Ishmael's Burden: in hoc signo vinces

By John Olsen

‘Ishmael’s Burden’ chronicles the journey of Marcus in the year 312 A.D., a slave turned soldier in Roman Emperor Constantine’s invasion of Italia, and the pivotal role he plays in the Emperor’s divine vision of the Chi-Rho in the heavens on the eve of battle with his rival, Emperor Maxentius, at the Milvian Bridge outside of Rome. In This Sign the Emperor would indeed Conquer.

He is joined, though separated by a mere 1700 years, by a disparate though very unified group: a Whirling Dervish from war torn Iraq, a disturbed Lithuanian Rabi and a devout Black woman from Southern Louisiana. Together, pursuant to a mandate given the illegitimate first born son of the prophet Abraham, they join Marcus in a very discrete defense of Western Civilization’s troubled history.

Across the folds of time, two parallel series of events unfold, bound by one small act of commission, to Love Thy Neighbor, and pitted against humanity's one grand ubiquitous act of omission...Apathy.

Ishmael's Burden is a novel of historical fiction, prequel to John Olsen's second novel Dark Blue Almost Black. Exhaustively researched and cross-referenced historical events are woven together with fictional characters to depict how events surrounding the Battle of the Milvian Bridge transpired.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Olsen
• Release date: May 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463577325

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Before written history

The she-wolf emerged from the entrance to her cave for a drink at the river's edge. She curled her upper lip to show her teeth to the members of the pack. A warning growl rumbled up from deep within her chest. Her teats were heavily laden with milk, and she was ill tempered. Not even her own pups dared approach her.

The pack's alpha male intercepted her en-route to the river's edge. He was taller than any other, and significantly heavier. He projected an appearance of authority, or more aptly, the appearance of trying to regain authority. No sooner had the alpha confronted the she-wolf than she lunged at his throat, swiftly pinning him to the ground. She let him loose after a few short pathetic yelps and the tucking of his tail. The she-wolf was not to be trifled with on this day.

The river's water churned white as it broke over rocks both large and small, bellowing forth an endless roar while following its swift and predestined path amongst the seven hills. It provided refuge for countless water fowl floating in her sheltered eddies, as well the schools of fish swimming beneath their feet. Animals, prey and predator alike, approached the water with caution, seeking to quench their thirst. The sun above showed mercy to no creature trapped in her fierce glare without reprieve of shade or water. But the river's greatest gift was to nourish the vast fields of green grass alongside her banks, here where the river surged forth from the mountains and into the gentle sloping hills.

The she-wolf lapped water from the river, a brief drink only. She harbored no trust for the mangy group of males that had backed away from her. Between drinks she turned her head around and with an ominous growl gave a stern warning to remain clear of her cave, to which she returned in short order.

Two small infants awaited her inside, human infants, twin baby boys. Guided by a strong nurturing instinct the she-wolf lay beside them again. With a voracious appetite the two boys resumed suckling from their newfound caregiver. She, again, let loose another deep throated growl that echoed from the walls of her cave, the Lupercal.

But history would only remember one of these young boys, Romulus, and the city which he would establish upon the hill above this cave, the Palatine Hill. The city: none other than Rome.

Kingdom of Rome

500 B.C.

The King of Rome awaited a visitor, not just any visitor. He waited in his palace, the Regia, an imposing structure of granite columns and marble floors situated at the head of the Forum, nestled safely between two hills. These being the Capitoline and Palatine Hills

He waited alone dressed in his toga, the Toga Picta. Only he could place the solid purple Toga upon his shoulders, gold thread woven into its fabric. He was properly attired for his guest, to include a white silken Diadem fixed upon his head. He was properly situated on his throne; a broad folding stool of solid ivory with neither back nor arm rests. It was known as the Curule and intentionally provided little comfort, a symbol of the King’s duty to serve the people of Rome. He was alone, surrounded by granite columns, frescoed walls and enormous power. He was also quite anxious.

