by Bryan Litfin
“Like the possibility of a very nice life. The best you could imagine.”
Flavia’s tongue was so dry she could hardly speak. “Geta,” she finally gasped, “what are you saying?”
A stern and commanding voice interrupted the conversation from the doorway. “He’s saying he intends to marry you, daughter,” Neratius boomed. “And I intend to make sure it happens.”
At these ominous words, Flavia’s knees buckled, and she staggered backward. Only Onesimus’s quick intervention kept her upright. He cradled Flavia’s trembling body and helped her regain her footing. She clutched the servant’s sleeve and stared into his eyes.
“Run to the stable,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “Take the fastest horse and get to Constantine’s camp. Wherever he is, Rex will be. Find him and tell him . . .”
Flavia’s voice caught, and she had to swallow hard to continue her sentence. “Tell him I love him,” she finished at last, “and I need him now more than ever.”
Rex clawed his way to the surface of the icy Tiberis, desperate for air not because he had been under too long but because the frigid river had snatched his breath away. He burst from the water and inhaled deeply, then immediately swiveled his head toward the pontoon bridge. Maxentius was astride his horse on the southern side. At the other end, Constantine and his men were fighting their way onto the bridge, though the panicked Maxentian legionaries were blocking further access by their haphazard retreat. A steady drizzle of freezing rain made the whole scene a slippery mess. Many of the soldiers had already tumbled into the river, flailing around in a futile attempt to stay afloat despite their armor.
“Your God is pitiful!” Maxentius yelled, his shrill voice rising above the grunts and shouts from the soldiers. “Your Jesus rotted on a cross! Filthy Jews made up fables!”
Rex didn’t know if Constantine could hear the insult—or how much he would have cared if he did—but either way, the emperor was pressing hard onto the bridgehead. It wouldn’t be long before his men had cleared a space and the emperor was out on the planks.
Diving under the water to avoid being seen, Rex swam toward the middle of the span using the powerful strokes he had developed as a boy in the rivers of Germania. Arrows and javelins pierced the water here and there, and Rex knew that without armor, a hit would surely kill him. Yet he kept swimming. Only the luck of the gods could protect him now.
He surfaced not far from the bridge, its beams shaking and groaning under the strain. Along its entire length, Maxentian legionaries and cavalry were trying to push their way across. From his earlier reconnaissance, Rex knew the lynchpin holding the structure together lay under the center span. Somewhere at the end of the rope, a man was waiting to spring the trap and send Constantine to a watery death. But not if the rope can be cut! Rex was determined to give it a try. Though he had shed his armor and shield, his cavalry sword remained strapped to his side. It would be a hack job, but the blade could chop through the line—if he could reach it.
“Stop pushing!” someone screamed from above. “Make room!”
A terrified whinny and an unmanly scream combined to tell Rex that a mounted soldier had just fallen from the bridge. The flailing animal landed near Rex with a giant splash, casting its rider into the murky Tiberis. Rex pulled away, trying to dodge the frightened horse—
Wham!
Bright lights exploded in Rex’s brain, then blackness washed over him, followed by an ocean of pain. His head pulsed with stupefying agony.
Groggy and disoriented, he let himself slip beneath the waves. The cold water seemed to help.
Just drift down . . . go to sleep . . . it will stop . . .
No! Get up! Fight!
Rex pushed away the dizziness and surged to the surface. Though the darkness faded as he emerged into the air again, everything was still confusing. A hammer seemed to pound the base of his skull. When he put his hand to his scalp, his fingers came back slick and red.
Not far away, the horse thrashed in the river, its iron-shod hooves roiling the water as it fought against the weight of its saddle and tack. Rex realized that he had been kicked. He was about to swim clear when, from beneath the water, a hand grabbed his tunic and pulled hard. Rex barely had time to snatch a breath before he was dragged under again.
