The Conqueror Read online

  “My father is hatching a desperate plot,” Fausta said. “He tried to draw me into it. He asked me to leave the bedroom door ajar so he could assassinate Constantine.”

  Rex turned toward the emperor. “On my life, Your Highness, I would never allow it!”

  “I know. But this time we want you to let him in.” At Rex’s confused look, Constantine unveiled his plan. He gestured across the room. “Look over there at my bed. The man under the blankets is a palace eunuch, a worthless fellow. He’s dead drunk. He will be my decoy.”

  “We want you to catch the murderer in the act.” Fausta took her husband’s arm in hers. “Then we will have good reason to execute him. For political reasons, we can’t execute an original colleague without just cause.”

  “Go find another soldier to help you,” Constantine ordered, “then hide yourselves behind the curtains until Maximian appears. Come get us when you’ve caught him. And Rex,” the emperor added sternly, “we must have absolute proof that this is an assassination. Absolute proof. I think you know what I mean.”

  Rex returned to the sleeping quarters assigned to the bodyguards. After rousing Geta from his cot, the two men went back to the imperial bedchamber and stationed themselves behind the drapes on either side of a tall window. Pale moonlight filtered through the shutters and made a crosshatched pattern on the marble floor. An hour passed in total silence, maybe two.

  “I hear footsteps,” Geta said at last.

  “Stop, sir!” came a voice from the hall. Rex recognized it as one of the other bodyguards.

  “I have just had a momentous dream,” Maximian announced. “A god visited me in the night with important news, and now I must tell my son-in-law about it. Did not Empress Fausta instruct you to allow such visits from me? Or do you wish to contravene the direct command of your queen?”

  “No, sir . . . I mean, yes, sir, she did say that.”

  “Then let me pass, soldier. You know better than to deny the order of my hot-tempered daughter. She carries the rank of Most Noble Woman of the empire.”

  “Alright, sir. I beg your pardon. You may proceed.”

  Gullible fool, Rex thought. That bodyguard should be executed!

  The footsteps drew nearer, followed by silence. Rex held his breath in his hiding place behind the thick drapes. There was a slow creak as the door eased open. A bulky shadow filled the frame. The big man stood there for a moment—then with a fierce yell, he exploded from the doorway and dashed toward the bed. Geta immediately leapt from behind the curtain, but Rex caught his arm. After holding him back for an instant, he released Geta with the cry, “Let’s go!”

  Maximian was astride the figure in the bed, stabbing him again and again with a dagger. Geta knocked the attacker to the floor. Although Maximian was a burly man and former street brawler, he was no match for two speculators. Rex had him helpless on his knees in a painful armlock when Constantine and Fausta burst in.

  “Traitor!” Fausta accused, snatching up the bloody dagger. “Caught in the act!”

  Maximian let out a feral growl yet remained still.

  Constantine was calm. He said nothing at first—only placed a basket on the rumpled bed next to the decoy’s corpse. Then, in a firm yet dignified tone, he said to Rex, “Stand him up.”

  Rex moved to a rear chokehold and let Maximian rise. When the prisoner was upright, Constantine drew close and looked him squarely in the eyes. “For old times’ sake, I will grant you one final favor.”

  The emperor spun toward the bed and overturned the basket. Three items tumbled out: a bottle, a sword, and a coil of rope. “Which shall it be?”

  No sound disturbed the moonlit bedroom. Fausta stifled a little cry but remained still. At last Maximian uttered a single, raspy word: rope.

  Constantine picked up the coil and pitched it to Geta. “Make it quick and clean, men,” he said, then turned and followed his wife out of the room.

  3

  AUGUST 310

  Sophronia believed the country villa of Maxentius was a spiritual cesspool—a place she hoped she would never have to visit. Hurrying past its monumental gate on the Appian Way, she tried not to catch the eyes of the workers who were busy embellishing the emperor’s favorite project. It was the new center of power in suburban Rome—equaling, if not quite replacing, the traditional imperial residence on the Palatine Hill overlooking the Forum. Maxentius split his time between both locales, which was why Sophronia wanted nothing to do with either place. It was unfortunate—at least in some ways—that Neratius was such an influential man, for it meant he had to move in these pagan circles. Sophronia often prayed her husband wouldn’t be contaminated by the greed, lust, and violence that came with running an empire.

