Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  What had caught Ablabius’ attention was the position of Maxentius’ army. Something looked wrong to him, just as it had to the Emperor. “Their position is too close to the river. How will they regroup when we break through their forward lines?”

  “Yes!” the three others replied, almost in unison.

  Constantine followed quickly with orders. “Gaius, move your initial deployments up 50 cubits before they realize their mistake. Tiberus, make sure there are several hundred archers positioned within bow shot in case Maxentius considers moving toward our camp. Good eye, Ablabius.”

  “Maxentius isn’t the tactician his father was,” said Tiberus, as he hand signaled new orders to his archers. “But it’s unbelievable to me that there is such confusion. In the center of his army. Almost seems like a trap. Have we heard anything from our spies?”

  Gaius grunted a sort of laugh. “Spies. Of the three I trust most, two have been killed. And the one who’s left is having trouble getting to us.”

  Constantine watched the crowded middle of Maxentius’ front line. The soldiers were still moving restlessly, as if they sensed their poor position. “We need to move. Soon.”

  This was a civil war—and the lines, on all fronts, were complicated. Maxentius was Constantine’s brother-in-law. His father, Maximum, had been a good general and a friend of Constantine’s father. As a sign of allegiance, Maximum had given his daughter Fausta to Constantine in marriage.

  But Maximum’s desire for power was greater than any allegiance. A few years later, he took command of a division of the Roman army, telling the officers and soldiers that Constantine had died. The deception was easily proved and Maximum was arrested. Though he had been an able tactician on the battlefield, Maximum was not so sharp when it came to politics. With his time running out, he plotted to assassinate Constantine. And tried to involve Fausta. She chose loyalty to her husband over loyalty to her father and warned Constantine.

  Constantine was prepared to try his father-in-law before the Senate. But he offered the older man the option of suicide and keeping his family’s honor. Maximum accepted.

  Maxentius shared his father’s poor political instincts. He lived off of his father’s reputation, did little or nothing for his people and had never learned to be a soldier. As evidenced by the battlefield on which they were about to engage. The ablest Emperors had always been soldiers first.

  Constantine turned back to look at his battle armor, which the servants were polishing and preparing. Leading troops was simple, compared to politics. His position as Emperor was part of a complex power-sharing arrangement. Before he died, Emperor Galerius had named him Emperor of the Western Empire and two men—Licinius and Maximinus Deia—shared the title of Emperor of the Eastern Empire. But even this had left some Romans unhappy. Maxentius, consumed by jealousy, declared himself Emperor of the West. He vowed publicly to avenge his father’s death by killing Constantine.

  None of Constantine’s military advisors or soothsayers recommended a war with Maxentius. They advised Constantine to finish building his military in Gaul before marching to Rome and handling the usurper. Constantine would have none of that. He took a small army, crossed the Alps and beat the usurper’s units at various locations between the Alps and Rome—Sequsium, Turin, Brescia, the brutal battle at Verona, Alguileia, Modena and Ravenna. After each victory, Constantine forbade his soldiers to loot, pillage or rape. This was still the Empire. He said that accused rapists would be castrated. And his soldiers knew that he had enforced that penalty in the past.

  The march south from the Alps had done more for Constantine’s reputation than any victories he’d won in Gaul. After his rout of the usurper’s forces at Ravenna, he’d moved his small army slowly to the Milvian Bridge and the walls of Rome. This allowed time for fear and unrest to fester inside the city walls.

  He realized he’d been quiet for a long time. And his generals were still waiting for his final word. “Tiberus, I disagree with you. This isn’t a feint. We’ll follow our plan in a…straightforward way. I want your sagittari to concentrate just north of the Bridge, perhaps half your bows. Ablabius, after the archers exhaust five rounds, charge with a legion into the center. Spread your others through the flanks, but your center charge must be your best. As we have discussed, we must break them quickly.”

  He turned to Gaius: “We will start the assault with our three lines, but spread wider. We can’t have them flank us. Have all the Shields and Standards been painted with the CHI RHO?”

  “Yes!” the three generals answered together. They were getting ready to go.

  “Good. I look forward to reviewing them shortly.”

  “Dominus, clubs or swords for the equiti?” Ablabius asked. “Clubs were most effective in Turin.”

  “I like iron tipped clubs for the horseman. Along with their lances. The clubs have better weight against opposing riders. I think we should keep with all swords for the legionari. The swords are lighter. It appears from the size of Maxentius’ lines that we could be fighting for a long time, so lighter swords will be a benefit.” Constantine particularly liked the newer swords. They were lighter and sharper. “It is done. Let us get to advancing our lines.”

  Ablabius had one last question. “Dominus, should we employ our remaining molossus for the first assault?”

  Molossus were large, armed attack dogs, bred from earlier Roman military attack dogs with English Mastiffs from the Britannia campaigns. They wore spiked and sharpened collars and ankle rings and were trained to be vicious fighters.

  Constantine hesitated for a moment. “I think not. With the large field between our position and Maxentius’ lines, his sagittari will be deadly for the molossus. Plus, we have so few left. I doubt they would be effective.”

