Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  After reviewing the legionari, Constantine reviewed the sagittari. He was less familiar with the archers; but, to them, Vibius and Appius were like demigods—so all the Emperor had to do was let the bodyguards speak and nod approvingly. He was back in his element when they moved on to the equiti. He inspected their shields closely, compared the club to the long sword and promised to share wine after the battle. This was important. Constantine had increased the number of his equiti to over twenty percent of his army.

  Following at a distance and talking quietly with the troops was Ossius of Cordova, a Christian Bishop, dressed in a full-length undyed wool tunic and a small wooden cross hanging from his neck. Constantine had met this priest years earlier in Diocletian’s court in Nicomedia, where Ossius had come to plead the case against persecution.

  After the troop review, Constantine walked toward his command tent on the outside of the encampment. He looked directly up in the sky. The sun was at its peak and the temperature was just right. It was going to be a fine day for battle.

  Constantine’s officers signaled that the troops were ready to attack. Maxentius’ long line of troops was mirrored by Constantine’s. The archers were nestled in with the third row of foot soldiers—for protection of their shields and to allow the fastest return volleys of arrows.

  The Dux were uneasy that Maxentius had not attacked yet. Each was eager to get the advantage of the first blood. But neither side was striking first. Constantine’s army was waiting for his command. Combat medics were placed were they would be most active, behind the center of the lines.

  As they’d agreed the night before, Constantine remained by his command tent with his palatini and their horses nearby. Also nearby was the trumpeter, waiting to sound the buccina and start the battle. Constantine watched. And Ossius approached. “Imperator Constantine, my friend, may God be with you.” He placed his hand on Constantine’s shoulder. Ossius was one of the few people close enough to the Emperor—other than his troops—to touch him.

  “Thank you, Ossius. Thank you.”

  Constantine waved his hand to the trumpeter. As the buccina sounded, the recently-painted shields turned to face the long line of Maxentius’ troops. The Standard Bearers unfolded their vexilla, all displaying the Labarum—with their CHI RHO—above the purple standard of an outline of Constantine’s profile.

  An anxious buzz rose from Maxentius’ troops. Soldiers were superstitious—and many were wondering whether these were the same vexilla that Pompeianus had faced in Verona. Before he died. Was he strangled and stabbed at the same time, in battle? And their other comrades, at Turin and Modena, did they see this vexilla? Before they were routed. Were these signs why Constantine was invincible?

  While the buzz was still rising, Tiberus’ archers let loose their first volley. The sound was almost musical, like the bass tone of a stringed instrument followed by the whistle of the arrows rushing through the air. The end note was either the metallic ping on a shield or a dull thump in human flesh. Then, a chorus of pain.

  Tiberus had ordered three volleys before the other side’s sagittari returned their first. The legionari shields faced the sky in unison, as the sheet of arrows descended. On their side, there were many pings and few thumps. Quickly, Tiberus ordered the fourth volley. And, for the first time, Constantine’s troops started to move, leaving three large lanes in their center for Ablabius’ equiti.

  The lanes forced the legionari into a “V” formation, which would fill in as the last horse charged by. Another wave of arrows descended from both sides. As Ablabius’ equiti started their charge through the troops, Maxentius’ archers would not have an opportunity for another volley for fear of hitting their own equiti—which had also started their charge.

  As his horse was gaining stride, Ablabius saw a purple standard crossing the wooden barges next to the Milvian Bridge. His adrenaline turned to anger. The only two people that could have a purple Vexillum were Constantine and Maxentius—and he had just saluted Constantine a moment ago. This was his opportunity.

  To Ablabius, Maxentius was a pig and coward. When Galerius— who’d been one of the Emperors of the Tetrarchy before his death a year before—had challenged Maxentius with a siege on Rome, Maxentius refused to fight. As a result, Galerius had raped and pillaged the surrounding towns—including Ablabius’ home. His wife and parents, who’d recently moved from Crete, died in the chaos.