She appeared before him, emerging from among the columns accompanied by three escorts, women like her. Her eyes were of a pale shade of blue, looking straight through and beyond her host. Silken black hair gently wafted about her shoulders in the perfectly still air of the Regia. Each of her escorts carried three heavy books bound in leather.

She was the Cumaean Sibyl. A much respected and highly feared prophet of the gods.

I give thanks for your visit, said he, cautiously. The mistrust and contempt in his voice was shrouded by the fawning demeanor he adopted for his unwelcome guest.

I offer you a written account of my visions, said she, vaguely addressing Tarquinius Superbus, the seventh King of Rome seated on his throne before her. The haunting spirituality of her voice failed to produce any echo in the vast hall of granite and marble. Nine volumes of my prophecies do I bring thee for the price of 1000 gold coins.

You mock me, said the King, remaining seated on the Curule. The King of Rome shall pay no such ransom. His veil of disingenuous politeness was swiftly torn away.

The Cumaean Sibyl’s eyes opened wide upon the King’s rebuke, as if witnessing some distant calamity. She seemed unaware or disconnected from her immediate surroundings. Upon which the first escort dropped her three books to the ground, which burst into flames upon contact.

Six volumes of my prophecies do I bring thee for the price of 1000 gold coins, she retorted. Her words floated about the great columned hall like a fine mist.

Tarquinius now took to his feet. His cheeks flushed red with anger. You shall not make a mockery of Rome! His loud voice echoed repeatedly through the vast marble hall, and the knuckles of his clenched fists shown white in color.

Do not presume that I, King of Rome, can be seduced by your unnatural hallucinations!

Three more books erupted in flames as the second escort released them from her grasp

Three volumes of my prophecies do I bring thee for the price of 1000 gold coins, replied the Sibyl vaguely, still staring beyond her host, as if mesmerized by some mysterious and distant event perceptible only to her.

Tarquinius turned abruptly and pulled the Diadem from his head in exasperation. A long pause ensued, for he was disgusted with himself for compromising with such ease. He well knew there was no denying the Sibyl.

You shall have your price Sibyl of Cumaea.

Roman Republic

345 B.C.

At mid-day the sky above the city of Rome assumed a furious tone. The sun was suddenly lost behind dark gray clouds of ash, churning with lightning and spewing a multitude of hot stones down upon the great city. Darkness fell upon the land.

Stones rained from the sky for the remainder of the day, either killing the citizens they impacted or burning the buildings they touched. Panic quickly spread within the city as it was feared the gods were retaliating upon the citizens of Rome for a lack of devotion or respect.

When the sun finally showed its face again, the next morning, a very anxious crowd of Roman citizens gathered at the foot of the steps leading up from the Comitium to the entrance of Curia Hostilia. Thousands of Romans were gathered here in the city's outdoor public assembly space, Plebes and Patricians alike, beneath the house of the Roman Senate.

Two men, simply dressed in white togas, emerged from Curia's front columns and strode side by side to the edge of the steps descending to the Comitium. From this vantage point, known as the Rostra, overlooking the assembled crowd, the two Consuls of Rome spoke.

Marcus Fabius Dorsuo opened. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, listen to me. The hour is grave and the gods have spoken loudly. Their displeasure with our lack of respect was made manifest to us all, yesterday, in a fiery torrent of burning revenge. My worthy colleague, the illustrious Consul Servius Camerinus, and I have come to you directly from an audience with the high priest of the Collegium Pontificum. Together we consulted the Sibylline Books to better know the minds of the gods.

Servius Sulpicius Camerinus Rufus then spoke as a third and widely recognized man emerged from behind the columns, joining them. The prophetic utterances of the Cumaean Sybil foretold of this cataclysm. And we are instructed therein to mobilize Rome in a weeklong public worship of the gods, to hold a public holiday of worship for which my fellow Consul and I are obliged to appoint Rome a Dictator. This man, Rome's new Dictator, well known to us all, shall lead our city in this public holiday of acclamation. He is your beloved former leader Publius Valerius Publicola.

