Caesar's Lord, page 32
Early on the ninth day of sea travel, the Dalmatian freighter arrived at Portus, the harbor of Rome. Flavia stood at the ship’s prow beside Rex, holding his hand. “Remember the last time we were here?” she asked him.
“Of course.” Rex squeezed her hand affectionately. “We were newly married and headed to Alexandria.”
“Everything was still out in front of us then. Our life was a big, unknown adventure.”
Rex glanced at Flavia as the ship eased into its berth at Portus. “It still is, beloved. And I’m glad we can discover it together.”
“Side by side,” Flavia agreed.
Once the ship was docked alongside the quay and the gangplank had been lowered, Rex helped unload the queen’s baggage while Flavia kept an eye on the three boys. Messengers had been sent ahead to alert the local authorities of Fausta’s arrival, so a luxurious river barge was waiting at the canal that connected Portus to the Tiberis River. Oxen stood on the adjacent towpath, ready to begin their work. The royal entourage boarded the barge and was towed upstream beneath a shady awning.
By the time the travelers reached Rome’s river docks, the awning was no longer needed since the sun had gone down behind the city’s endless tenements. Fancy litters, carried by eight porters each, awaited the empress and her sons on the wharf. Flavia was allowed to ride in one of the litters, while Rex and the rest of the guards and servants marched before and behind. Strangely, Pantera was assigned to guard Fausta’s litter instead of Rex.
Although the route through Rome’s streets went past the empress’s former palace, the entourage didn’t stop there. The House of Fausta had been donated by Constantine to Pope Sylvester, who lived in it now and administered the Roman catholic church from its halls. Fausta didn’t even give the place a glance as the litter passed by.
Instead, the entourage continued to the Sessorian Palace, which had become the primary imperial residence in the city. Since senators and civil servants ran the Roman bureaucracy from the old palace on the Palatine Hill, the Sessorian was considered a more relaxed and homier place to stay than the bustling hilltop where the great caesars once lived.
No sooner had the porters set down their litters in front of the Sessorian Palace than Empress Helena emerged from its main door in full regalia. “Welcome, travelers,” she said with more decorum in her voice than genuine affection.
“We greet thee,” Fausta answered her mother-in-law with just as little warmth.
Helena gestured toward the front door. “Come now, enter my palace and be refreshed.”
“You mean, my palace,” Fausta corrected, “for I am the augusta of Rome.”
“We are both augustae, if you recall.”
Fausta ignored the remark. “I am weary,” she announced as she brushed past Helena. “I shall go straight for the baths. Come along, ladies.”
As the queen’s maidservants followed her into the palace, Rex stepped close to Flavia. “We’re going to have to be careful,” he whispered in her ear. “There’s a war of succession happening here, and violence isn’t out of the question.”
“May God forbid it,” Flavia replied.
MAY 326
The imperial navy trireme wasn’t alongside the quay, nor had a single hawser been secured, when Crispus clambered onto the ship’s rail and leaped across the watery gap onto the pier of Ravenna’s naval port, a fortified harbor known as Classis. Three bodyguards immediately followed him, for their job was to escort the caesar at all times and protect him from bodily harm.
“You shouldn’t have jumped so far!” one of the guards said after he had regained his footing on the pier.
“Nonsense,” Crispus scoffed with a wave of his hand. “I’ve leaped farther than that onto an enemy ship with an open blade in my hand.”
“I’ve seen it,” another guard acknowledged. “He killed a marine before his feet even hit the deck.”
Crispus was about to respond with a self-effacing remark when a loud thud behind the four men made them turn around. A gangplank had been laid against the ship so the sailors could disembark. “I’ll use that from now on,” Crispus promised. Though his bodyguards nodded gratefully, Crispus knew these cocky speculators actually preferred that he live dangerously. Or at least, they liked it when he did, even if it made their job a little harder.