  Constantine saw the purple vexillum being held across the bridge at the same time his cavalry general did. But Constantine also noticed the standard of the Praetorian Guard beneath the purple. Tiberus’ warning about a tactical feint came back to him. Behind Maxentius were thousands of elite fighters waiting to cross the floating bridge. Praetorian Guards had originally been bodyguards for the early Emperors. Over time, they’d become strong enough—and politically powerful enough—to choose their own Emperors. They’d virtually controlled the Empire for decades, mixing an iron-fisted police force, a domestic spy network and a signature political viciousness. Most ordinary Roman citizens detested the Praetorians. But the Emperor had a more diplomatic relationship with them. Maxentius kept an uneasy partnership with the Praetorians by paying them off. He’d pledged that a large percentage of all stamped gold coins would continue to flow into their coffers. And he’d struggled to keep that pledge. But the Praetorians realized that Constantine would not be their ally—and would likely outlaw them—if he gained control of Rome.

  Constantine set off toward his horse.

  “Imperator, please!” stumbled Titus. “The battle is yet to begin. Let us at least observe its engagement before you change your plans.”

  Constantine stopped, about halfway to his horse, and turned back toward the battle. “Yes, Titus. Observe. Thank you. I’ll be patient and see how it takes shape.”

  Maxentius approached a tree to the right of the Bridge. Ablabius was riding toward him, too far in front of his own men. His pace should have been measured until he was closer to the enemy, giving time for the legionari to close. Ablabius wanted to kill Maxentius. But his bloodlust made him vulnerable.

  As if he had heard Constantine’s worries, Ablabius slowed enough that his equiti caught up to him. “Good. Good, my friend. Not so angry. Let the battle take shape.”

  Normally, Ablabius would fall back several lengths to avoid the worst of the initial impact with the enemy’s riders. But, this time, he remained in the middle of the lead horses. He was intent on getting to the purple standard. He drew a javelin, brought it back and—in time with his horse’s hooves—hurled it forward. The throw was true. Before Maxentius’ cavalry lieutenant could raise his lance, the javelin pierced his horse’s chest. In an instant, the horse was on the ground and the lieutenant’s life was ending under hundreds of hooves.

  Ablabius used his second javelin to deflect an incoming spear, something he had done only once before. He reached for his last javelin. Again, in time with the gallop, he threw his third javelin— this time, into one of the enemy equiti instead of the horse. Immediately, Ablabius grabbed the club he’d been holding with one of his legs and knocked another of Maxentius’ riders two cubits out of his saddle.

  Constantine knew why Ablabius was enraged. Most of the army knew the story, as well. No one would have stopped the Greek from seeking vengeance for his family. But Constantine was pleased that Ablabius seemed to be letting his mind command his heart. The legionari were now directly behind him. That was the right tactical position. Everything was now in sync.

  Because the equiti had charged so hard, they’d broken through the third line of Maxentius’ infantry. This was an early advantage for Constantine’s army. But reinforcements from the Praetorian Guard were pouring over the makeshift bridge. They were effectively stabilizing the breach.

  As the battle settled into hand to hand combat, Gaius’ lines remained intact. They were taking ground, foot by foot. Constantine sighed. This was good—but his troops
needed to move faster to have a true rout. With Praetorians still coming over the bridge, the middle could stall. Plus, the riders’ arms had to be burning from the weight of those heavier clubs. He quickly checked the west and east flanks. They looked secure. Both sides seemed to know that this battle was going to be won in the center.

  Suddenly, Ablabius’ horse dropped. That was enough. Faster than his bodyguards, Constantine was on his horse and charging toward where he’d last seen Ablabius.

  From the roar of the hand-to-hand combat, Gaius also saw Ablabius fall. But he was too far away—150 cubits or more—and facing the wrong direction to reach the rider quickly. Tiberus was closer to Ablabius; but not close enough. Constantine was across the battlefield in a moment. Vibius had caught up and, in fact, was slightly ahead. Appius, Titus, Sevius and Quintus were close behind. His standard bearer with the Labarum was far behind.

