Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  Crispus was the first to suggest a retreat. “Thestor! I think we should retreat to the west side of the strait. This wind is brutal.”

  Thestor thought for a minute and then yelled back. “I agree, Caesar. We should be able to row against the wind. It will be very difficult. Thank God we are in small ships.”

  The horns sounded—but some of the ships had started turning already. As if in unison, the fleets disengaged. And the dark clouds approached more quickly. They brought a collapsing wall of howling wind, rough waves and pounding rain. Amandus’ triremes suffered the worst effects. Their larger hulls began to act as sails and, regardless of the power the oarsmen put into their oars, the big ships were pushed in the direction of the wind.

  Because of their smaller size and lower profile, Crispus’ ships made slow headway toward the west side of the strait. Still, the oarsmen were struggling. Thestor ordered the marines and sagittari to help. Soon everyone was at an oar with the exception of the helmsman.

  Within an hour of the storm striking, Crispus’ fleet was halfway to the western shore. Amandus’ fleet was losing its battle with the wind. One by one, his ships were driven onto the rocks on the Eastern shore.

  Two hours later, the storm had passed as quickly as it had come. All but four of Amandus’ ships had been thrashed onto the shore of the east side of the Hellespont. His flagship was one of the many wrecked. He’d had to swim to the rocky shore.

  In two days, Licinius’ fleet had lost 196 ships. A crushing defeat.

  Byzantium, Greece

  July 24, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  From the top of a wooden bulwark overlooking the besieged city of Byzantium, Constantine watched Licinius’ forces scurrying about the banks of the Bosporus. They’d scrounged together every old ship in Licinius’ fleet to ferry soldiers, horses and armaments across the strait to the Asian side.

  They were trying to reposition—and retreat—before Crispus’ fleet arrived, sometime in the next day or so.

  Constantine was frustrated. He knew there was nothing he could do. Although his catapults were ready, they couldn’t reach the ships in the strait. Bombarding the city would only harm the residents— which was pointless. They would surrender in a few hours. Storming the gates was a possibility; he’d be in Byzantium sooner. But his spies told him that Licinius had abandoned the city earlier that morning.

  He’d been one of the first across the Bosporus.

  As he expected, the city’s residents opened their gates that afternoon. They were celebrating, joyous that Byzantium had been spared. And infatuated that the living god was now their Emperor.

  Constantine walked with a slight limp through the city, toward the water of the Bosporus. Ablabius and his bodyguards formed a loose cordon around him. When an arrogant-looking man tried to approach the Emperor, that cordon snapped tight—and the palatini drew their weapons.

  The man’s demeanor changed immediately from haughty to frightened. He raised his hands above his head and waved one that was holding a scroll. Ablabius recognized the man and whispered to Constantine, “Shipping merchant. Very wealthy. Turns with the wind. But he’s a Christian.”

  Constantine nodded to Ablabius, who barked out an order. “Let him approach.”

  “Great Imperator, I invite you to use my villa. If you would like a comfortable place to stay.”

  Constantine made eye contact with the merchant “Thank you, friend. I may do that.”

  “Licinius left this letter. It’s for you”

  “Thank you.” Constantine broke the seal and started to read the contents of the scroll. He shook his head. In a voice only heard by his palatini he whispered, “Poison.” And he started walking again toward the Bosporus.

  As they approached the wharf that had been so busy earlier that day, Constantine—still holding Licinius’ scroll—the Christian and Ablabius started to get ahead of his palatini. They’d quickened their pace, wanting to see the other side of the Bosporus before night settled in.

  Near the wharf, two men approached Constantine—one on either side. Subtly, Appius and Titus moved toward one; Quintus and Sevius moved toward the other. The other palatini stepped around Constantine just as the two men drew daggers and lunged at the Emperor. The bodyguards pushed the Christian merchant toward one attacker and Ablabius toward the other.

