#HistFicThursdays - The Triumph of Maxentius - Free Short Story

Today for the #HistFicThursdays blog, I'm sharing my Alternative History short story The Triumph of Maxentius. It looks at the possible outcome if Constantine had not been victorious at Milvian Bridge. This was one of those key moments in history where everything changed direction... but what if it had gone in a different direction?

If you enjoy this story, have a look at my other Roman Alternative History story, Vercingetorix's Virgin, in the Historical Writers Forum's anthology Alternate Endings.

The Battle of the Milvian Bridge (1520–24) by Giulio Romano.

 The Triumph of Maxentius

Ignatius had not watched his father’s execution. He had been present, hoping to avert the sword’s terrible movement as it delivered its fatal blow but, upon being recognised in the gathering crowd, he had fled. For several weeks he had hidden from everyone he knew and run from those he did not, dreaming of the day he could free his father and quit Rome altogether. But he had never found his opportunity. Neither had he found his sister, Felicity, who deserved an explanation at least.

His father had not been a bad man. He had not been a criminal nor, for as long as Ignatius could remember, had he ever broken the law. Not like his son. Ignatius was breaking the law every day, just as Felicity was, wherever she might be.

Slipping out into the starlight, Ignatius pulled his tattered clothes around him. Following the execution, he had hidden in tunnels below the public baths, knowing the building would remain empty while Maxentius celebrated the victory he had won at Milvian Bridge. Although this event had been three months earlier, it had taken Maxentius all this time to secure himself as Augustus and win over the senate. This he had finally achieved with crowning glory today, taking more than seventy Christians and putting them to death in an array of different ways across the city.

Ignatius shivered as he rubbed his neck. His father had been amongst the lucky ones: perishing swiftly to join the ever-growing number of martyrs in the heavens.

The blood sports of the day and the sacrifices offered to the Roman gods had led the city into a sleepy, drunken slumber. Now, as he threaded his thin body through the gap between two walls, Ignatius was alone in the quiet alleyway. The quietness in the streets seemed strange. Noises usually filtered through walls, even when the roads were empty. Tonight, there was only himself.

Without meaning to, his twisting path led him toward Palatine Hill. This was where he had imagined racing forward, snatching the sword and, in a manner defying the way he had been brought up, turning the weapon on the executioner to free his father. He had also planned his route out of Rome with the old man: into the catacombs beyond the city and then, under cover of the darkness which now protected him, disappearing into the safety of the west.

“Forgive me, Father,” Ignatius whispered, staring up at the temple of Jupiter. This god was revered, his followers given all the worldly gifts they could ask for. They lived in luxury and wanted for nothing. How easy would it have been for his father, a Roman citizen, to have rebuked his claim of Christianity. Then he, Ignatius, and Felicity would all have been safe. Ignatius felt his forehead crease and he shook his head, disgusted in himself.

“Forgive me, Father,” he repeated. “I’ll find her. I’ll take her to safety.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Ignatius jumped, cursing himself for lowering his guard. From within the shadows to his right emerged a thin man, with a nose which looked too heavy for his face. With his head bent low, it was difficult to see any more of him, except his clothes were in a similar state to those Ignatius wore. He did, however, wear a leather coat over his thin form, making him misshapen and swamped.

“I don’t see your father,” he remarked, realising that Ignatius wasn’t about to answer him. “I don’t see anyone but you and me.”

Ignatius, his tongue cleaved to the hard pallet of his mouth, tried to find the words he wanted, but only strangled sounds spluttered out. He wanted to run away from this man but, as skeletal fingers gripped his arm, he gasped as his eyes settled on the man’s ring. It was too big for his finger, almost slipping off as he moved forward.

“Chi Rho,” Ignatius breathed, causing the man to recoil, his ringed hand slipping into the sleeve of his coat. “You were one of his men.”

“You’re a foolish boy,” came the hissed reply. “Standing here and offering prayers to a god who has cost the lives of his followers. Maxentius has only just begun. You should get out of Rome.”

“My father was loyal to Constantine,” Ignatius pleaded.

“He’s gone then? Your father?” There was something in his words, pity perhaps, which softened his tone.

“He has joined the martyrs.” Amid a glimmer of pride in his heart-breaking words, Ignatius felt comforted in admitting such a thing to a man who openly wore the emblem of the deposed emperor. Constantine hadn’t condoned his father’s faith, but neither had he condemned it.

“We’re not safe here,” the man whispered. “Come with me.”

“Where to?”

“A place where it won’t matter who your father was. A place you will be safe.”