The rider who had fallen into the river was wearing chainmail—a death sentence to all but the strongest swimmers. Even so, death hadn’t claimed this man yet. With the desperate strength that drowning men always seem to find, he tugged on Rex’s clothes, dragging him deeper in an effort to climb up his back and break the surface. For a moment the soldier did manage to grab air, and Rex caught a sputtering breath as well. Then the two enemies plummeted beneath the waters again.
Now it was hand-to-hand combat as each warrior sought the advantage over the other. They tumbled deeper into the blackness, locked in a deadly embrace. Rex tried to pry loose his enemy’s fierce grip, yet the man knew that relinquishing his hold would result in a free fall to the bottom. Neither fighter could disentangle himself from the other, so the pair writhed in the murky depths like a two-headed Leviathan.
Rex could feel his breath running out. He released one of his opponent’s wrists, allowing the man to gain a much tighter hold; yet now Rex could grope for the sword on his belt. He found the hilt and pulled out the weapon—but in all the thrashing, he lost his grip on it.
Lurching and groping in the darkness, Rex found the blade. He closed his fist around the sharp edge, ignoring the hot sting across his fingers. To release the blade and try for the hilt with his one free hand would probably mean losing the weapon again, so Rex did what he had to do. He gripped the blade hard, pulled it back, and plunged it into the neck of the drowning man.
The wound was mortal. The soldier’s body stiffened, then went limp. From the sudden response, Rex guessed he had severed his enemy’s spine. The man’s fierce grip on Rex’s tunic finally relaxed.
But when Rex tried to push himself away from the doomed soldier, he was horrified to discover his own garments had become entangled in the chainmail. The man was now dead weight, dragging Rex into the depths like a ship’s anchor. Down he plunged into the weedy gloom. His feet touched the riverbed, sinking into the squishy mud as he struggled to yank his tunic free of its snag. His air was running low, and the urge to breathe was strong. Rex fought against the panic that assaulted him as he found himself pinned to the bottom of the Tiberis by an iron-clad corpse. Not here! he told himself. Not like this!
Then he realized he still had the sword’s blade in his hand. He shifted to a grip on the hilt, dimly aware that his fingers were sliced open. Grabbing a wad of his tunic, he shoved the sword under it and sawed upward. The cloth finally broke free. Rex jerked his feet from the mud and pushed toward the surface. Dark dread seized him, for he knew the top was very far away. He wasn’t sure his lungs could resist the urge to spasm and inhale.
The frantic upward swim used the last of Rex’s air. His chest ached, and everything in his body demanded that he open his mouth. The light was still far above. He gagged, and muddy water filled his nose and mouth.
No! This can’t be happening!
Rex’s field of vision narrowed. He stared as if through a tunnel at the light above. Now his movements were weak and listless. His brain lacked clarity; his body lacked desire. It was over.
A face appeared in the halo of light: a beautiful young woman with long eyelashes and high cheekbones. Her lips were a tiny pink rose. Chestnut hair framed her face. She reached out her hand, imploring Rex with her hazel eyes.
“I need you, my love,” she said. “Fight for me.” And those words made all the difference.
Rex kicked his legs hard, propelling himself to the surface in a final burst of strength. Light and air welcomed him to the land of the living. He retched as muddy water and spent breath exploded from his mouth.
And then he inhaled. A rush of wind flooded his chest like a cool, sweet, life-giving elixir. The world came into foc
us again. He had survived.
For a long time Rex could only pant. Each breath was a bodily pleasure so intense it rivaled anything he had ever experienced. A cold, hard rain was falling now, but Rex paid it no mind as he floated in the middle of the Tiberis. He greedily gulped down air.
At last he turned and looked at the bridge. Constantine’s mount had ventured a few steps out. At any moment, the man holding the rope would pull the lynchpin and send the emperor plummeting into the thick sludge from which Rex had just escaped.
Gripping his sword in his bloody hand, Rex resolved to make for the bridge. Yet even as he began to move, he knew it was too far. Before he could get there and sever the rope, the trap would be sprung—probably on top of his head. The evil Maxentius had won after all. Rex couldn’t stop him now.
But he had to try.