  In a movement almost too fast to see, Appius and Titus both drew their daggers and stabbed the first attacker. They held him up for a second, blunting his momentum, and then let him fall to the ground. His last words were a hissing curse.

  Quintus and Sevius knocked the other attacker to the ground, kicking the dagger out of his hand and slamming his face on one of the street’s cobblestones. Quintus grabbed the man’s head by its hair and slammed it back on the stone, to make sure the attacker was disabled.

  All four senior guards looked back at Constantine, who’d barely moved. He looked at the surviving attacker and made a gesture with his head. Quintus and Sevius raised the man up to his feet, though he couldn’t really stand. He mumbled something incoherent that included the word “bastard.”

  Constantine looked at Quintus and said ‘Kill him’

  Ablabius quickly put his hand up and turned to Constantine, whispering something to him. Constantine, obviously vexed and angry, repeated with vigor ‘Kill him.’

  Ablabius again whispered something and Constantine slowly shook his head in agreement as his anger cooled.

  A crowd of onlookers was gathering. Constantine walked toward the attacker, whose face was bleeding profusely.

  “Tell me, captive, what have I done to get this kind of a reception?”

  “Roman. Die,” the man mumbled.

  “Do I hear a…Syrian…accent?” Constantine asked.

  “Dog. Bastard. You hear nothing.”

  “Who paid you to kill me?” Constantine asked.

  “All of them.” And he tried to laugh. Quintus drew his knife to the Syrian’s neck. But Constantine shook his head.

  “If I promised you a chance of freedom, would you answer my questions?” Constantine asked.

  “You’ll never give me freedom.”

  “I said I would give you a chance for freedom. In order to earn that chance, you need to tell me who you are. Who this was,” he pointed to the dead man. “And who sent you.”

  “What chance?” The attacker asked, his head clearing.

  “You’ll fight one of the men holding you. If you win, you are free to go.”

  “What weapons?”

  “Swords.”

  “Shields?”

  “Yes, you can use a shield. Are you a soldier?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, do we have an agreement?” Constantine asked.

  “If I can fight the small one.”

  Sevius bristled at the reference. Quintus and he were the best swordfighters in the palatini company. He was slightly shorter than Quintus—but the real difference was that he was not as muscular. He was however, notoriously fast.

  “All right. Who are you?”

  “Where are my weapons?”

  “You have my word you will get them after you answer my questions,” Constantine sounded like a schoolteacher who was losing his patience.

  “My name is Ashar. That’s my brother, Domara. We are soldiers of the true Emperor’s army. And we know about you. Your atrocities, back to your invasion of Italy. You are the bastard usurper. You worship a false god. No one paid us. We would kill you only for glory.”

  “So, they didn’t pay you. But is either Licinius or Sextus aware of what you’re doing?” Constantine asked.

  “I don’t know or care. Sextus is close to our centurion. Now give me the weapons, so I can kill this man and go free.”

  Constantine nodded. Quintus and Sevius let the Syrian go. He staggered a bit but gained solid footing. He wiped the blood f
rom his face, up into his hair.

  Ablabius told one of the soldiers in the growing crowd to give the Syrian his sword and shield.

  “Ablabius, may I use your longer cavalry sword?” Sevius asked.

  “Of course.” Ablabius answered, handing his sword to Sevius. “I just cleaned and sharpened it this morning.”

  “I was counting on that, my meticulous friend.”

  “Do you want my shield, Sevius?” Appius asked.

  “No. Thank you, though,” Sevius responded.

  As the two squared off, the palatini formed a circle around them. A crowd now stood outside the circle, watching intently. Byzantium has just lived through a siege—but few citizens had seen any actual fighting. This would stand in for what they’d only heard about before.

  The Syrian grasped his shield with one hand and sword with the other. Standard legionari battle stance.

  Sevius stood in front of him, holding Ablabius’ sword in his right hand and a small dagger in his left.

  Appius turned to Titus and whispered: “The Syrian will be dead in one minute.”

