The Conqueror Read online

  2

  MAY 310

  The air in the Christian meeting hall was comfortably warm, and after what had been an unusually cold winter in Rome, Flavia was glad for the change. The pleasure of the late spring sunshine almost made her forget the most frustrating aspect of the hall, that while it was rightfully owned by the catholic church, the bishop had to pay exorbitant rent to the imperial landlords who had confiscated it as part of a persecution. Not long ago, it was even being used as a granary! Although that travesty had been corrected, Flavia still wanted the property back in the hands of its rightful owners.

  She sat next to her mother, Lady Sabina Sophronia, on one of the wooden benches that adorned the Hall of the Church. The service was over now and most of the congregants were leaving, though some had stayed behind to chat. Flavia glanced around the hall, half expecting to see sacks of wheat piled in the corners. What a job those had been to remove! She recalled the day well. Flavia had joined the effort alongside the lowborn believers who populated Rome’s Trans Tiberim district. Together, they had made the place a church again.

  It was Father Miltiades who had gotten the property back into catholic hands by offering a better rent than what the bakeries had been paying. Until the big cleanup a year ago, the Hall of the Church had been filled with grain shipped from Aegyptus and Africa. Instead of offering the Bread of Life, the holy building had been turned into just another warehouse like the many others in this dockside area. But now the name of the Lord was being praised here again—even if it meant that for the time being, the Christians had to pay to do so. The emperor was being stubborn about giving back the property. Silently, Flavia reminded herself of the biblical proverb she often applied to Maxentius: “Like a rush of water, so is the heart of a king in God’s hand.”

  “The service today was well attended,” Sophronia remarked, her quiet voice snapping Flavia’s attention back to her surroundings.

  “I thought so too. I’ve noticed there’s always a good crowd here. God’s people are found all over Rome, but especially in Trans Tiberim.”

  Sophronia turned in her seat and regarded her daughter with a gentle smile. “Do you know why?”

  Flavia shook her head.

  “It is actually quite an interesting story. But I will let someone else explain it to you.”

  “Who? Father Miltiades?”

  Again Sophronia smiled at Flavia, this time with a grin even wider than before. A little twinkle was in her eye as she announced, “No, a very special guest.” She pointed to the main entrance, and Flavia let out a gasp.

  “Bishop Eusebius!”

  Sophronia rose from the bench. “Come. I want you to meet our new shepherd.”

  The two women crossed the hall, and Miltiades and Eusebius greeted them warmly. Being highborn, Flavia knew how to act in such situations, yet she still felt butterflies in her stomach. It wasn’t often that one got to interact with the bishop of Rome.

  After introductions were made, a deacon escorted the foursome to a pair of couches beneath a fresco of Abraham offering his son Isaac—the Old Testament prefigurement of Christ’s own sacrifice. A glass decanter was brought on a tray with four cups. The elderly bishop poured wine for his friends, then filled the fourth cup with water. When everyone had their drinks, Eusebius directed his attention to Flavia. “Your mother mentioned you were asking about the Christians in Trans Tiberim,” he said.

  “Yes, Holy Father.” The simple affirmation was all Flavia could manage to get out. Though she usually thought of herself as talkative, she found she was a little tongue-tied in the presence of the new catholic bishop.

  “Trans Tiberim is one of the oldest Christian districts in Rome. It was here that the Jews first dwelled, long before the time of Christ. Their earliest synagogues go back to the reign of Caesar Augustus. It was only natural that the Jews would congregate here, for the area is across the Tiberis from the original city and outside its earliest walls—a crowded and undesirable place, suitable only for immigrants, slaves, and poor dockworkers from the East. Such were the first Jews to arrive in Rome.”

  “But what of the Christians?”

  Bishop Eusebius motioned for Miltiades to hand him a codex. Flavia craned her neck and saw it was the four Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles. Although the book was in the original Greek, not the rough Latin that the common people used, Flavia had no problem reading the title. She considered it a much better use of her aristocratic education than translating the scandalous Greek verses of Sappho.

