The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  Rex stumbled out of the frigid Tiberis on the city side of the river. Most of the Maxentians who had fallen into the water when the bridge collapsed were at the bottom now. Only a few had managed to overcome the weight of their armor and reach dry ground. They sat in a dejected huddle, shivering and wet, under the watchful eye of a detachment of Constantinian guards.

  A soldier pointed his spear at Rex. “Ho, you there! Your tunic is from the imperial horse guard!” he accused.

  Rex straightened his shoulders and rose to his full height, which was quite a bit more than his accuser. He rested his hand on his sword’s pommel and looked the man in the eye. “This is a disguise. I am Brandulf Rex, a speculator of the Second Italian Faithful Legion of Divitia and a servant of the true Augustus of the West, His Majesty Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantine.” It felt good to speak the truth again after so many months of undercover secrecy.

  “So you say,” the soldier muttered with one of his eyebrows cocked.

  Rex approached the man until the spear point was against his chest. He slipped the back of his hand against the iron tip and diverted it. “So I am, comrade. Now, stand aside. The emperor is crossing on a boat. He will not be pleased to find you harassing a member of his espionage corps.”

  The soldier grunted at this bold assertion yet relented. Rex left him standing alone in the mud with his spear and his suspicions.

  He made his way to a spot along the river as close as possible to where Maxentius had fallen in. A few horses were still in the water, struggling toward one bank or the other, but all the human swimmers had either reached safety or died in the attempt. Rex walked out until he was knee deep. He had an unpleasant job in mind, yet it was one he knew Constantine would want. Perhaps this worthy deed would compensate for the shame he had earned at Verona when he abandoned the emperor in the heat of battle. “Jesus in heaven, protect that secret,” Rex whispered. The prayer caught him by surprise, and for a moment he marveled at how often he was praying to Flavia’s god these days. Yet this was no time for reflection on religious matters. Instead, he waded farther into the Tiberis and dove beneath its waters once again.

  Inky blackness enveloped him as he kicked toward the bottom. Fortunately, the water wasn’t deep here. Rex’s hand probed along the riverbed, feeling for anything but thick mud. His hand soon closed on the forearm of a corpse, but the armor was chainmail so Rex left it alone. He found two more corpses before he had to surface to breathe. Both of them also wore the wrong kind of armor.

  On his third dive, Rex found a corpse wearing a coat of scale armor. He felt the helmet: conical, richly decorated, and sporting a horsetail crest. A fur cape was fastened around the shoulders of the dead man. It could only be Maxentius.

  Rex hauled the body out of the water and dragged it onto the bank, letting it flop like a child’s doll on the muddy grass. The ghoulish pallor of Maxentius’s face stood in stark contrast to his purple lips. His tongue lolled out one side of his mouth, and his unblinking eyes stared at the overcast sky. Cold rain pelted his cheeks, but the dead emperor no longer cared.

  “You deserved your fate,” Rex said, feeling no pity for the man who had murdered so many innocent people.

  Stooping next to the corpse, he grasped an arm and a leg, heaved the burden to his shoulders, and stood up. Though Maxentius had been a man of small stature, the weight of his golden armor was ridiculous. Rex approached Emperor Constantine, whose boat had landed not far away. A squad of imperial bodyguards now encircled the great man as he prepared to enter Rome in triumph.

  “Stay back,” one of the guardsmen warned, thrusting out his hand.

  “The grave pit is over that way,” said another with a flick of his head.

  Rex didn’t budge. “I need to speak to the augustus. He knows me well.”

  “He knows you? Tch! I doubt it.” The first bodyguard waved his hand dismissively. “Move along, kid.”

  “You sure you want to anger Constantine on the day of his victory? It’ll probably mean a demotion for you.”

  “What?”

  “When the emperor finds out you blocked his direct order, he won’t like it.”

  “Coleos Jovis! What are you talking about? What direct order?”

  “Quit wasting time!” Rex snapped. “I’m here on the official business of the augustus. Go ask him yourself! Tell him Brandulf Rex has completed his mission—and I have the body of Maxentius to prove it.”

