The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  The massive bronze doors were covered in carvings and jewels. They shouted of wealth beyond reason and glistened on each side as she passed through them.

  Tiny sniggered as his hands were oiled.

  “Do even slaves get their hands anointed?” he asked the golden legged slave girl in a dangerously short tunic, as she dribbled lemon water onto his hands.

  “It is the empress' order.” The slave girl gave him a patient look. Then she dribbled oil on Juliana's palms. Juliana rubbed them together, as she'd seen everyone else do.

  They were in a large hall with a high purple ceiling. Rows of black marble columns lined each end of the hall. She felt small looking at them.

  Another slave girl, dressed in the Egyptian style, bare breasted and wearing only a white linen sheath, approached Constantine and bowed. Juliana edged closer to hear what she was saying.

  “I will take you directly to the empress. Your companion can come. I will show where your slaves will wait. Follow me, my lord.” With a swish of her braided hair the slave turned on her heel and, without waiting for an answer, strode away. Constantine turned to Lucius and shrugged.

  They all walked after the slave. Tiny and Juliana trailed behind, as if an invisible cord connected them. They went through a door and down a wide corridor.

  Four guards stood to attention by a high door at the end of the corridor. They were barring the path to a small band of nobles, who, it became clear, were trying to gain entry to the quarters beyond.

  As they approached the door their guide pointed at a side door, and then to Tiny and Juliana. Lucius whispered to Tiny. Tiny motioned Juliana to follow him.

  “We’re to wait here,” Tiny said, when she caught up with him. “I hope there'll be food.”

  Juliana watched Constantine and Lucius passing through the high doorway at the end of the corridor. A pang of jealousy ran through her as she saw them disappear through it.

  In the waiting room, there were four other slaves. They turned away dismissively as she and Tiny entered. A marble table, against one wall, had pitchers of wine and water, and trays of stuffed olives, cheese, and honeyed cakes on it. The smells from the table made her queasy.

  Tiny poured a goblet of wine and passed it to her. It was unlike anything she'd ever tasted, bursting sweet and fruity on her tongue.

  “Do you remember the slave market?”

  Juliana nodded.

  “Why do you think we are here?” Tiny continued in a low voice, as he helped himself to some honey cakes.

  Juliana shook her head. The smell in the room, the sense of being close to powerful people, had brought back a memory of her time in the Persian tent many years before. She pressed her hands together, started breathing slowly as her slave mother had taught her to do when her dreams would wake her with half-stifled screams.

  “I hope it isn’t all some trick,” he said, looking round.

  She didn't reply. She wondered where Constantine had got to. Tiny looked at her. For a moment, she thought he’d read her mind, but all he did was laugh.

  She sat and thought about the terrible things that had brought her here. She remembered the way the Persian soldiers had burnt their village, and when she’d returned to her house everyone was dead already and she was plucked from the ground while screaming wildly outside it, and a cloth wet with blood placed over her mouth while the smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils.

  The door of the room opened. Six guards filed in, the clatter of their hard sandals echoing from the walls. Juliana froze, her breath stopping in her throat. The guards were accompanied by the girl who'd brought them to this room. She pointed at them. “Seize them,” she said.

  The guards took Juliana and Tiny roughly by the arms, ignoring all questions, and without explanation pushed them from the room. Juliana was almost carried down the long corridor. Something terrible was going to happen. Tiny had been right. It had all been a trick.

  Behind her, Tiny had four guards holding him. He knew better than to struggle against them.

  Or maybe he was waiting for the right moment to lash out.

  XIX

  Treveris, Gaul, 306 A.D.

  Crocus pulled the flap on his tent up and looked outside. A watery blue sky greeted him. The gods were appeased. His daughter was on her way to see him. He dropped the flap, turned, went across to the rush mat at the back of the tent and sat, cross legged.

  He recited the prayer to Woden, god of war and magic.

  You are the one I believe in.