The two Consuls, now former Consuls upon conceding to the newly appointed Dictator, stepped back. The new arrival, Publius Valerius, stepped up and raised his arms high to the loud acclamations of the now less anxious crowd. Thanks to the Cumaean Sybil’s wisdom and insight, Rome would be spared any further wrath from the gods.

Roman Republic

Springtime, 218 B.C.

Hannibal departed Hispania with 40,000 infantry, 10,000 cavalry and 40 war elephants destined for Rome. He crossed the mighty Pyrenees Mountains separating Hispania from Gaul. He crossed the even more imposing Alps at Mt. Cenis Pass, and in so doing achieved the most improbable invasion of Italia

Despite losing more than half his force during these challenging mountain crossings, the great general of Carthage would shock the known world when he so boldly descended onto the northern plains of Italia.

Roman Republic

Springtime, 216 B.C.

Hannibal would realize terrible victories in the months to come. Rome was terrified, and the gods were vexed by the impiety of two Vestals, portents of Rome’s impending capitulation. The Senate thus dispatched the decemvirs to consult the prophetic verses recorded in the Sibyl of Cumaea’s Book of Fate, as sold to the last King of Rome.

Pursuant to their interpretation, a live man and woman from Gaul -accompanied by another such couple from Greece- were placed in a stone tomb in the Forum Boarium, and permanently enclosed within.

The gods were considered appeased.

Marcus Junius Pera stood tall before the Senate in the assembly chamber of Curia Hostilia. He had been paraded through the streets of Rome and up the forum in a carriage drawn by four horses. The crowds were mute, and Marcus Junius maintained an appropriately stoic demeanor. His solitary walk up the stairs from the Comitium was devoid of pageantry. This was no time for celebration.

Marcus Junius was introduced to the Senate by a somber member of that body. Otherwise pompous and exceedingly self-absorbed, this rotund Senator was -on this day- appropriately attired in a simple white toga. The gaiety in his voice was conspicuously absent.

Rome is in dire need of strong leadership. Hannibal has dealt our legions terrible defeats at Trebia, Lake Trasimene and most heinously now at Cannae. There remains no army. The doors of our city are wide open. Our two Consuls, at the head of their legions, died courageously on the field of battle. The very existence of our Republic stands on the edge of sharp blade, a blade wielded at the will of our enemy Hannibal.

He took a deep breath before continuing his formal declaration. "To you, Marcus Junius, and before the Senate of Rome assembled on this day, I make the solemn proclamation of Rei Gerundae Causa."

The rotund senator turned to face Marcus Junius Pera. By virtue of this proclamation and the dire situation that Rome now faces, and with the acclamation of the Senate now assembled before me: you are appointed Dictator of Rome for the unique purpose of expelling Hannibal and his Carthaginian Army from our lands.

In a muted chorus the Senate of Rome acclaimed their support for the former general as Rome’s new Dictator.

Hannibal would not sack Rome. The Sibylline prophecies seemed infallible.

PART I: The Thin White Veil

Chapter 1

Thrace

(Modern day Bulgaria)

305 A.D.

I am now called Marcus, a name given to me later in life, the only name I know. My mother’s love, the warmth of her bosom, these are the only memories I retain from my youth.

My journey would never have been possible without the unfailing devotion of my childhood companion. The defining moment of our youth in the wooded hills of Thrace still burns strong in his memory. To me it is but a tale often retold, a tale I cherish for the bond it provides us.

It was said a wolf had been stalking our village. Mothers feared for their young. Men assembled arrow and bow, spear and sword. Despite the efforts of many the beast was never discovered.

By the full moon of the Ides of Maiis and the folly of my adventurous spirit, my companion and I had secreted away from our beds one night to pursue the creature and prove our worth.

