The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  He dismounted and passed the word back that all horses were to be held in a picket line under the trees. The men behind him crowded round. There was no time to wait. More were coming up each moment. With his skin prickling at the thought of what was to come, he led the way down into the gully. Everything could happen quickly now.

  He scrambled down into the blackness, thinking at any moment they would be shouted at by Persian guards. At the bottom, he stationed a Jovian to wait and point out which way the men should follow. Then he waited until the next few men were down before continuing. All he could see now were the stars overhead and the black edge of the gully high up on each side. They moved quietly forward, like rats in a drain pipe.

  When they reached the place just below the skulls, he sent a hand signal back for everyone to spread out and await orders. A wave of faint muttering welled briefly behind him, then subsided. As it did, he felt the tightness slip from his shoulders. They’d made it. They’d arrived before dawn. And if any Persian guards stationed above this part of the gully had heard them, they’d surely have called out by now, and raised the alarm. The fates were smiling on him. The raid would succeed.

  He peered around in the gloom. On the horizon behind them he could make out the purplish bulk of the Palandoken Mountain and a starlit sheen of snow at its peak. Local villagers had warned them not to disturb the djinn that lived up there.

  His stomach tightened. He understood why the men respected those who’d been on night time raids. Waiting quietly in the dark, knowing how close your death might be, was not for the nervous or weak willed.

  And he had more to think about than the next few hours. Galerius could have exaggerated what Constantine’s father had written or the letter could even be a forgery. It was certainly not beyond the slimy bastard to do that. He might even do such a thing for the pleasure of watching Constantine’s face as he read it.

  But if he died on this raid, everyone would testify how he’d volunteered for the duty. His father would be proud. He rubbed his fingers against his eyelids, forcing away the tiredness dragging at him.

  But what if his father had agreed to discard him, based on some bitch’s mothering instincts? Please, god, don’t let my sword arm waver.

  A muffled noise came from some way back, then the crunch of sandals hauled Constantine from his thoughts. A shadow loomed. He gripped the handle of his dagger. A voice whispered.

  “Constantine?”

  “Ssshhh. Be quiet, fool.”

  The shadow dropped down.

  “That's no way to speak to your commander.” Sextus sounded amused.

  “I didn't know . . .” He stopped. He’d made enough of a fool of himself.

  “This raid is too important to be left entirely to the likes of you,” whispered Sextus. “What’s your report?”

  “Nothing to report, my lord. We're ready, waiting for first light.”

  “A Persian patrol has been overpowered in the forest. We're fortunate they were out of earshot of their camp, but their late return might be noticed, so stay vigilant.”

  “Courage and fidelity, sir.”

  “Courage and fidelity, and . . .” Sextus hesitated.

  “My lord?”

  Sextus sighed. “Galerius ordered that no Roman officer be captured alive, Constantine. You understand, don’t you?” That sigh was the nearest he’d ever come to criticizing the emperor. He touched Constantine's arm, then gripped it for a moment as if saying goodbye.

  “Don’t you?” he repeated, more firmly.

  “He won't be doling out any ransoms for us, is that it?”

  “The belongings of any officer who fails to return will be auctioned off at noon. It’s always the same with Galerius, you know that, Constantine. Take no more risks than you have to.” He paused, as if thinking of something. “I've told all the centurions to await your move. As soon as the light threatens, get the men started. Go as far into their bloody camp as you can, and . . .” He gripped Constantine's arm again. “I'm sure they'll auction my belongings well before your pitiful cloaks.”

  “They wouldn't dare,” Constantine whispered, but Sextus was gone.

  He stared at the ground underneath him. Could he see more clearly? No, it was still dark. Iron-gray dark. It seemed as if dawn would never come.

  A sparrow let out a cheerful chirruping somewhere in the distance. It sang a few excited notes then relapsed into silence. It had realized its mistake.

  A Persian watch cry echoed far away. His fists balled. Sweat sprung onto his forehead. Cold sweat. Another watch cry echoed nearer, much nearer.

