Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  Marcus shook his head. “So, two nights for five legions. And we’re still vulnerable to a full-force attack from Licinius.” He looked at Constantine. “I don’t like it, Dominus.”

  Constantine didn’t say anything. But he nodded, as if in agreement with—or at least understanding of—what Marcus had said.

  Ablabius responded defensively: “Our latest reports still have half of their troops with Sextus in Lamseki. And none of them are in formation. If Licinius were to discover us, it would take him more than a day to get his troops—and I mean just the ones in Chalcedon—in position to confront us.”

  Constantine knew it was time for him to make a decision. Still, he took a few moments to visualize each of the options for attacking Licinius. Then, finally: “We stay with our plan but we will start at dusk. It is a manageable risk, as long as our landing spot is unknown to him.”

  He looked quickly at each of his generals. “One more thing. I want to organize a consort brigade for the Labarum. A group of perhaps 50 senior legionari who will be responsible for moving and protecting my standard. We saw how effective it was in motivating our troops at Adrianople. This special unit will move it wherever our army needs assistance.”

  Marcus spoke next. “As you command, Augustus. I’ll choose those men myself. But I wonder whether the corpulent portentous Licinius will tell his troops to turn away—as he did at Adrianople. Surely, by now, he understands that was suicidal. And he can’t afford many more mistakes.”

  “I don’t know, Marcus. He’s a bit of a nutcase,” Ablabius said, laughing. And the rest joined him.

  Constantine dismissed his commanders. As the group started to leave, Constantine motioned to Ossius to join him. They sat, looking out at the Bosporus, until the room had emptied.

  “Ossius, we haven’t spoken in so long. How is our problem with Alexander and Arius?”

  “There is no change, Imperator. I believe I mentioned to you that I have been invited by Alexander to Chair a Council of the Eastern Bishops when this war is ended.”

  Constantine shrugged. “That should help. But I must tell you, I’ve gotten reports of deadly rioting in larger cities in Syria, Palestine, Egypt. Gangs of Alexander’s followers killing Arius’ followers. And vice versa. Over a theological quibble about the nature of God. This doesn’t make things easier.”

  Ossius nodded. “No, it doesn’t. And I’m sorry for any trouble this matter causes you, Dominus. Frankly, I doubt that this Council will resolve things. It will not be attended by Arius or any of his followers. I believe the true intent is to build a consensus favoring those who believe Alexander’s position.”

  Constantine poured two glasses of diluted wine and handed one to Ossius. “No. That doesn’t sound helpful. We will have to force a resolution on these quibbling clerics. As soon as this war is over— and I’ve crushed Licinius once-and-for-all and consolidated power within the Empire—I will call the meeting. And I’ll count on you for advice on the best resolution.”

  “Yes, Imperator. I think that’s the most practical answer.”

  Chalcedon, Asia Minor

  September 15, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  Licinius howled at the news the centurion delivered. “How did this bastard usurper get across the Bosporus without us knowing? May the gods damn him to an eternity of sodomy!”

  The centurion had seen Constantine’s army himself. “No one knows how they got there—but his army on the very northern tip of the Bosporus on the Asian side. A place known as the Sacred Promontory.”

  “Sacred, eh? Figures. That would appeal to him. Is his entire army there?” Licinius asked, noticeably shaking.

  “No one is sure what his ‘entire army’ is, Dominus. But it is a very large encampment.”

  “How far from here?”

  “Nine or ten mille. At most.”

  “Get a messenger to Sextus. Tell him to get here as soon as possible. I believe he has already left Lamseki—so your men will have to find him along the way.”

  “Yes, Augustus.”

  Chrysopolis, Asia Minor

  September 18, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  Constantine’s troops had marched from the Sacred Promontory to Chrysopolis two days earlier than planned. They’d made camp and started building standard fortifications in the rocky ground. He was inclined to give them time to rest. At least for a few hours.