  “Look here,” Eusebius said when he found the place he wanted. “Read this text aloud, young lady. Give it to us in Latin.”

  Translating the Greek in her head, Flavia read aloud the selected portion from the end of Acts: “Moreover, having appointed a day for him, many came to his lodging, to whom he preached, testifying fully to the kingdom of God, and persuading them also concerning Jesus, both from the Law of Moses and the prophets, from morning until evening.” Flavia lowered the book. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Sophronia give her an approving wink and nod.

  “The sacred scripture is speaking about Saint Paul’s lodging under house arrest,” Eusebius observed. “That very house isn’t far from here. It is but a short walk, though you would have to cross the river and go back into the city to reach it. What we learn is this: many of the Jews of this neighborhood were converted by the apostle. Such converts made up a good portion of Rome’s first Christians. And there have been numerous Christians in Trans Tiberim ever since. For two and a half centuries, the church’s faithful believers have been exalting the risen Christ right here.”

  Flavia felt a twinge of awe as she considered the historic roots of her faith. “What an honor to worship in such an ancient place!” she exclaimed. “I suppose some of those first believers would have been eyewitnesses of the Lord.”

  “Exactly. We built the Hall of the Church in Trans Tiberim to recognize that legacy. That is why we so earnestly desire to get it back from the hands of Maxentius.”

  Sophronia nodded gravely. “Then let us pray that—”

  A loud crash broke the stillness in the church. Flavia let out a yelp, and all four heads swung around to see a bright orange fire raging in the middle of the floor. A burning amphora of some flammable substance had been heaved through an open door.

  Eusebius leapt up and began waving for help. “You men, over here! Put it out, quickly!” Several deacons and lectors dashed toward the flame with heavy cloaks, trying to smother the blaze. The smoke billowing from it was thick and black.

  “What is it?” Sophronia cried. “Is it another persecution?”

  Persecution? A burst of cold fear shot through Flavia’s body. God help us! Is the age of martyrdom starting up again?

  “It’s not persecution,” Father Miltiades said, staring out one of the doors. “It’s that troublemaker Heraclius.”

  “Everyone take up a position at an entrance,” Bishop Eusebius ordered. “I want five men holding the main door. Bar it tight. Whoever is left, guard the side doors. Try to make sure no one enters this hall. Yet do not risk injury! Your lives are worth more than this building of brick and tile.”

  Flavia and Sophronia found a spot near a window and peeked out. The scene Flavia saw horrified her. Beefy thugs with sticks and hammers were rioting in the street. Many were hurling rocks at the Hall of the Church. “Stop it!” Flavia cried, but her protest was futile. She was a sixteen-year-old woman, and this was an angry mob of grown men.

  The rioters’ leader stepped forward. He was a tall fellow with long, spidery arms and stringy white hair that dangled past his ears to his shoulders. “Heraclius,” he had been called. Flavia had never heard of him.

  “False Bishop Eusebius, show yourself!” Heraclius shouted. “Come forth and step down, lest the judgment of Christ be upon you!”

  “The judgment of Christ?” Flavia whispered to her mother. “This man claims to be a Christian?”

  “He represents the party of the Lapsed
—those who gave in during persecution. They claim they did nothing wrong.”

  “But, Mother, they denied the Lord. They cursed him and handed over the scriptures for burning. They worshiped demons and swore oaths to them! How can that not be wrong?”

  “It is wrong,” Sophronia said. “That is why Bishop Eusebius believes in a process of repentance and restoration. But Heraclius calls him a ‘false bishop’ for this. He denies the martyrs are special heroes. He says they were fools to throw away their lives.”

  The martyrs are fools? Flavia couldn’t believe anyone could think such a wicked thing and call himself a Christian. Make me that kind of fool, she prayed, then quickly added, and give me your grace if you do.

  The rioters were close now. Some of the smaller doors rattled ominously, though the main entrance remained secure.

  “Look out!” Sophronia cried—though not quickly enough. A speeding rock clipped Flavia’s forehead and sent her stumbling backward. She landed on her rear end, disoriented and confused. The room seemed to spin around her. When she finally collected herself, she felt warm blood trickling into her eye.