  Constantine waited. A Persian guard could be peering at that very moment into the gully, wondering what each shadow meant, dismissing his fears as childish paranoia. When Constantine had been up there at the edge, he’d seen only indistinct gray shapes below; the floor of the gully had been inky black. They would not be seen.

  Another answering cry rang out. Directly above them. This time it sounded like a boy. Then he heard whistling. Had a Jovian gone mad? No, the tune wasn't Roman. The Persian boy whistled away his fears, pacing the edge of the gully, probably waiting, like them, for the dawn. He would be nearby when the Romans swarmed out of their hiding place. He would, most likely, be among the first to die.

  It’s truly better that we don't know what the fates have in store for us.

  The whistling moved slowly away. It was a spirited tune, ideal for keeping the boy’s spirits up before his duty ended.

  A faint radiance appeared at the horizon. The stars in that direction had faded. He waited. Gaunt faces appeared one after the other around him, as if surfacing from a gloomy pool. Along the near side of the gully he could make out the bundled shapes of men lying down. They looked as if they were lining the hold of a giant galley.

  Dawn came fast in these parts, he knew, but still he waited. He had to be sure he could clearly see the ground ahead for at least five paces. They had to be able to run. He had to wait. His skin prickled on his back. He rubbed his eyes, looked at the ground. Wait. Wait . . .

  Now!

  “Form up,” said Constantine, to the two centurions who’d taken up positions on either side of him. He pushed himself to his feet, eyeing the edge of the gully overhead. The men around him stood.

  For a moment nothing happened. A legionary grinned at him, tight-lipped. Constantine grinned back, lifted his hand, waved a forward motion and began to climb the gully wall.

  Up they went. A crimson wave. Creaking filled the air. The pre-dawn quiet only a memory. He pulled his sword, dug its pommel into the gully wall as he went up.

  The edge of the gully was close. At its lip they would be most vulnerable. If Persians were massed beyond, waiting for them, the attack would be doomed. His fingers plunged into pebbly dirt. The skulls on stakes were gazing malignly down at them. His nose wrinkled from the stench of decomposing flesh.

  His hands reached the lip of the gully. He pulled himself up, peered over.

  Serried ranks of round leather tents, colors softened by the pre-dawn gloom, spread away across the plateau as if they’d always been there. The camp was even bigger than he’d remembered. His nostrils flared as he breathed in fast.

  Pennants fluttered from the tops of most tents and in the quickly brightening light he saw a long picket line of horses and thin black-haired Persians in their long, pale tunics moving among the horses ferrying water skins. The Persians were up!

  But no alarm horn rang out. And a dozen other Jovians were peering over the edge like him. No one had seen them, yet. He scrambled up, stood. Jovians appeared one after the other all along the edge that ran toward a wooded ridge.

  “Line up,” he said, as if addressing just the men beside him. It felt odd speaking after worrying about making noise for so long. A centurion shouted at legionaries nearby to form into a skirmish line. Another gestured in frustration about a hundred paces beyond, as he formed his men up. Constantine looked ahead, raised his sword, leaned forward and ran. His heavy sandals
thudded into the ground. A wave of thuds followed all around him.

  His arm went higher, the sword light in his hand, the exhilaration of the charge filling him up, making him light headed.

  A shriek rang out. A woman’s cry. They'd covered no more than twenty paces. A horn echoed over the camp. Others answered, booming far off into the distance, like angry elephants calling out to one another.

  XIII

  Lower Armenia, 297 A.D.

  “It is time.” The priest said the words as if they were a gentle prayer. Two young girls walked slowly into the tent. They were naked except for golden necklaces with ivory carvings of feet and hands, and blue evil eye amulets around their necks. Their bodies shone a golden brown, their breasts small but firm, all hair shaved between their legs.

  They were staring at Juliana. Then she remembered. They were the girls who she’d seen running in the camp earlier.

  Juliana stood, her fists trembling by her sides. She wanted to be strong. She wanted to be brave. She wanted to be sick.