  His spies had reported that Sextus was already en route; so, Constantine had calculated that today would be the best day to attack Licinius. Any of Sextus’ troops that made it to Chalcedon early would be exhausted.

  Constantine’s troops were ready. Crispus, Ablabius, Tiberus, Marcus and the palatini were all prepared. But, for the first time in many years, Constantine was having difficulty making the decision to attack. He went into his new command tent to pray—and to get away from his commanders.

  After several minutes, Ossius walked in. Constantine was on his knees, praying in front of a large metal cross.

  “Imperator, may I pray with you?” Ossius asked, starting to kneel next to Constantine.

  “Of course, Ossius. I’d hoped you would,” Constantine replied

  After a few minutes, Ossius asked, “My friend. Is there anything I can say or do to help you?”

  “Thank you, Ossius. Your empathy is always…comforting. I am afraid I have no strategy for this battle, no grand scheme, and no brilliance. I don’t think I will lose. But I am not excited about winning. For the first time in ages, I have doubts. I have doubts that I have been a good Emperor, a good father. And I certainly have doubts that I have been a good Christian. And then I go back to the fact that I have no strategy to win this battle. My mind is…in a spiral. I am consumed by an emptiness and hollowness that has plagued me so often in my life.”

  The old priest smiled. “For you Princeps, for you.”

  Constantine raised his head and looked directly at Ossius.

  “Vibius’ last words.”

  “Yes. And he was right. You are a great man, Constantine. And the world is about to become yours—in a way it’s rarely been for any man. I believe this battle will mark the end of so many battles and will begin your time as the supreme ruler for whatever time you have left on earth. What you do after this battle will determine how you are judged. Not just as a general. Not as a politician. And not just by men.”

  Constantine laughed a little and looked upward. “Some part of me has dreaded defeating Licinius for just that reason, Ossius. Dreading the day after that day. Even good men with honest intentions make mistakes. How can God help me to avoid them?”

  Ossius thought for a moment. Then: “It would be easy to tell you to live your life as our Lord teaches us. But Jesus also advised us to ‘render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ He knew that there are tensions between a man’s spiritual life and his worldly life. I believe He was telling us that we don’t have to choose one or the other. We should keep both in mind. Balance them as best we can. For you, the same is true, only more so because you are indeed, Caesar! Your spiritual life must follow the teachings of our Lord. Your worldly life must be guided by them—but it may not always adhere to them, strictly. But don’t let the necessities of your worldly life make you ignore or abandon the most important tenets of your spiritual life. No matter what happens, you can always ask God for His forgiveness. And His grace. It’s never too late for that, and hopefully that Grace will fill your feelings of hollowness.”

  “Thank you, Ossius. Thank you.”

  After a few more moments of silence, Constantine asked, “So how do you think Vibius would fight this battle?”

  Ossius laughed. “That question is beyond the realm of my expertise. But I did know Vibius. Subtlety was not his style. I imagine he would attack Licinius as directly as possible—”

  “You are right, thank you again, Ossius!” Constantine said, immediately getting up and leavi
ng his tent.

  He walked toward his commanders’ quarters. Crispus was sitting in front of his tent, reading a scroll. Ablabius was standing by a fire, talking with some of the Dux. “Crispus, come here. Ablabius, send someone to get Marcus.”

  His bodyguards caught up with him. Everyone else stopped what they were doing and gathered around him. Within a few minutes, all of his commanders were present. They were unsure of what Constantine’s plan was going to be.

  “Gentleman, there will be no tricks in this battle. We are attacking Licinius and Sextus right now. Right now! In the straightest line possible. Gear up!”

  With the horns blowing, Ablabius, Crispus and the other commanders organized their troops into a tight formation. They could see Licinius’ army responding by assembling as quickly as they could. Licinius was hoping for a longer delay.

