Caesar's Lord, page 9
“Hurrah!” the men cried, rattling their swords against their shields. From their exuberant faces and courageous demeanor, Licinius could see that he would surely be victorious on the field of war.
Strangely, however, the eagle made no response to the great commotion. Unlike before, when its bearing was regal and alert, it now stared into the distance and seemed unaware of its surroundings. When Licinius spoke sharply and the bird did not turn its head, he realized it had been deafened by the thunderclap. Its tongue lolled in its gaping yellow beak, and it shifted nervously on his arm. Licinius returned the dazed bird to its perch. Quickly, the soothsayers caged and covered the animal before the troops could notice that anything was wrong.
As the eagle was being taken away, a single feather drifted from the cage. Licinius stooped and picked it up. Its edges had been singed by the lightning, and the smell of it was acrid. Licinius beckoned for Zeno to approach.
“I am at your service,” the scribe said with a dip of his chin.
“Do you have the edict prepared?”
“Of course, my lord.” Zeno displayed a writing board to which a vellum document was attached. An inkwell was in the corner of the board. Zeno offered Licinius a reed pen. “After you sign it, the edict shall be copied and disseminated throughout your realm.”
Licinius, however, spurned the reed pen and demanded that a nib be cut into the eagle’s quill. When it was ready, he dipped it into the ink, wrote out his name, and nodded to his scribe when he was finished.
“Your signature is infused with the power of Jupiter,” Zeno said.
“The Highest and Best,” Licinius replied. “Now send out that edict and let the martyrdoms begin.”
JUNE 324
It felt good to Rex to be back on a ship after several weeks in hot and crowded Rome. He had been forced to wait longer than expected to catch a return ship to Alexandria since most of the grain fleet was now arriving in the capital instead of departing. Yet he had put those weeks to good use by meeting several times with Pope Sylvester about the Arian heresy, learning more about the responsibilities of a papal legate, and even receiving some in-depth theological instruction from Vincentius. All in all, it had been a productive trip. But Rex was ready to get back to Flavia.
His ship was a tubby Graecian corbita with a sternpost carved into the shape of a goose’s head. She carried a red square sail on her Lebanese cedar mast, assisted by a substantial foresail on an inclined spar that projected over the bow. The captain was a grizzled and bowlegged fellow who called his ship the Vixen. For being such a round-bellied cargo vessel loaded with amphoras of wine, Rex had found the Vixen to be surprisingly agile in the sea.
The captain was up on the stern deck one morning when Rex approached him. “Looks like fair sailing today,” Rex said after a glance at the sky.
“Aye! But we’ve a tricky stretch ahead. The Kythira Strait. Even Homer speaks of it blowin’ Odysseus to ruin.”
Rex knew the area well: a notoriously hazardous strait off of Graecia’s Peloponnesian Peninsula. “It’s safer if you sail close to Cape Malea,” he told the captain with the confidence born of experience. “Most ships are tempted to swing wide, but that keeps you in danger for longer. You should take advantage of this weather and shoot past the cape before a storm blows up. It’s risky, but usually worth it.”
The captain gave Rex a strange look. “What does a German know about such things?”
“I was a seaman once,” Rex said casually. It was all he was willing to admit. The captain didn’t need to know that Rex had once commanded a pirate ship in the Kythira Strait. Changing the subject, he said, “Once we make it through, I think we can be moored in the lee of Creta before moonrise tonight.”
Again the captain was impressed with Rex’s nautical knowledge. “Aye, that’s my aim, German. Pray that Poseidon favors us.”
Instead of answering, Rex crossed himself to signal he was a Christian, then winked and smiled at the old captain and left him to his navigation.
Throughout the morning, God smiled upon the Vixen despite the captain’s misplaced loyalties. The weather was sunny, the winds light and steady off the stern. The captain took Rex’s advice about steering close to the cape, and by noon they were through the strait and out in the open Aegean again. They had just begun a southward turn toward Creta when a lookout cried from the stern, “Sail abaft! Coming on hard and overtaking!”