  The girls took her by the arms, led her out of the tent and across the cool flattened grass toward a group of larger tents. A wisp of dawn extinguished the stars. A hint of incense came to her from the priest as he walked close behind. He had a knife in his belt. She hadn’t seen that before. She thought about running, but two other young priests were walking with them, observing her every move. She could hear the swish-swish of their robes and, far away, a horse neighing.

  The priest in front pulled open a flap in one of the tents. Inside, in the center of the tent, stood a thin ebony column. On top of it rested a golden human skull. A chain curled down the column. She knew who it was for. She stopped at the entrance. The priest turned, took her hand, and pulled her gently forward. She did not resist.

  XIV

  Lower Armenia, 297 A.D.

  “Courage and fidelity,” Constantine roared. The call echoed along the Roman line, spread back along the line of the gully toward the forest.

  “Wipe the Persian scum away,” a legionary roared directly behind him. They were the nearest Romans to the enemy camp.

  And then they were halfway to the Persian tents. His gut tightened. He told himself to count things, how many paces to go, how many men he could see, how many tents, how peaceful the camp looked, who he would strike first, who he would strike next, who after that.

  The Persian camp awoke. Men were staggering from tents clutching weapons. A small troop of archers in blood red tunics appeared in an open area straight ahead, as if the Romans had been expected. But there were too few of them for that to be true.

  The archers’ tunics were emblazoned with a golden lion. They fitted arrows to their bows with gloved hands and loosed a hissing flock straight toward the Jovians.

  As one, the Jovians raised their shields and ran on, crouching just a little. Arrows whistled by, clanged into shields, like angry bees. An arrow thudded into Constantine’s shield.

  “Kill them all!” someone shouted.

  The thrill of the charge coursed through him. The arrows had ceased. He looked around the edge of his shield. The Persian archers were unsheathing short, curved swords. Ten paces to go.

  He roared an order. A shower of short spears flew. Archers fell, impaled. He picked a target, braced his shield, held his sword forward.

  Chunk!

  He’d pierced the archer in the chest. The man swung his sword at him. Constantine swayed, stabbed again, stumbled. No! He righted himself, glanced back. The archer had fallen, blood spewing from his mouth.

  Screams curdled the air. Some were cut off abruptly. Others were roars of defiance.

  He ran on toward the tents, heard himself bellowing. He hated Persian arrogance, their defiance of Rome. He loathed them for killing so many of his comrades. Roman war horns sounded, their high-pitched call something every legionary knew. The call to battle. Courage spread through him like hot wine.

  He passed a shabby looking tent. No one stirred from within. He ran on. A Persian emerged head first through the flap of another. He raised his sword. Constantine took it on his shield and stabbed quickly into the man's soft unprotected belly, angling up, turning against the slight resistance, slicing hidden organs, hitting finally against bone as watery blood flooded down his arm. A sound like escaping wind came from the man’s belly.

  He could see every line on the man's face, the deep creases, the sleep dirt in his long eyelashes, a puckering on his lips, an old healed scar across the man’s forehead, his Adam’s apple puffing out as if it might burst, but most of all, a look of amazement in the man’s eyes.

  His face bulged. His eyes turned up. Only the whites could be seen now.

  Another Persian, a boy, the first man's slave or catamite most probably, crouched further back in the tent. He too held a sword, but it shook pitiably, like a live fish.

  Constantine jerked his sword back. The belly of the Persian pumped out blood. He pushed the mess into the tent toward the boy, then looked around. In every direction fighting raged in a whirl of swords and blood. But the tightness that had curled around his stomach like a rope had eased.

  “Watch out.” A shout and an approaching shadow made him jerk his head, just in time to miss a wildly swinging blade. The curved Persian short sword, the Akinakes, which the boy had clearly never been trained to use, continued its arc past him. Too late, he realized his mistake. Constantine swung at him. The expression of hope on the handsome slick-skinned amber face turned to terror.

  The boy looked down at his blood pouring freely.

  He slumped away.

