The Conqueror Page 6

  “Let’s plot this out,” Aratus said, spreading a map of the Germanic frontier on the table. He held down the map’s four corners with olive oil lamps, then placed white beans on each site where troop activity had been observed. One by one, the beans began to form a distinct arrowhead—and its tip pointed directly at Emperor Constantine’s new bridge over the Rhenus River.

  Aratus looked up at his elite warriors. “There you have it, men! Apparently, it’s going to be Colonia. Our home base! The Franks are coming straight at us. The only question is when.”

  “We still have plenty of time,” scoffed one of the spies. “Those Franks are bumbling fools who don’t know the first thing about tactics. They won’t attack anytime soon.”

  He’s wrong, Rex thought. The Franks will strike within a week or two.

  Constantine had recently ordered the construction of a bridge at Colonia Agrippina, an important frontier city on the Roman side of the Rhenus. To protect the bridgehead, a fort called Divitia was being built on the eastern bank, the Germanic side. This fort was intended to house a detachment of the Second Italian Legion, along with some other troops. Impressive walls were being raised, to be guarded by fourteen towers and two heavily fortified gates. If the Franks wanted to attack the Roman Empire—not just raid it but move an army across the Rhenus and permanently take some land—they would have to cross at the Colonia bridge. And they’d have to do it soon.

  Geta apparently had been thinking the same thing. “I would argue an attack could occur any day, sir,” he countered. “The bridge is functional now but still unprotected. The Franks will want to cross it before the Divitia Fortress is finished. We need to prepare for an invasion.”

  Rex caught his centurion’s eye and nodded emphatically to signal his agreement with his friend. “Geta’s absolutely right. The Frankish army is large and well supplied. We’re in danger without reinforcements. Where is the emperor now? This is urgent news. He needs to know about it so he can decide what to do.”

  Aratus set his jaw and nodded. “Constantine is at Augusta Treverorum. And I concur, the news is urgent. It’s time the emperor had a full report. Get some sleep if you can. We ride out at dawn.”

  The next morning before the stars had begun to dim, Aratus met Rex, Geta, and two other speculators outside the secret camp. Mounted on their long-legged saddle horses, the men set out in single file, with Aratus in the lead. They followed a game trail to the Rhenus, arriving by midday at Colonia’s new bridge, where they crossed back into the empire. From there, the road south was like all Roman roads: wide, smooth, and slightly bowed to allow rainwater to run off into gutters. Rex shook his head as he gazed down at the marvel of engineering. These people can put an army anywhere they want in a matter of hours. No wonder they conquered the world!

  A hard two-days’ ride, switching horses at each of the post stations, brought Aratus’s band of spies to the regional capital of Augusta Treverorum. Rex couldn’t help but gawk at the size of the city, which dwarfed the other big settlements he had known, such as Colonia or Eboracum. The city’s high wall aspired to reach into the clouds, and its circumference seemed capable of embracing the entire population of Gaul. Since the only bridge was under repair, the party was ferried across the Mosella and entered through the northern gate. Rex thought such a massive structure, comprising four stories of pale-gray sandstone, would survive all the wars that humanity could throw at it and still be standing thousands of years in the future.

  The imperial residence at Augusta Treverorum was connected to the Palace Hall, a brand-new basilica just put up by Constantine. It had a long nave and a double row of windows with translucent crystal panes. As soon as Rex stepped inside, he felt a rush of heated air—a necessity for the Romans in these far northern lands. The walls were overlaid with white marble and golden mosaics, while impressive statues and luxurious banners made sure everyone knew this was an imperial throne room. At the far end of the hall, in an apse beneath a high arch, sat the emperor himself. Rex approached the great man cautiously, walking down the center of the nave behind a swarm of government functionaries. He seems so different now, Rex mused. This Constantine seems so—what? So much grander than the field general who knocked me in the head four years ago!

