge of Constantine’s sword severed an arm and a head in two mighty blows. A red mist clouded his vision as he burst from the melee. Wiping his eyes, he circled around to assess the situation, ready to reengage wherever he was needed most. But the battle was over as quickly as it had begun. T
he elite force of imperial bodyguards had annihilated the lightly armored Moors, all of whom lay dead on the field of battle.
“Victory!” Constantine cried, raising his bloody sword. “Victory for us, and salvation for the Twenty-Second!”
The bodyguards circled around their leader. “How valiant you are, Your Majesty!” one of them gushed.
Constantine lowered his sword and raised the shield on which the tau-rho had been emblazoned. “The cross is a mighty sign indeed,” he said, striving for proper Christian humility lest Jesus be angered. “Surely the Highest Deity helped us today.”
“Shall I call for a full advance?” the tribune asked again.
The emperor paused, truly reconsidering his battle plan this time. Though he hadn’t wanted to be drawn into combat too quickly, the rout had emboldened him. The early victory at Red Rocks would demoralize Maxentius’s troops once news of it spread. Perhaps a swifter attack was called for after all. A sudden, hard strike might finish off the tyrant with a definitive blow.
“Make haste to the rear lines,” Constantine instructed the tribune. “Tell General Vitruvius to set out at once, marching double time. Foot in the center, horse on the wings. It’s seven miles down the Flaminian Way to the river crossing. I’ll be waiting there.”
“Very good, sir. And what then?”
“Pull out your sword and start swinging. I intend to meet Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge under the sign of the cross. And may the gods of old be damned.”
Rex gripped the saddle horn and swung into the seat with the effortless dexterity of an experienced equestrian. The riders of the imperial horse guard had been assigned to protect the right flank of the infantry as they marched across the plain to confront Constantine. While the orders were clear, everything was confusing now, for the Maxentian army had just crossed the pontoon bridge and was mustering on the northern side of the river. Centurions were barking commands here and there, trying to organize the men into the desired battle formation. Rex managed to find Aratus, who, although mounted on horseback as an officer, was deployed with the foot soldiers.
The grizzled Greek speculator leaned close to Rex from the saddle. “See that bunch of trees? When the battle starts, try to work your way over there. I’ll do the same. The bushes are dense. You can disappear in the thicket, and if you come out the back side, you’ll be near Constantine’s troops. He won’t be hard to pick out. He’s a fighter, that one. He’ll be out front. Just get to him somehow.”
Rex nodded his agreement, then spoke in a low voice. “Sir? What about the Constantinian soldiers? It looks like we won’t be able to defect until after the fighting has started. Are you going to kill them? We’re actually on their side.”
“This is war, son. You have to be willing to kill anyone to get the job done. Don’t hold back. The other guy surely won’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me, Rex. Trust me like you have since the first time I handed you a sword.”
Rex slid his spatha from its sheath—not the wooden sword of his youthful training but the deadly weapon of a grown man. He extended its tip toward his beloved mentor, the proud Roman officer who had accepted him as a boy and turned him into a warrior. “Victory or death,” Rex said, his voice heavy with emotion.
Aratus drew his own sword, touching the blade to Rex’s. “That’s right. Victory or death, just like I taught you. Never forget.”
The two men parted on the battlefield like soldiers always do, confident in their training yet resigned to a fate beyond their control. Rex took a position at the end of the line, as close as possible to the copse of trees. The overcast sky—finally deciding to deliver on what it had been threatening all morning—had begun to spit sleet on the grassy plain. Tiny ice pellets bounced off Rex’s armor and tinkled on his helmet. He reached into his saddlebag for a lump of sticky resin, which he rubbed on his sword’s hilt and the grips of his lance. Things were going to be slippery today, and he didn’t want to take chances.
A trumpet sounded from across the river. All heads swung toward the pontoon bridge as Emperor Maxentius, resplendent in his golden armor, rode his charger onto the wooden span. Although the animal was too big for such a petite man, it was well trained and surefooted, so it was able to negotiate the crossing despite the deficiencies of its rider. Rex thought about his own traverse across that bridge a few moments ago. The troops had been ordered to ride single file lest they overburden the structure. The makeshift contraption had seemed solid enough for the job, yet Rex thought he could sense a certain shakiness at the spot where the lynchpin was hidden beneath the planks.