Instantly, the entire crew was on alert. Neither warships nor cargo vessels behaved that way. Only one kind of craft did. Very quickly, it became obvious to the corbita’s eight-man crew that they were in a chase with a pirate ship.
The captain assumed his place on the stern deck and began to issue sailing commands that would increase speed. When the pirate ship kept closing the distance, he ordered even more drastic measures. “Fifty amphoras overboard!” he shouted to a man down in the hold. Then an hour later, “Fifty more!”
Yet even with the lightened load, the pirate ship still gained on the Vixen. By late afternoon, it was clear that the enemy ship would catch up to the corbita before it could reach the safety of Creta. The pirates were in a much sleeker vessel, one that had oars as well as a sail and a bronze ram upon its prow.
But the merchant captain wouldn’t give up. He decided to make a final run for Creta and hoped to encounter a naval warship that would scare the attackers away. “Empty the hold!” he ordered. “Everything must go!”
The crew immediately started heaving the remaining amphoras overboard. Yet when one man began to throw out some extra rigging and tools, Rex stopped him. “Let me have those,” he said, plucking a shipwright’s sledgehammer and saw from the sailor’s hands. Though the man’s expression was quizzical, he acquiesced. But Rex knew exactly what he was doing. It was his only chance to save the ship from capture and the crew from probable murder.
The captain was visibly agitated when Rex approached him on the stern deck. As an experienced seaman, the captain knew all too well what would happen once the pirates closed the final distance. When Rex explained his plan, the captain looked at him like he was crazy. “It’ll never work!” he said.
“It will,” Rex countered. “I’ve had it done to me, to great effect.” Again the captain looked surprised by Rex’s mysterious seafaring past. Rex kept insisting. “It’s the only way. It’s either this or capture.” Finally, the captain relented and authorized the plan.
With a hard pull on the steering oar, the Vixen now made a foolish maneuver: it turned broadside so that its starboard hull was directly exposed to ramming by the oncoming ship. It was like tying up a rabbit in front of a hungry wolf. The vicious predator, moved by a primal instinct, couldn’t help but pounce.
As the pirates bore down, Rex put the crosscut saw to the starboard side of the tall cedar mast. Aided by a brawny seaman on the other handle, he carved out a notch at knee height above the deck. Other sailors manned the ropes, keeping the mast upright now that it was subject to dangerous new stresses.
The pirate ship kept coming. Its fierce crew roamed the prow, snarling threats and brandishing their swords. A few arrows came arcing across the turbulent sea, but not many, for there was no need to waste the shafts when the prey would be so easy to capture.
Rex and his helper now set the saw blade against the portside of the mast, directly behind the notch. “Saw as hard as you ever have!” Rex ordered, and the two men began slicing a line into the wood. When a crevice opened up, Rex shoved a wedge-shaped piece of iron into the gap and hammered it partway in. Now the mast groaned and creaked as the wind buffeted it. The sailors on the ropes could barely keep it upright as it swayed back and forth like a wheat stalk in a whirlwind.
“Brace yourselves!” the rudderman shouted. “The enemy’s coming in fast! Impact in ten! Nine! Eight!”
Rex set his foot against the base of the mast and drew back his sledgehammer.
“Seven! Six! Five!”
“Isis, protect us!” the captain shouted, clutching the gooseneck that was her symbol.
“Four! Three! Two!”
“Only one,” Rex declared, and smashed home the iron wedge.
The clang of metal against metal rang out on the deck, followed immediately by an ear-splitting crack! as the mast broke from its stepping. It toppled along the line of the notch that had been cut from its other side. Just as the pirate ship was about to ram the Vixen, the cedar trunk came swooping down from the sky like the avenging arm of Gabriel. The falling mast demolished the enemy’s prow, hurling chunks of wood and broken bodies into the churning waves. The enemy ship’s forward motion, deflected by the colossal impact and the ruin of its hull, was diverted from its former course. Its momentum carried it harmlessly through the wake of its intended target.
