The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  The road, the Via Portuensis, ran by the Tiber. It was lined at each end with grand marble tombs, and in many other places by the high stone and red brick walls of unseen villas. The road kept close to the river for much of the journey until, as a low, bare ridge came into sight, it left the river and its slow-moving barges behind.

  As they reached the top of the ridge, a haze of brown smoke appeared in the distance. Rome’s shroud lay like a slick across the sky. Below the haze, and even from this far, he could make out the red-brown walls of Aurelian, the most recent fortifications encircling the city and still the subject of continuing controversy about how secure the walls were.

  From the ridge a horizon-filling jumble of roofs and buildings could be seen. Flecks of red and gold flickered below a crowning haze diffusing into the pale blue sky. It was the Rome he knew well from two long stays in the capital, vast, glorious, a place of wonder and deadly intrigue.

  The Portuensis Gate was open and swarming with people and carts as they approached. This was exactly as he remembered it. He brushed his hand against the pitted stone as they passed slowly through the outer gate. It felt cold.

  Few people paid any attention to them as they entered. Rome attracted every man of merit sooner or later. The disinherited son of an emperor would barely raise an eyebrow here.

  The city filled his nostrils. It wasn't the smell itself, the heavy stench of horse manure, charcoal smoke, and urine pots, but the sense of being an outsider that the smell brought back. He remembered how much had felt deliberately hidden about Rome, the workings of the guilds and colleges, the feuds of senatorial families, the clash of cults and priests, the schemes of landlords and moneylenders, and how unconcealed, like a prostitute’s charms, had been the disdain of her citizens for all those born outside her shadow.

  Such disdain, he knew though, did not prevent the city’s inhabitants from enjoying taking a visitor’s coins in many imaginative ways. In the small open square beyond the gate, hawkers and tradesmen shouted, enticed, pleaded, and extolled their incredibly low prices, available only to you, and only for a short time. You could buy every promise of health, wealth, and happiness for whatever you had in your purse, if you shopped long enough in Rome.

  Yellowing four and five story apartment blocks, with colonnades of shops and tavernas at their ground level, lined three sides of the square. Ramshackle wooden buildings, stables if he remembered right, huddled along the other side, at the bottom of the city walls.

  The apartment blocks continued into the distance along the wide avenues that radiated ahead like a honeycomb into the city. There were people everywhere, tavernas overflowed, slaves ran on their master’s errands, and elegant women strolled arm in arm with friends. In the center of the square a fountain with leaping, life-sized marble horses spewed water, while all around children played, dogs barked, horses neighed, and from somewhere, far away, a great cheer came carried on the air and died as quickly.

  They headed for the wide avenue that ran down toward the Tiber. When they reached the Aemilian bridge, Constantine turned to Lucius and pointed out a large and confident-looking pack of rats running along the marble balustrade, as if they'd just crossed from the old city.

  He heard Juliana’s intake of breath behind him and turned. She was biting her lip, but she hadn’t screamed. Lucius had been right. They’d made a good decision bringing her. Far below, the broad, muddy river ran swiftly. To their left the Tiber Island stood in the center of the river, with lush pine and cypress trees at its tip and gray-haired veterans sitting on benches overlooking where the channels rejoined.

  The city guards at the red brick gateway on the far side ordered people to stand aside to let Constantine and his retinue pass. When some of the crowd failed to move quickly enough, they used short wooden batons to beat them away.

  One skinny young man, a slave most likely, was beaten until he curled into a fetal position in a gully. The crowd pressed back against the walls and people muttered curses as they rode past, discontent visible on many of their faces. It had been the same the last time he was here. Strong leadership, tempered with justice, was what these people needed, not what they were getting now. His father had said that long ago, and he’d been right.

  The old part of the city they now entered reminded him of an ancient patrician duchess with her once glorious, but now discolored red brick walls and cracked marble facings the fading symbols of her half-remembered days of glory.