  A bureaucrat whispered in Constantine’s ear to let the emperor know who was approaching. It had already been made clear to the band of spies that Aratus would do all the talking. The other speculators accompanied him for effect, still wearing dirty clothes to remind their lord that their information was coming straight from the field. If anyone asked, they could provide confirmation of a few tactical details. Otherwise, they served only as decoration. It was the centurion’s prerogative alone to speak.

  As the party neared the throne, Rex’s eyes fell for the first time on the man standing at Constantine’s right hand. He was a bulky figure with curly hair and a bushy beard. Though dressed expensively, he wore the garments of a civilian. The expression on his face was placid and unreadable.

  “I hear you have important news for us, centurion,” the emperor said when the spies were assembled before him. “Clearly, it must be important, since you have come today in the outfit of a barbarian herdsman.”

  To his credit, Aratus didn’t take the comment as an insult, nor did he adopt the whiny tone of a palace sycophant. He was a decorated soldier who knew what he had accomplished and wasn’t ashamed to stand before great men. Aratus had killed enemies in combat just as the man seated on the throne had done. Constantine was famous for respecting courage in battle above all else. Speaking like the commander of men that he was, the centurion stood with his back straight and said, “Your Highness, I salute you in the name of Eternal Rome. I have come to you today not from the safe confines of the empire but from deep in Frankish lands. There we have discovered what can only be described as an invasion army converging on your new bridge at Colonia. We expect an attempt to cross the Rhenus very soon.”

  Rex noticed the big man at Constantine’s side shift his weight, though he said nothing. The emperor stroked his beardless chin. “An invasion, you say. Not just a little sacking and looting by men coming over in boats?”

  “An army,” Aratus repeated, “equipped with new steel and amassing provisions to take across your bridge for an extended stay. They intend to capture territory and occupy it.”

  Constantine let out a heavy sigh. “If what you say is true, it appears my summer is going to involve campaigning once again. I shall have to lead some troops to the frontier so I can put down those unruly Franks. But by September, I’ll have their chiefs running naked from the leopards in our amphitheater!” The boast elicited laughter and even some cheers from the bureaucrats assembled in the basilica.

  Returning his attention to Aratus, Constantine took his measure for a moment, then asked, “How many are there?”

  “Twenty thousand at least,” Aratus said flatly.

  The big man standing next to the throne burst into the conversation. “Twenty thousand? That’s impossible! The Franks can’t organize an army like that. They’re far too fractious. Constantine, you can’t listen to this idiot!”

  A hush fell on the hall. Slowly, the emperor turned to regard the man at his side. For a short time they talked privately, then Constantine returned his attention to Aratus. “My father-in-law disputes you, centurion. And who among us can doubt that Maximian is experienced in war?” Though Constantine offered a mischievous smile, the remark drew only a smattering of awkward laughter and several nervous glances. Rex sensed the politics here were extremely delicate.

  “I would never question the wisdom and experience of an original colleague like the honorable Maximian,” Aratus said. “I can only tell you what my men saw in the field. Our observations add up to twenty thousand soldiers, all hungry for battle and glory.”

  Maximian snorted and swatted his hand. “My sources tell me there’s a Frankish rabble of about five thousand up there. Just snatch-and-grabbers, no more than that.”

 
; “It is possible our observations were mistaken. Yet to the best of our knowledge, we believe them to be accurate.”

  With the abrupt authority of an absolute ruler, Constantine settled the matter. “I shall take a quarter of my army across to meet the Franks,” he declared. “Maximian will take the rest of my legions down to southern Gaul. Something tells me his clever son Maxentius is getting restless over in Italy. A full-strength army close to Rome will probably do us some good. I’m sure nine thousand will be more than enough to crush the barbarians.”

  “But sir!” Rex broke in. “I saw those Franks with my own eyes! It’s a real army. You’ll need a much larger force to defeat them.”

  A little murmur rippled through the hall. Rex felt his mouth go dry. Swallowing, he stepped back a little.

  Constantine eyed Rex closely, inspecting him up and down. “What is your name, soldier?”

  “Brandulf Rex.”