A triumphant cheer arose from the crew of the Vixen. They all rushed to the stern to stare at the destroyed ship that only moments ago was the destroyer. Nobody aboard the enemy vessel was thinking about pirating anymore. Not only was its prow a wreck, but its own mast was also ensnared in a tangle of wood, sailcloth, and rigging. Shouts of confusion and groans of anguish arose from the deck in a great clamor. The pirates who had survived the impact were trying to remain aboard the dangerously listing ship. Others wailed as the agony of broken bones took hold. As for the men floating facedown in the water—they had no concern now except the judgment seat of Christ.
The Vixen, of course, was also immobilized without her mainmast. Yet her hull was intact. Despite some damage to the side rail, the ship was seaworthy. The crew quickly trimmed the foresail on the forward spar. Though it wasn’t intended to provide primary impetus, the canvas caught enough wind to create some separation from the pirates. Soon the enemy was far behind, and the crew was visibly relieved.
“Well, boys, looks like this voyage is a bust,” the bowlegged captain said when he had assembled the sailors on the deck. “We got a dismasted ship and no cargo to sell. But at least we got our lives!”
“And drinking water,” the rudderman added, patting a keg beside him that hadn’t been tossed. “Enough to get us into some harbor.”
“Where to, then?” Rex asked.
The captain considered it for a moment. “Athenae is the nearest port with shipwrights. And I can get a new cargo there. Maybe it can cover our losses.”
And I can find a new ship to Alexandria, Rex decided, but he kept the thought to himself.
The sun was low in the sky when the limping Vixen drew near to an uninhabited island. A tiny cove provided shelter for the night, and a stream that trickled into the sea allowed the keg to be refilled. A few wafers of seabiscuit were doled out to each man, along with a shared bottle of vinegar. After sour porridge for dinner, the sailors wrapped themselves in blankets and fell asleep on the Vixen’s deck while she swung at anchor in a gentle breeze.
But Rex couldn’t sleep. Rising with his blanket around his shoulders, he went and stood on the stern deck and stared out at the open sea. The direction was north—away from Flavia but toward Athenae, where he must go to return to her. Long ago, Flavia gave a speech in that great city, pleading for her mother’s release from enslavement to a rich silver merchant. The oration was successful, and the businessman freed Sophronia rather than bear the reproach of his friends. Rex remembered being incredibly proud of Flavia’s preparation, skill, and courage that day.
“May God keep you, my beloved,” he whispered to the wind. Then he added, “May he grant what we desire.” Smiling at that hopeful possibility, Rex settled onto the deck, tightened the blanket around him, and fell into a deep sleep beneath the Aegean stars.
Constantine knew that the man and wife who were about to arrive in his presence would make him even angrier than he already was. Not angry at them—they were courageous heroes. They would make him angry at his vicious brother-in-law, Emperor Licinius.
“I think I shall have Licinius crucified once we capture him,” he told Crispus, who waited beside him in the reception hall at the imperial palace of Thessalonica.
Crispus glanced over at Constantine. Both men were seated on thrones, the father in the higher one as an augustus, the son slightly lower as a caesar. “You abolished that barbaric practice not long ago,” Crispus observed mildly. There was no rebuke in his voice, only an observation of fact.
“I was thinking of reviving it one last time because it is fitting.”
Crispus seemed to ruminate on the matter for a while. Finally, he said, “Your laws are known to be wise and charitable toward mankind. You have forbidden slaves to be branded on the face with hot irons. You have made Sun Day a day of rest for all. You have allowed bishops to liberate slaves so that many have joyously gained their freedom. And you have forbidden crucifixion. So, I wonder, if you go back on this one law, will your people fear that you will go back on others? Will you look fickle and unsteady?”
“Good point, Crispus.” The emperor stroked his smooth chin as he considered his son’s wise advice. “I shall offer mercy to Licinius,” he finally decided. “Imprisonment and exile.”
“Such mercy will be celebrated by everyone, more so than the cruelty of a cross.”
With the matter settled, Constantine lapsed into silence again. A short while later, the doors opened at the opposite end of the hall and the African professor Lucius Caecilius Firmianus Lactantius strode into the room with his two guests.