  He overestimated.

  The Syrian made the first move, using his shield as a battering ram and jabbing at Sevius. Sevius easily moved aside and, using his sword, hit the rim of the Syrian’s shield—causing the Syrian to turn slightly and leaving his side vulnerable. Sevius made a lightning fast slash with the dagger, down the length of the Syrian’s torso. It wasn’t a deep slash—nor was it meant to be. But it was bloody. The Syrian glanced down at his wound, his shield dropping slightly. Sevius dropped his dagger to the ground. The Syrian looked down at it. He was confused. He then looked up. The last thing he saw was the flash of Ablabius’ sword coming toward him. He had no time even to flinch. His head was quickly separated from his body.

  The crowd cheered wildly. The Christian merchant gagged. Sevius bowed to Constantine and then reached into his tunic for a piece of cloth to clean Ablabius’ sword.

  Constantine nodded back to Sevius, “Very well done Sevius. Very fast with no wasted effort.” Then, he turned to Ablabius, “Have a couple of your legionari emasculate both Syrians. Put their genitals in jars and send them to Licinius and Sextus. With a note that they are next. We need to communicate with these people in terms they understand.”

  In the next couple of minutes, while the crowd was still lingering and Constantine remained by the wharf talking with some city leaders, two soldiers appeared with a cart. Loading the dead brothers onto the wooden panel that was the rear gate of the cart, they lifted the tunics, cut off their loincloths and castrated them. Then they had a grim-humor contest to see who could throw the genitals into the earthen jars from farther away.

  The Christian merchant, looking over Constantine’s shoulder at the contest, had to bend over next to the cobblestone street and gagged again.

  Byzantium, Greece

  July 26, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  Constantine, Ablabius, Crispus and all of the Emperor’s senior commanders were in the sizable sitting room of the Christian merchant’s villa. They were standing around a table with a large map of the local area. All had read Licinius’ latest letter with a weak appeal to end the hostilities—a rambling list of territories, waterways and residences he would control. The scroll was on top of the map.

  “How will you respond to this latest fantasy, Dominus?” asked Ablabius

  Constantine smirked. “I think we responded appropriately last night. We all know the letter’s purpose is to give him time to rebuild his army. The question is how we get across the Bosporus in a reasonable time in order to defeat him once and for all.” He picked up Licinius’ scroll and drew an imaginary line on the map where the Bosporus separated Byzantium from Asia.

  “Does he still have Sextus in Lamseki?” asked Tiberus.

  “Our latest report confirms he’s still there. But that information is two days old,” Ablabius answered.

  “Has Licinius joined him there?” Tiberus continued.

  “Not that we know of. We know the soldiers he had here are now in Chacedon, directly across the Bosporus from where we are right now,” Ablabius pointed to that spot on the map. “And we know the Goths are headed there.”

  Crispus observed: “Looks like he’s stationed troops at the points where he believes we’re most likely to cross.”

  “Exactly. Which is why we’re not going to cross in either of those locations. The best crossing will either be somewhere north of the straits,” Constantine pointed the scroll in that general direction. “Or on the south shore of the Black Sea.”

  “Ugh. That shore is steep and rocky,” groaned Marcus.

  “How will we transport the troops?” Crispus asked. “The liburnians have too much draft for that area. And our closest true transports are in Thessalonica. Not that it matters. They’d be too large, too.”

  Constantine scowled at the map. “Crispus, you and Marcus scout that shoreline for the best location. Ablabius, work with your carpenters to build as many transport barges as you can.”

  “How much time do we have, Dominus?”

  “I’d like to know our landing location in a week. And have all the transport barges in a month.”

  “A month? I’m not sure we will have enough barges by then, Dominus,” said Ablabius.

