Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  In relative terms, the government—especially the Roman Army—dwarfed other employers. Its expenses were massive. Without conquests, and the plunder that resulted, the Army couldn’t pay its soldiers. So the Empire expanded into new territories. The Army’s size required either that or taking the property of wealthy citizens. Or other Emperors.

  As they finished their meal, Quintus broke the silence.

  “Imperator, we need to discuss your protection.”

  “Yes, Imperator.” Sevius agreed. “We are too small a group to keep you alive. Yesterday was dangerous. Even if Vibius were still with us, we would need more guards.”

  “Appius. Titus. I assume you agree?” Constantine asked, making quick eye contact with each.

  “We do,” they responded—almost at the same time.

  “We discussed this last night, after you went to your tent,” Titus said. “There were a dozen times yesterday that I thought the surge of the Praetorian Guards would overpower us, Dominus. They recognized you and were clearly trying to kill you.”

  Appius interrupted: “Perhaps we need more traditional palatini. Perhaps some mounted sagittari, like the Persians use.”

  Constantine nodded while his guards spoke. Then he stood up and stretched his back. And his right knee. “I am not sure about the mounted archers. But you are all correct about yesterday. We will increase our numbers. I have been thinking about creating a special guard unit for the Labarum. Perhaps our new guards could come from that.” He stretched his neck—and then fixed his eyes on the main gate ahead of them. “Let us discuss it more after today’s events.”

  Appius stepped toward him. “Dominus, I believe strongly that we should use mounted sagittari. We have discussed this among ourselves many times. Vibius was for the idea. And I agreed with him.”

  “That is because you have no clue how the Army actually works,” Titus jeered. “We are as strong as our legionari are trained!”

  “Wars change,” Appius snapped. “And you, on your feet, are no match for a horse. Or an arrow.”

  “Enough!” laughed Constantine, to diffuse their anger. “I understand both of your points. If and when we face the Persians again, we will revisit this.”

  Gaius approached them from the mess area, his wide gait betraying his minor injuries from the day before. “Where have you four ghosts been hiding our Imperator?” the general demanded. “I had to ask the damn cook where you had him.”

  “I’m impressed, Gaius, that at your age you even remember who our Imperator is,” Appius said, still choleric from his exchange with Titus.

  “Mind your words, you little cricket. I remember many things. I remember when you were a runt of a soldier, just learning how to fight. And I may still snap your neck.” Gaius reached one of his huge arms toward Appius, who—even four feet away—still backed away slightly.

  All the palatini and most of the hastiliari (weapons instructors) had had to train with Gaius. He was an excellent but unforgiving teacher and almost impossible to beat in hand-to-hand combat. Even though he’d seen more than 50 summers. What he lacked in height, he made up with width. And his stout body showed the scars of innumerable wounds—some from training. He’d bellowed the same lesson to generations of soldiers and instructors: “Better that I beat you here in camp than an enemy beats you in the field.” If someone got bruised or cut in the exchange, so be it.

  Only Quintus and Sevius would spar with the old general these days. And Sevius warned anyone who would listen to stay away from his hands.

  “This is why I look forward to retiring. There are no men left in this Army,” Gaius said with mock dejection, as he looked at Appius.

  “I understand your pain, Gaius,” Constantine answered. “But, in retirement, you’ll become a bodyguard, too. You will protect my Mother.” Gaius was fiercely loyal to Constantine’s family and worshiped Helena.

  “I am undeserving of such a privilege.” Gaius said. “The reason I was looking for you, Dominus, is because we found Maxentius’ body at first light. It was wedged between the boat and the old bridge. What do you want us to do with it?” Gaius asked.

  Constantine thought for a moment, looking at the gate again.

  “Cut off his head and put it on a lance. I’ll carry it in the parade.”

  “I will get a medic’s saw,” Gaius suggested.

