by Bryan Litfin
“Speak his name,” Constantine ordered.
“It was Brandulf Rex.”
Rex! How could you? You were one of my best! I gave you a second chance when you were just a boy! And you threw it all away.
The emperor puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath of air. Though he felt deeply disappointed and betrayed, he knew that throwing a temper tantrum in the throne room would be unworthy of an emperor. “Where is Rex now?” he asked in an artificially calm voice.
“He was arrested soon after the battle at the bridge, based on the evidence of this affidavit. The authorities put him in the Carcer in Rome. They have been holding him there until you could dispose of this matter personally.”
“Well, there’s nothing else we can do. He’s a traitor. Have him strangled to death and dispose of his body down the sewer. That is all for the day. You are dismissed.”
The secretary nodded and turned to leave. Constantine drummed his fingers on the armrest of the throne. It was always a hard business being an emperor. He had genuinely liked Rex. But a crime was a crime, and it had to be handled as such.
“Your Highness?” inquired a tentative voice.
Constantine turned toward the sound. It was the rhetorician Lactantius who had spoken.
“What is it, professor?”
“You mentioned the Christian God a moment ago. He is a God I know well. His ways are often difficult for us mortals yet good and beneficial. He asks hard things of his followers—and blesses us when we do them.”
“And what is your point?”
“I think . . . perhaps . . .” Lactantius paused, fiddling with the folds of his toga.
“Just say it. I want to learn about this God. You may speak freely.”
“I think perhaps your order just now came from a spirit of revenge. But vengeance belongs to God alone.”
Constantine pursed his lips and stared at the floor, trying to consider the matter fairly. “One of my soldiers abandoned me in the thick of battle,” he countered. “That is treason, a capital crime. It must be punished under the normal rule of law.”
“Wouldn’t he at least be due a trial, Your Majesty?”
“There is no time for that. I’m leaving Italy within a few weeks, and I have no idea if I’ll ever return.”
“Have you known Rex to be a good man in other respects?”
“Yes. I liked him a lot. I’m drawn to manly fellows like him. He was a highly skilled speculator and a likable kid. I foresaw good things from him before he became a coward. And it’s not just cowardice—he’s also rebellious. He rode away from the parade in the Forum when I told him not to. He’s unpredictable.”
“Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances?”
“What circumstances could justify a warrior abandoning his lord in battle? It’s an absolute moral travesty. He ought to pay for his actions with death. The world doesn’t need people like him in it.”
“The ways of the Lord are mysterious,” Lactantius said. “You never know what might happen someday. The speculator Rex might have an important role to play in the great plans of God. In any case, vengeance is never the right motivation for our decisions. Might you choose a lesser punishment?”
After a long moment, Emperor Constantine let out a heavy sigh. “Secretary!” he shouted.
The man was just about to leave the throne room, but upon hearing his master’s voice, he turned back. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Do not have Brandulf Rex strangled. Have him enrolled in the imperial navy as a common oarsman. Strip him of his rank and give him no hope of advancement. Station him permanently at the remotest edge of the empire.”
“Yes, sir. It shall be done.”
“I think that is wise of you,” Lactantius declared.
Constantine grimaced. “I think being a Christian is going to be hard work,” he muttered to himself.
MARCH 313
Trunks and boxes lay strewn around the atrium of Bishop Miltiades’s house, but Flavia paid them no mind. Her heart was so heavy that details like these hardly registered in her consciousness. Though on some level she understood the bishop was moving into Empress Fausta’s former house in Rome, it seemed irrelevant in light of everything else. She ignored the clutter and stepped around a stack of crates to find Miltiades waiting for her.
“Come along, dear one,” he said, lightly grasping Flavia’s wrist. “We can find a quieter and less hectic place to talk.”
He led her to a little sitting room with a view into the garden. Flavia took a seat in a wicker chair, and Miltiades pulled up an identical one beside her. A sparrow perched on the shoulder of a marble statue, cocking its head and examining the pair with its beady eyes.
