Caesar's Lord, page 37
“Will you let yourself be shamed in front of everyone?” Fausta shot back. “When Lucretia was raped in the days of the kings, was not Tarquinius killed? Or if you want examples from our scriptures, what about Dinah? What about Tamar? God took vengeance on their attackers. He put them to death! Can you do any less?”
“But . . . he is my son . . .”
“Which makes the crime all the more worthy of capital punishment! King David was betrayed by Absalom—and what did God do? He caught the man’s head in a tree until he could be killed with javelins. Don’t you see how God’s punishment for betrayal is always death?”
“I s-suppose,” Constantine answered. He had never known Fausta to cite the scriptures so much. Apparently she had been reading deeply in the divine books.
The exertion of thinking made Constantine feel sleepy. He reclined on the divan and rested his head on a cushion. The two people in the room seemed to fade from his consciousness. “I will decide this matter tomorrow,” he told the woman who was speaking with him.
“No!” she insisted. “The prosecutors have prepared the death warrant already. The penalty is well deserved for such a heinous crime.” The woman turned to the green-eyed man and received a tablet from him. “The wax is soft in this document. It only awaits your signet, then Crispus will be executed immediately.”
Since Constantine’s eyelids felt heavy, he let them fall shut. Surely he could converse with these people while his eyes were closed. “Betrayal . . . death . . .” he mumbled.
“He shamed you, my darling,” the female voice said.
“Curse him!” Constantine exclaimed, then added, “I’m tired. Leave me, all of you.” He waved his hand toward where he thought the door might be.
Ending this arduous conversation came as a great relief to Constantine. All he wanted to do was drift toward sleep. Barely aware of the sensation, he felt a delicate hand grasp his left wrist, manipulating the ring on his finger. Something waxy brushed against his knuckles. There was a pressing movement—then the soft hand released his wrist and let his arm fall back to his side.
“He will regret it in the morning,” a male voice said.
“I will take care of that,” came the reply, then all was lost to darkness.
For probably the twentieth time this night, Crispus rose from the cot in his cell and peered from one of the narrow windows. The locked room was situated at the top of a guard tower in Rome’s outer wall. Crispus could see the Sessorian Palace inside the city and the abandoned Circus Varianus on the outside. Strangely, the city walls had been built right through the middle of the circus, bisecting its width and making it a relic where no chariots would ever race again. As Crispus looked down onto the former racetrack, he couldn’t help but wish for a chariot to whisk him away. While he knew such a conveyance was unlikely to appear, he had every intention of finding some other means of escape.
Mighty God, deliver me from the lies of evildoers!
Crispus understood he had been given some kind of mind-dulling drug on the night that Fausta falsely accused him. He had spent the following day sleeping off its effects in the cell, so now his mind was clear again. And his body was strong too, because the guards had brought him food when he finally woke up around sunset. They had even brought him his own clothing instead of giving him rags to wear. Rejuvenated, he had paced around his cell through much of the night, imagining different means of escape. No solution had yet presented itself. But Crispus was confident that the Lord would show him the way. Sunrise was coming soon—and like the scriptures said, God’s mercies were new every morning.
The mercy of God found a strange way to present itself when two rough soldiers came to Crispus’s cell at first light. They wore armor and had swords belted on their hips. “Turn around,” one of the men ordered gruffly. He carried a spear and seemed to be the leader. When Crispus complied with the command, his wrists were clamped into manacles behind his back.
The guards trundled Crispus downstairs and out to the racetrack—on the suburban side of the walls, not inside the city. Three horses were waiting there. “Mount up,” the leader commanded. A mounting block was provided since Crispus couldn’t use his hands. When he was situated on horseback, the other soldiers swung into the saddles of their horses, then the threesome headed out of the circus’s crumbling gates and into the countryside. One man rode in front of Crispus and the other behind. Crispus noticed that the second man had two ominous items attached to his saddle: a shortbow and a shovel.