  “No.” Constantine cut him off quickly. “Hack it off with a sword. I don’t want it to look pretty. I want a reaction. I want Rome to see that he was killed as brutally as he ruled. And I want them to know that the same will happen to anyone else foolish enough to confront us.”

  “Consider it done, Dominus,” Gaius answered with enthusiasm. As he started to walk away he stopped and turned back to Constantine. “Dominus, we had a great victory yesterday. By the gods, I am grateful for it. But we suffered a tremendous loss. Vibius was one of the best soldiers I have ever seen. And I hate it now that I never told him how good he was.”

  “You speak for all of us, Gaius,” Constantine said. His guards nodded or murmured in agreement.

  “May he be blessed, wherever he is.” With that, Gaius headed back toward the river.

  Constantine knew that Gaius had meant to be encouraging. But, as he walked back to his tent with Quintus to put on his freshly cleaned armor for the parade, sadness swelled within him again. He did not look forward to the parade. Nor the meeting with the Senate. He said “too many people with their hands out,” and Quintus looked confused.

  Constantine nodded in the direction of the City walls. Then Quintus seemed to understand.

  An hour later, standing by his command tent, Constantine watched the formation of the legions assembling on the battlefield. They would cross the Milvian Bridge and enter Rome. Gaius’ engineers had repaired the damaged span of the original bridge with large wood girders. This would support the troops crossing—and they wouldn’t have to rely on Maxentius’ narrow makeshift bridge.

  He walked down to the battlefield and the near side of the formation, where Gaius had his chariot. Closer to the field, the smell of burning flesh was still strong. Dead bodies were still being fed to the funeral pyres. And the vultures of death had arrived, seemingly thousands of them, picking at anything edible on the battlefield. He stopped short of the chariot and called to Gaius, who was about ten cubits away standing with the other Dux. They seemed to be making fun of Ablabius, who was dressed in immaculate and polished armor and whose head didn’t have a hair out of place. A Greek.

  “Gaius, why did you choose this?” Constantine asked.

  “My apologies, Imperator. I assumed you would ride in it. Most other Emperors I have served preferred chariots for parades. Your father did.”

  Constantine didn’t say anything. He was thinking that there was something…Greek…about riding in the chariot in a parade.

  “But your horse is here, if you want to take him.”

  Before Constantine could reply, a centurion arrived on horseback with Maxentius’ head on the end of a lance. Gaius and Constantine looked at it and then at each other.

  “This is good, Gaius. And I think it will be even better if I am higher, so let’s take the horse. Plus, the horse was in the battle. He also deserves some recognition!” He ran his hand along the horse’s flank. It was wet. The horse was tired.

  “Yes, Imperator!” Gaius answered, grinning.

  Several buccinas sounded, and the legions started to move over the Milvian Bridge and toward the walls of Rome. The legionari marched first through the large gate, called Porta Flaminia, in the Aurelian Wall. They were followed by the sagittari then the equiti. Constantine, led by his generals and guards, was last to enter the City.

  The sound was a striking thing. Constantine heard the cheers—felt them, really—from outside, as the first soldiers marched into the City. It sounded like roar of lines charging in a heated battle. And it grew louder as ea
ch unit entered. By the time he and his generals passed through Porta Flaminia, the roar was almost deafening. He had to use hand signals to keep the Dux at an even pace.

  And those signals weren’t easy. He held the lance with his right arm, its butt resting between the two front posts of his saddle. And he tipped it forward a bit, so that people on all sides could see the usurper’s head.

  It was difficult to make out any single thing amidst the roar—but he heard a few words. “Jupiter.” “Hercules.” “The Macedonian.”

  Their route passed the original Circus Maximus and then turned north to the Coliseum. As they rode, Constantine became more relaxed. He waved with his free hand, in the manner that his mother had taught him when he’d been a small boy. Chin up. Look forward. Hand open, palm forward for all Romans to see.

  He showed no sign of his headache—which lingered, dully, at the back near his neck.

