The Conqueror Page 4

  “May the powers of heaven defeat your enemies, great Augustus! May Licinius and Constantine be destroyed!”

  “Ah, Constantine—my dear brother-in-law. He’s married to my sister Fausta, you know.”

  The valet took a step back, his eyes widening. “I did not mean . . . it’s just that . . . at times I’ve heard you say—”

  “Be at peace,” Maxentius said soothingly. “Just because Constantine is my brother-in-law doesn’t mean I can’t hate him. I do. And someday I shall also have to defeat him, once I get Licinius out of the way.”

  “May the powers of heaven—”

  “Shut up and bring my toga,” Maxentius said, waving the valet away.

  The great reception hall at the villa of Maxentius was still under construction, so the heating system that would one day make it comfortable wasn’t operational yet. Maxentius found the air unpleasantly cool when he stepped inside. Though he had just finished fussing over the folds of his toga, he was forced to call for his rich purple cape before taking his seat on the throne in the hall’s apse. As he sat down, he made a mental note to get the heat working before he entertained any truly important guests.

  Two powerful men—Ruricius Pompeianus, commander of the Praetorian Guard; and Senator Neratius Junius Flavianus, an old childhood playmate—had already assembled themselves on either side of the throne. Maxentius greeted them warmly and talked politics for a few moments until the doorkeeper announced the arrival of the day’s first appointment. The visitor was Father Miltiades, an official representative from the catholic church of Rome.

  The Christian priest was handsome in a middle-aged sort of way. He definitely looked as Greek as his name, with his elegant silver hair oiled and swept back on his head. He wore a full beard that protruded from his chin, a fashion choice Maxentius considered un-Roman—but since when had the followers of that Eastern cult of Christianity ever worried about Roman customs? The emperor decided he ought to be wary about whatever the man had to say.

  Miltiades held his palms together and bowed at the waist. “Blessings to you in the name of God, O great Augustus.”

  It was a respectable enough greeting, so Maxentius welcomed the priest with similar courtesy. When the pleasantries had been exchanged, the emperor urged the visitor to state his business. He hoped the matter wouldn’t take long, for he had several more audiences to give, a speech to prepare, numerous documents to sign, and two courtesans waiting in his bedchamber. Today was going to be a busy day, and the emperor couldn’t afford to let the affairs of the catholic church occupy too much of his time. “As you know, Your Majesty, there is currently no bishop in Rome,” Miltiades said. At this announcement, the so-called “deacons” in the priest’s retinue murmured a little, as if it were a matter of grave significance.

  “Of course I know that,” Maxentius shot back. “I was the one who exiled your bishop for allowing riots to take place. I’ll do it again if I have to.”

  “We had no part in the riots caused by those troublemakers. Yet it explains why I, a mere priest, am standing before you today instead of a bishop.”

  “I take it you have been sent on behalf of the church. Fine, then. What do you want from me?”

  “Your Majesty, you are a friend of the Christians. You put an end to the persecutions in Rome—what is it now? Three years ago? Yes, three years, almost to the day.”

  “I am a benevolent and tolerant ruler of all my Roman children,” Maxentius agreed.

  “And yet the properties of the church remain in imperial hands. Do you not wish to gain the appreciation of your Christian subjects by giving them back? We ask only that you apply your long history of generosity to this matter as well.” Miltiades smiled gently and gave a slight bow. “If it should please you, O great Augustus.”

  Maxentius beckoned for Pompeianus and Neratius to bend close as he conferred with them, then turned back to the priest. “To which properties do you refer?”

  “I have a list.” Miltiades held up a small tablet. “It includes such parcels as the Catacombs, with its banqueting place called the Apostolic Monument, which is just outside your door here on the Appian Way. So, too, are the cemeteries of our former bishop Callistus, and of Domitilla, a woman of holy memory. And we own some urban buildings as well, such as a meeting hall in Trans Tiberim, where many of our people dwell. There is another property on the Caelian Hill—a hall with baths where we perform spiritual washings. It is called the House of Byzans. Our list is not long, but it accurately records what was taken from us and not restored.”