  As he shouted orders, Ablabius tried to hide his concern. An impulsive attack was not like Constantine. Among other things, it meant there were no dogs—they would have been perfect to start this assault. And the soldiers did not have the normal time to prepare for battle, to get their minds into the fight. No review, no coaxing, no fine tuning of the lines, no buildup of high expectations.

  After the sagittari loosed several rounds, Constantine’s army pressed forward. After the equiti, the infantry engagement seemed to start of its own will. Each army was eager to prove its God greater— Constantine and Licinius had both told their troops that this was a holy war. But, to Ablabius, it seemed like a sloppy collision.

  However, Constantine’s army proved to be the more disciplined of the two. Licinius’ troops fell out of their three-line formation within minutes. Constantine’s formation, imperfect as may have been, pressed right through Licinius’ lines.

  Within an hour, Constantine’s army had broken Licinius’ lines into four or five pieces. When Sextus arrived with his forces, they had no clear formation to join. And they were quickly surrounded by several of Constantine’s companies. The newly-formed Labarum Consort Brigade moved around the battlefield in an oval pattern. Wherever it went, Licinius’ troops seemed to freeze—and Constantine’s troops could either regroup or press to advantage. It was still working.

  Constantine and his palatini rode back to his command tent and watched the battle from their horses. He could see two purple standards—one for Licinius, one for Sextus—on either side of most intense fighting. But they weren’t able to assemble any coherent formation. They didn’t even retreat. They were just being broken into smaller and smaller units.

  Ablabius also returned to his tent, on a small hill a half mille from Constantine’s. His horse had gone lame and one of his armor straps ripped. He was stained with the blood of Licinius’ soldiers. His equiti stood guard while he cleaned himself up. While he splashed water on his face, he looked around. Across the field he could see that Constantine was watching the battle, still on his horse. But something was strange. A small brigade with a Labarum was riding from rear of the main camp toward Constantine’s command tent. The Labarum they carried was not one of Constantine’s—it was similar to the ones they’d used years ago.

  “Look! Something is wrong!!” He was on another horse in an instant. And riding with his equiti towards Constantine. The enemy unit looked like about 20 riders. They were closer to Constantine then he was.

  “Caesar! Caesar! Dominus!”

  Standing near Constantine, Quintus noticed Ablabius riding and screaming. Was he celebrating? Quintus looked more carefully and realized there was some sort of danger.

  “Dominus! Trouble!” Quitus screamed.

  In an instant the four palatini and their six equiti counterparts turned their horses towards the oncoming riders.

  Licinius’ assassins rode, with swords drawn, up the small hill toward Constantine’s command tent. The bodyguards formed a small double line of their own between the assassins and Constantine. They held their ground, waiting for the attackers. Close quarters would favor defense.

  With only 10 guards against 20 attackers, the palatini did well to block all but three from getting near Constantine. After stabbing several assassins, Quintus jumped off his horse and grabbed two lances from the ground. He threw them at the assassins closest to Constantine. Both assassins fell—but that wasn’t enough. Two more charged. And one of them stabbed Quintus in the back as he charged past him.

  Constantine had his sword drawn and shield raised. He wasn’t an easy target—even for several attackers. He reared his horse up and turned it hard in a circle, slashing with controlled fury.

  Appius, who’d already killed one attacker, spun his horse in the opposite direction as Constantine. This would disorient the assassins and give him the best chance at unguarded arms or necks. One attacker was very close to Constantine, easily within the striking distance of a sword. Appius pressed toward him but, before he could get close, that assassin dropped from his horse—dead. Then another dropped in a similar manner, untouched by any of the guards.

  “How the..?” Appius grunted.

  Constantine charged the remaining close attacker, driving him into his command tent. The assassin’s horse lost its footing and fell.

  The rider collapsed into the tent’s canvas and screamed in agony.

  Sevius, Appius and Titus had killed more than a dozen assassins. The survivors tried to ride away—but Ablabius and his equiti were already upon them. They were dead in an instant.