  The ironic thing, though, was that Maxentius had chosen to build his villa right in the middle of a long-standing Christian neighborhood. Did not the Acts of the Apostles describe how Saint Paul was met by fellow believers on the Appian Way when he arrived in Rome? Back in those days, during the reign of Nero, it was common for travelers to enter Italy at distant Puteoli and journey by road to the capital instead of landing at nearby Ostia. Ever since the apostle’s ministry, the Appian lowlands had been an important Christian area. To this very day, the church’s burial grounds lay dotted along the suburban road—although they were still in Maxentius’s evil grip. I bet the revenues from our properties even helped pay for that big circus, Sophronia thought as she glanced at the racetrack the emperor had recently installed next to his villa. She hoped it wasn’t true.

  Father Miltiades had asked Sophronia to meet him at the huge, round tomb of Caecilia Metella, a famous landmark on the ancient highway. Most of the pagan burial grounds in the vicinity were the dovecote type in which cremation ashes were stored in urns tucked into wall niches. But Christians didn’t dispose of their dead by cremation, preferring instead to let the body sleep intact as it awaited the resurrection at the return of Christ. Father Miltiades had requested Sophronia’s presence at the funeral of an important Christian personage whose corpse was being transferred from Ostia for a respectable burial. Though she wasn’t sure why she had been invited, she trusted her priest and typically did whatever he requested.

  A broad smile came to Miltiades’s bearded face when the two friends spotted each other. “Peace to you in the Lord’s name, Lady Sabina Sophronia,” he said with impeccable politeness. Strangely, he was wearing a plain tunic instead of the more elegant garment he normally donned for a funeral.

  “Thank you, Holy Father. The grace of Christ be with you as well. Have I misunderstood something? I thought I was coming for a funeral, but I don’t see any mourners.”

  After a quick glance around, Miltiades took a step closer. “Today is indeed the day of a burial, though it might not be what you expected. Let us walk for a while and speak of other matters. When we have reached our destination, I will explain.”

  Instead of taking the Appian Way, Miltiades led Sophronia by a country path that meandered back toward the city. He engaged her in casual conversation about the weather and the latest Roman politics. At last they began to approach a mule-drawn cart parked next to a high wall. A slender, dark-haired woman sat in the driver’s seat. When she turned her head, Sophronia let out a gasp of surprise.

  Flavia!

  “Come and greet your daughter,” Miltiades said. “I will let her tell you why I have called you here today.”

  Flavia’s expression was animated as she alighted from the cart. Even without makeup or fancy clothing, she still looked dazzling. Her dark hair hung loose in a peasant’s style, its auburn highlights glinting in the morning sun. Fresh-faced and innocent, yet certainly a woman now, Flavia had blossomed into a rare beauty. With her high cheekbones, long eyelashes, and delicate chin, she was the kind of girl who would make any man take notice. Yes, she’s a lovely young lady, Sophronia reminded herself, but she’s also my mischievous little girl—and she’s up to something today!

  After greetings were exchanged, Flavia took Sop
hronia around to the rear of the cart, where it backed up to the brick wall. She pointed to a pinewood casket, then to a narrow crack in the brickwork, partially obscured by shrubbery. “We can fit through there, Mother,” she said, “even with this coffin. It’s only a few steps to the cemetery entrance. In half an hour we can have the body in the tomb and be on our way—no one any the wiser!”

  A strange sense of dread took hold of Sophronia. She gripped her daughter’s shoulders in both hands. “My precious, what are you doing? You’re an aristocrat, not a gravedigger! Why are you sneaking around cemeteries?”

  “Don’t you see where you are? This is the rear wall of the Callistus burial ground. It rightfully belongs to the catholic church!”

  “Flavia!” Sophronia hissed. “This is absolutely illegal! We aren’t allowed to bury anyone here, by direct order of Emperor Maxentius. And we’re practically on his front doorstep!” She turned toward Miltiades. “Holy Father, I have to—”

  “It’s Eusebius’s body,” he said.

  Sophronia stopped short, staring at Miltiades with her mouth open. She glanced back at Flavia, who was nodding emphatically, eyebrows arched, begging for cooperation.