Eventually they came to a major highway that Crispus recognized as the Labicana Way. After an hour’s ride, the lead soldier stopped at the sixth milestone and turned off the pavement onto a dirt track to the north. They traveled for about a mile into the deep woods. At last, they came to an abandoned villa that must have been very luxurious in its day. Not far away, Crispus could see the arches of the Aqua Marcia bringing clear mountain water into the city. The whole area was deserted and secluded.
“This will do,” the leader said. “Dismount, Crispus, or we’ll drag you out of the saddle.”
The soldier’s gruff tone and informal address told Crispus everything he needed to know. Normally, a legionary would be terrified to speak that way to an emperor. The fact that these men spoke so disrespectfully meant they didn’t think Crispus would be around much longer. It’s now or never, he realized.
The second soldier, a man with a spindly neck like an ostrich, unfastened Crispus’s manacles and handed him the shovel. “Dig a hole,” he ordered with a shove to the shoulder. “Go on. Don’t stop until we say so.” He snickered after he issued his command.
Crispus’s eyes surveyed the ground and the surrounding area. After a moment, he turned back to his captors. “I can’t dig here.”
“You’ll dig where we say, rapist!” the leader roared. To back up his point, he brandished his long cavalry lance.
“Then you’ll be out here all day under the hot sun. See how the ground is hard baked? But if I step over here”—Crispus walked a few paces away—“the land can easily be dug. See this line of mounded earth? It is soft under the spade and will turn easily.”
The two soldiers exchanged glances, then the leader shrugged. “Fine,” he muttered. “Just get it done. Make it deep. And leave a big pile of earth beside it.”
The ostrich-necked soldier brandished his bow and a fistful of arrows. “I’m a deadly shot, so don’t try to run or you’re going down.”
Crispus began to excavate what he now knew was intended to be his grave. There was no other explanation for the day’s events—the rough treatment, the secrecy, the remote location. Crispus would dig a hole, then be stabbed by a lance or shot with arrows. The soldiers would backfill the dirt over his corpse and no one would ever see him again. At least, that was the intent of these evil men. But God had provided a miraculous means of escape!
While the soldiers loafed under a shady tree, Crispus dug through the low, grassy ridge and into the soft soil beneath. Soon the hole was waist-deep. He kept going until it reached to his shoulders—and that was when his shovel struck what he was expecting: masonry.
With a rapid heartbeat not only from exertion, Crispus jabbed and stomped on the stonework until it gave way. A burst of cool air whooshed up from the hole. With a few more hard kicks, he enlarged the opening until it was big enough to climb into. He had discovered what he knew the line of mounded earth must indicate: a branch of the Aqua Marcia that ran to the old villa and once supplied it with water. Today, it was bone dry—a perfect escape tunnel provided by the hand of the Lord.
“What’s taking so long?” shouted one of the men from beneath the tree. “You don’t need to dig all the way to Hades. We’ll send you there soon enough!”
“There are some heavy rocks to dislodge,” Crispus called back. “Take your ease, men. I’ll have them out in no time.”
He bent to the hole in the aqueduct and slithered into it like a badger into his den. The walls were narrow and confining. But since aqueduct pipes needed frequent maintenance, they were always constructed large enough so the watermen could move inside them.
With his head ducked low, Crispus immediately began to shuffle in the direction of the abandoned villa. He had no intention of going toward the main line, for the absence of water in the conduit showed it had been bricked up, and there might not be an access hole anywhere along its length. Soon enough, however, he did come to a manhole in the opposite direction. Though it provided some light, its opening was barred with iron and clogged with debris, so Crispus kept going. He carried the shovel in case he might need to dig his way out.
The aqueduct spur terminated in a holding tank from which pipes exited to supply the villa. Just like the tunnel, the tank was completely dry. And to Crispus’s great relief, nothing but a large clay tile covered the hatch that the house’s workmen once used to access the reservoir. He pushed it aside with his shovel and clambered out of the tank.
