The Conqueror Read online

  The scowling centurion, as pig-faced as his dirty offspring, gestured at me with his twisted vine. “Augustus, this murderer must be executed!”

  The hubbub in the hall quieted. “Why, soldier?” asked a lone, steady voice.

  “That little barbarian throttled my son! A good Roman youth he was! Sixteen years old and newly enrolled as a legionary in your service!”

  For a long moment there was no reply, then the voice said, “It seems one of my newest soldiers was just killed by this scrawny child. I fear such a recruit would not have been the kind of warrior the empire needs.”

  A collective gasp coursed through the crowd at the sharp insult. The centurion clenched his jaw and seethed yet did not dare complain.

  Cautiously, I turned my head and gazed from beneath lowered eyes at the only calm person in the basilica. Everyone knew who he was. The handsome man with dark Roman hair and a Mediterranean complexion stood at the base of an imposing statue. The sculpture depicted a rider astride a warhorse: Constantius Herculius Augustus, the senior emperor of the West. Or, at least, that is what he had been until earlier today. Now his spirit was soaring through the heavens like an eagle, while his eldest son, Constantine, just took his place down here on earth. A few hours ago, Constantine was proclaimed the augustus of Britannia, Gaul, and Hispania by the legions of Eboracum, as well as by my father’s Germanic mercenaries.

  “Stand up, boy,” the new emperor said mildly.

  I knew I should obey right away, but pride made me delay as long as I dared. I rose slowly, wiping mud from my eyes, shaking water from my hair, straightening my tunic. At last I lifted my chin and met the stare of the augustus with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Although I thought at first that Constantine’s lips held a faint smile, his tone was harsh. “What is your name?” he demanded. Before I could answer, he followed with, “Speak up! Your life hangs in the balance!”

  “I am Brandulf,” I declared, “son of King Chrocus of the Alemanni, your blood-sworn confederate.”

  Constantine’s expression changed, though I could not tell if it was to my advantage. “By wife or wench?”

  The question made anger flare in my heart. “Neither!” I protested. “My mother is a respectable innkeeper. Beloved she is! More precious to my father than his legal queen in Germania!”

  Constantine nodded thoughtfully but did not speak. At last he clasped his hands behind his back and began to approach. I waited with my head bowed and my feet solidly planted so I would not tremble. But inside, my heart was fluttering.

  “Why did you kill that boy?” Constantine asked, his voice more measured now.

  I did not hesitate, for the insult from earlier today still stung. “He slandered my people, Majesty. Called my father a wild boar of the forest! These Britons were barbarians themselves until just recently. Now they think they’re better than us—we Germani who fight for Rome and shed our blood on the empire’s borders. We ride into battle like men while they relax behind the walls of Eboracum and Londinium. Who, then, is the truer Roman?”

  “Aha,” Constantine observed, “it appears you are a rhetorician as well as a warrior.”

  I fell silent, unsure what to say next. The July sun had warmed the hall, making the air hot and stifling. A bead of sweat trickled into my eyes, and I brushed it away. All around me the hushed crowd waited to see whether I would live or die.

  The emperor took a step closer. “Less than two hours ago, your father proclaimed me emperor in this very hall. King Chrocus’s warriors and the soldiers of the Victorious Sixth paid me the greatest honor the world has ever known: they crowned my head with the eternal glory of Rome. This action speaks well of your father. It deserves to be rewarded.”

  I said something surprising then. A powerful emotion rose up within me—from where I know not. Was it love for Constantine? Awe at his majesty? Whatever it was, I blurted out, “When I am of age, Augustus, I will serve you too! I will die for you in the armies of Rome!” A murmur ran through the crowd.

  Constantine, however, did not seem impressed. With the sliding metallic sound that a soldier knows all too well, the emperor drew his sword from its sheath. Now his face turned dark, his demeanor hostile.