  The road ahead curved toward the Arch of Janus. Above that, the buildings on the Palatine Hill loomed. The Temples of Apollo and Sibyl looked in perfect condition and were brightly painted, unlike some of the buildings around them, which looked in need of repair. Further along the hill, the massive archways and golden staircases of the Domus Augustana, the palace of the Emperor Domitian, also looked untarnished by time. But perhaps it too would look faded, if he went up near them.

  He found himself riding next to Juliana, after they had to move aside to let a troop of city guards hurry on to their next assignment. The roadway narrowed and grew busy.

  “You don't see things like that often in Bithynia,” he said to her.

  Four gangly ebony slave girls were loping toward them alongside an ornate flame-silk covered litter. Disregarding the chill winds, the girls wore only flapping leopard skin squares, which barely covered them. Their naked and oiled breasts bounced as they ran. The litter was being carried by eunuchs who wore black thigh-length tunics, their heads at odd angles and their limbs jerking as they ran. Two sported huge boils on their necks.

  “A concubine with her guards, I’ll guess,” he said.

  Juliana didn’t reply. She was staring at the litter.

  He turned to look at it. It had a painting on its side. A fish.

  The curtain of the litter whipped open for a moment as it passed him. A dazzling smile beamed toward him, below huge kohled blue eyes, and beyond, lying out, the curves of an oiled body disappeared enticingly into red-cushioned shadows.

  He shook his head and looked away.

  They rode along the Clivus Victoriae and followed the street as it turned sharp right at the Temple of Vesta and on past the Colosseum. There were no games or entertainments that day, but around the Colosseum’s vast awninged skirts, street traders did a brisk business. He saw Juliana staring again, her head thrown back as if she’d encountered the Pillars of Hercules.

  They rode away from the center, now. Dilapidated apartment buildings jostled up one against the other on each side. Ragged orphans ran wild in the tiny alleys between the buildings. Shouts could be heard occasionally, as if someone, not far away, was being robbed.

  “In some parts of Rome, the walls are so thin you can hear your neighbors passing wind.” Constantine leaned toward Juliana. “Or when they make love. Neighbors can guess which wives pretend to enjoy sex and which entertain panting lovers, not husbands.” He hesitated to see her reaction.

  She looked straight ahead.

  He raised his voice a little. “They even claim to know who enjoys teasing their boyfriends until they beg them to finish them, sometimes so loud the whole block hears.” He blew air out, as if amazed.

  “Tell me, is it like that for slaves as well, Juliana?” The stories he'd heard about the plebs of Rome were like the ones he'd heard about slaves. They were always sharing their beds, everyone said, and mating like rabbits whenever they were given the least bit of freedom.

  Juliana turned toward him and shook her head. Her short black hair flicked like numerous tails. She looked flushed. She was more innocent than he'd imagined. Or a very good actress.

  “No, that’s not what it was like on our estate. No eastern woman would ever tease a boyfriend like that.” She looked away, then back at him, stony faced.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Constantine laughed. He could remember a few eastern women who were as good at teasing as any he’d ever met.

  “I’m not talking about prostitutes, my lord. I’m talking about good eas
tern women. They know the subtler arts.”

  He laughed again. “Tell me who these good women are, Juliana? I didn’t meet anything but schemers in my whole time in the east.”

  She leaned toward him, looked him in the eye and said, “My mother was a priestess of the Queen of Heaven, as her mother was before her. They were good women. Anyone who follows the Queen of Heaven is.” She leaned away.

  “You follow her?”

  Juliana nodded.

  “I heard all her adepts are masters at the arts of love. I’ll have to be careful with you.”

  “I’ve forgotten almost everything my mother taught me, my lord. You have nothing to worry about with me. You should know, I’d rather cut my throat than have relations with a master. That’s why my last one put me up for sale. I wouldn’t open my mouth for him. As I cannot for you.”

  He opened his own mouth, then closed it again. The time for jokes was over. After passing the next street corner he said, “Don’t assume I have any plans to ask you for anything, Juliana.” He kicked his horse and moved forward beside Lucius.