The naval harbor at Classis was situated on a shallow lagoon that lay a short distance from Ravenna itself. Ignoring the stink of the nearby marshes—so unappealing compared to the fresh sea breezes—Crispus set out for the headquarters building. Though his father was still back at Sirmium while his victory tour crept along, Crispus had decided to forge ahead in a surprise visit to check on his former crewmen. Most of the New Aegean Fleet was redeployed here after Licinius’s navy was crushed. It was only right for a caesar to stop in for a visit and authorize a donative for excellent service. Many of the sailors whose sleek liburnians were docked at Classis had distinguished themselves in the tricky maneuvering and intense fighting of the Hellespont. They deserved to be rewarded.
No sooner had Crispus started walking toward the headquarters than a voice rang out. “Look! It’s the caesar!” someone yelled. Immediately, a crowd began to gather along the pier.
“So much for my surprise visit,” Crispus muttered to his bodyguards. “I had hoped to go unrecognized, at least until I reached the commander.”
“Your face is on every coin,” one of the guards reminded him. “The people love you.”
“Hey, handsome!” called a middle-aged prostitute with red-painted cheeks. “I’ve still got what it takes if you’ve got the time! No charge!”
Crispus smiled gallantly at the woman. “No charge? Such beauty is worth a premium!” He tossed the prostitute an argenteus as he passed her by. “Take the day off and enjoy yourself, madam. Today is a day of rest.” The delighted woman caught the valuable coin midair and tucked it in her bosom with a grin.
The three bodyguards formed a triangle around Crispus and drew their swords. Though they had no intention of using their weapons against the cheerful well-wishers, the sharp iron points were still useful for establishing space as they led the caesar through the crowd that had gathered along the entire width of the pier. Crispus was just leaving the waterfront and turning onto the wide avenue toward the headquarters building when a commotion broke out at the edge of the dock. “Help!” shouted a desperate female voice. “My baby was knocked in!”
“Get a rope!” someone else cried. “Throw her a line!”
Crispus immediately ran toward the distraught mother. Why everyone was dithering on the pier, he couldn’t fathom. He hurled his cape from his neck as he neared the dock’s edge, sending his gold brooch flying. The thrashing little girl went underwater just as he caught sight of her. Crispus didn’t even stop his run, but dove straight in.
The mucky water was dark, and the moorage here was deep. Crispus kicked his way to the bottom and began feeling around in the gloom. Nothing came to hand, not even seaweed. He reached this way and that, stirring up a billowing cloud of mud. His lungs ached. Help me, Lord! he prayed as his breath began to run out. Dismay seized him at the thought of the little girl’s death.
And then he found her.
Crispus burst from the water’s surface like Leviathan spewing Jonah back into the land of the living. The girl was limp, but when her tiny body sensed air again, her throat spasmed and water came out. She coughed violently for a moment, heaved in a huge breath, then opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. Everyone on the dock exploded into a mighty cheer.
“Throw down the line!” someone shouted above the din—and again Crispus wondered why it hadn’t been done already. Most people were shocked into inaction by unexpected events. But as Crispus knew from experience, when trauma struck, that was precisely the time to act.
After the loop on the mooring line was securely fastened around the girl’s torso and under her armpits, she was lifted to safety. The rope was lowered again, but instead of allowing himself to be hauled up like a tuna, Crispus ascended hand over hand.
“Look at him go!” said a swarthy marine on the dock.
“I’d like to have him next to me at a castle siege,” added another.
When Crispus clambered back onto the dock, the crowd gave him an ovation like he had just won the pentathlon at the Olympic games. He grinned back at the people as he wiped muck from his eyes and wrung water from his dalmatic. One of the bodyguards put Crispus’s dry cloak around his shoulders, and another handed him the gold pin that fastened it.
The little girl who had fallen in the water was a fair-haired creature with a ragged tunic that spoke of poverty. She was cradled in her mother’s arms with her face burrowed in her mother’s neck. Crispus approached the child.
“Was that a scary swim?” he asked gently. The girl nodded without turning to look at him.