The emperor’s arrival on the northern riverbank galvanized the men, giving them a rallying point around which to form up. At last the ranks and files came together in a double-square formation, with the Praetorians making up the first block and the conscripted African and Italian legions marching in the second. The Praetorians were experienced veterans, brave men who wouldn’t fold at the first enemy charge. Clearly, they should serve in the front line. As needed in the flow of battle, they could receive support from the second block of legionaries. The infantry’s flanks were protected by the cavalry, spread out like wings on either side. At the rear, Maxentius and his bodyguards would occupy a low hill from which the generals could survey the battlefield.
“Move out at a walk!” the cavalry commander shouted. “Stay in line with me, and prepare to raise your gait on my order!”
Rex’s horse was a good one, a stocky chestnut pony out of the Sardinian stud farms. The creature was old enough to have seen battle yet still young enough to have some spring in its step. Rex stroked his mount’s neck and bent to whisper in its ear. “When I ask for it, little friend, give me everything you have.” The horse’s only response was a toss of its head and a flick of its flaxen mane.
Across the plain, a dark smudge indicated the front line of Constantine’s men. The visibility was poor because of the wet weather, and the dampness must have had a muffling effect too, for Rex couldn’t hear the distant rumble that normally accompanied an army on the move. Yet sight or sound wasn’t necessary. Everyone knew the Constantinian horde was on its way.
The cavalry commander blew a shrill blast on a whistle. “Enemy riders approaching from the northeast! Rise to canter!” The troopers of the imperial horse guard complied at once, each man responding to his comrades as if connected by an invisible thread. Rex couldn’t help but marvel at what an effective fighting force these soldiers were. But today they will meet their match!
To the northeast, the detachment of Constantinian cavalry drew closer. They rode hard and clearly were eager for battle. Each man’s shield was marked with a tau-rho in bright white paint. Rex reminded himself that this was the sign of Flavia’s chosen god, and Emperor Constantine’s too. He vowed not to kill a man who fought under that emblem if he could help it.
“Spears down!” the commander bellowed. “Full speed now, brothers! And may the strength of Mars be yours!”
The imperial horse guard closed the final distance and crashed into the line of Constantinians like two great ships ramming each other at sea. Rex steered his pony through the enemy riders without engaging them as aggressively as he could have. He took a few glancing blows on his shield and used his spear to unseat a rider without running him through. Daylight showed ahead, so he headed for it and burst from the melee not far from the thicket Aratus had identified.
The imperial guardsmen in the initial wave began circling around to reenter the fray, but Rex edged his mount away from them. “Line up! Line up!” the commander screamed. Instead, Rex pointed his spear at a pair of enemy scouts lurking near the trees. “I’ll take care of those two first!” he replied.
Without waiting for permission, he urged his mount toward the scouts—a justifiable action in the tumult of war, though perhaps skirting the line between courage and insubordination. Yet common military wisdom said any attack from the flank was dangerous and had to be prevented by countermeasure
s. That would be Rex’s argument, at least, if anyone ever questioned him about riding away.
The lightly armed scouts melted into the forest as Rex approached. He entered the dense stand of trees, grateful to get out of the cold rain. No trails pierced the thick undergrowth, but the sturdy pony from the scrubby Sardinian highlands could pick its way through the tangle while Rex kept a lookout for ambush.
Despite his vigilance, though, he was unprepared for the attack when it came. The scouts had dismounted and taken up positions away from their horses to conceal their location. When they rose from the brush and loosed arrows, Rex was barely able to bring his shield around in time. One of the missiles pierced the wood with a loud thunk, while the other glanced off his helmet with a force hard enough to snap his neck backward.
But no harm was done, and now the men were exposed and on foot— a dangerous predicament when facing an experienced cavalryman. Rex’s horse leapt over a fallen log and knocked one of the footmen sprawling into a patch of briers. The second man dove aside as Rex swiped at him half-heartedly with his lance. These were Constantinian soldiers: fellow comrades in theory, though still mortal enemies until Rex could give up his undercover identity and rejoin the true emperor’s side. Right now the men viewed him as a deadly foe who ought to be killed, and Rex had no desire to give them what they wanted. Yet he was mounted, and they were not. He could easily leave them behind. Instead of turning to finish them off, Rex simply kept riding.
The Sardinian pony squealed at the same moment Rex heard the sickly smack of an arrow piercing its flesh. The animal jumped awkwardly, then its rear haunches gave out. The collapse sent Rex tumbling from the saddle, and he lost his grip on his lance. He scrambled up to see a feathered shaft protruding from the pony’s rump as it squirmed on the ground. Useless now, Rex realized, then turned his attention to the lone scout closing on him with an arrow nocked in his bow.