  The bodyguard took a closer look at Rex’s burden. Recognition came to his face as he noticed, beneath the dripping cape, the golden scales. He took a step back. “I’ll check with the emperor,” he said.

  Moments later, Constantine himself came striding over with a huge grin on his face. “Rex!” he boomed. “You did it! You stirred up the people against our enemy. I heard they mocked him in the circus!”

  “They did, Your Highness.” Rex dipped his chin, unable to look Constantine in the eye. Despite the praise, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the augustus was going to recognize him as the man who ran away at Verona.

  But the emperor seemed unaware of those events. He gestured to the corpse on Rex’s shoulders. “So that’s my great enemy, eh? Lay him down and let’s have a look at him.”

  Rex complied, dumping the body on the ground. He winced and rubbed his shoulder, glad to be relieved of the heavy weight.

  “Ugly fellow, wasn’t he?” Constantine said with a curl of his lip.

  “Even more so in death.”

  “I need the head. It has to go to Africa so they know he’s truly gone. Until then, his loyalists will fight on.”

  “You want me to hack it off, sir?”

  “No. Show me some swordsmanship.” Constantine bent over the corpse and grasped the horsetail crest on Maxentius’s helmet with both hands. Since the helmet was strapped on tight, the emperor was able to elevate the body by its head. “Take it off nice and clean, soldier.”

  Rex grasped the hilt of the cavalry sword on his belt and made sure he had a firm grip. Then, in a single fluid motion, he drew the weapon, swung it around in a wide arc, and cleaved Maxentius’s head from his body. The sharp blade never stopped moving as Rex put all his strength into the slashing blow. The headless corpse collapsed to the ground, and Constantine was left holding the decapitated head.

  “Nice work, young man!” the emperor exclaimed. “I knew from the first time you challenged me to a fight that you had the makings of a great speculator.”

  He remembers! Holy Jupiter and Jesus, please never let him find out about Verona!

  Rex couldn’t contain his smile. “Thank you, sir. Aratus taught me well.”

  “Indeed he did. Your stroke is powerful and accurate.” The emperor turned to go. “Mount up, Rex. You can ride with my parade into the city. I’m entering the sacred precinct as the savior of Rome, and you had an important role in that victory.”

  I even killed Pompeianus, Rex thought, but that’s not an honor I want you to know about.

  The vanguard formed up with Constantine at the head of the mighty column. The emperor’s most elite officers and bodyguards were positioned around him, many still in their bright uniforms because they had seen little combat today. Although the horse Rex had been given was arrayed in a gaudy military style suitable for a parade, as he looked down at his tunic, he couldn’t help but feel out of place. The thing was muddy, wet, bloodstained, and marred by a hole in the chest where he had cut away the fabric in his underwater battle. He tried to wring out some of the water and wipe away the mud, but it was hopeless. The tunic was ruined.

  Constantine must have noticed Rex’s futile attempts to clean up. “Apparently, you’re the only real fighter among us,” he joked. “You’re the only one with enemy blood on his shirt.”

  “I’m not fit to ride next to the Augustus of the West,” Rex said sheepishly.

  “Nonsense! You look like a true warrior. But let’s see what we can do for you.” The emperor beckoned to a quartermaster from the rear lines. “Take
off your tunic and give it to me,” he ordered.

  The supply officer complied immediately, stripping to his loincloth and handing over the soft woolen garment with crimson piping. Constantine held it up and inspected it, then tossed it to Rex. “It’s quite a nice one. I hope this man isn’t embezzling funds from the imperial treasury.”

  The nearly naked quartermaster’s eyes widened. “No, sir! Definitely not!”

  Constantine threw Rex a wink and a grin. “Even the men who didn’t fight need to taste some fear today,” he said with a little laugh.

  “Of course. Aratus always says fear is a good motivator.”

  “Wise centurion you have there. Fall in behind me, son, and let’s go claim the capital of the world.”