“It hurts, child,” the bishop said. “I understand. It hurts greatly.”
“So much! I don’t know if I can cope with this pain. I can’t stand the thought that I’ll never see Rex again. They’re sending him far away forever.”
“Have they moved him from the Carcer yet?”
“Yes, to Ostia. I’m preparing to have daily rations sent there like we’ve been doing here.”
“God’s Spirit will be with Rex. His infinite love and mercy will overcome all evils. Even if Rex is beyond your reach, he is not beyond God’s.”
Flavia cupped her forehead in her hand as she tried to gather her thoughts. Finally, she found the courage to look the kindly bishop in the face and ask the theological question whose answer would determine her future. “I know God will be with him,” she acknowledged, “but will God deliver him? If we pray harder than ever before, will God find a way to free Rex before they ship him away?”
Miltiades shook his head slowly. “God never stops loving us. Yet that doesn’t mean he always grants our heart’s desire.”
“I wish he would this time,” Flavia said sadly.
She closed her eyes and tucked her chin to her breast. “Please God,” she whispered in heartfelt prayer. “Please. Just do this thing for me. I’m desperate for Rex in my life.”
For a long time she could not speak. Bishop Miltiades waited quietly beside her, wordlessly offering the full riches of pastoral love. Although various thoughts and ideas swirled in Flavia’s mind, none would crystalize into a concrete utterance. Her emotions were too raw. She had just expressed her heart’s deepest longing. It was a request she couldn’t help but make. Yet something told her she needed to say more.
At last she looked up and met the bishop’s eyes. “Even if . . .” she started to say, then her courage faltered and her words tumbled away.
The bishop placed his hand over hers. “I know your heart, Lady Junia, and I know what you are about to say. God knows it too. Nevertheless, I encourage you to voice it aloud.”
Power came to Flavia then, a sudden strengthening that fell upon her like a divine anointing. It could only be the Holy Spirit, the Comforter of God, the white dove from on high. Finding her voice, she said, “Even if God takes this man from me . . .” Yet no sooner had she uttered those words than her strength evaporated again like morning dew and she couldn’t continue.
“Press on and speak,” Miltiades urged. “Search for your voice and send forth the truth.”
Flavia clutched the folds of her gown in her fists. “Even if God takes this man from me,” she repeated, “I will follow my Savior no matter what.”
“When you are conquered by Christ, you have to make hard choices and do hard things,” said the bishop. “Wise people learn it early. I declare you wise, my daughter.”
Flavia had no response, so Miltiades patted her hand and smiled gently. “Perhaps I may cheer you with some good news for a change.” He clapped his hands, and a deacon hurried over. “Send in the lady,” the bishop said.
A few moments later, Sophronia entered the sitting room. A cry of joy burst from Flavia’s lips, for she hadn’t seen her mother in many weeks. “You’re healed!” she cried, rising to offer an exuberant hug. “You look so good!”
“Careful,” Sophronia said,
easing away from Flavia’s embrace. “The wound is much better now, but it’s still mending.”
The deacon brought a third chair and a tray of light snacks. The threesome gathered around the small table with the food on it. “Mother, tell me everything,” Flavia said. “All I know is that you were sent someplace safe to recuperate.”
“I’ve been up in the mountains at a remote cottage. It was a quiet and restful place, away from watching eyes. It has taken me quite a while to come to terms with . . . that terrible day.”
Flavia nodded glumly. “I’m sorry you despaired to the point of death.”
“I did. I saw no way to avoid being violated by Maxentius. Death was preferable to me. However, God had other plans. God and Rex, actually.”
“So what happened?”
“I did try to stab my heart, but as Rex told me afterward, it is nearly impossible to accomplish such a thing. All I did was give myself a painful wound. But then everything changed. Rex was so confident and strong! He knew exactly what to do, then did it. He immediately had things under control. I knew I was in good hands.”