“Would you like something shiny and pretty?”
That question was too much to resist. Ever so slightly, the girl turned her head, peeking at Crispus out of one big, blue eye. He held up the brooch, which was made of solid gold and gleamed in the sun.
“Would you like it?” he asked.
“Your Majesty!” the mother cried in awe. “That is a year’s wage!”
Crispus pressed the brooch into the girl’s pudgy hand. “Sell it and use it on your daughter’s behalf,” he told the mother. “Give her a chance at a good life.”
“God bless you!” the mother exclaimed. And once again, a huge hurrah burst from the crowd at this happy turn of events.
The next four days at Classis were spent examining the seaworthiness of the fleet and the readiness of the men. Crispus found both to be in admirable shape, and he commended the fleet admiral for his excellent leadership. After announcing that a donative of gold coins would be delivered from the mint at Aquileia, Crispus finally crossed the lagoon and entered the city of Ravenna itself.
Now a less martial and more administrative week passed in the imperial complex as Crispus adjudicated disputes and addressed various financial matters. Then a letter arrived by courier from Constantine. “Do not return to my victory tour, beloved son,” it said. “Proceed onward to Rome. I have enclosed instructions, and more will soon follow. I need a man whom I trust to make preparations. And there is none I trust more than you.” Crispus dictated a respectful rescript saying that he would gladly accept his father’s assignment. Two days later, on the Nones of June, he left Ravenna on the Flaminian Way and started down the Italian peninsula.
Only a small entourage accompanied Crispus—a valet, a secretary, a chaplain, and the three bodyguards—so he made good time. The ancient highway cut straight through the Apennines. On the third day of travel, the party navigated a high pass that included a tunnel carved out of the rock. The good weather held, and on the eighth day, they crossed the Milvian Bridge and entered the city of Rome.
Unlike the surprise visit at Ravenna, this one required some pageantry. Crispus’s secretary had gone ahead to arrange the proceedings. A small bath facility near the Flaminian Gate had been emptied of its customers so Crispus could refresh himself and change into imperial regalia that befitted a caesar. Once he was clean, he stepped into a four-horse chariot—the traditional conveyance of victorious emperors—and expertly maneuvered it onto the main avenue called Broadway. A military convoy of legionaries in dress uniforms with silver-gilt helmets escorted the chariot on either side. Cheering crowds lined the avenue all the way to the Capitoline Hill, crowned by the dazzling Temple of Jupiter.
Although Crispus knew that many of the onlookers expected him to mount that pagan hill and sacrifice to the demon, he passed it by. Instead, he entered the Forum—but again, he surprised the crowd by not stopping at the ancient Senate House from which Rome had been ruled for almost a thousand years. Ignoring the people’s shouted questions and speculations, he continued through the Forum. After riding past the basilica that contained an enormous statue of his father, he arrived at the Flavian Amphitheater. But those who suggested he would stop there to proclaim a holiday with animal games and gladiators were also mistaken. Crispus guided his chariot around the arena and through the gate in the old Servian Wall, a crumbling barrier surpassed long ago when Rome grew beyond it. The crowd, now intensely curious about Crispus’s destination, surged along the street on either side of the chariot.
Fortunately for the expectant onlookers, they didn’t have long to wait. Crispus arrived at the Lateran Palace to a prearranged trumpet fanfare. His grandmother emerged from its front doors in all the imperial finery that befitted an augusta. Yet it was Pope Sylvester whom Crispus greeted first as he stepped down from the chariot. He bowed to the bishop of Rome and was embraced with a kiss.
“Greetings, my son,” Sylvester said.
“Peace to you, Holy Father,” Crispus replied, then turned and greeted Helena as well.
For a moment, the crowd was quieted to a murmur while they contemplated this reversal of protocol. Then someone’s voice broke into the stillness, shouting, “Crispus the Pious!” Immediately, everyone began to repeat the refrain: “Crispus the Pious! Crispus the Pious!” The cheers of goodwill were still ringing in his ears as he followed Helena and Sylvester into the Lateran Church of the Savior.