She soon found us stumbling foolishly through a moonlit glade a short distance from our village. It was a she-wolf, teats laden with unconsumed milk and no cubs to provide relief. Thrice she circled us, two weak kneed young boys standing back to back. A deep rumbling growl echoed from her chest. As if guided by some primordial instinct, the she-wolf examined us thoughtfully and departed, never to be seen again.

I have no memory of my given birth name. For me it all began the day the Roman Legion stormed into our village in the wooded hills of Thrace, on the wrong side of the River Danube. The door to our home swung suddenly wide open, knocking me to the floor.

I do retain desperate fragments of memories from those horrible moments when I laid there face flat on the dirt floor. Dozens of pairs of soldiers’ Caligae scurried about. Stools fell down. My mother was thrown on the table. She cried for me to leave, to turn and run for my life. I chose instead to lunge for the legionnaire mounting her, but the large foot of a Centurion impacted my face. The tightly knotted leather straps of his Caligae struck my chin with the force of a well swung axe.

I was in the seventh year of my life that day. I woke from the Centurion’s swift kick to find myself captive in the legion’s camp, face down in the dirt, hands and feet bound tightly behind me. My boyhood companion lay there next to me, having suffered the same fate. A pair of angry young legionnaires guarded the enclosure in which we were imprisoned.

Segusium, Italia

312 A.D.

My boyhood companion and I were taken from our homes in the mountains of Thrace seven years ago, from the far and unfortunate side of the River Danube. We found ourselves enslaved together on an estate in the northern Italian city of Segusium, nestled tightly against the Cottian Alps. We lived behind the pigs. We fed them the scraps from the table of they who lived inside. Half the day we found ourselves knee deep in the pigs’ excrement, shoveling it aside and away. Frequently we busied ourselves eviscerating the pigs, salvaging everything from intestines to hooves to make various delicacies, if you want to call them that.

We had water to drink, sufficient scraps left over from the pigs to feed ourselves and enough rags to throw over our shoulders to stay warm on even the coldest of nights. I could not begin to describe the family that lived inside the villa. We knew them not, nor they us. A thinly embroidered white veil separated us from them. They couldn’t be bothered with the stench of the reality required to sustain their privileged lives. They were members of the upper class of Romans, Patricians. Theirs was a world, an existence, as far removed from us as the stars in the sky.

Only those who managed the farm ever stooped so low as to engage with me and my boyhood companion. These lowly people ran the farm. They assigned us chores, beat us with sticks for lack of zeal and generally screamed at us until the day was done. They were citizens of a lower class, the Plebian class, and even their life of hard labor was unattainable for us. But I preferred their torment and abuse to the feigned ignorance of our existence from the Patricians who lived within the villa. They who enjoyed the fruits of our torment and abuse refused to even acknowledge the thinly embroidered white veil; they pretended not to see through it. We did not exist. We were slaves.

Our subjugation would have been complete, our souls forever crushed but for one among them. She was a small wisp of a young child, her heart incapable of containing all the love within her soul. Her rosy cheeks, large sparkling blue eyes and curly reddish hair pierced that thin white veil on a daily basis. She saw us simply as two boys without comprehending the divide separating us. She saw the two of us as friends with whom she wished to play, and for which she often was scolded. We gave her a name, uniquely for herself, Olivia.

Beyond the veil the world to us appeared out of focus and unreal, devoid of color. Only the image of Olivia stood out in vivid color and sharp relief. Like an angel she transcended the divide and gave us hope. She gave us names: me, Marcus Julius, and my fearless boyhood companion, Quintus Aurelius. She taught us to read Latin, even Greek. For seven years she acknowledged our existence. She made us feel human.

Rome

312 A.D.

Quintus and I were brothers in bondage, enslaved on the villa of a rich Patrician family at the foot of the Alps in northern Italia. We were comrades in arms, having fought in battle for the temperate young Emperor Constantine to whom I now owe my life, to whom I owe my freedom. I am now a Freedman.