  “But . . . we left him in Sicilia . . .”

  “Left him sick, if you recall,” Flavia said. “There was pestilence in Neapolis when he stopped there. He died not long ago, and Bishop Chrestus arranged to have his remains sent back to Ostia. Eusebius needs to sleep in the midst of his own flock, alongside the previous bishops of Rome.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Sophronia said weakly. “If anyone sees us . . .”

  “No one knows us here, Mother. We’re anonymous. That’s why Miltiades asked you to come. He is too well-known to the groundskeepers. But they wouldn’t recognize me. And who can I trust more than you? I can’t carry that coffin alone, but we can easily do it together.”

  Sophronia covered her face with her hands and groaned. After a long moment of uncertainty, she felt Miltiades slip his arm around her shoulders. The gesture was deeply comforting.

  “Living in an age of martyrdom is always dangerous, my dear sister,” he whispered in her ear. “Sometimes you have to take risks. You have to say to an unjust government, ‘Enough! You cannot have this territory. We reclaim it for God.’”

  Sophronia nodded, then turned to the pinewood box on the cart. “Alright. Let’s do it quickly if we’re going to do it.”

  The two women slipped easily through the crack in the wall and, despite the coffin’s weight, hurried across a field toward a shallow depression. They descended into the grassy bowl and found the cemetery door set into an outcrop of tuff stone. Though the official key had been confiscated, Miltiades had secretly made a spare. They set the casket in the grass.

  “Ready?” Flavia asked, her hand on the latch.

  Sophronia crossed herself. “God be with us.”

  Flavia yanked open the door and peeked in, then immediately squealed and fell back. An explosion of bats burst from the tombs, darting past her with fluttering wings and high-pitched squeaks.

  “That startled me,” Flavia said with a little laugh.

  The women picked up the coffin by its poles and began to descend the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, Sophronia used a fire striker to light a pile of tinder in a clay pot. From this fire they lit lamps. With two olive oil lamps resting on the top of the coffin, the women proceeded down a dark passageway. Eerie shadows danced on the walls from the tiny flames. The air was damp and cool. After a long walk, they reached a barrel-vaulted chamber decorated with spiral-fluted pillars.

  “I have been here before,” Sophronia said. “Let’s set down the coffin and go in. This is the crypt of the bishops.”

  Flavia entered the chamber and ran her fingers over a Greek inscription. “Mother, look at this! It says ‘Fabian, Bishop and Martyr.’ He was killed in the persecution of Decius.”

  Sophronia held her lamp high. “Yes. There are nine popes buried here. Look—there’s Pontian. Sixtus. Anterus. Felix. And others.”

  “Such great men! It is worth the risk we’re taking to lay Eusebius in such holy company.”

  “Father Miltiades said Eusebius’s new tomb is just beyond this chamber. It will be a good place for him to sleep until the Lord’s return. Come, we’ve lingered long enough. We should hurry.”

  The tomb reserved for Rome’s most recently deceased bishop was easy to find, for it was in a small room by itself, and its arch-coffin was decorated with a mosaic of the Good Shepherd between two trees. After maneuvering the heavy marble lid to one side, the women raised Eusebius’s body and laid it in the grave. Though the corpse was tightly wrapped in a thick shroud, Sophronia was glad, nonetheless, when the lid was back in place.

  “It’s not a perfect seal,” she said, “but no one will be down here—”

  “Shh! Mother! Someone’s coming!”

  Sophronia froze, suddenly alert. Yes! Voices! Coming this way!

  “Quick! Put your lamp in the coffin,” Flavia urged. “We dare not put them out.”

  The crypt went dark as the lamps were enclosed in the pine box. Even so, a flickering orange light in the hallway and the sound of footsteps drew nearer. The light paused outside the burial chamber, and the men stopped talking. Nothing moved in the tense stillness.

  Sophronia clutched her dress in her fists, trying not to move or even breathe. Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . help us!

  Two shadowy figures appeared at the door. Suddenly a humpbacked man lurched into the crypt, holding a torch in one hand and a wicked-looking sickle in the other. Behind him was a burly gravedigger wielding a pickax in a double grip. Sophronia couldn’t help but shriek as the men barged in.