  The victorious emperor rode in triumph down the Flaminian Way for two miles. Rex followed close behind, holding the standard of the Second Italian Legion with its banner of Rome’s famous she-wolf and twins. At last the parade arrived at the same gate through which Maxentius had ridden out earlier today. A jubilant crowd had developed, spilling from the city to line the road or cheering and waving from the high walls. Just as the parade was about to pass through the gateway, Constantine signaled for a halt.

  “Who is that man on the tree?” he demanded. When no one answered, he repeated his question more urgently. Finally, a peasant stepped forward.

  “He is a Christian who protected the holy scriptures, Majesty,” the man said. “Maxentius mocked him and crucified him this morning.”

  “He still lives?”

  “Yes, Majesty. He is . . . he is my cousin.”

  Constantine turned in the saddle and called for his personal surgeon to come forward. “Take down that poor fellow and attend to him with the very best care. Spare no expense. I shall expect him to make a full recovery.”

  “Yes, my lord. Count on it, for it will be done.” The surgeon saluted and hurried toward the impaled victim.

  The parade now entered the city of Rome to the raucous acclamation of the people. Clearly, they viewed Constantine not as an invader but as a liberator. Rex knew how much the citizenry hated Maxentius. Everyone was glad to be rid of the tyrant. The sight of his decapitated head on a spear brought jeers and ridicule as the standard bearer carried it through the streets.

  A massive throng was gathered in the Forum when Constantine entered the historic town square, the beating heart of ancient Rome. The cheering onlookers parted to let their new ruler pass. He stopped in front of the partially constructed New Basilica on Sacred Street, just a few steps from where Rex had first met Flavia as she was being dragged in chains to the amphitheater. Maxentius had been funding the basilica as a monument to his own greatness. A giant statue of himself, seated on a throne like a god, had been planned for the apse of the enormous hall.

  “I hear there is still much work to be done,” Constantine observed as he gazed at the lofty structure.

  A gaggle of politicians had emptied from the Senate House when Constantine arrived, and now they surrounded the triumphant emperor as he surveyed his city. “Your Highness, the evil usurper Maxentius commissioned this building,” said an oily-voiced senator, bowing low as he spoke. “But now the funds will surely dry up. Where will we obtain the needed resources to finish it?”

  “I shall pay for its completion,” Constantine said gallantly. He paused, as if thinking about something important. “There is a great statue inside, yes?”

  “It was to be of Maxentius,” the senator agreed. “But it is not complete. The head is still being made.”

  Constantine let out a hearty laugh. He beckoned to his standard bearer, then took from him the head of Maxentius on a spear and held it up. “If the statute was supposed to represent the former tyrant of Rome,” he cried, “then I believe it is now complete!” The witty remark caused all the senators to burst into boisterous applause.

  The emperor swept his hand toward the New Basilica. “People of Rome, forget the face of your oppressor Maxentius! It is I who sit on the imperial throne now. Let the statue be crowned instead with the bust of Rome’s true defender. And let my new statue hold in its hand a trophy of mighty power!”

  “Hurrah!” the crowd exclaimed.

  “What trophy, Highness?” called another senator.

  Constantine turned to Rex and took from him the military standard of the Second Italian Legion. “Like this,” he said, elevating the pole with its crossbar from which the legion’s banner hung. “A normal army flag, a traditional sign of victory—but one that, by the providence of the Highest God, also forms the sacred sign of the cross.”

  Clever, Rex thought. A double meaning for Christians and the old pagans.

  A minor disturbance made Rex look down at the crowd from the saddle. A common slave was pushing his way through the mob. With a final shove, he broke into the open and approached Rex’s mount. His face was red and his brow was sweaty. “You are Brandulf Rex, are you not?” he asked.

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, but you were pointed out to me. I am Onesimus, doorkeeper of Senator Neratius Junius Flavianus.”

  “Ah, right. I have heard of you. Lady Junia is very fond of you.”

  “And it is because of her that I have come. Please! You must go to her house immediately. The matter is urgent!”

  Rex gestured to the victory parade. “I can’t leave now. Look! We’re celebrating the triumph of the Augustus of the West.”

  “But you have to come,” Onesimus insisted. “Lady Junia says she needs you now more than ever.”