At this moment however, seven years hence, I am but cold and wet. The river Tiber laps gently at my feet, her waters red with blood and choked from shore to shore with the carcasses of dead Roman soldiers. The vast flood plain at my back, too, is littered with those who fell to liberate Rome, and those who fell serving its tyrant, one scarcely discernible from the other.

My limbs are weary. I cannot bear to move from this perch on the river bank where I washed ashore, my feet still submerged in its crimson waters. But my heart is conflicted, it burns with a sense of conviction that I fail to comprehend.

Perhaps in the deepest recesses of my mind clarity may be found, so I close my eyes and reflect on the frantic events which delivered me from the bonds of slavery and deposited me here on the blood soaked shores of Rome’s great river.

Chapter 2

Dakar, Senegal

Spring 2012, First day of journey

Air France flight 718 had brought me comfortably into Dakar, capitol of Senegal, West Africa, in a modern Boeing 777 aircraft. Leopold Sedar Senghor International airport presented a modest image of advanced civilization, despite its not so subdued state of disrepair. It was the pungent body odor of locals brushing past that reminded me I was now in an unfamiliar third world country, out of my elements.

Salif Toumani waited for me outside the terminal holding up a folded sheet of paper with my name -Thomas Robinson- written upon it. Adrift in a sea of bustling young men wearing second hand jeans and dirty t-shirts, Salif stood tall in a spotless white robe. A snug white head cover contrasted with the man's dark black skin. He introduced himself with an eloquent French accent, clear evidence of a formidable education abroad.

He kindly loaded my duffle bag into the rear of an early model Land Rover. The vehicle bore a spare tire on the rusty hood; three jerry cans of fuel were secured to the rear bumper. It was exactly the image I had envisioned and hoped to encounter. Salif climbed into the drivers' seat while I took my place beside him. Geared low for rugged off road driving, Salif painstakingly maneuvered the rugged vehicle through the chaotic streets of Dakar.

In short time the dilapidated colonial buildings of the old city gave way to a landscape of tall dry grass and short scrubby trees. I was mesmerized by the sight, so soon upon arriving in Africa, of a small primitive village alongside the road. A dozen round huts, walls of dried mud, thatched roofs resembling a Chinaman's hat, were surrounded by an enclosure of sticks haphazardly planted in the ground. A few goats and chickens scurried about inside. The villagers were clothed in rags; some wore shoes. Children played with sticks and stones, barefoot, oblivious to the hot sun. They seemed happy, which surprised me. We drove east on a highway, the N1 highway. I could not guess how long this journey would take, much less its final destination.

Mali, West Africa

Second day of journey

Two cots and a tent served as our shelter for the night. A can of beans warming over a small butane camping stove was our evening meal, augmented by a loaf of hearty bread Salif had brought along. We set off in the morning with a cup of instant coffee and another handful of bread. The desert now stretched out before us as it had since departing Dakar the day prior. Short scrubby trees and tall dry grass had long given way to a barren landscape of nothing.

The Land Rover's gear box whined louder as we drove at higher speed along the endless stretch of flat road. I wished I had brought ear plugs. Hours passed without the slightest change of scenery. Only the horizon appeared to gradually change. The long distinct line between earth and sky, above which no distinguishing features of interest had yet to rise, was now succumbing to a hazy brown veil. We were about to enter a world enveloped in nothing but sand, below us, above us and all around.

I am with the Sankore Madrasah, Professor Robinson, an Islamic university whose doors have been open since the 12th Century. There was a time when only the ancient Egyptian library of Alexandria counted more manuscripts than our own. And yet, time has forgotten us. Western civilization is blind to us, and so it must be. Precisely what makes our calling possible.

As he spoke, a ferociously coarse wind struck our vehicle, dust and sand penetrated the loose and rattling doors.