  Maxentius felt a little peeved at the boldness of the priest’s tone. Though he tried to mask his irritation, he could not help but ask, “Do you blame my father, Maximian, for all this? It was he who enforced Diocletian’s edicts against the Christians. Is he now your great enemy?”

  “We assign blame to no one, whether here or there,” Miltiades replied diplomatically. “We merely seek your favor on behalf of the catholic church. It was your own decision to end your father’s persecutions. Perhaps you can follow through by returning our properties at last. We hope you will consider it.”

  Maxentius glanced at the windows in the hall, noting the height of the sun. Enough time had been spent on this matter already. “Leave your list with my steward,” he said, “and I will entertain your request.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Your Eminence.”

  When Miltiades had taken his leave, Maxentius indicated that Pompeianus and Neratius should come around to stand before him. “What advice do you have for your lord?” he asked.

  “These priests disgust me,” Pompeianus said. “They reject the gods of our fathers and claim there is only one divinity. It’s stupid! We should do something about it.”

  Maxentius nodded thoughtfully. “Go on.”

  “The Eastern colleagues still persecute these fools! You could adopt that policy too—your father’s policy. Let’s rid Rome of these Christian cockroaches scurrying around.”

  Maxentius turned to Neratius. “What do you think, Senator?”

  Neratius started to speak three or four times before he finally found his words. “I’m not sure, Augustus. They are—those Christians, I mean—they are good people, from what I can tell. I hear they are quite popular among the rabble. At least that is what I have discerned from a distance.”

  “Do you think I should give them back their lands?”

  “As you wish. No doubt it would earn you great favor with the masses.”

  Maxentius inspected Neratius’s face, but the man returned only a blank stare. “Perhaps I should convert to this faith myself? What do you think? That would certainly earn me favor in some quarters.”

  “Never, Your Majesty!” Pompeianus spat.

  “How about it, Neratius? Should I convert?” Maxentius rose from his throne and commanded a slave to bring him a jug of water, which he promptly handed to the senator. “Go ahead!” Maxentius urged, extending his bowed head toward his friend. “Baptize me!”

  “Your Eminence, I—”

  Maxentius snatched the jug and swung it hard at the slave who had brought it. The pottery burst against his skull, knocking the man to the ground in a spray of water and blood. The man put his hand to his head and tried to stand up but could not. Reddened water dribbled down his cheeks and stained his garment.

  “Look, a new Christian!” Maxentius exclaimed, then broke into hysterical laughter.

  “Now throw him to the lions!” Pompeianus added, laughing along with his lord.

  Maxentius made threatening claws with his hands. “Grr! Grr! Grr!” he growled, swiping at the slave on the ground. The man cringed and begged for mercy.

  “Alas, he’s dead now! Come, let’s bury him next to all the others!” Pompeianus raised his eyes skyward and held out his palms in a posture of prayer. “O great God,” he intoned, “please welcome this soul into heaven! You will surely like him. He’s a torn-up criminal just like your own Son!” Raucous laughter filled the audience hall.

 
; Maxentius clapped Pompeianus on the shoulder, saluting his performance. “That’s right, my friend! For some strange reason, those Christians love executed people. They make shrines around the city for little Agnes and all their other martyrs. Each one might as well be inscribed, ‘Here Lies the Treachery of Maximian.’ See how they continually insult my father!”

  “Not while I’m in charge of the Praetorians,” Pompeianus said sternly.

  “Indeed. Your faithfulness is highly esteemed by your lord.” Though Maxentius was self-conscious about his petite stature, he straightened to the fullest height he could muster. Proudly, he extended his hand, which Pompeianus knelt and kissed.

  After receiving the honor, Maxentius turned and offered his hand to Neratius. “You, too, Senator?”

  Neratius knelt immediately. “Caesar is lord,” he said, squinting his eyes as he pressed his lips to the emperor’s signet ring.

  Maxentius indicated that the two aristocrats could rise. “I believe I shall keep those Christian properties awhile longer,” he declared after his friends stood.

