The Lost Testament

Prologue

‘Bring him forward.’

Two trusted soldiers from the emperor’s personal bodyguard saluted their master, then turned and strode out of the temporary council chamber, each step they took accompanied by the metallic clattering of their armour and weapons.

Moments later, the two soldiers reappeared, a nervous-looking civilian now walking between them. They continued to the very end of the chamber, where Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus Augustus, accepted only the previous September as the fifty-seventh Emperor of the entire Roman Empire, sat flanked by a coterie of advisors.

‘So, Flavius, what did you discover?’ the emperor asked.

The civilian looked even more nervous at that moment, and Constantine had a sudden realization that he wasn’t simply overawed by being in the presence of the most powerful man in the world. Flavius had been in his employ for years, and had spoken with him countless times. There had to be something else that was disturbing him, and if Flavius was worried, then that was a real cause for concern.

Before the man could speak, Constantine raised his hand, demanding silence, then glanced at his advisors.

‘This is a private matter,’ he said. ‘Kindly leave us.’

Without a word, the half a dozen or so officials standing on both sides of the throne filed out of the chamber, followed by the servants and other retainers stationed elsewhere in the room. Constantine then instructed the two soldiers to retire to the opposite end of the chamber, out of earshot, but ordered the guard commander, the officer in charge of his personal bodyguard, to remain close beside him. Constantine was far too cautious a man to allow himself to be left entirely alone with anyone, no matter how apparently trustworthy and loyal, and Marcellus had proved his loyalty beyond doubt on numerous occasions.

‘It is not as we had hoped, Our Lord,’ Flavius began. ‘I have seen the original document, and the claims made in it are powerful and very damaging.’

Constantine gestured, and the guard commander stepped forward, took the document Flavius was offering and handed it to his master. The emperor unrolled the parchment and read the Latin text written on it. Then he read it again.

Constantine was not a scholar, but he had no doubt of the authenticity of what he was holding. The report he had just read was, he was quite certain, both authentic and accurate. And that posed a major problem for him, and for his empire.

‘Where did you find this?’ he asked.

‘It was in Rome,’ the man replied. ‘I walked into the archives and searched through the documentation relating to Cohors I Sagittariorum until I found it. Then I brought it to you.’

For perhaps two minutes the emperor remained silent, staring at the parchment in his hand, reading and rereading the words, his acute political mind pondering the direct implications of the document, and how best to use it to his own advantage. From the first, he’d realized that the matter he’d sent Flavius to investigate posed an indirect — but still a potent — threat to him, and would call his leadership and political judgement into serious question if it ever came to light. But it was also clear that without the document he had just been handed there was no direct proof of certain statements made by a notorious troublemaker almost one and a half centuries earlier. He held the key to the matter — held the single surviving item of undeniable proof without which the story was nothing more than an unsupported allegation in his own hands. And the only other person who knew anything about it was Flavius himself.

In fact, Constantine suddenly realized, the document was less of a threat to him than a potent weapon he could use to his own advantage. He was starting to distrust the ambitions of the leader of an emerging religious movement that was beginning to spread its influence across the empire. But he could bring that group to heel any time he chose, simply by threatening to reveal what this document stated.

And that left only one other matter to be taken care of; and the emperor had made his preparations for this step as well.

Constantine gestured to the guard commander, who took a couple of steps forward and then stood waiting, his right hand resting on the hilt of his gladius. Behind Flavius, the two other soldiers of the bodyguard strode swiftly into position, standing a few feet behind the civilian.

‘I thank you for your diligent efforts on my behalf, Flavius, in this matter as in many others over the years,’ Constantine said, ‘and I apologize for the necessity of what I now have to do.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Flavius stared at the emperor, the truth dawning and a look of fear spreading across his face.

With another gesture, the two soldiers stepped forward, seized Flavius by the arms and held him firmly in place.

‘I dare not risk anything of this matter becoming known. I know you would not willingly divulge what you have learned, but I cannot take any chances. I’m sorry, but this has to end now, my old friend. I bid you farewell.’

‘No, no, Our Lord, I beg of you. Please, not this.’

Constantine ignored Flavius’s agonized pleas and turned to the guard commander.

‘One blow, so he doesn’t suffer.’

Marcellus nodded, drew his sword and stepped directly in front of Flavius.

‘Keep a firm grip on his arms,’ he ordered, as the doomed man struggled ineffectually in the steady grasp of the two soldiers.

The guard commander drew back his right arm and with a single and massively powerful blow drove his sword right through Flavius’s body, the pommel slamming into the man’s ribs as the point of the blade burst out of his back in a spray of blood.

For a second or two, Flavius just stared ahead, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a soundless scream of unbearable agony. Then a gout of blood poured out of his mouth and his head fell forward.

Marcellus let go of his weapon and stepped back.

‘Drop him there,’ he ordered, and the two soldiers lowered the limp body of the dead man to the stone floor of the chamber.

Then Marcellus took a dagger from inside his tunic and handed it to one of the soldiers.

‘Cut me,’ he ordered, ‘in my left shoulder. Twice. Not too deep.’

Obediently, the soldier ran the lethally sharp blade across Marcellus’s left upper arm, making two cuts that immediately started to bleed copiously. The man didn’t even flinch.

‘Now drop the dagger beside him,’ he went on, and then turned around to face Constantine.

‘As you ordered, Our Lord,’ he said.

‘Excellent,’ the emperor purred. ‘Now summon help.’

When the other soldiers and advisors ran back into the council chamber, the scene spoke for itself. The treacherous Flavius, so long a trusted emissary of the emperor, had suddenly changed his allegiance and drawn a dagger to make a cowardly attack upon the ruler of the empire. An attack barely foiled by the selfless heroism of Marcellus, himself badly injured in the assault.

As the bloody body of the ‘traitor’ was dragged out of the room, and Constantine was congratulated on his lucky escape from death, nobody thought to ask what had become of the parchment Flavius had been carrying when he had entered the chamber.

That was the first time in over three hundred years that blood had been spilled because of that single sheet of parchment, but it was destined not to be the last.