  “Brandulf, son of Chrocus,” he thundered, “do not attempt to flatter me! Your quick words will not buy your salvation. You have spilled Roman blood in the precincts of a military fortress. No matter who your father may be, your action was illegal. Our laws declare you must pay for this crime with your life.” Raising his sword above his head, Constantine closed the distance between us and towered over me. “On your knees, boy!”

  Apparently, it had all come down to this. A swift sword stroke was going to cleave my head from my body and end my short life. Yet now that the great moment had arrived, I did not feel ready to die. And that is why, instead of obeying the direct order of the divine augustus, I looked up at him and said, “Give me a sword, too, Your Majesty, and let’s see if you have what it takes to claim me.”

  The basilica erupted into chaos once more. Everyone shouted their protest at my blasphemous threat—the legionaries screaming loudest of all. Cries of “Treason!” and “Death!” rang out in the tumult. If my life hung in the balance before, now my fate was sealed.

  I swallowed the bloody saliva that had gathered in my mouth and awaited the emperor’s response. He stared down at me. A stern frown was on his face, though he was not overcome with fury. Slowly he leaned toward me, until he was so close that only I could hear his words.

  “Well done, boy,” Constantine whispered. “You would make a terrible infantryman. But you have just what it takes to become a great speculator.” With that confusing prediction still tumbling in my mind, I glimpsed a flash of metal coming at me. The ruler of the Roman West smashed me across the cheek with the flat of his sword, and for the second time that day my world turned to darkness.

  1

  OCTOBER 309

  All the soldiers said the race to Jupiter’s temple on the high pass could be won by only the best. Since Brandulf Rex considered himself the best, he intended to make the climb faster than anyone ever had. By nightfall he would be dining among the gods.

  Until then, however, there would be pain.

  “It’s colder than I expected,” Geta complained, warming his hands at his mouth. Wisps of mist trickled between his fingers.

  Rex sized up the thick-bodied youth with the bushy mustache and the long braid down his back. Of the ten other cadets milling around the gate of Augusta Praetoria, Geta was the only one Rex considered a threat to beat him. That was something Rex couldn’t allow. True, Geta was his fellow countryman and best friend. But it was time to put friendship aside. The race took precedence over all else.

  “It is a little chilly,” Rex agreed with a shrug, “but it will just make my victory all the more glorious.”

  Geta swatted his hand at Rex’s boast. “Pfft! There’s nothing glorious about coming in second.”

  “You should know. It’s a hard lesson you’ve learned many times since we started our training.”

  Geta’s eyes narrowed. A few paces away, Aratus the centurion called for the men to gather. Geta ignored his commanding officer and approached Rex instead with a menacing glare. Rex met his rival’s gaze and did not break off the stare. The two muscular, athletic warriors stood eye to eye, though Geta was the slightly taller of the two.

  For a long moment, each youth scowled at the other, until at last the bond of friendship that undergirded their rivalry couldn’t be contained any longer. Smiles spread across their faces as they attempted to stare each other down. Rex clasped Geta’s shoulder, and his comrade returned the affectionate gesture.

  “May the best man win,” Rex said.

  “I will,” Geta replied, and with shared laughter the pair turned to stand before Aratus.

  The route of the race ran twenty-five miles from the low-lying city of Augusta Praetoria to the top of Poeninus Pass, a treacherous yet frequently used cro
ssing over the snowy Alps. Although the road was a good one—as if the Romans built any other kind, Rex thought—the hike would be uphill the whole way. At the end of the arduous ascent stood the ancient temple of Jupiter Poeninus, the local expression of the highest and best god. This powerful deity kept watch over one of the main imperial routes through the mountains. Normally Jupiter blessed the pious travelers heading from civilized Italy to the wild Germanic north. Today, however, he would be testing Rome’s most elite warriors. Success would prove that their arduous regimen over the past three years—the constant running, sparring, wrestling, and riding—had managed to turn out a soldier worthy to be called a speculator.