There was no time to waste, so Crispus immediately began to run. He had gone only a few steps when he heard hoofbeats behind him. Whirling, he found the ostrich-necked soldier astride his mount and bearing down hard. His cavalry spatha was raised to deliver a death blow. Yet Crispus still had the shovel in his hands, so he stabbed it like a spear, knocking his assailant from the saddle before the sword could do its murderous work. The man landed on his back after tumbling over the horse’s rump. Dazed, he lay still. Before the fellow could collect his wits, Crispus jammed the shovel’s blade into his throat and drove it all the way into the soil. A fountain of blood jetted up, and the man’s eyes glazed over in death.
A fierce battle cry and more hoofbeats made Crispus turn again. The lead soldier was galloping into the fray. From the way the rider held his lance, Crispus could tell he was a proficient cavalryman. No shovel strike from a man on foot was going to win that battle.
The dead man’s horse wasn’t far away, so Crispus ran to it and snatched a bow and arrow from its saddle. Nocking the arrow as he turned, he let it fly, then dove out of the way just as the spearman lunged. The blade of the lance whiffed past Crispus as he rolled across the grass. Scrambling to his feet, he prepared for further combat—but it wasn’t needed. The arrow had flown true. The soldier was lying on the ground with the feathered shaft protruding from his chest.
Crispus knelt beside him. The pallor upon the man’s face showed that death would come quickly. His fingertips held a slip of papyrus, half drawn from his belt pouch. It was a centurion’s warrant of execution. “My . . . orders,” the man gurgled as frothy blood bubbled on his lips. “I knew . . . it was wrong.”
“I forgive you,” Crispus assured him. “You were brave in battle.” It was the last thing the man heard in this mortal life. With two fingers, Crispus closed the dead man’s vacant eyes, then he sprinkled a little dirt on his chest. Every warrior, even one with evil orders, deserved to be buried in the precious soil of his homeland.
After hitching the three horses together, Crispus mounted the strongest one and headed across the country toward the north. His goal was to reach the Salarian Way, for that road led to Truentinum on the Adriatic Sea. Crispus knew he could find some of his loyal navy boys in that port. If he could get aboard a warship, he could find a safe place in the empire to sort out Fausta’s false accusations.
The journey across the width of the Italian peninsula took only three days because Crispus rode fast and alternated his weight among the horses. He traveled by moonlight and slept in remote barns during the day. At one point, a widowed farmwife took him in and provisioned him with enough food to make it to the coast.
“What can they do to me if they find out?” she asked with a shrug. “I’m old. I don’t fear death anymore.”
“You aren’t going to die anytime soon, madam,” Crispus replied. “You have much to live for. You shall be handsomely rewarded once I am free again.”
Unfortunately, when Crispus arrived at the seaside town of Truentinum, he found that freedom was farther away than he thought. The port wasn’t the safe haven he had been hoping for. Though he was able to locate some of his former men in the navy, he also discovered that word of his escape had preceded him there. The army had used a carrier pigeon to send an alert over the Apennines. Now he was a wanted man, even in a town far from Rome.
Crispus’s loyalists, however, hadn’t been idle. They had arranged for a fast liburnian to set sail under cover of darkness. The goal was to reach Ravenna, a naval stronghold where the enlisted men adored their caesar. The bogus warrant of execution would hold little force among the soldiers and sailors who had fought under Crispus’s command in the Hellespont.
The first day of the journey went without opposition, and the liburnian made good time. But on the second day out of Truentinum, three warships were spotted coming down from the north in battle formation. When the ships didn’t turn aside but stayed on an intercept course, the crew knew what it meant. Apparently, word had reached Ravenna of Crispus’s whereabouts and someone had authorized his arrest. “Head out to open sea!” Crispus ordered. “We can beat them to Pola. I have supporters there too.”
Though the chase lasted all afternoon, by the end of the day Crispus realized he wasn’t going to make it to Pola. Liburnians were quicker vessels at close range and more maneuverable in battle, but in a sustained course along a straight line, the greater sailcloth and manpower of a trireme couldn’t be overcome. The coastline around Pola was in sight when the three warships caught up to the liburnian and surrounded it. After the enemy flagship pulled a little ahead, it turned inward with the intent to ram. There was nothing for Crispus to do but call for a halt and see what his captors would say.