“Hail, Your Majesty,” Lactantius said to Constantine when he arrived before the imperial thrones. The salutation was respectful, though without any groveling. “And hail to you, Caesar Crispus.” Lactantius smiled broadly, then added, “I hope you have been keeping up with your scripture reading, young man!”
Constantine chuckled, for Lactantius had been the boy’s tutor for many years—not just in the classics like Virgil and Livy, but also in the sacred words of God. Constantine attributed much of Crispus’s piety and spiritual maturity to Lactantius’s influence. He was an excellent teacher of literature and a wise shepherd of souls.
“Of course, my master,” Crispus replied, still respectful toward his teacher despite the vast difference in their power. “Just this morning, I was reading the story of Daniel.”
“A fitting text,” Lactantius declared, “for the circumstances that face us today are similar. A wicked Nebuchadnezzar is raging once again, and I have brought before you a faithful Daniel and Susanna.”
With these words, Lactantius stepped aside and made way for the two visitors, a man and his wife just arrived from Amasea in Pontus. Clearly, they had come straight from hard travel. Both were dirty and wore ragged cloaks around their shoulders. Their hair was disheveled, their faces grubby, their cheeks gaunt. And their eyes had the furtive wariness of people who had recently experienced terror and trauma.
“You are safe here,” Constantine assured the bedraggled visitors, “for you are among Christians.” When this warm welcome got a grateful nod, Constantine asked the husband, “Sir, what do you do for a living?”
“I was a furniture maker in Pontus. I owned my own shop. My product was high quality, and my customers were of the upper class.”
“Lactantius tells me you were a leader of the church in Amasea?”
“Yes, Majesty. As a literate man, I was appointed a reader of the scriptures in the liturgy of our Lord.”
“Tell me your story,” Constantine said.
It took the man a while to organize his thoughts. His wife, an attractive middle-aged woman with high spirit, prompted him. “Start with the arrest.”
The husband nodded and drew a deep breath. “They came for me by night—Licinius’s men. They were the local police under the governor’s command, but everyone knew they were doing the augustus’s bidding. I was jailed overnight. The next morning, the tortures began. This was not just the normal harshness that is always directed at criminals, but weird and unheard-of torments, a gory spectacle made public for all to see. The whole town was forced to watch.” At this terrible memory, the man stopped speaking and the wife stepped a little closer to him. The two of them stood side by side, huddled deep in their cloaks like frightened rabbits in their burrow.
Constantine gave the couple some time to collect themselves, then said, “Go on, friend. What happened next?”
“It is not something I shall ever forget. It will haunt me forever. Families of the clergy were assembled on a riverbank. They were made to watch as their husband or father was dissected with knives and shears. The cutting began on the tips of his limbs and worked inward. The flesh was collected in baskets. Once the limbs were gone, the pieces, along with the still-living torso, were thrown into the river as fish food. And then it began on the next man of the church.”
The shocking story, involving a cruelty so extreme it was obviously the work of Satan himself, made Constantine want to rise from his throne, board the nearest warship, and head straight to Hadrianopolis. Of course, he couldn’t do that—not yet, anyway. But in a matter of weeks, the fleet would sail out. “I shall have vengeance soon,” Constantine declared.
“Vengeance belongs to God,” Crispus countered. “Seek justice instead.”
Constantine turned his attention back to the husband. “You were a lector of the church, a man destined for punishment. Yet you stand here today. How did you escape these horrific torments?”
“I did not.”
Now a dreadful silence descended on the throne room. From beneath his cloak, the man brought out his right hand with no fingers or thumb. Blackened, crusty scabs occupied the places where his five digits once met the palm.
“You are a confessor of the faith,” Crispus said with awe in his voice. “I honor you, sir.”
Constantine’s eyes were fixed on the man’s maimed hand. God curse Licinius! I will surely have him crucified! “How did it happen?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I was tied to a pole with my arms outstretched. They began the process on me, knuckle by knuckle.”