  Constantine walked to the edge of the plateau as his Dux left for the battlefield. Vibius and the other four palatini—Appius, Sevius, Titus and Quintus—surrounded him. “Dominus, do you plan to fight today?” asked Titus.

  “Only if needed,” Constantine answered.

  As he turned to walk down the ridge, Constantine nearly collided with Vibius. The Emperor was of above-average height and muscular but appeared small next to the African. Appius, from Northern Africa but of lighter skin, laughed. “Vibius, you wish to dance with the Emperor?”

  “No, Appius, he just wants to hold his hand,” joked Sevius.

  “Stultissima!” barked Vibius, using the feminine form of “you idiots” for effect. They all laughed. But stayed close to the Emperor.

  The sun’s rays were just beginning to strike the ceiling of Maxentius’ Great Room in his Lateran Estate in Rome. The former home of the Imperial Horse Guard, the Great Room was extravagant. Huge silver and gold candelabras and elaborate oil lamps illuminated it at night. There were leather-bound seats for hundreds. Thick tapestries with gold detailing covered the walls. The massive arches supported the high domed ceiling—high even by Rome’s standards. The Mesopotamians may have invented the arch, but the Romans had perfected the keystones necessary for such massive structures. In a corner of the Great Room, Maxentius sat on a cushioned purple and gold chair while many of his court mulled about, eating snacks of grains and fruit. He had summoned his soothsayer and his prophet. While he ate, he sought their counsel.

  “Seer,” Maxentius teethed, exaggerating the first letter of the title. “The gods have always been favorable to me, for which I am grateful. But what signs from nature portend the outcome of the battle today.”

  “The signs are all quite favorable, noble Augustus. Only the enemy of Rome will die in this battle. Today is the anniversary of your ascension to the throne. And the blood of our sacrifices by the river flowed toward Constantine. All of the entrails of the sacrificed animals had no abnormalities. Perfect in every way, obviously favoring your cause. In fact, I have bought the liver from one of the lambs, so you can clearly see the fullness of the lobes and brightness o
f the—”

  The Seer reached into a woolen sack by his feet for the bloody liver.

  “No, no! That is fine, Seer. I need not personally examine the lamb’s liver. Prophet, what do the Gods say the result will be in my battle with the bastard of Constantius?”

  “You will not be harmed in the battle and anyone that tries to harm you will be the one that suffers. The gods have aligned the stars so that they point to a stunning victory, as they were for your ascension, indicating the gods most certainly are in your favor.”

  Maxentius stood tall and turned dramatically, so everyone in the Great Room would notice. “Counsels!” Again, he exaggerated the first letter of the word. “It is my temptation to join the battle. I wish to watch the death of this child of a whore, who brutally murdered my father. Have you seen any omens that would caution me against such an appearance?”

  “None,” they both responded slowly, looking at each other. The question was a surprise that neither expected.

  His strategy in the past had been to wait out any siege within the walls of Rome. He had given every indication that this time he would do the same. He had stockpiled several months’ worth of grain and wine from Carthage. There would be enough food and drink for the entire city—well into the spring.

  But this time was different. He was not a popular Emperor and even he knew it. A self-centered man, he had no ability to walk and talk to the plebeians. In a recent event in the Coliseum, he had been jeered and taunted about his likely loss in the looming battle with Constantine. No one inside the City walls—or outside—expected this heavy-set man with no military background to face an experienced fighter on the battlefield.

  “I believe it will improve my stature within the City, for the citizens to witness me participating in the death of this rabid canine. And avenging my father’s death. Once we capture him, I will kill him with my own hands. I will talk to my Dux shortly.” It was a bold statement.

  Maxentius didn’t mention that his father had made a similar boast, years before.

  The usurper had some reason to be optimistic. Aside from an overwhelming manpower advantage, he had some skilled soldiers on his side—seasoned fighters who’d supported him when he’d declared himself Emperor, including his Praetorian Guard. And he had some good generals. Tiberius Aetius commanded his troops here in the city. Pompeianus had defeated forces loyal to Constantine in Carthage—which explained the current wealth of Carthaginian grain and wine.

  Of course, Constantine’s army had killed Pompeianus at Verona. But Maxentius was convinced that some subterfuge had been involved there. Perhaps the followers of the Nazarene had poisoned the Prefect prior to battle. There were many Christians in Verona and they were loyal to Constantine, as they had been to his father. Christians.

  Tiberius Aetius was standing to the side, looking concerned. This was a familiar thing. Whenever Maxentius planned to be on the battlefield, his generals worried. Maxentius tilted his head, inviting the general to speak. “Augustus, I am confident we will prevail today. Our forces are vastly more numerous, better trained and better rested. They are eager for the victory. I have no doubt that you would be a source of great encouragement on the battleground, but a battleground is a dangerous place to be. Even in full armor an errant spear can be—”

  “I’m well aware of such risks. My mind is made. I will cross the bridge mid-day and station myself above the fray. Don’t be worried, general. My Praetorian Guard will stand by me.”

  “Augustus—” The general wanted to explain that both the place and the time Maxentius mentioned were not optimal.

  “Enough!”