The captain of the flagship was a highly decorated officer Crispus didn’t know. From his appearance and demeanor, he seemed to be a good seaman. His tone wasn’t threatening when he spoke, just efficient and brusque. “Are you Caesar Crispus?” he asked, though the answer was obvious. The captain was just making sure he had established the proper legalities.
“I am,” Crispus replied.
The captain displayed a parchment whose writing was brief. An official wax seal was affixed upon it. “This is a copy of your death warrant,” the captain said without any sign of emotion. “It demands your immediate execution. But as a mercy”—he held up a gourd flask—”I will allow you to drink a sleep potion first.”
Crispus shook his head. “I shall do no such thing! There has been no trial. Nothing about this action is in accord with Roman law. The accusations against me are utterly false.”
“What do I care? I am no lawyer. I’m just an admiral who does what he’s told.”
Crispus straightened to his full height, which was considerable. With command authority in his voice, he said, “Then here is what I tell you, Admiral! I am Flavius Julius Crispus, a caesar of the Roman Empire. I order you to stand down! You shall not enforce that false document. It has no legal validity whatsoever.”
A steely look came to the admiral’s eyes. After handing the death warrant to an associate, he drew his sword and stepped forward until he was nose-to-nose with Crispus.
“Kneel down,” he ordered. “This is the last time I will offer you the sleep potion. Take it or leave it.”
“I refuse your accursed potion,” Crispus declared, “and I refuse to bow to you.”
The admiral’s motion was swift—the adept response of a man accustomed to many years of battle. He plunged his blade into Crispus’s body just below the breastbone. Though there wasn’t much pain, the blood loss from the liver would be massive. Crispus looked down at the sword’s hilt in disbelief. His vision clouded, and the hilt grew indistinct. The world swam dizzily around him. As he collapsed at the admiral’s feet and the earthly world receded, the last words he heard were chilling.
“You will surely bow,” the admiral declared, “for Rome is forever Caesar’s lord.”
11
JULY 326
The disappearance of Caesar Crispus had set the Sessorian Palace abuzz with chatter, not to mention all the gossip sweeping the streets of Rome. Some people thought he was guilty of a terrible crime, ranging from the rape of his stepmother to an assassination attempt on Constantine. Others didn’t believe a word of it, suspecting that something else must be afoot. Rex didn’t know what to believe. But unlike the palace servants and street-corner gossips, he had the ability to find out some facts.
“Let’s go inspect his cell,” he told Flavia. “That’s the first place to start.”
The cell where Crispus had been detained, according to several of the palace bodyguards, was a room at the top of a nearby watchtower in Rome’s walls. When Rex arrived there, he decided it was a strange structure to call a “watchtower,” for it commanded no view except the inside of a now-defunct racetrack. The engineers of the Aurelian Walls often didn’t bother to demolish whatever was in the way of their fortification. They just drew their line where they wanted it to go, and if a sturdy building stood in the way, it meant that much less wall had to be put up. In this case, they had built the wall right through the Circus Varianus, including the so-called watchtower that watched over nothing.
“It seems silly to put a tower in the middle of a chariot track,” Flavia remarked.
“Nothing about this makes sense. But let’s go up anyway and see what we can find.”
Now that the caesar had disappeared, this remote part of the wall had gone back to its normal state of having few soldiers on the ramparts. Rex saw no one as he climbed the tower’s spiral staircase with Flavia behind him. Upon reaching a sturdy door at the top, he tried the latch and found it locked. He turned to Flavia. “Can I have one of your—” he began, then grinned as she handed him exactly what he wanted.
“I know you by now,” she said sweetly, “even before you speak.”
After picking the lock with Flavia’s hairpin, Rex gave it back to her and entered the cell. It was a drab place whose only furniture was a wooden frame with a straw mattress on it. The room had two windows, one on each side of the tower. Its roof was made of terra-cotta tiles that were undisturbed.