  “What are you women doing here? Don’t lie to me, because I saw you go down with a coffin!” The man’s voice was stern and uncompromising.

  “We’re just humble folk who can’t afford a burial, so we snuck in!” Sophronia cried. She hoped God would forgive the fib in this circumstance.

  The humpbacked groundskeeper stepped closer, studying the women with an appraising eye. “Pagan or Christian?” he demanded.

  Sophronia’s mouth fell open, and her breath was short as she tried to speak. “Well . . . you see . . .”

  “We are followers of the Lord Jesus Christ,” Flavia declared.

  Silence gripped the little tomb.

  At last the humpbacked man spoke into the stillness. “As am I,” he said.

  SEPTEMBER 310

  “Rex, wake up,” the soldier whispered.

  “I’m awake,” Rex answered into the darkness. “Speculators sleep light, and always with one eye open. What is it?”

  “You’ve been summoned by the augustus.”

  The statement snapped Rex to full alertness. He immediately swung his feet from the cot to the floor. After donning his outer tunic, he hurried down a corridor at the imperial palace of Augusta Treverorum, smoothing his disheveled hair and preparing himself for another nocturnal visit to Constantine’s private bedroom. The last time I did this, I ended up hanging a disgraced emperor from the rafters! What now?

  The bedchamber was even more sumptuous than the one in Arelate, where the assassination plot had been exposed. Rex thought back to the night he had hidden behind the curtains with Geta while they awaited Maximian’s treachery. Blood had been spilled that night. But here, in this bedroom, there was no hint of violence, only the self-important opulence of a frontier capital city. All was quiet in the room, and Fausta was nowhere to be seen. The emperor stood alone at the window in his linen undertunic, gazing out. He did not turn around when Rex entered but kept staring at the sky.

  “How can I serve you, Your Highness?” Rex asked, bowing.

  “I have seen a great thing in a dream. It woke me up as if a lightning bolt had passed through me. I believe it is a vision from the world above.”

  Rex was unsure how to respond to such an assertion, so rather than say the wrong thing, he simply offered a murmur of affirmation.
r />   What does he want from me?

  Constantine cleared his throat. “Do you remember when we saw the heavenly sign on the march to Arelate?”

  “Yes, sir. My master Aratus trained us in observation and memory. I can still picture it in my mind.”

  “Tell me—what did we see that day?”

  “The rays of the sun formed a cross. On either side of it were bright arcs. The arcs formed a circle of light, like a halo around the sun. We considered it a sign from Apollo and Victoria, offering you victory wreaths.”

  “Describe the cross. What did it look like, as you remember it?”

  “It was composed of two rays—one upright, one crosswise. Like a military standard—a spear pointing to the sky, with a crosspiece holding the banner.”

  “Yes! A standard!” Constantine turned from the window and faced Rex, clearly excited by this description. “And that upright piece,” he said with urgency in his voice, “did it bend around at its top?”

  Rex thought for a moment, recalling what he had seen. “I suppose you could say that. There was the curve of the halo, or perhaps a wisp of cloud, or something that curled near the top of the vertical ray. Like the Greek letter rho.”

  The emperor pounded his fist in his palm in a gesture of triumph.

  “Exactly! Like a Greek rho, but with a crossbar like a tau. Two letters superimposed. That is precisely what I saw in my dream! A ρ and a τ, one on top of the other.” Constantine beckoned Rex to come close. After breathing on the windowpane, he made a sign in the fog with his finger: ϼ.

  “Like this, right?” he asked.

  Rex felt he had better indulge his lord and agree. “Sure. I think that was it, Your Highness.”

  Constantine looked Rex in the eye and put a hand on his shoulder, as if the two were sharing a great secret. “Just now, I dreamed I was about to go into battle, but all my men were naked. The enemy laughed at us. They had monsters in their ranks, Rex. Monsters! We were all terrified. I knew it was my end. Then a shining warrior rode up on a horse. He handed me a shield, and I saw the saving sign on it—the tau-rho. Or maybe it was more like a chi-rho. I can’t remember the exact shape of the letters. In any case, the shield bore a cross emblem with a curved top, just like we saw in the sky.”