At this final word, Ignatius nodded. Safety was what he wanted, what he yearned for, and what, since his earliest memories, had been denied him. Following his guide in silence, he nonetheless stared in as many directions as he could to ensure he wasn’t walking into a trap. But this man knew the city well, far better than Ignatius. If ever a sound came from in front, he knew exactly where to turn to escape unwelcome eyes.

By the time the man pulled himself onto a ledge high above the ground, Ignatius had come to trust him, at least enough to help him as his weak arms failed to heave himself indoors. Next, the thin man reached his hands down to Ignatius, who leapt up and snatched his wrist. But, while his guide was willing, there was no strength in his frail body and, for fear he would pull his guide out of the window, Ignatius let go and fell back to the road.

“Come on, boy!” hissed the man above him. “They’ll be here soon!”

Ignatius leaned back against the wall of the house, wishing the shadows would swallow him as he heard footsteps, ordered and steady, from the adjoining road. Coaxing his tattered nerves to swallow back a scream, he jumped as a rope dropped before him. Without wasting a second, and never questioning how the man in the room above would hold the offered rope, he pulled himself up. The coarse, wiry material lacerated his palms each time it passed through them and, by the time he dropped into the room above, involuntary tears streaked his face.

His guide was sitting on a stool, the rope having been tied around the legs. As Ignatius looked at his cut hands, he rose from the seat and cleaned the blood from them with the bottom of his own tunic, before pulling the tail of cord back through the window.

This gave Ignatius a chance to look around him. The room was small but dark, making it impossible to see into all the corners. Through the tears, he could make out a door opposite, and it was towards this his guide walked.

“Thank you,” Ignatius whispered, causing the man to turn back to him, and his mouth to twist up in a slight smile. “Are you a..?”

“Christian?” finished the man, realising Ignatius was not about to. “No. But I have known many.”

“But your ring-”

“I was in the emperor’s army. As your father was.”

“You knew?” Ignatius gasped.

“I suspected. Cassius, was he not?”

Ignatius nodded.

“I remember his arrival at Augusta Treverorum. I didn’t know he had a family. Did you see his end today, boy?”

Ignatius lowered his head as he shook it. It was strange knowing this man knew his father, perhaps better than he had done. After persecution in their native Persia, his father had moved west. Christians were safe there. Leaving his wife and three children in Rome, which was largely apathetic towards Diocletian’s edicts of persecution, Cassius had travelled to the northwest and joined Constantine’s army as an engineer. Since then, Ignatius had only seen his father once, when he returned to Rome on discovering his wife and eldest child had died in the summer. Ignatius had become responsible for his sister, Felicity, but instead he had tried to follow his father. He hadn’t seen her since.

“What is your name?” This voice pulled him from his memories and guilt.

“Ignatius. What may I call you?”

“Tiberius.”

Opening the door, Tiberius ushered Ignatius after him. The room beyond was filled with golden light, and the beautiful stone of the building only reflected it in a sombre radiance. There were several people there, Ignatius’ quick eyes scanning over the gathering of men, women, and children, until it settled on one girl who was smiling as she spoke.

“Felicity?” the word had barely left his mouth before he realised he had been mistaken, but he now had the attention of every person in the room.

“These are your people,” Tiberius said, with a wave of his hand. “You will be safe here.”

He looked at each of the faces which, at Tiberius’ words, melted from fear to gentle affection. Unused to so many people, Ignatius hung back as his guide left the room by another door.

“You asked about Felicity,” remarked one woman, reaching out her hand to him.

Ignatius recoiled. “She was my sister.”

“I knew a girl of that name,” came the reply, apparently unconcerned by the manners of the boy before her. “She looked like you, too.”

He felt his eyes widen at her words. “Where was she?”

“I have not seen her since I came here.”

“When?” Ignatius pleaded, forgetting the possibility it could be anyone but his sister. He gripped her arm. “Where?”

“Three days ago. Close to Trajan’s Bathhouse.”

“S-so close to the arena?” Ignatius stammered. “Was she safe?”

Whatever words the woman was speaking were lost on his ears. His sister, who he had looked for since the battle at Milvian Bridge, was within reach. But she was only a stone’s throw from the monstrous Colosseum. Today, events had been held there in celebration of Emperor Maxentius’ victory, events he couldn’t bear to imagine had involved his sister.

All he could think about was reaching her. He was stammering words of thanks to the woman, not thinking about them, only keen to offer them, and he rushed over to the door. There was a renewed urgency and purpose to him as he threw himself through the doorway. He looked out into the dark night, checking the road was empty, before he lowered himself from the window.

He wasn’t sure where he was. Tiberius had woven through the streets and alleyways with an unparalleled certainty which had pleased Ignatius. Now, it took him several minutes and more than a hundred paces to find anything he recognised. The triple openings of the Arch of Claudius were the first things he recognised as he peered out onto the Via Flaminia. It meant he would have to cross Capitoline and Palatine, but this was the closest he had come to finding his sister in six months. He had to take that risk.