  Constantine could see that Ablabius was still alive. The Greek had taken up his longer cavalry sword and, with several of Gaius’ legionari, was fending off a steady stream of enemy foot soldiers. That stream was being fed by new fighters coming across the bridge.

  Gaius was positioning himself in front of the bridge with several units of his best fighters to shut off the flow of Praetorians. They were making headway—but weren’t there yet.

  In the meantime, Ablabius and the handful of legionari fighting with him needed help.

  Something whizzed by Constantine’s head. A javelin? An arrow? He couldn’t tell—but he realized that, on his horse, he was too tall and made an easy target for the emerging Praetorian Guards. He had about 50 cubits of human carnage to pass to get to where he could help Ablabius. Riding there would be slow and he would be too vulnerable, so Constantine launched himself off of his saddle and aimed for the largest Praetorian in front of him. The Guard raised his sword and quickly stepped to the side—and Constantine hit him with a glancing blow instead of direct hit. The Emperor tumbled to the ground for a second and sprang up to continue his attack. But the big Praetorian was already dead and falling to the ground, a javelin stuck deep in his chest.

  Vibius had thrown with such force that the javelin had pierced the Praetorian’s shield and armor as if it were a child’s tin toy. Constantine cursed Vibius for throwing so close—but, really, for killing the enemy first. Vibius smiled.

  The other bodyguards arrived within seconds and immediately all six fought in unison. They moved with an almost fluid precision, like a wave of death washing over the enemy legionari. Bodies and parts of bodies sprayed blood, up and down. Many of Maxentius’ soldiers—slow to move or with their backs to Constantine’s onslaught—lost their arms, when they raised to strike but hesitated for even a heartbeat. Constantine’s standard bearer struggled to keep up, climbing over horses and bodies. The noise was deafening. Screams, horses, metal hitting metal, metal hitting muscle, warnings, orders, pain, death. All louder than any sporting event, mixed with the unmistakable sound of pain. Almost no one on the battlefield heard it.

  Within minutes, they had reached Ablabius.

  The Greek acknowledged them with a brief bow of the head—and then quickly returned to his goal, less than three hundred cubits away: Maxentius’ purple standard.

  Everyone was aware of Constantine’s vexillum. The Praetorian Guards were streaming from the bridge toward Constantine, trying to press to a position where one might deliver a fatal blow. But Gaius’ legionari were blocking the way with swords and lances.

  In many places, Gaius’ lines were still in formation—keeping them extremely effective. Gaius was trying to move these lines toward the Bridge, where they could stop the flow of Praetorian Guards. Constantine and his bodyguards were advancing toward Maxentius’ purple standard. They were some two hundred cubits away but moving steadily. Suddenly, Ablabius—still slightly ahead of the others—screamed a warning. Maxentius’ standard had started to move back toward the Bridge. He was retreating.

  Ablabius turned to match the usurper’s new direction. But the angle didn’t favor pursuit. There was too much fighting in the way. Constantine screamed, “Stop! Stand down, Ablabius.”

  Overcome with exhaustion and the realization that he wasn’t going to reach the coward who he blamed for the death of his family, Ablabius fell back, to his knees.

  With Maxentius’ retreat, the tenor of the battle started to change. By the time the usurper approached the Bridge, the lines of his legionari had begun to crumble.

  Constantine and his guards surrounded Ablabius as the Greek fell in behind them. The rout was on. Maxentius’ legionari had begun to withdraw to the water where they didn’t have enough space to regroup properly. The main parts of Gaius’ lines were close behind and pressing. Thousands of the usurper’s men were soon to have no choice but to jump into the deepest part of the Tiber. Others were already dropping their weapons and begging for their lives, which were seldom granted.

  Space cleared around Constantine’s unit, as the fighting around them waned. Ablabius was still distraught, muttering curses at himself and the gods. Constantine saw this and tried to assure him: “My friend, we have tomorrow—for you have lived today. When we capture the usurper, he will be yours.”

  “Thank you, Imperator.” And he turned to the others, “Thank you all….”

