The Conqueror

by Bryan Litfin

  “By this authority!” Eye-Patch drew his sword and held it up. Several of his fellow procurers surrounded him, clearly spoiling for a fight.

  “Get out of here, quick!” Geta whispered in Flavia’s ear.

  Flavia darted toward the exit but wasn’t fast enough. One of the thugs grabbed her by the arm. “Where ya goin’, little pretty?” he said with a leer.

  “Enough!”

  The room fell silent. All heads turned toward the speaker. Lady Sabina Sophronia stood in the entrance to the atrium, wearing the distinguished gown of an honorable Roman matron. Her face was tranquil, and her voice was steady. “There is no need to run around this house like wild beasts. Be still and show some respect. I am resigned to my fate.”

  “No, Mother! Don’t give in!” Flavia wrenched her arm from her captor’s grasp and ran to Sophronia’s side. “You can’t let Maxentius win!”

  Sophronia looked into her daughter’s face. Flavia thought she could see deep sadness in her mother’s eyes. “My dear, sweet child,” Sophronia said, stroking Flavia’s cheek. “All things are in the hands of the Lord. Even life and death.”

  “Please! Don’t say that!”

  “It is true, my love. Believe it.”

  “That’s the lady we’re after,” Eye-Patch announced to his gang. “Arrest her and let’s go.”

  Flavia whirled toward Neratius and Geta. “Do something!” she pleaded. But Neratius remained aloof, which meant Geta could only shrug in helpless impotence.

  One of the procurers was about to seize Sophronia’s wrist when she stopped him with a firm rebuke. “Wait!” she commanded with such force that the man stepped back. “Do you dare touch the one who has been devoted to the glorious Maxentius? Shall I tell him how you pawed the emperor’s lover?”

  Despite the ruffian’s tough appearance, his face turned scared. “N-no ma’am,” he sputtered. “I didn’t touch you. See?” He raised his hands as if to protest his innocence.

  Sophronia pointed her finger at Eye-Patch. “You, sir! Are you the leader of this band?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “Maxentius is famous for his jealousy, is he not?” When Eye-Patch gave a little nod, Sophronia pressed her point. “If any of you dares touch me, do you think his rage will be light? Far from it. He will take his vengeance upon you all!”

  Flavia could see the men believed it. They looked uneasily at each other, waiting for their leader to decide what to do. Sophronia’s bold words had them completely off balance.

  “We won’t touch you,” Eye-Patch said at last. “But you have to come with us.” He turned toward the front door. “Follow me, lady.”

  Sophronia let out a high-pitched laugh—the last thing the men were expecting to hear. They had anticipated fear and cowering, not derision for their social ineptitude.

  “What’s so funny?” Eye-Patch demanded. Though he spoke roughly, Flavia could sense his confusion.

  “You fools!” Sophronia scoffed. “You know nothing about women, nor how to please an emperor!” She gestured to her face and clothing. “Do you really think this is suitable attire to meet the great Maxentius? Does not every courtesan come to him after at least an hour with the ornatrix? How much more should a senator’s wife make herself presentable? It will take some time before I am made worthy to be seen by such a great man.”

  A trick! Mother can hide in the house and slip out a window! Brilliant!

  Unfortunately, Eye-Patch was thinking the same thing. “Fine,” he agreed. “Go put on your paints and perfumes. You have one hour to get ready and come back. But I got twenty men here—enough to surround this place. If you try to sneak off, I can put you in chains. And the lash is allowed on runaways too.”

  “That will not be necessary. As I said, I am making a decision of my own free will. I know there is no way to escape this house. I will not flee like a criminal, as if I could somehow evade notice on the streets of Rome. In one hour, you may do as you wish.”

  “You’d better be back on time, lady! We’re keeping your girl here just to make sure.”

  “My daughter isn’t subject to any reprisals from Maxentius. Your orders are for me alone. Anything else will be a violation of the emperor’s will.”

  The truth of the remark seemed to make Eye-Patch nervous. Everyone knew how volatile Maxentius could be at even the slightest hint of disobedience. “The girl stays here until you get ready,” he muttered. “Then we’ll leave in peace.”