  At last they came to the Porta Maggiore, the colossal twin arch gate on the eastern edge of the city. They rode slowly through it and out onto the wide Via Labicana. Two high aqueducts joined together up in the air a little beyond the gateway. They cast a pattern of stunted shadows over the cobbled and cypress-lined road.

  They stopped at a massive gate on the right side of the roadway, just beyond the aqueducts.

  The heavy wooden gate had rusting iron bands across it and was set into high red brick walls. The gate grated open only after a password had been shouted up toward a slit in the wall. Although tired now after the long ride, Constantine sat tall as they rode through. Inside, they were helped to dismount in a gravel-strewn courtyard.

  “You wait with the horses,” he told an immediately dejected-looking Tiny. “Make sure they're fed and watered, and ready for the journey back this evening.” He noticed Juliana had a scowl on her face. He would have to tread carefully with this one.

  They were led through a gate into another larger courtyard. The gravel underfoot here was whiter, thicker. A column of white smoke spiraled above the red tiled roof of the three-story blank walled building ahead.

  “Let’s say as little as possible, Lucius,” he muttered. “We’ll see what he wants and then go. Eat and drink nothing offered directly to us.”

  Lucius nodded. He looked apprehensive.

  “And you.” He turned to Juliana, following close behind. “Say absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  They were ushered through a double height doorway and into a large rectangular atrium with a high ceiling painted a brilliant sky-blue. Its walls were decorated with colorful depictions of a pastoral Arcadia. A trio of smoldering braziers near one wall gave off a sweet odor of incense. Calm crept over him. If Maxentius had wanted him dead, the task would surely have started by now. It would have been an easy thing to arrange for assassins to jump them on the road outside and then claim no part in it.

  He turned to Lucius. “No stupidity here, Lucius, understood? We all still follow his father’s edicts.”

  Lucius nodded.

  A distant chant came echoing to them. The sound made the empty atrium seem isolated, abandoned.

  They sat and waited and waited and waited. The chanting stopped, and when he’d finally become convinced Maxentius was deliberately insulting him, a slave boy dressed in a sparkling white tunic came hurrying through the doorway. With a low bow, the boy politely but diffidently requested that they follow him.

  “You've arrived at an auspicious time, my lord. Our beloved Maxentius is about to receive a reading from the greatest seer in Rome,” said the boy, as he led them down a long pale-gray flagstone corridor.

  He took them out through a doorway and into the villa's rear gardens. Trellised walkways radiated ahead toward a red brick wall, taller than two men, which shielded them from the source of a column of whitish smoke that spiraled into the air behind it. A crackling noise filled the air. Flames leapt above the wall. Then a sickly burning smell entered his nostrils, the smell of a funeral pyre. It gave the palace garden a macabre feel, reminding him of some of the stranger stories he’d heard about Maxentius.

  Two purple-cloaked guards stood to attention by an ancient looking wooden door. They bowed and opened it as he approached.

  Beyond stretched a red brick paved area, in the center of which flames danced from a fountain-sized brazier, with the faces of lions on its blackened sides. Around the brazier stood a circle of hooded priestesses, their hands aloft in supplication. They had white masks on their faces, and would have looked like statues, were it not for the way their robes rippled in the cool wind.

  Four smaller braziers were arranged in a circle around the larger one. They too spat fire and smoke.

  On one side of all this, women in pristine togas lay on two couches watching Constantine approach, while sipping from jeweled goblets.

  “Maxentius?” said Lucius.

  “The one with the diadem,” Constantine replied, as they were led toward the marble tables.

  He ignored the priestesses. The exaggerated way traditional ceremonies were carried out in Rome sickened him. It had been the same the last time he'd been here, every household he'd been invited to had held some overwrought ritual.

  A veiled Nubian slave girl was refilling Maxentius' goblet, while her twin knelt with her shaven head down, holding a golden tray for him to place it on when he’d finished drinking from it.