The morning was not far away. There was a strange light in the city which heralded dawn, as though the fires in its basins shrank away from the sun. Sol Invictus, the Romans called it. Constantine had championed this deity, perhaps because he had been to lands where the sun so rarely shone. Ignatius had heard stories of the northern winters, soaking in as many tales as he could, imagining his father there. Then, when he returned, his father had ordered Ignatius to remain in Rome.

The sun was rising as he hurried past the forum, running from one temple to another and trying to avoid being seen. He didn’t know how people had recognised him as a Christian yesterday. He couldn’t see any difference in himself compared to any other person. But he didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone who could identify him.

His steps were halted as he arrived at the open square before the enormous arena. For a moment, then a while longer, he only stared at it. He had never been inside, too afraid of what it held and terrified he would never make it out again. Ignatius had tried not to be a Christian. Even while his mother had been alive, he had questioned everything he had been taught. He visited temples of the Roman gods, peering in from the roadsides or venturing up the stairs when he was certain not to be caught. But somehow he had always returned to this persecuted religion, with no one persuading him but himself.

He jumped as he heard someone shouting. Feeling all the blood drop to his feet, he stared at the colossus of Emperor Nero, whose name had been whispered with disgust by all the people he knew. Had it been the statue he heard? He could see no one else. Trying to coax his feet forward, he felt his breathing become rapid and shallow as he realised they wouldn’t move.

He heard the shouting again, sparking enough fear for his body to move without his head thinking. He ran. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get away from the angry cries. It wasn’t the colossus, it was a group of three young men and, as he glanced over his shoulder, he realised they were chasing him.

This momentary distraction cost him. He felt himself stumble, and crashed to the ground, trying to run even while he was lying there. A hand snatched his shoulder and he found himself staring up at a heavy rug which struck him as it fell.

“Quiet,” whispered a voice close to his ear. “They will hear you.”

There were various calls echoing in the air, and it took him a moment to realise he was in the Great Market. Vendors were shouting out, the air vibrating with a thousand words from a hundred people. After several minutes, the rug was pulled aside and his rescuer gave a slight laugh.

“Praise be to Him, Ignatius! I thought it was you.”

Ignatius stared in disbelief as his gaze rested on his sister. His lips mouthed her name but, for fear of his followers, he could not coax his voice to sound.

“But, little brother,” she added, dragging him to the concealment of the market wall. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since the day Father left. Rome is no longer safe.”

Ignatius knew she was speaking sensible words, the same words he had imagined saying to her, but he shook his head. “Father’s dead.”

“Milvian Bridge?” she whispered.

“Yesterday. He has joined the martyrs.”

“In the arena?”

Ignatius had not thought it was possible for Felicity’s voice to become quieter, but now she proved him wrong.

“At the temple. Before the pagan gods.” Ignatius sniffed before anger overtook his sorrow. “I would have taken the sword and-”

“No, Ignatius,” Felicity said. “That is not what we should do. Besides,” she added, her voice dropping, “there were none killed by the sword.”

Ignatius felt his eyes widening at her words, both dreading and longing to question her. He turned as he heard someone shouting across the market in an angry voice.

“They know,” he hissed. “How do they know?”

“Know what?” Felicity asked, holding her brother. “It is only-”

“That we’re Christians.” Ignatius interrupted. “How do they know?”

His outburst won him expressions of confusion and mistrust from those close enough to have heard, and Felicity stared at him in disbelief.

“They were not shouting at you, little brother,” she explained, snatching his arm and dragging him away. “But they will happily turn on us now.”

Ignatius ran after his sister, trying to understand what she was saying. Of course, it made sense. He couldn’t remember the words of the people yesterday at his father’s execution, nor this morning beside the colossus. Neither had he made out the words of the men in the market just now. But every time he heard that angry tone, he had assumed it was aimed at him. And every time he ran, they assumed he was guilty.

Now, though, that assumption and careless confession of faith had led him to endanger his sister as well as himself, the one thing he had been trying to prevent. They were being followed as they ran towards Palatine Hill, searching for the anonymity that area would offer them.

“There is a place where we will be safe,” Ignatius panted as they hid behind a wide column. “It’s off the Via Flaminia.”

“That’s the other side of the city.”

“There’s an upper room, Felicity. Just as there was at the Passover. And many Christians. We’ll be safe there.”

“Can you remember where it is?” she whispered, the fear in her face growing as she realised the men following them were directly behind the column.