  “Very well. I shall retire to my room now,” Sophronia said gently. After a polite dip of her chin, she turned and left the atrium with aristocratic dignity.

  The one-eyed leader went to the mansion’s front entrance and looked around, then shouted over his shoulder, “I want fifteen of you out here now! Circle this place and watch every window.” His assistants shuffled outside, leaving the atrium much less crowded yet no less threatening. The six men who remained were a sufficient reminder of Maxentius’s evil intent.

  Geta sat down on one of the trunks that the household slaves had brought. After a short wait, he said, “I suppose we might as well have a drink.” He beckoned to the servant girl Daphne trying to sneak past the door. “You there! Bring me a jug of wine.”

  The timid maid nodded, then returned promptly with an amphora. Geta unstopped it, tipped it back, and guzzled from it. He glanced over at the six procurers milling around the atrium. “Want some?”

  Eye-Patch raised an eyebrow and stared back at the German soldier offering him wine. His face displayed only suspicion.

  “Go on,” Geta insisted. “Have a drink. There’s plenty for everyone.”

  “Why not, boss?” urged one of the thugs. “It’s safe. He’s drinking it himself.”

  The exhortation was enough to break the leader’s resolve. He accepted the jug and took a swig from it, then passed it around to his men. “Pretty good stuff,” he admitted with a loud belch.

  Neratius stepped into his study and returned with a goblet. “Pass it over here when you’re finished. That’s a quality vintage, and I’m thirsty.”

  The utter insanity of the scene disgusted Flavia. She felt like she was trapped in a terrible nightmare—naked and exposed or falling from a cliff or stuck in clingy mud or struggling to escape a monster. Yet any one of those scenarios would make more sense than the bizarre events unfolding before her. This can only be a ruse, she told herself as she sat on the divan in the corner. It has to be some kind of stalling game. Yes, that’s it. Surely my father isn’t drinking wine with my mother’s pimps and my future husband!

  Eye-Patch took another draught from the jug, then wiped his greasy beard with the back of his hand. He spotted something in Neratius’s adjacent study and went to retrieve it. Moments later, he returned with an hourglass. “We’ll start it now,” he said, setting it on the rim of the atrium’s pool.

  The sleet and rain had finally stopped falling, and the sky had brightened a bit. Now that it was midday, Flavia realized she was hungry. At one point she rose from the divan and tried to step into the kitchen for something to eat, but the procurers immediately stopped her. “You stay put, little girl!” one of them said roughly. Rather than anger the men, she complied.

  Slowly yet dreadfully, the trickle of sand slipped through the hourglass’s narrow waist. Flavia felt the tension in the room increase as the pile grew at the bottom. At last the final grains dribbled through the aperture. Flavia prayed her mother had managed to climb out a window and make good her escape.

  Eye-Patch snatched up the hourglass and swaggered over to Neratius. “Where’s your wife?” he demanded.

  “She’s coming soon,” Neratius replied, his voice slurred from too much wine. “You know how women can be.”

  Eye-Patch was drunk now, too, but the wine had made him irritable instead of relaxed. He scowled at Neratius. “I’m ready to get this over with! Why isn’t she here?”

  “How should I know? I don’t care where that treasonous hussy is!”

  “Father!” F
lavia exclaimed, rising to her feet.

  “It’s true,” Neratius said. “I’ve got no use for her anymore.”

  “You’re lying!” Eye-Patch accused. He drew his sword and waved it around to emphasize his point. “You’re just trying to buy her time! No man betrays his wife like that.”

  “Sophronia is no longer my wife,” Neratius declared.

  What? Another ruse? Is he serious? God help me!

  The bewildering announcement caused Flavia to sink onto the divan again. Even the procurers were taken aback. Neratius walked into his study and returned with a pair of legal documents, each impressed with a wax seal. “Can you read?” he asked the leader.

  Eye-Patch shook his head. He signaled for one of his helpers to inspect the parchments. The man looked them over, then glanced up. “They’re real,” he confirmed. “The first is a divorce paper for Lady Sabina Sophronia. Second is a betrothal agreement.”

  “To who?”

  “A girl named Vulcacia. The fourteen-year-old daughter of a politician in Puteoli.”

  No!