  Maxentius stood as Constantine came forward. He was short, pudgy and youthful. He exuded the conceited air that Constantine had only ever seen on wastrel patricians. The purple tunic he wore was striped with gold embroidered bands. and his thick mop of chestnut hair framed a face dominated by a red nose and blood shot eyes.

  “Brother, you are most welcome. Your arrival has been timed by the gods.” Maxentius had a squeaky, fake-sounding patrician accent Constantine despised. When Maxentius finished talking, he looked around to see who was listening to him and grinned. Then he looked at Lucius.

  “You have your Armenian wild man with you I see.” Then he turned to Juliana. “And a pretty Persian too. Does she perform well for you?”

  Constantine put his hand up in greeting. There would be no point in explaining to Maxentius that he lived his life as close to the values his mother had drilled into him as he could, or that such values had already saved him from the shooting star fate, burning bright only to be snuffed fast, he’d seen less disciplined members of imperial families suffer.

  Self-restraint, a disdain for orgiastic behavior, and fair treatment for slaves and freemen were concepts Maxentius and his type would probably laugh uproariously at.

  “I hope you weren’t delayed by riots. We had one last night near the Salarian Gate.” Maxentius’ tone was full of fake concern. He waved Constantine forward.

  As Constantine walked around the couches, Maxentius continued in mock anger. “Did you hear we’ve had public buildings attacked, and the most sickening assassinations?”

  Constantine shook his head, slowly.

  “The enemies of Rome are the enemies of tradition.” Maxentius sounded shrill. He jabbed his finger at Constantine.

  “All these new eastern cults threatening us with their simplistic ideas will be destroyed, especially the followers of that crucified charlatan, Christ. I can promise you that.” He slurred his last few words and leaned drunkenly forward.

  The Nubian beside him grabbed his arm and steadied it. Maxentius shook her away.

  Constantine had moved a little. He’d been thinking of helping but decided against it. He glanced at Lucius. Usually, Lucius would have had a lot to say about cults and about Armenians being called wild men, but thankfully he kept his opinions locked behind a fake smile this time.

  “One thing is sure, you’ll be ready when Rome needs you,” said Constantine.

  Maxentius wav
ed him forward and hugged him like a brother, slapping his back three times. He stank of stale wine and heavy incense.

  “You will join us, Constantine.” He waved toward his slaves then sat down heavily.

  Two guests bowed low toward Constantine and moved to a free couch around another table. Constantine and Lucius sat on the vacated couches to the right of Maxentius. Juliana stood behind them. The only sound now was the crackling from the braziers. The priestesses began a soft, vaguely familiar chant, their hooded heads bowed low, calling on the gods to favor them with signs.

  One of them took something from under her cloak, walked up to the brazier and held it near the flame. Then she scraped at it with a small golden sickle. The scratchings flew glittering into the fire.

  “That is the blue sapphire from the breastplate of the last high priest of the Temple of Jerusalem,” said Maxentius. He sounded pleased with himself.

  Another priestess approached a giant red glazed pottery jar that stood in front of their table, no more than three paces away. She squatted behind it. As she sat, the arms of her tunic pulled back. Both her arms ended in stumps. Her bony wrists looked like clubs. A disconcerting sight. Constantine had seen such injuries before, but never on a woman. And then the chanting ceased.

  The lid of the jar moved, settled, then moved again. A faint buzzing noise could be heard.

  Then the lid jumped and fell with a clatter to the ground. From the mouth of the jar the slim head of a black adder appeared. It stared at Maxentius. The priestess moaned, and the snake turned toward her, its black eyes peering at everyone as it moved.

  In a quick movement, it slipped out of the jar. A startled intake of breath came from one of the other guests. The snake stopped.

  The priestess moaned again, and the snake slithered onto her sandal, then up her leg and into her robe. It disappeared within the folds and reappeared, its head swaying, where her hand should have been. The woman moaned as she held her hand outstretched, pointing it at the sky. It sounded as if she was pleading with someone. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Only the whites were visible now.