  The mid-morning sun was high in the sky but the air retained its chill. Constantine, gleaming in his Imperial battle armor, walked with his five bodyguards along the front of the lines of his legionari. He registered the temperature and thanked the gods. Heat could drain the energy of his troops—and they would need a lot of energy to overcome the number advantage of Maxentius’ side.

  He had instructed all shields to be turned toward the rear of the guard rather than toward the enemy, hiding what they had painted on them.

  Infantry fighters carried a lot of equipment. First, every infantryman got a shovel. When not fighting or practicing fighting, they were building something. Their fighting equipment consisted of two or three javelins, a shield, a sword, a large dagger and armor consisting of a breast plate, arm and leg pieces and helmet. The front line would often have lighter armor for freer movement.

  Typically, Constantine’s infantry attacked in three lines. Each line was staggered slightly, so that the enemy could see no open space between soldiers. The lines would tighten up as they approached, which made them seem even more like one, solid wall. The formation was like the herringbone pattern of brick or tile that made the best road surfaces.

  This formation’s method for killing was to use the javelins to incapacitate the enemy through their shields and then to stab at them using simple but powerful sword thrusts. After the front line had struck, the next line was prepared and intact.

  This formation had proved more flexible than the Greek phalanx formation made famous centuries earlier by Alexander the Great. The phalanx formation was vulnerable to breaching and flanking, the Roman formation allowed reinforcements to either breach or flanking maneuvers. It also allowed for an increased use of cavalry because it was a three man line. Relatively shallow with an ability to open and close the line quickly. Phalanx formations typically had many more lines, making them deeper and—again—less flexible.

  As a battle drew on and the formations deteriorated, the manner in which the soldiers used their swords changed. The discipline to remain in formation was strict but, inevitably, legionari needed to be trained to fight out of formation. And this meant more slashing than straight thrusts. Constantine admired the sword because it was, in his mind, the fairest form of combat—one on one, loser dies.

  Of course, shields could be offensive weapons as well as defensive. His army’s shields were built with sharp protrusions opposite the handle that could incapacitate enemies.

  As Constantine walked amidst his legions, he held his helmet in his left hand. His helmet was unique, only having a ridge where the colored horse hair plume was on most Roman helmets. The latest design. It was obvious he was close to his troops. When he came close, the younger soldiers would drop to their knees. The older ones would often shake his arm, each grabbing the other’s forearm above the wrist—a Roman handshake. Occasionally, an older soldier would hug him.

  All the while, Constantine looked relaxed and thankful to his men. Many had fought for him and his father. Many were Franks, who had a strong allegiance to him due to his family’s long rule in the North.

  Each of the soldiers had painted the first two letters of the Greek word for “Christ,” symbolizing the crucifixion of Christ, on their shields. Constantine made a point of looking at as many individual shields as he could. He’d had a dream on the road from Ravenna that he should fight under this Standard rather than his family standard. In his dream, a voice said, “with this sign, you will conquer.” The sign was a vexillum, a military banner standard, with the Greek letters CHI and RHO on it. With the CHI-RHO, the standard became known as the Labarum.

  The Nazarene’s teachings had struck a chord in Constantine. The concept of a single God made more sense to him than the multiple gods of the Roman history. Pagan gods had always seemed one dimensional and petty—like men and women. Of course, that may have been the point of pagan gods. If one’s interest was for personal improvement and insight, then one studied Greek philosophy of Socrates and Plato. To Constantine, Christianity fulfilled both needs—a noble God and a coherent philosophy of the meaning of life.

  His mother, Helena, had been responsible for introducing him to the teachings of the Nazarene. Constantine had been born in Naissus, Moesia, south of the Danube. His mother, a commoner and concubine
with Constantius, was a strong believer in the Nazarene’s lessons. And this faith had helped her maintain grace throughout the hardships in her life.

  Concubinage was legally accepted in the Empire. Roman law still gave preference to monogamous marriages. And even to divorce and remarriage. A man might divorce his wife to marry another woman of higher social status or having more child-bearing years. But a man— especially a young man with bright prospects—would not be inclined to marry a woman of lower social status. In that case, concubinage was an alternative. The downside was the concubine’s children might not be recognized as the man’s legal heirs.

  As a rising young officer, Constantius had been a young man with bright prospects. He’d met Helena, a waitress, during a temporary assignment in a provincial garrison town. Helena had always spoken well of Constantius, telling their son that they’d been wildly in love and that she’d been happy to be his concubine. In fact her father had strongly encouraged it!

  Constantius left her to marry the Emperor’s stepdaughter and to assume his expected place among the elite in the Capitol. Helena had raised Constantine through his early years.

  In time, his father summoned Constantine to finish his education and to serve in a number of military and court positions in Rome and Nicomedia. Constantius always spoke lovingly about Helena—but he said that he regretted she had never found someone else to share her life. Her rebuttal was she had found the Nazarene.

  When he served under his father’s command in Gaul and Britannia, Constantine had learned the importance of building goodwill from the conquered, strict morality and a constant dedication to improving his skills, both militarily and politically.

  And then Constantius died. At an early age.