  “Listen up, cadets,” Aratus said when the eleven soldiers had circled around him in the early morning gloom. “The temple that is your destination is the highest sanctuary in the whole expanse of our empire. You Italians should pay special attention. These aren’t the little forested mountains that stand behind Rome. The peaks of the Alps are constantly covered in snow and ice. They rise so high that even the hardiest trees can’t grow. According to our best geographers, this pass rises more than thirteen stadia above the height of the sea! From here, the road winds up the mountainside to the north. Perhaps you can see it”—Aratus turned and pointed to a snaky track that eventually disappeared into the low-hanging clouds—“right there. No doubt you can appreciate how difficult your journey is going to be.”

  The trainer’s statement elicited a few groans and murmurs. He was known for being demanding and hard-nosed, but today’s task seemed to take things to a whole new level. After letting the men mutter a bit, Aratus continued. “Your goal is to reach the temple of the great Jupiter before any of your comrades. There you will infiltrate the temple unseen—or at least uncaptured by rival soldiers trying to thwart you—and retrieve a votive from inside. Anything you can find will do. Just grab something that proves you got in. When you have the item, bring it to the nearby inn and give it to me. Then you shall be declared the winner.”

  “But, sir,” piped up a wiry cadet from Sicilia, “won’t that offend the god?”

  Aratus gave the man a thoughtful stare, then approached him and stood close. “It might,” Aratus agreed, “but that’s the difference between a legionary and a speculator. An ordinary soldier fears nothing but the gods. A speculator fears nothing at all.” Aratus poked the cadet in the chest. “Perhaps you should consider whether you have what it takes in there.”

  Chastened, the young man stepped back. Aratus turned to face the rest of the soldiers. “You may take food and water if you wish. Or you may forage for nuts and berries along the way and drink from the streams and puddles you find. Just remember that whatever you take, you’ll be hauling it up a colossal mountain.”

  “And if we win, sir?” Geta asked. “What prize shall we receive?”

  “What’s the matter, you dirty German? You need something more than the glory of winning?”

  “Glory is what I seek most, sir,” Geta replied. “I only wish to be propelled up the mountain by the honors I stand to gain.”

  A chuckle and nod signaled Aratus’s approval. “A worthy motivation, Geta—worthy indeed! The prizes of Caesar’s army are worth the sacrifice. And judging from your past performance, I believe you may be the one to receive them today.” Rex snorted at this assertion but said nothing.

  Aratus waved his arms dramatically toward the other men. “Listen to me, cadets! The prize you shall earn from succeeding in this race is more than mere gold—though you will certainly get some of that. But the true prize is better than money or fame or the esteem of your comrades. It is the thing a speculator wants more than anything else.”

  “Women!” shouted the Sicilian, eliciting an eruption of guffaws.

  “Even better than that,” Aratus said with an indulgent smile. “Take another guess.”

  “A warhorse?” someone suggested. “A fine sword?” tried another.

  Aratus shook his head, clearly disappointed. “Does no one here know what a speculator craves most?”

  Silence fell upon the band of warriors gathered in the gray October fog beneath the walls of Augusta Praetoria. Rex waited until the tension had built to the breaking point. At last he stepped forward. “I know, sir,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “A mission. An appointment into the greatest army the world has ever known.”

  Aratus’s finger shot toward the heavens. “Exactly right!” he cried. “The true speculator wants nothing more than to serve his emperor on the field of combat, earning honor not just from his brothers-in-arms but from the god who walks on earth.” All the other men nodded, and some gave little grunts of agreement.

  “That is what is at stake here,” Aratus continued. “Whichever cadets I deem worthy will end their training this day. They will be enlisted into the army of Rome as speculators with the Second Italian Legion, based in Divitia. From that post they shall serve the Augustus of the West, the glorious Emperor Constantine.”

  Rex felt his heartbeat accelerate. An enlistment into the legions! Today I can earn the right to be finished with my training! Having reached the age of sixteen, Rex knew he was old enough to enter the army as a foot soldier. But to move straight to the rank of speculator? That was unheard of for someone so young. Even Geta was already eighteen. Rex could see that today’s race was his best chance at getting a military post in the emperor’s service. It was the only thing he wanted in life. He just wished his father, King Chrocus of the Alemanni, could be there to take pride in his son’s success.