Flavia tried to utter a sigh, but it came out more like a shuddery whimper. Her mother glanced at her, and their eyes met. Sophronia winked at her daughter, giving her a tiny smile. The two of them shared an understanding that only women can know.
“Rex went straight to the medicine cart,” Sophronia continued when the moment had passed, “and mixed up a potion to deaden my senses. He learned all about poisons and drugs in his speculator school. I just let him take over. For some reason, I wasn’t worried at all after he arrived. He’s such a capable man.”
This time, Flavia didn’t even bother trying to hold back her lovesick whimper. Sophronia smiled knowingly again.
“After your mind went dark, did you feel anything?” Miltiades asked.
“Nothing at all. Rex broke off the blade and thrust it into the flesh of my bosom where it would harm no vital organs. Though it bled greatly and had the appearance of a dagger to my heart, it was just a superficial wound. As you know, the news of Maxentius’s death arrived then, so his men fled. I woke up sick and in pain, and immediately went into hiding.”
“Onesimus came to my house that night,” Miltiades explained to Flavia. “It was I who arranged to have your mother removed from the mansion in a coffin. We let the servants assume she had killed herself. Now the rumor has spread among the Christians that she preferred a noble death to being ravished by Maxentius. Only the three of us, and Rex, and Onesimus know the truth.”
“I am a woman with an open future,” Sophronia said, “because I no longer have a past.”
It took Flavia a few moments to comprehend the ramifications of this strange new reality. Over the past few months, she had become resigned to the fact that Neratius had moved to Sardinia to frolic with his fourteen-year-old bride. Normally that would leave his first wife as a disgraced divorcée. But the bishop’s quick thinking had opened up a different opportunity: Sophronia could start afresh. As far as wider society knew, she was dead. Therefore, if she wanted to, Sophronia could begin an entirely new life.
“What’s next?” Flavia asked, bewildered by the possibilities. “Do you intend to reveal yourself to everyone again?”
“I do not. Our mansion is being sold to the catholic church. After that, I intend to disappear.”
“To where?”
“There is a convent at Tauromenium in Sicilia. I have decided to take up holy orders there, living with the Christian sisters as a woman of prayer and celibacy.” Sophronia reached out and took Flavia by the hand. “And I ask you to consider joining me.”
What? Go to Sicilia? As a nun?
Flavia withdrew her hand from her mother’s grasp and ran her fingers through her hair. A jittery sensation had overtaken her. Terrified, she realized she was being asked to give up everything she had dreamed of since she was a little girl.
No! This can’t be right. What about my life here in Rome? What about the house I will share with Rex? Surely he will escape his sentence eventually! Then he will come back and find me! And then we’ll . . . we’ll—
“My dear Flavia,” Miltiades said with great tenderness. “This might be your best option. Please consider it. The man you love cannot be in your life. You have to find a way to go on.”
But . . . to be a nun means no husband! And no children! And of course, never having . . . ! Not ever!
“I don’t think I can do that,” Flavia said.
“What else is there?” asked the bishop.
And the answer was clear: nothing.
At that moment, Flavia felt it happen. She gasped aloud as her heart broke inside her breast. The pain of it was as intense as her mother’s stabbing must have been. It hurt deeply and completely, overwhelming her body with a tangible, visceral ache. The searing agony of her loss was like swallowing broken glass. Never again would Flavia be a carefree Roman girl with a happy dream.
Life was utterly different now.
“I am so sorry, my love,” Sophronia said quietly.
“We are here with you in this unimaginable suffering,” Miltiades added.
Flavia stood up, her motions listless, her body numb. A heavy weight seemed to rest on her shoulders. Yet despite the physical toll this terrible fate was taking, her mind had clarity of purpose.
She stared into the faces of these two beloved people: her pious, devoted mother and the kindly bishop who was now essentially her father. They looked back at her with nothing but compassion in their eyes. For a long time, no one said a word.