  A snap of his fingers summoned the doorkeeper. “Take this rebellious slave away,” Maxentius said, pointing to the frightened man cowering on the floor. “Have him flogged for dereliction of duty. Then send in my next appointment.”

  The sun had gone down by the time Rex crept to the top of the Poeninus Pass. His legs barely seemed to work anymore, their muscles having expended all their energy on the twenty-five-mile ascent. He had surged past the final two racers an hour earlier, leaving only Geta as a possible contender for the prize. But the effort had taken Rex to his limits. Now he begged Hercules for just enough strength to get inside the temple, snatch a votive, and get out—without being seen by the soldiers guarding the pass.

  From behind a clump of boulders Rex observed the broken ground before him, which seemed to be deserted. Back in the days when the Romans had not yet conquered the Celts of northern Italy, Poeninus Pass had been a Celtic crossing. But Caesar Augustus had subdued those people and made them take the yoke of Rome. Today Jupiter had replaced their deities, and his modest temple was the most significant building on the pass. The altar of Jupiter was actually a stony outcrop of the mountain itself, uniting the god with the heights upon which he dwelt. A watchtower and two inns also stood nearby for the help of weary travelers—though since it was now October, the inns were about to close for the season. The day’s rain had turned to flurries, marking the beginning of an annual snowfall that would suffocate the pass in a white blanket for many months. Even the noses of the best hounds couldn’t locate the traveler foolish enough to wander off and succumb to an icy death. As Rex brushed snow from his hood, he vowed not to become one of those fools.

  The light from a crescent moon reflected off the new-fallen snow, illuminating the landscape more than Rex would have liked. Yet nothing could be done about that. It was time to move, so he rose from his crouch and darted ahead. Instead of taking a direct route to the temple, he followed a more circuitous path, dodging from boulder to boulder. A final cluster of rocks provided good cover. Only a short open space lay between him and the temple.

  A shout from behind made Rex swivel his head, though he didn’t leap from his hiding place. A tall man was making a break for the temple, his braid flying behind him. Two soldiers chased the runner, but they were obviously slower. Geta was clearly going to beat them to the goal—until suddenly he slipped in the snow and the men pounced on him with their clubs.

  Rex bolted from where he was crouched and sprinted across the uneven landscape, aware that he might twist an ankle yet unwilling to slow down. The soldiers were whacking Geta so furiously that he hadn’t regained his footing. Reaching the melee, Rex easily disarmed one of the men from behind and sent him sprawling, then used the stick to parry the other man’s attack. The move stretched the legionary’s arm wide and out of position. Rex stepped forward and rammed the heel of his hand into his opponent’s unprotected torso, knocking him backward into the snow. A much more damaging blow would have been possible, but this wasn’t mortal combat, and Rex didn’t want to do permanent harm. “Come on,” he said to Geta, extending his hand to help up his friend. “Let’s make a run for it!”

  The two cadets dashed across the moonlit pass, heading for the temple while the pursuers scrambled from the slippery ground and resumed the chase. “Over here! This way!” one of the men yelled, drawing two more soldiers out of the watchtower.

  Geta gained the portico first but turned around at the entrance. “You go inside and get something!” he said. “I’ll hold them off. Give me your stick!”

  Rex tossed the weapon to his friend and darted into the temple. Unlike the portico, which was brightly lit by torches, the interior was illuminated by only two oil lamps in niches on the wall. An oaken table was strewn with votive offerings—mostly bronze plaques inscribed with prayers, but also a small legionary eagle, a couple of coins, and a little statue of Jupiter. Rex grabbed the miniature idol and ran outside.

  Geta had reached a stalemate on the portico. He was able to hold off the four men at the bottom of the steps but unable to get past them and escape. Rex came to his side. The attackers crowded close to the base of the stairs, issuing threats, seeking an advantage.

  “Warriors of the Eighth Augusta, I salute you!” Rex bellowed. The friendly greeting seemed to catch the men off guard. They fell silent, unsure what to think.

  “You are great fighters, I can see that,” Rex continued. “But you cannot win against us. To try will only bring injuries you don’t want to receive and we don’t want to give.”