  “A new family member,” Father had said . . . His friend Publius! This can’t be happening!

  Everyone stared at Neratius. The procurers didn’t know what to say. Even Geta’s mouth was agape. But the senator only shrugged.

  “She got old,” he said simply. “I got tired of her. It happens to a lot of men.”

  Flavia could stand the tension no longer. The urge to flee overwhelmed her. She had to warn her mother . . . escape this evil house . . . defy the insane world her father had inflicted upon her. She bolted for the exit—but was snatched by one of the pimps before she could take three steps.

  “Let me go!” she screamed.

  Flavia struggled in the man’s cruel grip, but he was much stronger. His fingernails dug into her upper arm. “Hold still, wench!”

  “No! Get out of my house, you fiends! Maxentius has lost already. The battle is over! Constantine has won!”

  Neratius’s response was immediate: “Silence, daughter!”

  “That’s treason!” Eye-Patch accused. He grabbed Flavia by the back of the neck and hurled her onto the divan. “Stay right there! Now you’re coming with us too.”

  Geta rushed to the couch and tried to slip a protective arm around Flavia. “I’ll get you out of this, my love,” he whispered.

  Flavia wriggled out of his grasp and shrank away from the disgusting German soldier. “Leave me alone! I am not your love!”

  Eye-Patch pointed his sword at Flavia. “Keep an eye on that girl,” he said to one of his henchmen, then turned toward the others. “The rest of you, draw your weapons and follow me. There’s been enough fooling around here. I’m going upstairs to find that lady. It’s time to take Maxentius his prize.”

  One of the men paused uncertainly. “Hey, boss? What if the girl is right? What if the emperor has already lost?”

  The yellow-toothed smirk came to Eye-Patch’s face again. “Then I guess the prize is ours to enjoy instead. Come on, boys! Let’s go and claim it.”

  The mansion on the summit of the Aventine Hill was surrounded by foul-looking ruffians when Rex arrived. They lurked near the front entrance and lined the alleys on either side. The sight of such rough men at Flavia’s home made him want to charge into the fray and find out what was going on. Yet the military tactician in Rex made him hold back from any sudden moves. At least ten thugs—Maxentius’s city pimps, Onesimus had said—were visible in the streets, and there was no telling how many more were inside. A lone man couldn’t defeat so many opponents. If Rex was Flavia’s only hope, he had to play this one just right. Secret infiltration of the premises was required.

  He scanned the mansion with the eyes of a trained speculator, looking for the easiest access points. Most city houses had few doors and no windows at ground level, since wealthy residents considered it wise to conceal the opulence of their homes from the jealous masses. Yet the lack of entrances wasn’t necessarily a problem. Back in his cadet days, Rex had been instructed in housebreaking by some of the best burglars ever to pilfer the jewels of Rome. He recalled the words of one expert thief, a wiry little Scythian saved from crucifixion on the condition that he pass on his knowledge to the imperial speculators: “Doors are for guests, and windows are for birds, but a burglar uses the roof.” The trick wasn’t getting through the roof, for the tiles were easy to remove. The real difficulty was getting onto it.

  Rex frowned as he evaluated Flavia’s house. On a planned mission, the use of ladders or grappling hooks by night could give access to a building’s roof. But this was no planned mission. Rex felt a growing urgency as he realized he needed a much more immediate solution, one that didn’t require any special gear. Climbing up from the street wasn’t an option. Only a descent from a higher point would work. He glanced around, checking for nearby heights. Adjacent roofs? All too far. The umbrella pine? Perhaps.

  It grew near the back corner of the mansion: a gnarly and misshapen tree, probably two hundred years old. Such a large specimen wouldn’t be found in the crowded urban lowlands, but up here on the luxurious Aventine, many houses were still shaded by greenery. That drop from the canopy looks a little long, Rex thought, but he decided to worry about it later. It was probably just an illusion. Either way, the tree was his best choice under the circumstances.

  Now the mental steps for his infiltration began to fall briskly into place. The guards around the perimeter require a diversion. Get them good and distracted, then drop to the roof from the pine. The diversion will provide cover, but I’ll have to be quick. Lift a few tiles, and I’m in. Simple as that. Time to move!

