The Conqueror Read online

  At last the pair reached a small underground chapel. The bishop beckoned Flavia to a carved arch in the wall—a decoration that everyone called an arch-coffin, because the curved vault sat directly above a burial compartment that was gouged from the bedrock itself. When a martyr’s body was placed in the grave beneath the arch, a lid would be sealed over it to provide a flat surface for memorial meals. In this way, the brethren would be feasting with the glorified saint, not celebrating pagan banquets with evil spirits. Typically the rear walls of such arch-coffins were decorated. And indeed, when Chrestus held his lamp close, Flavia saw a glittering mosaic of Jonah bursting from the sea monster.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, running her fingers along the mosaic tiles. “Is it yours?”

  “It was going to be. But I am willing to give it to the honorable bishop of Rome.”

  Flavia glanced at the kindly old man. Though she recognized what a generous gesture this was, something about it didn’t feel right. She absently fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist, trying to choose her words. “This doesn’t excite you?” Chrestus asked. There was a hint of curiosity in his voice.

  “Holy Father, the offer is so incredibly kind, but . . .”

  The bishop gave Flavia an appreciative look. “You are a feisty one, my daughter, if you are considering what I think you are.”

  “Well . . . it’s just that Eusebius is the bishop of Rome. That is his God-appointed flock. His people are the Romans.”

  “And yet he has been exiled by the emperor of that city,” Chrestus pointed out. “He is never allowed to set foot in the Italian peninsula again, by direct imperial order.”

  “Surely he will live out his exile in Sicilia. But eventually, he should come home.”

  “It is possible Eusebius will outlive Maxentius by many years, and by then the political situation might have changed. Yet if something did happen to Eusebius while Maxentius was still in power—would you really defy the emperor and return the bishop’s remains?”

  Flavia felt jittery, and her heart was beating fast. She was contemplating something that could be considered a capital crime: violating the express will of the augustus by bringing a condemned exile back to Italy for burial. Though it would be done in secret, it would be dangerous nonetheless. It could easily be construed as treason.

  A glance at the mosaic steeled Flavia’s resolve. The Good Shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, she reminded herself, and so do the church’s shepherds—the priests and bishops who pastor the flock. They live with their sheep, face martyrdom with their sheep, and await the resurrection with their sheep. It is how things are done among Christians.

  By the flickering light of her oil lamp, Flavia looked into Bishop Chrestus’s eyes. “To honor this worthy man . . . yes, I would defy an emperor,” she declared.

  Chrestus took Flavia’s hand in his, holding it firmly as if to let his courage flow to her. “Then if the need arises,” he said, “I will help you.”

  Half a wall doesn’t make for a very good castle, Constantine thought with a little shake of his head. He stared up at the looming bulk of the Divitia Fortress, with its big, round towers and impressive gate. Unfortunately, the wall ended abrubtly just to the right of the gate’s imposing barbican. Anyone who wished could stroll past it and walk up to the troop barracks. It would be another month before the place would be surrounded by a full enclosure. Only then would the bridgehead be secure.

  Feeling a little frustrated yet resigned to the realities of construction and architecture, the emperor turned away from the useless wall and gazed across the broad meadow in front of the fort. On the far side of the grassy expanse, just beyond the tree line, a Frankish army was encamped.

  “Looks like it’s going to be an old-fashioned pitched battle,” Constantine said to his general, Vitruvius, who acknowledged with a shrug what both men already knew. Fortifications and sieges and sallies wouldn’t decide this engagement. It would be won by manly valor on the field of war, beneath the gods’ watching eyes.

  Though a steady rain had been falling all day, the Rhenus had not overflowed its banks and the battlefield was relatively dry. Constantine entered the commander’s tent with Vitruvius and the other generals, settling in to discuss battle tactics as best they could. They were still waiting on reports from the field scouts. Strangely, it was already late in the afternoon and none had yet returned. What the commanders knew for certain was that the Frankish army facing them across the plain was only about twelve thousand strong, with relatively few cavalry among them. A force of that size numbered the same as Constantine’s own, so it would be no match for the superior training and equipment of the legions. This would be yet another Roman rout of the barbarians.