  “Not likely, boy!” shouted a swarthy soldier whose foot was poised on the first step of the stairs.

  “Do you know what speculators are?”

  “We know all about the explorers,” the swarthy leader said.

  “Speculators and explorers are not the same, my friend.” Rex’s amicable tone had caught the men’s attention, so he decided to take control of their imagination and talk his way out of the impasse. “An explorer is a battlefield scout, a good rider, a soldier trained to operate in forward areas. But a speculator is much more. We operate for months at a time behind enemy lines. We blend into an enemy’s society and spy on their ways. We relay coded messages. We know lock picking and poisons and nighttime stealth. We can get inside any building. The best burglars are spared crucifixion so they can teach us how to enter wherever we want and pass by unobserved. Every speculator knows boxing, swordplay, and hand-to-hand combat. During our training we are made to run like Olympic racers, lift sacks of sand above our heads, and go without sleep for days on end. We are fed all the red meat and dark beer we can handle, but our bodies still grow lean and hard. And what about horsemanship? We ride our mounts until our souls are joined to theirs, like a single animal. We are as deadly with the javelin as any cavalryman on the field of war.

  “Do you hear me, comrades? We are Rome’s most elite soldiers! So now we ask for the respect that only one fighting man can give to another. We ask you to let us pass so we can finish our great quest.”

  “You make a lot of big talk, boy,” the leader said, “but there’s four of us and only two of you.”

  Rex and Geta exchanged grins, then Rex turned back to the man at the bottom of the stairs. “Alright, have it your way. I challenge you to a fight, brother! Come up here and take me if you can. You may keep your club. I will remain unarmed.”

  With a confident cackle, the swarthy man bounded up the steps and faced Rex from a few paces away. This is going to be easy, Rex thought—and it was. As soon as the man drew back his club and began to step into his swing, Rex leapt on him like a lion on its prey. In a continuous motion that was actually a series of well-rehearsed combat moves, Rex disjointed the soldier’s shoulder, took away his weapon, slammed him to the ground, and clubbed him twice across the back of the head. Death would have been a simple matter of giving a hard strike to one of the vulnerable spots on the man’s body, but Rex had made his point.


  The three assailants standing before the temple portico took a step back into the shadows. Their mouths were agape, little murmurs escaping them.

  “You see?” Geta said. “It is just as my friend told you. Will you let us pass now?”

  Three clubs were pitched into the snow. “Hail, brothers,” one of the soldiers said. “You may pass with honor. We fight for the same lord.”

  “And who would that be?” Rex asked.

  “The men of the Eighth serve Constantine.”

  “And now so do you,” said a voice from the darkness.

  All heads turned toward the speaker, trying to discern his identity, though Rex already knew who it was. Rex tossed the little statue of Jupiter to the newcomer, who caught it midair. “How was our time, Aratus?”

  The centurion held up an hourglass to the light, inspecting its contents. “Best time ever by more than half an hour.” Aratus smiled broadly. “Well done, cadets. Well done.”

  “You sure know how to push us to the limits, sir.”

  “Ha! You think my training has been hard? Your real work is just about to begin.”

  The two speculators exchanged glances. More hiking? More combat? I’m exhausted! But I’ll do whatever it takes.

  “You have another trial for us, sir?” Geta inquired.

  “We stand ready for whatever it is,” Rex added.

  Aratus shook his head in amusement. “Yes, I have a great trial for you—but not today. For now, I order you to come inside and get warm. You two won the race together.”

  Rex and Geta exchanged triumphant glances, clasping each other’s hands in congratulation. “Brothers always,” Rex said.

  “To the death,” Geta agreed.

  Rex turned back to his commander. “And what of the prize?”

  “It belongs to both of you. I’m ending your training tonight.”

  The announcement brought a whoop from the two young cadets. They beamed at Aratus, and he returned their smile.

  “Rex and Geta,” the centurion said at last, “you are the newest soldiers of the Second Italian Legion. Welcome to the army of Rome, boys! It’s going to take everything you have to give.”