  You are the doom of my enemies.

  You are the stealer of victory.

  You are my father, Woden.

  Be here with me today.

  Rustling from outside the tent brought his head up. The tent flap opened and in walked his daughter. Her red hair engulfed her head like a flame, exactly as it had done for her mother, passing all the way to her waist.

  Crocus stood, and they hugged. A tear came to his eye. He grunted it away. Loki would not trap him today.

  “Sit, we will talk.”

  They sat opposite each other on the rush mat. The air thickened with the smell of human bodies, last night’s stew, and horses. Swirling patterns filled the tent walls. Only the pile of blankets at the back gave any clue that this was also where he slept.

  “You have done well, Father. Mother sends her blessings.” His daughter smiled. It was the smile of her mother. The smile that had made him weak for her.

  “There is another reason for you coming, Daughter. What is it?”

  She coughed, looked around, leaned toward him, and put a hand on his bare knee. “We have heard that the son of the emperor of the west will come here.”

  “That is not sure, yet. Galerius may not release him. He may die on the way here. He may not exist at all.”

  “He exists. He is coming. My mother saw it all in a dream. The birds spoke to her.”

  He shook his head. “Always the dreams. Always the birds. You know this is why I had to leave your mother. She wrecked my head with her dreams and her birds.”

  “My mother says you left her because you like war. You and Woden have a pact, she says.”

  “That is also true. But why does Constantine’s arrival in Gaul concern your mother? Tell me that?”

  “My mother says the age of daemons is upon us, that this Constantine will bring them with him to Gaul.”

  Crocus leaned back and waved his hands, like a bird unfolding its wings. “She sees far too much, your mother.”

  The girl shifted nearer to him, her eyes as black as pitch, like his.

  “This Constantine must be killed. His body must be cut open and his heart burnt for the daemons to leave our land alone. This is what my mother says.”

  Crocus grunted. “Again, your mother wants a heart. I will consider what is best for us before I decide.”

  “We know you can do it, Father. We know whose side you are really on.”

  XX

  Nicomedia, 306 A.D.

  Constantine and Lucius had been escorted down a corridor and out into the Empress Valeria's private garden, a colonnaded courtyard with young cedars lining each wall.

  At last he would know the answer. His familiarity with the palace added to his impatience.

  He’d felt an urge to rush forward, not to wait to be shown where to go. He'd spent parts of each winter for the past ten years, while on leave from the Jovians, living in rooms here under the scrutiny of unbelievably nosy officials. He'd only escaped when finally permitted to rent his own villa after Diocletian had abdicated the previous year, and they'd all vacated the palace for Galerius to take up residence.

  The slave girl led them to a small plain door at the far end of the courtyard, turned, and put a finger to her lips. She inserted a bronze key slowly into the lock and opened the door gently.

  The sound of lyres, discernible only as a distant murmur while they were outside the door, rushed from the room as soon as the door cracked open. They slipped inside. Small knots of guests stood
in respectful silence around the empress’ pillared reception hall. From the ceiling rows of broadly striped canopies hung.

  Couches swathed in red, green and purple silk were arranged at the center of the room around a green marble table laden with golden goblets and platters. Bluebells and snowdrops, portents of an early spring, overflowed from golden baskets beside the table, and hung in garlands along the backs of the couches. Every fold of silk, curl of hair, and intertwined flower garland reinforced the impression of heart-stopping beauty.

  Sitting upright on a gold-armed backless chair was the empress, plucking at a lyre. Two fair-haired youths sat at her feet, accompanying her. Constantine moved to the edge of a circle of onlookers. Lucius waited nearby.

  The empress stopped playing and waved him forward. Enthusiastic clapping filled the room. He stopped in front of her, bowed his head low, and waited.

  Valeria was an old friend. They’d both been virtual prisoners in the palace years before, at the beginning of his time in the east. She was Diocletian's daughter and her every movement had been closely watched. They’d become good friends, but too often after that she’d been away when he visited. And then he was appointed to the Jovians.