  “So be it. We’ll get started and delay later if necessary. Giving Licinius more time only helps him. The Goths will be with him in a week or so. And we know he’s offering big bonuses to anyone signs on for this battle. He’ll be watching the Bosporus, of course. He never learns. We’ll let him think he’s right. We will even send some ‘scouting parties’ down near Sextus to alarm them. And we must keep his forces separate from Sextus to the south. That’s essential.” While Constantine spoke, Licinius’ scroll cracked slightly in his hand.

  Chacedon, Asia Minor

  September 1, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  Sextus joined Licinius in a private villa in Chacedon, on the water directly across the strait from Byzantium. After shaking arms, they sat on the patio overlooking the Bosporus to develop a strategy to defeat Constantine.

  “Augustus, other than some decoy scouting parties, we see no sign of activity from Constantine. He’s hiding. I think he’s being clever. Perhaps we should consolidate our forces here at Chacedon? I got a gift a couple of weeks ago that doesn’t make me feel comfortable with passively waiting for Constantine. I worry that we need more training together to withstand his inevitable, aggressive assault.”

  Licinius shook his head. “He’s a hypocritical bastard. I got the same gift. I assume that was all that remains of the Syrian brothers you told me about?”

  “I assume so as well,” Sextus answered.

  “I wish they’d killed him. Here’s the thing about Constantine: He’s reactive. We need to draw him here to Chacedon. When you’re facing a clever fellow, be the opposite. Be simple and you can deliver the fatal blow,” Licinius punctuated his answer with a nervous laugh.

  Sextus shook his head. “Amandus’ failure hurts us here, Augustus. Crispus controls the straits, so Constantine could land virtually anywhere. I’ll say it again: We should bring our troops together and train for a more defensive strategy.”

  “How can he cross anywhere? The only good dockage is where you are and where I am. I can watch his activity from this chair. His ships are so small we’ll see them crossing. They’ll have to ferry back and forth for hours. Days! He still believes I’ll surrender. That will be his demise. I’ll stall him another couple of weeks we’ll have enough troops to repulse him—even if he flies over the Bosporus with his Christian wings.” Licinius ended, again, with a laugh.

  “True. We will have more strength. But we have the Goths here now and my troops are down south. We must train them to fight together, Augustus.”

  Licinius shrugged. He was full of himself. “If we don’t see any activity in Lamseki in tw
o weeks, we will bring your troops here and leave scouts there to warn us when he starts crossing.”

  Both men turned to look over the Bosporus towards Byzantium. There was almost no activity. Crispus’ fleet looked stagnant, its masts barely moving with the calm waves. As if on cue, Licinius and Sextus both shook their heads.

  For different reasons.

  Byzantium, Greece

  September 1, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  Constantine was having his daily meeting with his officers in the sitting room of the Christian merchant’s residence. For the first time in many weeks, Ossius joined them.

  “In 10 days, we should have enough barges to make the crossing. The liburnians will push them to the sandy area Crispus and the locals have found. We’re constructing cradles that attach the barges to the ships—and we have tested the ones we’ve completed. They work,” Ablabius reported. He used a thin reed pointer to show where, on the map, each part of the plan would take place.

  “But what does Licinius see?” Constantine asked. “Is there any sign that his troops are surveying the area to tip him off of our intentions?”

  “No sign of that, Dominus. We’ve landed at the crossing point by night. We’ve sailed by it—several times—by day. Nothing,” Ablabius answered. “They can’t see it from Chalcedon. It’s too far north. And Licinius isn’t looking.”

  After a few moments of silence, Marcus spoke. “I can second what Ablabius says. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But I’m still concerned that we’ve shown our plans. Somehow. I think we should start the transport at dusk. That way, we will be able to build troop strength before dawn. We’ll need at least five legions across before I’ll feel comfortable.”

  “I agree,” Crispus said. He was getting more comfortable talking in these meetings. “How many can we transport at night, Ablabius?”

  The Greek held his hands in a balancing gesture. “If everything goes well, we could move two legions across each night. Maybe three. The problem is, with this kind of enterprise, nothing goes as well as you plan, particularly when you start.”