  The others were watching Vibius, who had picked up a bow. Maxentius was near the midway point of the makeshift bridge— slightly more than a two hundred cubits away. The shot would test the accuracy of a very good archer, but it was possible. Vibius quickly chose the best arrow from a fallen archer’s quiver. In one motion he tested the tension of the string and loaded the arrow. Then he arched his entire body to account for the trajectory and released.

  Midway through the arrow’s flight, Vibius said, “It will be short, by a couple of hands.”

  He was right. The arrow was short of the usurper’s head. But it was not short of the usurper’s horse. Half a pes of iron, wood and feathers lodged deep into its haunch. The horse reared to a nearly vertical position on the less-than-stable bridge and fell to its side, throwing itself and Maxentius into the Tiber.

  The soldiers screamed with joy. But kept watching. The Praetorian Guards at the side of the Bridge pulled the wounded horse from the water and led it away. But they didn’t see the usurper—or any other man—climb out of the water.

  “No one swims in full armor,” said Gaius, walking up them. His large chest was still heaving, his body and armor were covered with the enemy’s blood. He’d seen the shot. “Vibius, I want you with me when I am being pulled into the depths of Hades!”

  There was still some fighting going on around the near side of the Bridge. But it was dying down quickly. Constantine watched for a few more minutes then decided to go back to the command tent ahead of the Centurions. They would be reporting back with estimates of the casualties—and questions about when Constantine planned to enter Rome.

  “Gaius, when you’ve gathered your breath, go down to the Bridge and retrieve Maxentius’ body. I want to be sure that that fish didn’t get away. And make sure no glory-seekers decide to come back across.”

  “By your order, Imperator.”

  Constantine signaled that the horns sound to order reassembly of the legions for headcount. He sent his standard bearer holding the Labarum ahead to the command tent, so the centurions would know where to report.

  As his bodyguards gathered their horses, Constantine bent over to draw in the dirt a sketch of how he felt the army should march into Rome.

  Fifty cubits away, on a small hill, one of Maxentius’ archers shook his head as he awoke. He’d been hit by a club and his leg had been broken by a charging horse. Part of shin bone was exposed. His head and leg both throbbed terribly—but he was alive. As he looked around, he saw mostly bodies. Men and horses. He sat up a bit, against a dead horse. There was a Christian priest nearby. Some medics were farther away. And there was a group of Consta
ntine’s soldiers beyond that. One of them looked important, perhaps a dux. His armor was finer, but bloody. He was kneeling, drawing in the dirt. He couldn’t be too important, though, because there was no standard bearer and his helmet didn’t have a dark red or purple plume. Next to the kneeling one was a large black sagittari, holding a bow.

  The archer knew he was likely to die—either from his wounds or his captors. He had no way to escape. So he would shoot the dux and receive the glory of Apollo. He had two arrows left. He slowly pulled his bow up to his midsection.

  Constantine finished his explanation and stood up, forcing the ever-too-close Vibius to step back.

  As the archer pulled back his arrow in the bow, Vibius caught the motion he recognized immediately from the corner of his eye. In a flash, Vibius was in front of Constantine—and pushing the Emperor to the ground.

  The arrow hit Vibius below the shoulder blade and came out a half a pes from the center of his chest.

  Constantine sprang up, running towards the archer, screaming obscenities.

  The archer reached for his other arrow, bungling it slightly. He was disappointed that he’d shot a fellow African and surprised to see the Priest running toward him to his side. By the time he looked forward again, his time was over. The dux was upon him.

  Constantine grabbed the archer by his chest armor, picked him up and threw him against a nearby rock, screaming at him the whole time. The archer made a sickening moan and rolled to the ground. Ablabius and Quintus took turns beating him and then dragged him back to where Vibius lay.

  Constantine was already back, next to his fallen guard. “Vibius! Vibius, my brother. Talk to me!”

  Vibius’ eyes opened for an instant and he said calmly, “Owed to you, Imperator. Owed to you.” His eyes shut and he was gone.

  Constantine cried like he hadn’t since he’d been a child. As the tears poured down his cheeks, he made the sign of the cross over the guard’s body, as he’d seen Ossius do so many times.