  “Constantine, you have interrupted us. I hope you have a good excuse.” She shook her finger at him, her tone cross, but her face a picture of delight, her eyes wide, beaming like an owl’s. He felt once again the old, futile longing.

  He knelt, reached forward for the edge of her purple silk robe. He put it to his lips and kissed it, slowly.

  “I have no excuse, my empress, except for my impatience to see you.” He spoke softly, so no one else could hear him.

  “I have been waiting for you too.” Her tone was sweet and cool now, like a sensuous woman’s skin.

  “And who is this?” She looked at Lucius.

  Constantine leaned toward her. “That is Lucius Aurelius Armenius, an old friend.”

  “This is the man who spoke up for you when Galerius wanted you demoted?”

  “The same.”

  “Aaah, I heard you had an Armenian friend who threatened to get all his fellow scouts to abandon that campaign if your sentence wasn’t overturned, and that you should be proclaimed a hero, and that your accusers were liars.”

  “Yes, he did all that.”

  “You were truly lucky that day, Constantine. Maybe it’s a sign.” She clapped her hands. The lyre players restarted their song. Then she stood, walked to an empty couch beside the table, sat, and patted the space to her right, indicating he should recline in the place of honor. She let the purple silk stola she wore ride up her thighs as she made a space for him. Her legs were pale, sleek and long.

  She waved away a couple who were sitting together on the other couch by the table and within moments they were almost alone. The rest of her guests around the room began talking to each other in a studied way, hardly glancing at them.

  He took his place beside her. Slave girls dressed in the Egyptian style rushed forward to offer him a goblet of wine and delicacies from laden serving trays. Their bare breasts bobbed in front of him as they served him. He made sure not to stare at anyone but her.

  Valeria’s stola had white pearls glistening down it like spray from a waterfall. It was split at the top, as if it was too small for her, and only covered the upper part of her arms. Dangling between her barely covered breasts a necklace of amber beads gleamed. The urge to take hold of her grew. He knew only too well how she had captured the heart of an emperor and had broken many other hearts and lives.

  He leaned forward to breathe in her musky perfume. “You've made this Egyptian style popular, Valeria. I hear the traders have run out of silk from here to Alexandria.” He growled under his breath, involuntarily. She was so alluring.

  Her eyes flared.

  “So, how is our new emperor?” he said.

  “Oh, Galerius, he'll be along soon. These parties bore him.” She waved her arm dismissively as if to banish everyone else in the palace “Now, my sweet Constantine, let us talk about more interesting things. I've been told you still refuse to get married. I do hope you're not pining for me.” She reached over and touched his hand lightly. A warm sensation travelled like honey up his arm. He moved closer to her.

  “You know I've never been content with imitations. True beauty comes but once in a thousand years.” He let her see him gazing along her legs to her golden sandals.

  She looked at him with a mock solemn expression, then threw her head back and laughed. She reached for her wine goblet, but a young expressionless slave boy lying on the floor nearby, who Constantine had hardly noticed, passed it straight into her hand.

  “You've heard about the rebellion in Britannia, haven’t you?” She paused to look at him. “Where is that anyway, somewhere beyond Gaul?”

  Constantine nodded.

  “I can never tell one restless province from another in your father’s domains in the west. They say a magistrate has been murdered.”

  Things were moving faster than he’d expected.

  “And good timing to present your request again, so my husband says. But, more importantly,” her voice softened to a whisper, “did you get my message?”

  Constantine nodded. “I'm grateful, empress. I…” He lowered his voice. “You see, I had a dream. I was riding out with my father to teach the Caledonian barbarians a lesson in Roman justice. I’ve been told by a soothsayer that it's a prophecy.”

  “I do hope your dream comes true.” She touched his arm.

  He put his hand up, gripped hers held it, his desire growing.