  The roar receded a bit, as they proceeded through the City. But it never died away. Wine was everywhere. They were drinking it in simple cups and fine chalices. Bowls. Gourds. And it wasn’t diluted. Full strength, fueling their adulation. How many barrels had they drunk? And how many had they spilled? There seemed as much wine on the ground as in their bellies.

  They slowed their pace as they passed the Coliseum. Constantine practically stopped. He made sure to sway the usurper’s head slowly from one side to the other, to allow ample viewing. The roar rose again.

  He allowed himself a slight smile. Some said speeches were politics. He didn’t agree—this was politics. He started toward the Senate Curia.

  The streets between the Coliseum and the Senate Curia were packed with people eager to see—and touch—Constantine. Initially, he didn’t mind Romans reaching out to his horse. Or his legs. But the crush of the crowd soon made moving difficult.

  Gaius followed his battlefield instincts and ordered a legion of soldiers to march in front of Constantine in wedge formation and part the crowd. This made it easier for the Emperor, his generals and bodyguards to pass. The procession stopped while the soldiers cleared the street to the Curia.

  Although the Senate was still an elected body, it was largely powerless. Ever since Mark Antony ordered the death of Cicero, over 300 years earlier, power had shifted to the Emperor. Constantine’s plan was to give some power back to the Senate. This plan didn’t follow from any great reverence for old men in gaudy tunics; it followed from his realization that he would need a bureaucracy supporting him—especially because he planned to spend little time in Rome.

  Like most soldiers, Constantine had no patience for bureaucracy. But one of his generals had a gift for working with politicians. Ablabius. The Greek. The man who’d tried so hard to kill Maxentius. In a room of politicians, Ablabius became a different man.

  And the other generals knew this. Outside the Coliseum, while they waited for the streets to be cleared, Constantine handed off the lance and cleaned Maxentius’ blood from his arm, he barked out orders to several centurions. “Have this paraded around the City while we meet with the Senate. Then deliver it to Carthage to remind them that I expect their loyalty.”

  Gaius said, “Ablabius, you used to live here. You know some of these Senators. Tell me, which will you sweet-talk? And which should I take care of with my sword?”

  Tiberus laughed. “You will need a lot of help, old friend. I’ve yet to meet a Roman politician who didn’t deserve the sharp end of your sword. It is a strange profession that lives off of empty promises!”

  “We need them,” Ablabius said. “They manage the purse strings. They pass the laws and preside as magistrates over trials. They are the gears by which this City—and the Empire—works.”

  Gaius almost hissed, “You could get the crossing sweepers that followed our horses today to do a better job than these anus cavus.”

  The Greek smiled at Gaius. “I didn’t say they did a good job. I said we need them. If we concentrate on the ten or twelve senators who have the most influence, the Emperor’s plans will go smoothly.”

  “The citizens will expect a lot of promises,” Constantine said. He’d cleaned most of the usurper’s blood from his arm and straightened his tunic to prepare to address the Senate. “They will want to hear about new public building projects—which is the tradition. But there’s more. They want a new money system. They want legal reform. The usurper acted like a tyrant. There are three things I must do to cure this wound. One: I will dissolve the Praetorian Guard and confiscate all of their property. This will be a popular change. Two: I will return property taken by the usurper to the rightful owners. Especially Christians. Three: I will decree religious freedom as law in the Western Empire.”

  “The Senate will agree to your points, Imperator. And quickly,” Ablabius said. “You have unlimited political power right now. But getting these things implemented may be more difficult.”

  “What do you suggest we do, Ablabius?”

  On Constantine’s hand signal, the procession started to march to the entrance of the Curia as the legionari opened its doors.

  Ablabius kept talking, paying no attention to the soldiers and cheering citizens all around them. “As I said, there are about a dozen senators who are the most influential. It is important that each of us spends some time with each of them. I will point them out while the Emperor is formally welcomed. Perhaps we should have dinner with these 12 influencers. They will be even more agreeable after several bottles of wine. Then, they will debate the points—and vote for them in a day or two. I will keep in touch with them to make sure the Senate votes…properly.”