  A nervous messenger appeared at the tent door, apologetic yet insistent. He claimed to have just arrived from southern Gaul with intelligence that must be heard right away. When Constantine granted the man leave to speak, the first words out of his mouth hit the emperor like a hard punch to the gut.

  “Maximian has taken up the purple—”

  Constantine exploded to his feet, overturning the table behind which he had been sitting. “The gods destroy him!”

  “Has taken up the purple robe,” the messenger went on, “and raided the imperial treasury. Once again, he is claiming to be an augustus. He distributed lavish donatives to buy the loyalty of your troops. Apparently, many of them have gone over. He’s barricaded himself in Arelate. And worst of all—he’s telling everyone you’ve been killed by the Franks.”

  Constantine kicked over the last chair that had managed to evade his wrath. “Killed by this pitiful band of barbarians? That’s ridiculous! Nobody would believe that! There aren’t enough caval—”

  The emperor’s abrupt arrest of his words caused a heavy silence to descend on the tent. Even the senior officers dared not move. Slowly, Constantine turned and met Vitruvius’s eyes. “Something isn’t right here,” he said.

  The general nodded. “I’ll check to see if any scouts have returned.” Vitruvius hurried outside.

  When Constantine joined his general a short while later, the rain had stopped but the sky was still overcast. Vitruvius was standing next to a spotter, a young man with exceptionally good eyesight.

  “Calmer now?” Vitruvius asked.

  “First things first. We have these Franks to defeat before I deal with my ungrateful and treasonous father-in-law.” Constantine turned to the young soldier. “See anything?”

  “Someone’s coming from over there,” the spotter said, squinting and craning his neck.

  “I see him too.” Vitruvius pointed toward the far side of the battle plain. “It’s a lone rider.”

  “He’s one of ours,” Constantine said. “And he’s going to die.”

  The man was galloping at full speed away from the Frankish line. Yet he was still in easy range of the archers, so a hail of arrows was continually falling around him. It was only a matter of time until one of them found its mark.

  “What does he have hanging all over himself?” Constantine wondered aloud.

  The spotter gave a little laugh. “The guy has enemy shields on both arms and another slung on his back.”

  “He also seems to be holding one above his head,” Vitruvius added.

  The three men watched the impossible drama play itself out on the battlefield before them. The arrows kept coming, piercing the shields one after another, yet the horse kept surging ahead.

  “I think he’s going to make it!” Constantine cried, fully drawn in now. No sooner had the emperor spoken than the horse took an arrow in the rump and went tumbling to the ground. It thrashed in the grass, but the intrepid rider immediately left it behind and began running across the field. Now that he was a much smaller target and had attained some separation, he ditched his shields.

  “Uh-oh,” the spotter said. “They’re sending out a rider.”

  The enemy horseman gained quickly on the Roman runner. Soon it became obvious the fugiti
ve would be caught before he could reach the safety of his own line. He whirled to face his attacker, but Constantine knew a proficient javelinist in the saddle would easily impale a man on two feet. Even so, the runner raised his arm behind his head, preparing to hurl a knife or some other missile at the oncoming horseman.

  Constantine wanted to shout for soldiers to ride out and help the lone Roman, but he knew this confrontation would be decided long before any aid could get there. The galloping spearman drew within range, his javelin poised for the throw.

  “God help him!” Constantine cried.

  And he did. Above and behind the three spellbound watchers, the gray skies parted, and a golden light washed across the battlefield. It was only a momentary break in the clouds, but the sun’s angle was low and full in the face of the rider. He averted his eyes and threw his spear by instinct instead of aim. As it sailed past the runner, the spearman unexpectedly tumbled from the saddle. He writhed on the ground, clutching the knife hilt that protruded from his chest.