At last Sophronia broke the silence. “So, my daughter . . . will you go with me?”
Flavia exhaled a deep breath.
She raised her palms to heaven.
“Jesus is Lord,” she said.
APRIL 313
“Brother, it’s going to take twenty additional clergy to run a big mansion like this,” Bishop Miltiades said to his deacon, a capable man named Quintus. “Where are we going to put so many new men?”
“There will be room for them after we sell all of Pompeianus’s luxuries,” Quintus observed.
“Yes. Let’s do it quickly. And be sure to keep good records. I want all that money going to the poor, not to some dishonest servant who knows how to hide funds.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Quintus said with a bow.
Miltiades glanced around the palace’s reception hall. It was lavishly decorated with expensive statues and fine wall hangings. The palace’s former occupant, Prefect Ruricius Pompeianus, had been killed on the field of war at Verona. Yet in truth, the home hadn’t been his in the first place. It had belonged to Fausta, the sister of Maxentius and wife of Constantine. When Maxentius controlled Rome, his choice of occupant was the arrogant prefect. But now that Constantine was in charge, he preferred that the city’s bishop live there.
This is far too much luxury for me, Miltiades had decided immediately. We’ll sell off whatever we can, then find a better way to use this grand house for the purposes of God.
“Get rid of anything remotely pagan,” the bishop instructed. “In fact, anything lavish or prideful should be removed. Sell it all to the highest bidder. Use some of the proceeds to have a nice altar made, something suitable for the size of this hall. And keep those candlesticks”—Miltiades pointed to them—“because they’re beautiful, and we’ll want them in here during the sacred liturgies.”
Quintus’s face lit up, for he knew what the instructions meant. “You’re turning this reception hall into a church?”
“Yes. It will be the special church of the bishop of Rome.”
“Do you have a name for it, Your Holiness?”
“I think we can determine the exact dedication later. For now, we’ll just call it by the name of the neighborhood: the Lateran Church.”
“Since it is Christ who saved us from the treachery of Maxentius and Pompeianus, perhaps it can eventually be dedicated to Christ the Savior,” Quintus suggested.
Miltiades rub
bed the whiskers on his chin. “Not a bad idea.”
A thunderclap sounded outside, prompting the bishop to wander over to a window in the grand reception hall. A deluge was coming down, filling the cisterns of Rome with fresh, spring rain in anticipation of the dry season to come. Instead of a beautiful vista, a muddy field lay before Miltiades’s eyes, strewn with chunks of rubble and a few discarded pieces of equipment.
“Can you believe that?” Quintus marveled as he came to the bishop’s side. “Just a few months ago, that was a barracks full of troops. The New Camp, they used to call it! Now it’s completely gone. Not so new anymore.”
“Leveled to the ground by Constantine,” Miltiades said. “I suppose that’s a fitting punishment for opposing the rightful augustus in war. The Emperor’s Personal Cavalry is destroyed.”
“And so is the Praetorian Guard. I heard they were disbanded forever, and the men sent to the frontiers.”
“Emperor Constantine is generous to his friends and ruthless with his enemies. Anything in Rome connected with Maxentius is being blotted from public memory.”
“What will the augustus do with that empty land?”
A sly smile came to Miltiades’s lips. “I have requested that he give the deed to me, since the property is attached to my new palace.”
“Will he do it?”
“I think so. Constantine is in the mood to show gratitude to the church.”
“What will you use the land for? Gardens?”
“Perhaps. But I can imagine a day when a truly great church could be built on this site. A grand hall, as big as a civic basilica. Right here at the Lateran Palace.”
“A church the size of a basilica! Now that would be a church to remember through all the ages.”
“Let it be so, for your glory, Lord Jesus,” Miltiades prayed.
The palace doorkeeper approached the pair as they conversed by the window. Though the man had served Pompeianus, he was secretly a Christian, so Miltiades had decided to keep him on staff. He knew every detail about the inner workings of the great house.