Ignatius nodded, more willing it to be the case than actually believing it. He realised he was holding his breath, and he only released it as he heard the men continue on their way. Without venturing words, he led Felicity down to the bottom of the hill and through the paths and alleys which would eventually lead them to the Via Flaminia. Having lost their tail, the siblings attempted to walk with an air of confidence, trying to convince themselves as well as those around them.

“Look!” Ignatius laughed suddenly, bringing a confused frown from his sister. “That is Tiberius! He saved me last night. It is his upper room.”

Relieved to have found the man who had brought him to safety the night before, and grateful he would not have to attempt to find his own way back to the house, Ignatius snatched Felicity’s arm. She frowned at him, but Ignatius only pulled her forward. Tiberius was moving as swiftly as he had done last night but, this time, there were dozens of people as obstacles and Ignatius found it difficult to keep up. He was on the verge of calling out, when he realised the man had disappeared.

“We’ve lost him.”

“Perhaps it is for the best.”

“There!” Ignatius began, ignoring his sister’s tone and pointing up the hill as he recognised the profile of the man from last night. “Wait here.”

Leaving his sister at the bottom of the hill, he raced up the steps. He had almost reached him, but stopped as Tiberius began talking to another man. There was something familiar about him, from his long, thin nose to his turned-down mouth and chin. Intrigued, Ignatius crouched down beside a low wall, watching and listening.

“Give me one reason why I should listen to you,” growled the sullen man, staring at Tiberius.

“I can give you twenty-seven,” Tiberius replied. “All I ask is a return of what is rightfully mine. You’ve achieved your rank by the same token. Why may I not do the same?”

“Twenty-seven? That is hardly worth starving the beasts for.”

Ignatius felt his blood run cold as he began to realise what he was hearing. The upper room wasn’t a haven: it was a prison. It had been offered as safety, but was only a means to win the disgraced Tiberius back his property. Twenty-seven Christians in the upper room, unwittingly waiting to be offered as sport and food for the beasts.

Throwing all his attention at the conversation, Ignatius failed to hear the attacker behind him who snatched his throat and pulled him to his feet. Tiberius and the other man both turned to face him.

“What is this?” asked the dour man.

Ignatius tried to plead his innocence, but his captor’s hand was cruelly tight.

“One of the twenty-seven reasons,” Tiberius retorted.

“Are they all at liberty?”

“I have protected and fed them for days, some even weeks. They have no cause to question me. He arrived only yesterday, after his father’s execution.”

Ignatius could hear there were more words, but his ears were ringing, making it impossible to follow the direction the conversation took. With every drop of consciousness he had left, he moved his left hand back, snatching the handle of his assailant’s sheathed sword. Pulling it free at such an angle was difficult, but he had the element of surprise and this won him precious moments to free himself and point the sword at the men before him.

He had never held a sword before. It was heavier than he had imagined and, as he tried to decide which person he should be pointing it at, he found the weapon shook in his trembling hands.

“Ignatius, stop!” There was desperation in Felicity’s voice. For the first time, he realised he had not been the only one captured. She had tears on her cheeks but as she spoke it was not on the topic of their impending fate. “Those who live by the sword shall die upon it.”

The weapon spilt from his hands as he tried to rush the few steps over to her, but a heavy blow struck the back of his legs. Unable to catch himself in time, he fell forward, knocking himself out as he hit the ground.

When he awoke, it was to find himself in Felicity’s arms. They were both sitting on a cold stone floor scattered with old straw. Trying to remember what had happened, Ignatius pushed himself to his feet as he realised where he was. Twenty-seven pairs of eyes watched him.

“We have to escape,” he panted, staring up at the gap in the wall, high above him. It was full of sunlight, full of freedom. Visible but unobtainable.

Felicity’s hand took his own, her face calm. But Ignatius could not be calm. He clawed at the wall below the window, desperately trying to scale it. Clear grooves in the stone showed where dozens of other men had attempted the same thing. He was crying, calling out in desperation for anyone outside to hear him, but it was Felicity who rose to her feet and wrapped her brother in an embrace.

“I had a sword,” he sobbed. “I could have saved us.”

“You couldn’t use it, Ignatius. I saw the look in your eyes. The emperor saw it too. And if you had killed him,” she paused, kissing his hair, “you would have faced the worst kind of death.”

“Why must we die for it? I don’t want to be a martyr. I could have fought. We would have been safe.”

She turned to look over her shoulder as the door opened, using her body to shelter her brother from the view. “We must never raise a sword against even our enemies, Ignatius. Violence goes against each word we were taught. That’s why they fear us.” Continuing to hold him close, guiding him in the direction they were herded, she added, “Christians fighting wars is unimaginable. It can never happen.”