  Her voice trembled as she spoke. Her eyes were fixed on his. “I hope you’ve made preparations.”

  He nodded.

  She looked round, as if she'd sensed something. A faint bell tinkled briefly. She pulled her hand away. He glanced around as Emperor Galerius strode through the main doorway with an expectant look on his face. Behind him a cloud of officials and eunuchs swarmed. Constantine stood, knelt by the couch and bowed his head low. All around the room he could see people bowing or kneeling.

  “Up, everyone up, up. There’s no formality in the empress' rooms.” Galerius came closer. “I hope you're not bothering our beloved on her birthday, Constantine.” He sounded out of breath. Constantine bowed, but not as much as he should have. Some slave had told Galerius where he was.

  Before he had a chance to say anything, Galerius continued. “Well, my sweet, will I get rid of him for good this time?”

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “Come then. We will settle our business.” Galerius raised his hand.

  The crowd bowed as the emperor strode out of the hall. Constantine took one last breath of the sweet, alluring air around the empress and bowed low to her. He sighed. She shook her head wistfully. He saw Lucius looking perplexed nearby. He motioned for him to come too and without a single glance back, they hurried after Galerius.

  The band of guards and officials that scurried after the emperor grew as they progressed down the marble-floored corridor.

  They turned a corner, passed along a pillared hallway whose walls were covered in depictions of gladiatorial skill, and went up a wide marble staircase into what Constantine knew was the most beautiful room in the whole palace. The emperor's private reception hall had been built on the highest point of a spine-like ridge, just before it fell away in a sheer cliff directly above a rocky shoreline.

  The room was two stories high at least. Recessed alcoves around the sides held statues of many of the divine emperors. Gold-edged mosaics gleamed on the floor and in spectacular fashion one corner of the hall was cut through by arches. Through them he could see ominous rain clouds sweeping over the bay of Nicomedia, as if they were pouring from some giant's cauldron. Single-masted fishing boats and galleys plied through lines of foam-flecked waves like toys sailing across a rippling pond. The view from this room always made him feel like a god.

  In the center of the room two steps led down to a circular sunken d
ais inlaid with a mosaic tabula map. The map showed the names of the cities and main forts along the largest highways of the empire, radiating in elbowed spokes from Treveris on the left, Rome in the center and Nicomedia on the right. Beside the map, stiff and aloof, stood a group of four officials, pristine in their white togas and pale faces.

  The emperor paced to the far side of the sunken dais. He motioned for Constantine to join him. When he was by his side, the emperor of the east, Gaius Galerius Augustus, gripped Constantine’s arm, digging his nails into the skin.

  “You do like to play games, don’t you, Constantine. Well, your games are all over now. Our spies have reported large movements against the empire from the Danube all the way to Britannia. It has happened before, but this time things are different. Everywhere invasion looms. I am told the attacks are coordinated. For Rome to survive we must fight back. We must fight back together.”

  Constantine hated being lectured. He struggled to keep his expression attentive. The officials standing nearby were nodding in agreement.

  “Our successes, pushing back the Persians, crushing revolts in Egypt, will all be in vain, unless we act as one.” He paused. His voice rose as he continued. “With the empire's divisions behind us, we can forge a new golden age with belief in the traditional gods, Rome’s gods, binding us, so we can win a great victory. If not. . .” He raised his hands in the air.

  “We will lose everything.” His hand gripped tighter on Constantine’s arm. “But before the victory, your father must root out all treachery in his provinces in the west. He must follow our edicts, or who knows what will happen.” Galerius shrugged his shoulders, as if indifferent to the fate that Constantine’s father was bringing down on himself.

  “Your father has requested that you be sent to join him for a campaign to deal with Caledonia.” He looked Constantine in the eye. “But do you still wish to go back to his rain-sodden provinces? You could always live fruitfully here.” He smiled amiably.

  Constantine shook his head.