  “Alright, men,” Aratus said, glancing at the overcast sky. “The sun is now above the distant horizon, though it will be several hours before Sol’s face clears the crest of the ridge. It is time for your quest to begin. Step up to that chalk line.”

  The cadets surged forward, each toeing the line and leaning over it as far as possible. Eagerness for glory was written on their faces.

  “Are you ready, boys?”

  “Ready!” the competitors roared in unison.

  “Then with Mercury’s wings on your feet . . . I release you!”

  Another shout rose from the men as they exploded from their places and charged up the well-paved road. Only Rex remained next to his centurion. After watching the others run for a moment, he started back toward the city gate.

  “Brandulf Rex!” Aratus barked, his voice tinged with astonishment. “You’re giving up?”

  Rex spun around to jog backward while facing his commanding officer. “No, sir. Of course not.”

  “Then what in the name of Priapus are you doing?”

  Rex flashed Aratus a confident grin as he continued his backward run. “I’m winning this race like a speculator should,” he declared, then turned and darted through the gate of Augusta Praetoria.

  The most shocking thing about the dead body was not its pale gray color. It was the crooked condition of the fingers.

  Those are the hands of a seventy-year-old, Flavia thought as she waited for the godly Christian priest to finish the funeral rites. But this man was only forty.

  A little sigh escaped Flavia’s lips as she gazed at the corpse. The man’s gnarled hands were folded over his breast, and his eyes were closed as his body rested on an oaken table. At last the overworked Roman slave was at peace in the arms of God.

  “He looks happy,” whispered the slave’s widow.

  Flavia smiled gently. “I think so too.”

  A household servant’s life was never easy, Flavia knew, even ones with Christian masters like her father. Whips and clubs wouldn’t take their toll in a Christian home, but the unceasing labor certainly could. Several times Flavia had ordered the overseers to lighten the burden on the servants. Although she was young—at fifteen, she was just now coming into womanhood—the supervisors still had to listen to the master’s only daughter. When she dug in her heels, the overseers would capitulate. For this kindness, the servants would give her secret nods of appreciation.

  “Wor
thy in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,” the distinguished priest Miltiades intoned from the Book of Psalms. At these sacred words, Flavia joined the brethren around the table in signing themselves with the cross. A sweet cloud of incense hung in the air—the prayers of the faithful rising to heaven, as the scriptures clearly declared. Miltiades sprinkled spices into the graveclothes, then folded the shroud over the body. Two deacons came forward to pick it up.

  “May you live in God and the Lord Christ,” Flavia whispered. “Farewell, dear Pistis.”

  The deacons carried Pistis’s body to a bier outside Flavia’s mansion on the crest of the Aventine Hill. Several strong men hoisted the bier to their shoulders. Pistis’s immediate family and closest friends had gathered to join the procession to the burial ground outside of Rome. A husky slave bowed to Flavia, then pointed to an elegant litter with curtains of linen.

  “You will attend the funeral, Lady Junia?” he asked, using Flavia’s family name.

  “I shall walk. The tomb of Saint Paul isn’t far.” The slave bowed again, then beckoned to an assistant, who helped him take the litter away.

  The little procession descended the Aventine and made its way past the pyramid that marked the gate onto the Ostian Way. The bier was transferred into a wagon for the remainder of the journey.

  About a mile outside the walls, the mourners reached an ancient pagan necropolis. It was here that Saint Paul had been buried after he was beheaded by Nero. Later generations of Christians had put up a memorial to remember the place. But when severe persecution broke out under Emperor Valerian fifty years ago, the remains of both Paul and Peter had been secretly transferred to the Catacombs on the Appian Way for safekeeping. Those holy bones still remained there—but unfortunately, that Christian cemetery was now in the hands of the wicked emperor Maxentius. In these difficult times, the empire had multiple rulers, and few of them favored the catholic church.