He had just started forward when a great squeal assaulted him: the sound of overstressed wood finally giving way. A timber snapped with a loud crack, then the two halves of the bridge peeled apart. The middle of the span collapsed as the rain-swollen planks tumbled into the roiling waters. Something must have caused the iron lynchpin to fall out early—but what? The shaking of the stampeding troops? The cold weather shrinking the metal? The icy-slick rain?
Or was it the hand of God himself?
Whatever it was, the bridge began to splinter across its length now that its structural integrity was gone. Chaos erupted as a horde of terrified riders toppled into the river. Though the horses managed to stay afloat, their armored masters immediately disappeared into the brown depths.
“Get back!” Rex screamed to Constantine, but the emperor didn’t need the admonition. His light-footed warhorse had already backed up from the danger and found purchase on the slippery riverbank. Constantine could only stare in disbelief as the enemy disappeared before his eyes into the Tiberis’s hungry maw.
At the other end of the bridge, Maxentius’s horse was doing its best to find its footing, but it was a lost cause. The more the bridge’s timbers gave way, the more unstable the whole thing became. Convulsing outward from the center to each end, the entire structure broke up and collapsed, spilling its occupants to either side. A look of terror crossed Maxentius’s face as his white stallion lurched to the edge. It remained there for a long moment, its head thrown back, its eyes rolling.
“Welcome to hell, Maxentius,” Rex said.
And with those words, the horse toppled from the Milvian Bridge, sending its golden rider into the abyss from which there is no escape.
14
OCTOBER 28, 312
Neratius and Geta loomed over Flavia like a pair of marble columns, immovable and cold in their masculine dominance. Clearly, they had conspired to arrange the repugnant marriage. Flavia drew back from them as much as she could, taking a seat on a divan in the corner of the atrium. Although social constraints dictated that she couldn’t flee these men, at least she could increase her distance.
But what I really need is someone to stand between us. Please God, send Rex! Hurry!
“You’ll see it all eventually, my dear girl,” said Neratius in the patronizing tone that aristocrats so often used. “In time you will come to appreciate the wisdom of my decision. The days aren’t like they used to be, when the rule of law prevailed. Today, strong men take what they want. Husbands have to be vigorous fighters—like this man here.”
Geta bowed at the flattering words. “I am honored, Senator. I promise to protect the noble name of our family and the reputation of my future wife.”
You are not my family! Flavia wanted to scream. And I will never be your wife!
But instead of screaming, she forced herself to remain calm and respectful. A violent argument was the last thing she wanted now. Folding her hands in her lap, she said, “Father, I do see the wisdom in what you’re suggesting. But my heart belongs to another man. I cannot marry Geta.”
“You will do what I say!” Neratius barked, his eyes flaring. “As you will soon learn, Geta is much more than what he seems to be. I’m making alliances here that will set up our family for the new regime.”
“Alliances? Father, is that all I am to you—a political tool?”
“Wake up, Flavia! Do you think politics have no consequences? You have no idea what powers are moving against us, even as we speak!”
“I have no false impressions about my safety. Perhaps you forget I spent time in the Carcer. I know exactly how harsh the rulers of Rome can be.”
“That’s right. Harsh and swift.” Neratius waved his hand toward the mansion around him. “You see all this? They can take it away from us, you know. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point.
“Who? Who is fighting against us? Pompeianus is dead.”
“But Maxentius isn’t—nor the tramp at his side.”
“You mean Livia? The widow? It is rumored she is to become the next empress.”
“She is. And she’s coming after your mother for treason.”
“Treason? No! It’s untrue!”
Neratius stomped over to Flavia’s couch and wagged a finger in her face. “Don’t play the actress with me, daughter! Neither of you is innocent! Maxentius learned all about your absurd little conspiracy with your mother. And now I know about it too!”
The emperor knows about the coins in the bread? A hot flush of panic came to Flavia’s cheeks as the reason for Neratius’s fear became apparent. Maxentius will attack us for sure! We’ve got to get out of here!