  The iron reek of blood-filled Constantine’s nostrils. He should have become hardened long ago to quick, bloody death, but still he felt pity, especially for the poorly trained, those with innocence still filling their faces.

  He looked around. Legionaries nearby were trading blows with half-dressed Persians. Others were looking round, slicing open tent flaps. Most men, he knew, busied themselves with useless tasks in raids, not killing, not moving forward, if they were not kept in order. He had to maintain discipline. They were Jovians, not rabble.

  “With me,” he roared, standing with his sword raised. Legionaries raced toward him. With his sword swinging through the air they set off into the interior of the Persian camp, a line of legionaries with him. They had to move fast. The Persians would be forming up somewhere for a counter attack.

  Soon the din of battle faded. They’d passed into a part of the camp with empty tents, their flaps hanging open. It amazed him how haphazard it all appeared, as if they'd placed their tents wherever they stopped.

  The sun, well above the horizon now, cast long shadows over the flattened grass. He could feel already how hot the day would be, smell the dryness in the air. A tremor ran down his arm as he held his sword up. He swung it to exercise his muscles as he ran.

  Then he glanced back. The troop of legionaries behind him had grown to at least twenty. The optio brought up the rear. Had the man been set to dog his tail?

  Constantine jogged on past blue bowls and silver jugs set out on a carpet between two tents. Brightly striped awnings shaded the area. He slashed at the awnings as they passed.

  Drums started up somewhere up ahead. Dum, dum, da-da-da, dum. Persian war drums were unmistakable. They resonated like a distant earthquake.

  At last, Constantine saw what he was looking for, white pennants dangling from tent poles. He let out a shout of anticipation and headed toward them.

  He rounded a large tent and came to an abrupt halt. The men fanned out beside him.

  A troop of Persian guards waited ahead in parade ground order, as if they were about to be reviewed. He counted ten. Each wore a knee-length, gray chain tunic, yellow cloak and pointed red turban. Each had crow-black beards cut into a long point below their chins. Invincibles. The Persian King’s bodyguard. He stared. It was the first time he’d seen Invincibles up close. They appeared to spend more time caring for their appearance than fighting.

  Posturing would no
t be enough to force his men to run away. The odds were good. Two to one at least. He grinned.

  The Invincibles threw their javelins.

  His shield went up. One slower Roman fell groaning, but most of the javelins clattered harmlessly away. If this was the only guard for the nobles' tents, they were in luck.

  He gave the order, “Small tortoise.” His troop joined shields, four abreast around him. The optio appeared by his side, breathless.

  “My lord, you must go back.” The optio raised his hand. Constantine looked at him. Defiant shouts came from the line of Invincibles.

  “Be quiet, optio,” he roared. He elbowed him away. What was the man thinking? Could he not sense the opportunity here? The optio’s face blanched as if he’d been doused for days in a cask full of piss.

  “This is what we’re here for, boys. Let’s go,” roared Constantine.

  Excitement, pride and a gulp of fear mixed inside him like an ancient alchemist’s brew. As one they stepped forward.

  A Persian officer, his beard indigo blue, his bald head heavily tattooed with swirling blue markings, screamed at his men while brandishing a long, curved sword above his head. Constantine wondered what hopes for glory the Persian officer entertained.

  His arm throbbed as they went forward. His breath came in heaving blasts. The Invincibles ahead took on the grim look of men well used to fighting. Each carried a mace or an axe.

  He held his breath, kept his sword still. The two troops crashed shields. Constantine, on the far right of the line of Jovians, jabbed up, testing an Invincible’s mail. A mace slammed over his shield, just missing his head.

  Bastard! Constantine jabbed quickly up and under the Persian’s mail. The man screamed. His shield shook but held. Constantine thrust again, harder, then turned to support the Jovian to his left.

  Not one Invincible ran away.

  The last one took twenty blows before he went down. As the man was being finished, Constantine checked the wounded Romans. Three legionaries were dead or dying. Their wounds were bad, a dangling, lopped off hand, a dripping, open skull, blueish pulsing entrails, enough to sicken anyone who thought war a glamorous business.