  “What’s this dozen?’ Tiberus asked, frustrated. “I thought there were over a thousand senators.”

  “Diocletian cut their number to about 600. And there are usually only about 200 active. Of course, we’ll probably see more than that today because all of them want something from Constantine. The important thing, Imperator, is that you don’t engage in any political debate. Greet them in a friendly way—ask about their wives or children. But don’t discuss proposals or ask them for their support. Let us do that. Such details are beneath you.” The Greek was becoming a bit self-impressed.

  “We’ve introduced Senate bills before.” Constantine mockingly stated, looking over to Quintus, whose only reaction was to raise an eyebrow. Then the Emperor said, “But we will follow your lead, Ablabius. And I have asked Ossius to join us. To help persuade the Senate on the religious issues. Those old men have a history of patronage to pagans. There is probably a good amount of money changing hands in those matters. Now there will be…less of that. And the owners of those hands may be unhappy.”

  As they headed into the Curia, Constantine looked around and caught a quick glimpse of Maxentius’ head on the lance. He had a fleeting thought. Would his wife, Fausta, blame him for the deaths of her father and—now—her brother, too? Probably not. Unlike many aristocratic women, she’d always been a loyal wife. He couldn’t see her turning against him.

  The Senate meeting went smoothly. The Greek’s strategy of isolating and engaging the influencers worked. The project that was most important to the Senate was a substantial increase in the size of the Circus Maximus. It would be costly. But it would make an impression on the City and the citizens. Constantine agreed to support the project. The Senate also approved a commemorative Arch of Constantine to be built facing the statue of Sol Invictus, the relatively recent incarnation of an all-powerful pagan sun god. This version was a patron of soldiers, so the association made sense. Constantine accepted the honor with humility. He had never been comfortable receiving accolades like this—but he had learned to tolerate them, as an important ritual.

  It was also resolved that new coins would have Constantine’s profile against a background of Sol Invictus’ aura, a halo.

  The Senate also passed Constantine’s religious freedom proclamation, though this matter involved some debate. Quite a few of the old me
n still were distrustful of followers of the Nazarene. Constantine agreed to declare, with Senate approval, that once a week there would be day honoring Sol Invictus when no one but farmers would work.

  The Senate seemed relieved that he didn’t make demands or act like a victorious tyrant. He’d never been that kind of winner or Emperor. His father had taught him to treat people kindly. That made it easier to incorporate them into his forces.

  After an extravagant dinner with his generals and several of the influential Senators, Constantine and his company walked the short distance to the Lateran Estate where the usurper had been living. It would now be his palace when he was in Rome.

  Adiutor Aelius, the chief of his domestic staff had spent the day removing Maxentius’ more extravagant furnishings and preparing the palace in the simpler manner that Constantine preferred.

  A company of legionari had been waiting outside of the banquet rooms where the Emperor and senators had dined. The soldiers shuffled into formation, surrounding Constantine, his generals and his bodyguards. Amidst the soldiers, the generals and bodyguards formed a smaller circle around Constantine and Ossius— who walked together.

  “Ossius, are you satisfied with the proclamation?” asked Ablabius, walking a step ahead of the Emperor and the priest.

  “I am satisfied with the words, Ablabius. My sense of the Senators is that they believe this is just one of those idiosyncrasies of the latest leader. And that it, too, shall pass.”

  Constantine cut in: “That would be their mistake.”

  “Lack of faith is human nature, Imperator,” Ossius said. “Only time will show them the power of our Lord. Of course, one would expect that, after three centuries of persecuting Christ’s followers, the Senate would give more credit to the tenacity of His message.”

  They walked for a few paces and then Ablabius asked another question: “Would it have helped to have Pope Miltiades or perhaps Sylvester—his Presbyter—at the Senate today? I don’t know the Pope but Sylvester is a great priest. A persuasive man. He baptized me.”