  But the runner paid him no mind. Before his enemy even hit the soggy turf, he had turned and resumed his run. A few more horsemen were dispatched from the Franks, but they were too late and turned back. At last the runner crossed the final distance to the Roman encampment. Constantine and Vitruvius hurried to meet him at the front line.

  The scout was bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Well done, soldier! Well done!” the emperor exclaimed, clapping the man on the back. “Stand up and let me get a look at you!”

  When the scout straightened, the emperor recognized him as the young Germanic recruit who had challenged him in the throne room at Augusta Treverorum. He was a well-built youth with the chiseled look of an elite warrior. These men always look the same, Constantine thought. Square jaw, strong chin, wide shoulders, muscular arms, narrow waist—just the kind of men the empire needs.

  “That was incredibly brave, speculator!” Vitruvius gushed. “What could possibly make you do something so risky?”

  With his chest still heaving, the scout could only lift his arm and point to the south. “Eight . . . thousand . . . riders . . .”

  Constantine tensed. “What? Eight thousand cavalry? On their way?”

  The scout waved his hand. “Delayed. Rain. A bog. Tomorrow . . . earliest.”

  “It was supposed to be a surprise attack? The footmen to draw us out, the horse to hit our flank?”

  A nod from the scout confirmed Constantine’s suspicion. He turned and pointed to Vitruvius. “Sound the trumpets,” he said. “We fight the Frankish infantry this afternoon. Tomorrow we’ll face those cavalry head-on. With their forces divided, they won’t stand a chance.”

  Once some battle plans had been made and Vitruvius had departed, Constantine put his hand on the scout’s shoulder. “Good job out there,” he said. “Remind me of your name?”

  The young speculator had finally regained his breath. He stood at attention and saluted. “Brandulf Rex, sir. From the Second Italian Legion. Based right here at Divitia.”

  “Brandulf Rex,” Constantine mused. “I shall try to remember that name.”

  The handsome scout with the long blond hair flashed Constantine a fellow warrior’s grin. “This is the third time you’ve heard it, Your Highness. I hope someday to make it unforgettable.”

  Constantine arched an eyebrow and gave the cocky youth a hard stare.

  “That’s up to you,” he said.

  “We stop here,” General Vitruvius announced. “The augustus is going to pay his vows to the sun god. Everyone else will use the time to eat. We will move out again in one hour.”

  Rex dropped his pack and rubbed his sore shoulders. “Emperor Constantine sure is religious,” he observed to Geta. “He seems to take the gods very seriously.”

  “Apparently, it’s working for him. He’s undefeated in battle. The man always finds a way to win.”

  Geta was right, but he was only giving voice to what all the men had just experienced. The battle with the Franks had turned into yet another massacre, just as Constantine had predicted. Splitting the enemy into two forces had made all the difference. The Frankish footmen were no match for the disciplined and well-armored Roman infantry, much less the cavalry who crashed into them like the waves of the sea. Then when it was time to face the Frankish riders, the barbarians found a battle-ready army waiting for them as their horses pulled their hooves from the rain-soaked bog. The slaughter was complete, and the Rhenus frontier was at rest again.

  But the whole empire wasn’t at rest. Maximian, a former augustus of the Imperial College and the father of Constantine’s wife, Fausta, had taken up the robe of an emperor and was making claims on the Roman West. If he could secure Gaul with his bribed army, then make an alliance with his son Maxentius in Italy, the two would form a power bloc that Constantine would have a hard time breaking. For that reason, the true emperor was moving south from the Germanic line at double time, ready to take out his treacherous father-in-law once and for all. As for Maxentius, that enemy could wait for another day.

  Rex’s furious dash across the battlefield, carrying the vital intelligence that had turned ambush into victory, had earned him the job of his dreams. The emperor immediately appointed Rex to his personal bodyguard corps—an impressive posting for someone so young. Yet the move was a smart one. In this age of perpetual civil war, emperors needed good protectors even more than they needed battlefield intelligence. Constantine wanted men with Rex’s abilities nearby. The first thing Rex did in his new position was finagle an appointment for Geta too. His friend was just as proficient a fighter as he was, maybe even better. It served everyone’s interests to have elite warriors in the emperor’s retinue.