  Will he remember?

  The emperor stared at Rex for a long time. At last he announced to the room, “I will take a third of my army to subdue Germania. Twelve thousand. No more than that.” He waved his hand at the visitors. “Now be gone.”

  Rex walked in silence with the rest of the party as they were escorted to the rear of the basilica. Once the men were out in the bright sunlight again, Aratus whirled on Rex. “That was a foolish thing to do!” he said through gritted teeth.

  Rex kept his eyes lowered as he stood before his commanding officer. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Aratus grunted like a beast, then stormed away, leaving the four speculators of the traveling squad alone in the courtyard.

  “That really was foolish, you idiot,” Geta said.

  Rex winced and offered a nod of agreement, then glanced up to find Geta giving him an appreciative smile. Though no words were uttered, the two men acknowledged with their eyes the inescapable fact that they both understood: Constantine is about to face those Franks with only half the men he needs.

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind once he thinks it over?” Rex suggested.

  Geta swatted his hand dismissively. “There’s no use hoping for that. The emperor has decided. Let’s forget about it and get something to eat.”

  “Pfft! What do you know about emperors?”

  “More than you might think. Nothing can change the mind of an emperor. It never happens.”

  Rex shrugged and fell silent. Someday it might, he thought as he followed his friends into the streets of Augusta Treverorum. And when it does, I want to be there to see it.

  JUNE 310

  The large room in Flavia’s house that her father had made available to the Christians was a functional, indeed beautiful, space for worship. Flavia remembered being so excited to watch the workmen knock down a wall to form a spacious hall in which the whole community could gather—about a hundred in all. There was even a decorative nook at one end where the priest would sit and give sermons or receive the faithful at the altar for the distribution of the bread and wine. Every Sunday at dawn, the neighborhood Christians would gather for worship in this homey and intimate setting.

  Yet despite its comfortable familiarity, the house church on the Aventine didn’t hold the special place in Flavia’s heart that the Hall of the Church did. That building was a true house of the Lord, erected for the sole purpose of glorifying Christ. But now, thanks to the terrible riot, the hall was a ravaged shell, locked up by decree of Emperor Maxentius. And to make matters worse, the emperor had just announced that Bishop Eusebius would be banished to the faraway island of Sicilia as punishment for the disturbance.

  Flavia shut the double doors of the house church and stepped into the private garden connected to it. Her mother was plucking cherries from a tree that was just now coming into fruit.

  “Your face is too lovely to look so sad,” Sophronia said.

  “How could I not be sad at such terrible news?”

  “It could have been worse. Maxentius isn’t a persecutor, but he could have considered the riot a civil disorder worthy of capital punishment. We should be glad it was only exile.”

  “Eusebius is so old,” Flavia countered. “Travel will take a toll on him.”

  Sophronia smiled gently, handing Flavia a bowl of plump cherries. “He’s strong for his age. And besides, he’s formerly a doctor. He might do just fine.”

  “I suppose he might. It helps that Father is allowing us to go down to Sicilia ahead of the bishop. We can get everything ready for his arrival. Surely the Christians there will want to care for him.”

  “Actually, my love . . . I have been meaning to talk to you about that journey.”

  Flavia swung her head around sharply. “Father isn’t reconsidering, is he?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that . . . well, apparently, he wants you to go down to Sicilia with a protector. You know his business partner with the Sicilian estate? The man has a son about your age—”

  “Ohhh nooo!” Flavia moaned, clasping her head in her hands.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t need a protector!”

  “He’s a nice Christian boy. It’ll be alright. You’ll see.”

  Flavia could only shake her head in disbelief. She picked up a cherry and popped it into her mouth, then handed the bowl back to her mother. With a sigh of resignation, she retired to her bedroom.

  The day of departure dawned bright and sunny, like virtually every other day in a Roman summer. Because Neratius’s friend was a wealthy trader, his ships often made the journey between Ostia, Rome’s harbor town, and the Sicilian port of Syracusae. The uneventful trip took seven days, during which time Flavia tried her best to avoid Magnus, the “Christian boy” whose tepid personality should have earned him the name Minus instead.