  “I’m alright, Mother,” she said as she was helped up. “Just don’t let anyone get in that window!”

  “False Bishop Eusebius, this is your last chance!” Heraclius roared from the street. “Come and turn yourself in, or the Lapsed will arrest you by force and confiscate your house of Satan! What say you? Do you dare defy me?”

  A hush fell on the mob, and the defenders grew quiet as well. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a slow creak, the door to the church opened and Bishop Eusebius stepped forth. With slow and measured steps, he crossed the space toward Heraclius and stood before him.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, you martyr lover?” Heraclius demanded.

  Deliberately, the aged bishop of Rome looked Heraclius in the eye and uttered four Latin words that Flavia vowed never to forget: Semen est sanguis Christianorum.

  “He’s quoting the writer Tertullian!” Sophronia whispered. “Eusebius is taking his stand with the martyrs of the Lord!”

  Heraclius clenched his fists. His face began to turn a hot shade of red. Seething as he stood in place, he seemed ready to explode, like ancient Vesuvius. At last the eruption could be held back no longer. “Arrest him!” he screamed. “And ravage this temple of demons!”

  The mob broke into a run, surging into the Hall of the Church. Brutish hooligans began striking the deacons and lectors with their sticks or pelting them with stones. They overturned and smashed furniture. Everyone was screaming and wailing. One man began to urinate on the holy altar.

  Horrified, Flavia gripped Sophronia’s forearm and watched the chaos swirl around her. A scrawny man wearing nothing but a loincloth charged the two women, his club raised high. Sophronia shrieked and pulled Flavia close, sheltering her daughter with her body.

  “Back off!” Flavia yelled, thrusting out her palm. The man caught a good look at the women and pulled up, suddenly aware of their lofty social station. The law always favored highborn nobles. Turning aside, the ruffian ran to go destroy something else.

  A loud crash signaled the fall of something heavy. Flavia whirled to see that the church’s ornate book cabinet had been toppled and broken open. The rioters were pulling out the expensive codices and ripping them apart. “The scriptures!” Flavia cried. She ran to the cabinet, trying to rescue whatever she could. Though she grabbed the Letters of Paul in one hand and a Psalter in the other, the books were snatched from her.

  “Heraclius forbids you to have these holy books,” snarled a burly man with hairy forearms. “To support the martyrs is heresy! The Lapsed have done no wrong!”

  “To deny Christ is surely wrong!” Flavia cried. Moisture flooded her eyes, the hot tears of frustration and helplessness. She knew what a pitiful figure she must appear to this big, intimidating man. “Please!” she begged. “Do not destroy the books of God!”

  Grinning, the man ripped the Psalter in half. “Heretic!” he spat, then tore the Pauline epistles as well. It was more than Flavia could bear. She fled from the Hall of the Church.

  Outside, Sophronia took Flavia’s hand, and the two women hurried toward the Bridge of Probus. As soon as they crossed the Tiberis River, they would be back in safer territory on the Aventine Hill.

  “Oh, Mother,” Flavia groaned when they stopped to catch their breath at the far side of the bridge. “How could anyone do that in the name of Christ?”

  “It is truly unworthy of the Savior, and the martyrs who followed in his footsteps. Did Jesus not declare that anyone who comes after him must take up his cross? And he also said, ‘The cup that I drink, you shall drink.’ Jesus predicted martyrdom!”

  “To reject the martyrs is to deny the Lord’s own words,” Flavia agreed.

  “Yet there are many so-called Christians who do just that. And they are violent. That’s why we need strong men who can defend us. Brave men, the kind willing to take a stand between us and danger. But such men are in short supply, unfortunately.”

  “Father Eusebius was very bold, though,” Flavia offered. “He looked Heraclius in the eye and quoted Tertullian: ‘The blood of Christians is seed.’”

  “We may soon find that to be true, I’m afraid.”

  Flavia’s head shot around. “What do you mean? Will there be another persecution?”