  The Aventine Hill was crowned by the Temple of Ceres, and next to it stood a popular new tavern that celebrated one of the grain goddess’s most bountiful gifts to men: beer. Although grape wine had long been the beverage of choice in Rome, the recent influx of barbarians had opened up a market for the grain-based drink too. The tavern’s typical patrons were immigrants and slaves, fair-haired men of the north who longed for the taste of the yeasty, sludgy brew of their homelands. Rex entered the crowded barroom and immediately saw it was full of his kind of people: gregarious and excitable Germani seated at benches with big cups in front of them. Perfect.

  “Maxentius is dead!” he shouted into the tavern’s busy hubbub. “Hail Constantine Victorious, our new emperor!”

  The dramatic words immediately silenced the room. All eyes turned and stared at the intruder who had just thrown out the life-changing news. The quiet pause seemed to build until it reached its breaking point—then the room exploded into a frenzy of whoops and acclamations.

  “The tyrant is gone!” one man shouted in a booming voice that rose above the general celebration.

  Another fellow was more skeptical. He hurried over to Rex. “Are you sure about this?” he asked through his bushy mustache.

  “Definitely. Look at my tunic.” Rex gripped the fabric. “I’m in the army, and I just came from the Forum. Constantine brought in Maxentius’s head on a spear!”

  A crowd had developed around Rex now. “You’re sure it was him? He’s really dead?”

  “I saw the decapitation with my own eyes. All the people of Rome are rejoicing. Come see for yourself!”

  Everyone spilled from the tavern and thronged the front steps of the temple. Down below, the Circus Maximus was visible, with the Palatine rising behind it. A mob had gathered in the racetrack, waving Constantinian military banners and cheering wildly.

  “The Praetorians would never allow that if they were still in control,” someone observed.

  Rex nodded vigorously. “It’s time to spread the word, friends. Let the people know they are free!”

  The idea appealed to the half-drunk Germani. They bolted from the temple steps and began to ramble through the maze of streets atop the Aventine, shouting the good news to anyone they encountered on the sidewalks or in the balconies. “Maxentius is dead!” they proclaimed again and again. “Hail, Constantine!” />
  “Look there,” Rex said, pointing to the nervous-looking procurers outside Flavia’s house. “I think those men served the tyrant!”

  “Hey, pimp!” yelled a husky Goth wearing a blacksmith’s apron. “Are you with Maxentius?”

  When the man’s only reply was a crude curse, a couple of the Germani stormed over to confront him. A scuffle broke out, and Rex decided the diversion was sufficiently in place now. He headed for the back of the mansion where the old tree was growing.

  Fortunately, the twisted pine had some knobby branches below its first major fork. Rex managed to shimmy up the trunk to the crook of the tree, then followed a side branch into the canopy. He was so focused on his handholds that he didn’t notice how high he had climbed until he stopped for a breather. Although Flavia’s roof was below him now, the drop was much farther than he had hoped it would be. To make matters worse, the roof was pitched steeply toward an inner courtyard.

  I need a rope, he thought. But, of course, he had no rope.

  One of the tree’s branches drooped farther than the rest over the mansion’s roof. It was slender, yet it looked like it would support a man’s weight. Rex guessed if he could dangle from it and make it sag, the drop wouldn’t be too far. He stretched for the branch, leaning out as far as he dared, but the limb was just out of reach.

  Should I jump?

  He examined his right hand. Two deep gashes crossed his fingers and the heel of his palm where he had gripped his sword blade underwater. He flexed his fingers, hoping they would be strong enough to hold on. It wasn’t a sure thing, yet he had no other option if he wanted to get into Flavia’s house. Fixing his eyes on the target branch, he made sure his stance was steady, then leapt into empty space.

  Rex caught the limb easily and clutched it in both hands. Now he hung from it like an African ape. His heartbeat was rapid as he stared between his feet at the roof below. Yet there was no point waiting in one place. Every moment wasted would increase the fatigue in his arms. Hand over hand, Rex began to move out onto the branch.

  He quickly discovered that his plan was working. The farther he advanced from the trunk, the lower the limb sagged and the closer the roof became. By the time he was out near the tuft of needles at the branch’s end, he thought he would probably—