Before Flavia could form a response, Neratius spun away and went to the door that led from the atrium to the rest of the house. “Boys!” he shouted, although the young men who did physical work around the mansion were hardly children. “Hurry up with those trunks! We’re running out of time!”
Flavia abandoned the safety of the divan, aware now that some kind of action was required. The first order of business was to get out of Rome. Evidently, someone in the imperial palace had divulged information about the conspiracy—and when Maxentius felt threatened, he always lashed out with vicious reprisals. Even if he lost the battle today, his henchmen still had their marching orders, and those thugs took delight in cruelty. Rome was going to be in chaos for a while. During times like that, anything could happen. It would be wise to leave the city before it went crazy. Later, in some safer refuge, Flavia would work with Sophronia to thwart the ridiculous marriage plans.
Two slaves arrived with a heavy trunk on hardwood poles. They set it on the floor of the atrium. “Very good,” Neratius said. “Wait here for the next three to arrive.”
“Where are you taking us?” Flavia asked.
“Puteoli. I have a friend down there. Soon to be a family member.”
A family member? The statement was strange, so Flavia dismissed it, saving her strength instead for a final plea on her mother’s behalf.
“Father, listen to me,” she said in a gentle voice. “Whether you agree with our conspiracy or not, you need to know that Mother acted bravely. You would have been proud of her.”
Neratius whirled around. The rage in his eyes was like nothing Flavia had ever seen in him. “I take no pride in an act of treason against a sitting emperor!” he roared. “Sophronia was a fool! A cursed fool!”
“No! Don’t say that. Don’t curse your own wife!”
“Why not? She cursed our family when she started plotting against Maxentius.”
“He’s a tyrant. Someone had to stop him!”
Neratius snorted and swatted his hand. “Well, my little revolutionary, it seems you failed. Now your mother has been summoned to the emperor’s bedroom. Execution is likely to follow. The procurers are on their way. Why else do you think I’m packing so quickly?”
“Wh . . . what?” Flavia’s mouth fell open, and she lost her voice. She felt as if her father had punched her.
“You heard me. Rape and execution.”
No! Lord Jesus! Have mercy!
The awful news sent Flavia reeling. With one hand she clutched the fab
ric of her gown, and with the other she steadied herself against a statue next to the atrium pool. Sleet was falling hard through the skylight now, disturbing the water and bouncing off the marble flooring. Flavia stared at it absently, trying to comprehend the fact that rapists and murderers were coming to abduct her mother—and Neratius was packing the household treasures in trunks.
“Wh . . . where is she?” Flavia managed to say at last. She turned to go find Sophronia and warn her.
“Around the house somewhere. But don’t run off. We’ll be leaving soon.”
A burst of rage exploded in Flavia’s soul. She stormed toward her father, gripping the folds of his toga in both hands. “Fight!” she yelled at him. “Fight for your wife like a real man! Don’t let Maxentius do this!”
Neratius could only stare back wide-eyed. Flavia had never confronted him like this before. At last he swept his hand toward Geta, pointing with his finger. “I am fighting! Look! I’m marrying you to the best warrior I could find. Geta will protect our family.”
“That’s your job!” Flavia screamed in her father’s face.
“Not any longer,” he replied.
A fist pounded on the mansion’s outer door. All heads swung toward the sound. “Open up in the name of Maxentius!” called a rough voice.
Flavia and Neratius turned back to each other, locking their eyes in fierce opposition.
“They’re here,” Geta said.
Although the Maxentian legions from Italy and Africa fled the battlefield like cowards, Rex had to give the Praetorians credit for their bravery. The fighters of this historic unit, founded in the ancient days of the Republic, remained in combat array until they were completely surrounded by Constantine’s troops. Only when all hope was lost and the order to surrender was given did they lay down their arms. It wasn’t clear yet what would happen to them. Demotions and transfers to the distant frontiers were likely. Constantine had even talked about disbanding the Praetorian Guard altogether, after more than three hundred years of continuous service. “Too loyal to Rome,” he had said.