  The day’s march had started early and hadn’t let up even once. The sun was well past its zenith now, and the troops were grateful that Vitruvius had finally allowed them their first meal since the pork scraps and thick beer they’d scarfed down at dawn. Rex wasn’t sure where they were—somewhere in Gaul, no doubt, but exactly where was hard to tell. He knew a famous sanctuary of Apollo was nearby, for Constantine had turned aside to worship there. The holy sacrifice hadn’t taken long, and the emperor had returned rather quickly.

  Having finished his divine offering, Constantine now made a more earthly request. “Rex, run over to the cook and fetch my soup,” he said. Rex dutifully retrieved the bowl and was setting it before the emperor on a flat boulder, along with a stool, when he felt a sudden grip on his forearm.

  “Look at that! Up there!”

  Rex followed Constantine’s gaze and lifted his eyes to the sky. A strange thing had happened: obscured by a haze of high, wispy clouds, the normal roundness of the sun had morphed into a crisscross shape. Rays of light made a kind of X across the sun’s face. Two radiant golden arcs glowed on either side of the X. It seemed as if a divine halo had encompassed the heavenly orb. All the men had their heads back, staring up at it.

  “What does it mean?” Rex asked, awed by the strange phenomenon.

  Constantine tightened his grip on Rex’s sleeve, unable to tear his eyes from the sky. “It’s a sign—an omen from Apollo in return for my visit to his shrine!”

  “What is he saying?”

  “He must be adopting me! Ever since I was named emperor, I’ve been protected by Hercules. Now I’m coming into a new phase, so a new protector is taking me on! It must be Apollo—the Invincible Sun. Think about it, Rex! The sun god helped you escape across the field, right? Then we defeated the Franks in battle. Now we’re at a shrine of that same god. I made a sacrifice to him, so he’s promising me victory. It’s obvious when you put it all together!”

  “Maybe those curved rays are victory laurels?” Rex suggested.

  “Yes! They must be laurels awarded by Victoria herself! Surely I will defeat Maximian—and Maxentius too, when that time comes.”

  “The omen is fading,” Rex observed, and it was true. A few moments later the sun had returned to normal.

 
“Let’s get on the road as quickly as possible,” Constantine said. “I’m all the more eager to reach Arelate now that I know how things will turn out.”

  This is one of the most religious men I’ve ever known, Rex thought as he returned the stool to the wagon.

  Five days later, the overland expedition met the Arar River, which joined the much swifter Rhodanus at Lugdunum. The soldiers switched to riverboats. However, when they finally arrived at Arelate, they found Maximian had fled to the safer confines of seaside Massilia. Another three days of marching brought the troops to that ancient port city founded by Greek colonists back when Rome was still a tiny collection of shepherds’ huts.

  Although General Vitruvius predicted Massilia would be difficult to capture, Constantine only smiled in a knowing way and ordered the troops to set a siege. As it turned out, the initial attack was a failure, but a siege proved unnecessary in the end. Even as Maximian was shouting curses from the city walls, his bribed army returned their loyalty to Constantine and threw open the gates. The emperor entered in triumph, and his first action was to strip the purple cloak from Maximian’s shoulders. The usurper was remanded to the imperial palace at Arelate, where he was placed under house arrest. His fate, for the time being, was unclear.

  The summer weeks passed uneventfully. Slipping into a routine, Rex began to feel more comfortable in his new line of work. His duties included escorting the emperor on official business and controlling access to the private imperial chambers. He was standing watch outside Constantine’s bedroom late one night when he heard the door creak open behind him. Rex whirled and was met by Fausta, the emperor’s homely, bug-eyed wife. “Come inside,” she whispered.

  Rex shook his head. He wasn’t about to have a tryst with the wife of the augustus.

  Behind Fausta, Constantine appeared at the doorway, fully dressed and beckoning Rex urgently. Something’s up, he realized, and he followed the couple into their bedroom.