  “Rex!” the emperor called. “What is this disturbance? Leave it behind, and let’s be going. The men wish to sacrifice to Jupiter on the Capitoline. No more delay.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rex told Onesimus. “I can’t leave my duties right now.” He reined his horse around and rejoined the formation as it moved away.

  “Wait!” the doorkeeper cried. “Lady Junia calls you to her side. She is in terrible danger! She needs you!”

  Danger? Rex halted and sat up straight in the saddle. A fierce debate now raged within him. The emperor will despise me and crush my aspirations if I gallop away. But how can I say no to Flavia in danger?

  “Come on, soldier!” Constantine barked. “I said to get moving!”

  Onesimus rushed forward and gripped Rex’s forearm. The look in his eye was desperate. “Brandulf Rex, listen to me!” he hissed. “Lady Junia told me something else. Something very important—a thing she has never said before.”

  “What?”

  “She confessed that she loves you—you and you alone, with all her heart.”

  For a long moment, Rex said nothing as he grappled with the momentous choice. Competing voices clashed in his mind, each making its case, vying for his future. Suddenly Flavia’s voice rose above the others, repeating what she had told him long ago when they had just met: love becomes real when the feeling becomes an action.

  All at once, the turbulence in Rex’s soul dissolved. Clarity of purpose settled upon him. The way forward was clear.

  “I will come,” he declared, “for I love her in return.” With those words, he turned his horse out of formation and spurred it toward the Aventine Hill.

  Like a breach in a sewer pipe, the front door to Flavia’s house gave way and a flood of filth oozed in. About twenty of Maxentius’s thugs—not proper Praetorians but the kind of street toughs that worked as the city’s pimps—rushed into the atrium of the Aventine mansion. Their leader was a long-haired man with an eye patch and a greasy beard. “We’re here on imperial business,” he proclaimed, obviously proud of his status.

  “We know why you’re here,” Neratius said.

  “Good. Then there won’t be no problems.”

  Flavia noticed Geta move to Neratius’s side, ready to resist, but her father cautioned him with a quiet word. “Not now,” she saw him whisper.

  If not now, when? she wondered.

  The leader of Maxentius’s procurers strode up to Neratius with a belligerent look in
his one good eye. “Go get the mistress of the house.” His face widened into a yellow-toothed grin. “I hear she’s frisky. Likes to play.”

  “Not often enough! Know what I mean?” Neratius said with a wink to the man.

  Father! That’s disgusting!

  Flavia recoiled even deeper into the shadows of the atrium. She could only assume her father was stalling for time while pretending to cooperate and befriend the invaders. Any other explanation was too horrible to accept.

  “Who’s this guy?” the greasy leader asked, jabbing his thumb at Geta. “Looks like a soldier boy.”

  “My future son-in-law. He won’t give you any trouble.”

  “Better not. We’re here on imperial business.”

  “Yes, so you said.”

  The Maxentian procurers had spread themselves around the atrium, and now a few of them began to wander toward other parts of the house. Neratius halted them with a sharp command. “Your jurisdiction does not extend to my whole property,” he barked.

  “Fancy words, Senator! But you’re right—as long as you cooperate.” The one-eyed leader turned to the rest of the men. “Boys! Get back here. It’s just the lady we’re after. This ain’t a full proscription.”

  Flavia blew out a breath, relieved that at least the entire house wasn’t about to be destroyed. Enemies of the state who were put under proscription were subject to execution and the confiscation of their property. Apparently, Maxentius was restricting his punishment to Sophronia alone. With the rest of the mansion off-limits, perhaps there would still be a chance for her to sneak out.

  “Hey, boss!” one of the procurers shouted. “Who’s that girl? Maybe the augustus wants her too?”

  “She’s probably guilty of somethin’!” another man chimed in. “Let’s take her along.”

  “She is to be my wife!” Geta shouted, moving close to Flavia. “Lady

  Junia is not part of this arrest.”

  “You’re not in charge here, kid!” the leader with the eye patch shot back. “We can do whatever we want.”

  Geta thrust out his chin. “By what authority?”