  “Bishop Eusebius is the head of the catholic church in Rome, so he’s responsible for whatever the Christians do. Emperor Maxentius is going to be furious about this riot. The city is already unstable because of the bread shortages, and now this happens. Somebody must bear the blame. The emperor is going to hold Eusebius accountable.”

  “You mean . . . kill him?”

  “It’s hard to say. Yet I fear Heraclius has just signed the bishop’s death warrant, one way or another.”

  Flavia put her hand to her forehead and rubbed the sticky mess there. She slowly turned her fingers before her eyes and stared at the dark red smear. Glancing up, she saw her mother’s gaze was also fixed on her bloodstained fingertips.

  “Mother? What if we had to . . . you know. Could we do it?”

  “I don’t know, precious,” Sophronia said bravely, though with a tremor in her voice. “What I do know is that we should get off these streets. Somebody might be following us to do us harm. And I think enough seed has been planted in the ground for one day.”

  Rex crept up beside Geta in the underbrush at the crest of a low hill. Spread out before them was a broad meadow filled with tents and busy activity. In the distance, the Rhenus River curved its way through the forests of Germania. On its far side was the civilized empire. Here, though, were only barbarians.

  “Look, they’re playing games. It’s surely a festival,” Geta said as he observed the tents below.

  “No. Look closer. What’s missing that you would always have at any festival?”

  “I see a lot of clay jugs. Those Franks aren’t short on beer.”

  Rex shot his friend an amused glance. “Since when are the Germani ever short on beer? It’s not that, it’s something else—something no party is complete without.”

  Geta stared at the scene, then turned back toward Rex. “No women. These are all warriors.”

  “Warriors and carters and blacksmiths. What kind of festival needs that? Not any I’d want to attend. The Franks are telling the Romans they’re celebrating a religious holiday. But this is an invasion army. They’re going to try to cross the Rhenus.”

  “I don’t see any weapons. We’d need proof before we report back to Aratus.”

  Rex grinned and nodded. “Of course we need proof! What does he always say? ‘Philosophers deal in ideas. Professors deal in theories. But speculators’”—the two spies met each other’s gaze and finished their trainer’s maxim in unison—“‘deal in facts.’”

  “I’m going down there,” Geta said as he rose from his crouch.

  “Meet you at the red tent. Don’t talk to anyone. Y
our Frankish accent sounds like a sow in heat.”

  Geta flashed Rex a crude gesture as the two men separated. The crowded and busy conditions in the meadow made it easy for Rex to blend in and work his way to the center of the encampment. His clothing was entirely Frankish, and he was carrying no obvious weapon. Fortunately, he was Germanic like those on whom he was spying, so with his shoulder-length blond hair and thick beard, he didn’t look out of place. Geta was already waiting at the red tent when Rex arrived.

  “It’s tied up tight,” Geta whispered. “Don’t start fiddling with the thongs or someone will get suspicious.”

  “There’s a privy against the rear of the tent. I think I can get inside from back there without being seen.”

  Rex went around to the wooden shack that had been erected over the latrine hole, finding it ironic that the cultured Romans did their business side by side in a communal toilet, while the so-called barbarians wanted privacy. He started scraping away the dirt of the earthen floor where the privy’s wall adjoined the red tent. Soon he had made a shallow ditch that allowed him to wriggle from one structure into the next.

  The red tent was filled with crates, leaving little room to stand. Rex opened the lid of one of the boxes, then sucked in his breath when he saw what was inside. He quickly grabbed the object and returned through the ditch and exited the privy.

  “Look at this,” he said to Geta as they crouched in the shade beneath a wagon. He slipped a well-made dagger into his friend’s hand.

  Geta ran his thumb along the edge. “Brand new.”

  “There were ax-heads and spear points too. And arrowheads, a lot of them. Even swords. The barbarians aren’t supposed to have access to that much metal.”

  “This is clearly an invasion army. Let’s get back to Aratus.”

  Night had fallen by the time the two comrades reached the secret camp in the deep woods. Many other speculators had already returned, while others were still trickling in, each with the same report: the Lower Rhenus was seething with Frankish warriors armed with new steel. The pressing concern was where they would converge for an attack.