  Constantine jumped off of his horse to tend to Quintus. The stab wound on his back started just under his right shoulder and went down to his middle ribs. It was deep. But it wouldn’t be fatal.

  Appius and Titus were still on their horses, riding between Constantine and the two attackers who had suddenly dropped from their saddles. Ablabius arrived, leapt off of his horse and helped the Emperor remove Quintus’ armor to have a medic clean the wound.

  “Surely, this is Licinius’ handiwork. He can’t even get an assassination right.” Ablabius joked.

  The Emperor hesitated for a second and then laughed. Quintus laughed, too—though it made him wince.

  “Was it by God’s hand, Dominus that these men died?” asked Appius, still looking at the two attackers who mysteriously fell from their saddles.

  Ablabius stood up and looked at the dead attackers. Then around and finally back to Appius. “God is with us, soldier. But I think your Angel of Death is over there.” He pointed past the collapsed command tent, to the white-haired cook, Aniketos, standing several cubits away.

  Aniketos held up two more knives. “And I have a trunk full of these, if anyone else tries to kill our Emperor!”

  Constantine sent for a medic to dress Quintus’ wound. He was getting ready to get back on his horse and return to the battlefield, when Ablabius called out.

  “Dominus! Come see this.”

  Ablabius was standing in the mess of the fallen tent. He’d cut away some of the canvas and ropes. And discovered the rider that Constantine had pushed off his horse—impaled on Constantine’s metal cross. “God truly is with us.”

  The battle lasted only as long as it took for Constantine’s army to kill most of Licinius’ 30,000 remaining troops. From the first minutes, when Constantine’s army punched through the center of their line, Licinius’ centurions were unable to get them to regroup. Their soldiers retreated in a chaotic manner. Most simply deserted.

  Licinius fled the battlefield with a few faithful troops—less than a legion—and rode back to Nicomedia.

  Chrysopolis, Asia Minor

  September 20, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  In Constantine’s reconstructed command tent, his sister Constantia had come from Nicomedia to plead for her husband’s life. Constantine’s senior officers were all present and standing, as Constantine sat behind a small folding table.

  “Brother, I do love this man. You gave me to him in marriage. I have borne and raised his child—your nephe
w—whom I adore. He has been a good husband to me. His only fault is pride. Pride led him down this useless path. Please, let him live. In exile, if it must be. But let him live.”

  “Sister, I respect you for coming to plead for your husband’s life. But I don’t respect him. He doesn’t deserve to live. As you know, before this war started, I offered him terms that would have been better than exile. And, even before this last battle, he could have sued for peace. Instead, he sentenced thousands of soldiers to death. And he tried to assassinate me, using weak trickery and one of my old standards. He has failed in every way that a general can fail. If I don’t kill him, survivors from his own army will. This is the nature of war.”

  “It’s pride. I tried to warn him,” Constantia was politically wise enough not to mention her husband’s name in her brother’s camp. “Brother, you are now sole Emperor. You’ve restored the order of the Empire’s greatest days. You are a god to the people. Surely, you don’t need to take the life of a man you have so humiliated on the battlefield.”

  “Sister, the very order you speak of demands your husband’s head. An Emperor can abdicate due to age or illness. He can surrender for his life before a battle. But he can’t declare war, fight, lose—and then say ‘I was just kidding.’ Your husband may not be a threat now but, later, he could attract dissidents and foment unrest. Letting him live is an affront to order. Years ago, when I was in Gaul, I told a diplomat in your position, ‘It is stupid clemency that spares the conquered foe.’ Your husband must die. If not by his own hand, by mine.”

  Constantia fell to her knees, next to Constantine. She pushed the folding table aside, which caused Ablabius and the palatini to reach for their weapons. “Brother, it was not my husband who authorized the assassination attempt. He is too superstitious, of both the Labarum and of Christ’s power. It had to have been Sextus.”