The great building was now almost complete. Though a little scaffolding remained inside for the workers to put on some final decorations, the marble floor was in place and a beautiful altar had been installed in the apse. The basilica was a large hall with five aisles marked out by splendid Corinthian columns that stood in rows like trees in an orchard. High windows in the clerestory lit the interior, while chandeliers and lampstands were available for evening services. The resinous smell of incense filled Crispus’s nostrils as he proceeded toward the altar and stood before it with his palms raised in prayer. Behind him, the doors had been left open so the crowd could peer inside. It was important for a caesar to show the people by his example what was important—and what wasn’t.
When his prayers were finished, Crispus lowered his hands and opened his eyes. He found Helena gazing at him with a ruler’s approval of wise actions combined with a grandmother’s natural delight. But Pope Sylvester was more sober when he spoke. “We are glad you are among us,” he said, “for the times indeed are challenging.”
Crispus frowned a little. “How so? The empire is at peace under my father’s reign.”
“Physical peace, yes. But not spiritual peace. Heresy grows strong in the city.”
“We shall stand against it,” Crispus vowed, “not with persecutions, which are unworthy of God, but with ‘the true Light which, coming into the world, enlightens every man.’”
The pope nodded. “You have memorized the scriptures, I see. Then let me quote for you another one. ‘To whom much has been given, much will be required.’”
Crispus didn’t immediately reply but only stared at the floor where a shaft of sunlight illumined the swirls in the marble. At last, he looked up. “Thank you for that reminder, Holy Father,” he said. “But in truth, it is never far from my mind.”
JUNE 326
The mansion atop the Aventine Hill was a place of deeply ingrained memories for Rex. Not as many as Flavia, of course, for this was her childhood home. Yet Rex had experienced life-changing events here that he would never forget. Inside that mansion, he was sorely betrayed by his best friend from cadet school, Geta, a powerful warrior. The betrayal resulted in a fierce duel in which Rex was forced to shatter his friend’s shin to survive. Rex almost killed Geta that day. Only Flavia’s intervention stopped Rex from murdering his helpless brother-in-arms. Yet that restraint allowed his foe to escape. Geta then defamed Rex and got him condemned to exile.
What if I had killed Geta that day? Rex wondered while gazing at the front of the mansion—now the Church of Sabina Sophronia. Would I be where I am now? And more importantly . . . would I be who I am? As he contemplated these questions, he felt Flavia slip her hand into his.
“Rex?” she said.
“Yes?”
“You are still the bravest man I have ever known.”
Turning toward his wife, Rex drew her close. “I love you, Junia Flavia,” he whispered into her ear.
“I love you too, my darling.”
After savoring the embrace for a moment, Rex parted from Flavia and smiled. “Are you ready to become a heretic?”
“Let’s get it over with,” she replied, then the two of them turned away from the church and approached the Manichaean house of worship across the street.
Rex, of course, had no intention of leading his wife into heresy. But with Caesar Crispus in town, there was new hope among the Roman Christians that imperial support would sway public opinion against the growing cult of the Manichaeans. It was widely known that the royal family—with Constantine on his way and Helena and Crispus already arrived—espoused the doctrines of the Nicene Creed. Many Christians expected the new theological statement to gain favor among the populace at the expense of Manichaean precepts.
Pope Sylvester had even learned that the Manichaeans were feeling nervous about that possibility. “Go attend their meetings,” he had told Rex and Flavia. “Find out what they’re saying to their people about the creed. Then let me know what they teach.”
Rex and Flavia had agreed that the House of Mani on the Aventine Hill was the natural place for them to do their theological investigations. Its leader, Felix, had once been the pastor of Flavia’s childhood congregation but had crossed over to Manichaeism in his later years. The man was learned and articulate. He would certainly speak forcefully against the Nicene Creed.