  Syracusae, an ancient town that was still much more Greek than Roman, lay on Sicilia’s eastern coast. The entire countryside around the port was dotted with vineyards and olive groves. In the distance loomed the smoking bulk of Mons Aetna, an active volcano that sometimes spewed lava down its snowy flanks. According to the Acts of the Apostles, Saint Paul spent three days in Syracusae—and as far as Flavia knew, Christians had lived there ever since.

  After putting ashore in the harbor, the travelers made their way to the outskirts of the lovely Sicilian town. Bishop Chrestus, a local aristocrat, welcomed the visitors warmly in the atrium of his villa. He was especially delighted to see Magnus. The skinny youth appeared to be well-known to the bishop.

  “The scriptures command us to extend hospitality to all the brethren,” Chrestus said. “Consider my home yours during the time of your stay.”

  “Such a warm welcome is greatly appreciated,” Sophronia answered with stately decorum. “And it is precisely for the purpose of hospitality that we have traveled to your beautiful island. Our Bishop Eusebius has been exiled here by Emperor Maxentius, never to return to Rome on pain of death. We have come to find a place for him to live out his days. A stipend will be sent from our church to yours for expenses.”

  Chrestus lowered his head and nodded gravely. “We had heard that awful news.” His face was mournful for a moment, yet when he raised his eyes to meet those of his visitors, Flavia could discern the Spirit of God in the man’s countenance. “Do not fear, my friends. We think we have found a beautiful place for the esteemed bishop to stay, a nearby cottage. But please—your needs must come first! You have journeyed far and must take your rest. Come, allow my servants to show you to your quarters. Then when you have been refreshed from your travels, we can go see the cottage.”

  A few hours later, Flavia and her companions were led to a wagon at the villa’s gate. They were driven along a country lane to a remote cottage in a picturesque setting: a shady grove of chestnut trees with a brook flowing nearby and a broad view toward the sea. The little house was made of brick and tile. Its porch had a comfortable chair and a book cabinet, a lovely place for the bishop to pass his time reading.

  “It’s perfect,” Flavia sai
d under her breath.

  Bishop Chrestus caught her words and smiled broadly. “You like it? Well then, let me show you one more thing.”

  The energetic priest led his three guests to a small outbuilding, apparently a place to store tools or yard implements. When he opened the door, though, Flavia realized she wasn’t looking at a shed but the entrance to an underground crypt. A gaping staircase led down into the gloom.

  “Follow me down,” Chrestus said, lighting an oil lamp. “There is something I want you to see.”

  Magnus backed away from the entrance. “I’m staying up here,” he declared. “There are underworld shades down there.”

  Flavia whirled to face the youth. “Shades? We don’t believe in ghosts hovering around graves. That’s pagan.”

  “Where are the dead, then? They must go somewhere.”

  “Have you not been catechized, Magnus?” Chrestus asked gently. “The souls of our departed brethren await the resurrection at the trumpet of Christ. When we visit their tombs, we remember them and fellowship with them until that blessed day when we shall all meet our Savior.”

  Magnus crossed his arms and took a seat on a fallen log. “I don’t know much about theology. All I know is, it’s dark down there, and I’m not going.”

  “I will stay and keep you company,” Sophronia offered.

  Sure, stay up here with my mother, Flavia thought, although she didn’t give voice to her disdain.

  “Suit yourself, my friends,” Chrestus said. “The choice is yours.” He handed Flavia an oil lamp, which he lit from his own before starting down the stairs. “Stay close,” he warned, “and watch your step.”

  The subterranean darkness immediately engulfed the two visitors, yet Flavia did not sense the cemetery was a place of danger. Though the air was close and musty, it did not contain the sickly-sweet smell of rotting flesh, for the burial niches in the walls had been well sealed. At intervals along the way, Chrestus lit more of the clay lamps that rested in tiny nooks.