The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  A deep longing woke inside him, a beast that had long been leashed. She pushed him back against the doorway, rubbing her body against his rigid manhood. He turned her, pushed hard against her, kissing her neck, then her lips. He’d imagined this moment any number of times. Now it had come true, it was far better than he’d imagined.

  “I don’t want your slave to see us, unless you want her to watch,” Sybellina whispered to him.

  Constantine looked around. In the far corner, discernible in the gloom as only a dim shadow, Juliana sat still. She appeared to be clutching her knees. A pang of guilt rose inside him.

  “You're right.” He pulled her into the room. Sybellina giggled, then licked the side of his face as they passed through the doorway.

  “You’ll be good, Constantine, I can tell,” she whispered, as they stumbled to the bed. A small brazier stood near it and a sliver of smoke spiraled lazily into the air from the glowing coals. On a carved wooden table by the brazier, glittering in the light from a lamp dangling above it on the wall, lay a heart-shaped silver box.

  They kissed by the bed. He slid his hands up her shoulders and pulled the straps of her gown away, until it fell at her feet. She was naked underneath, her skin pale, her breasts large, her nipples painted blue and prominent.

  He looked at her, then pulled her to him, lifting her up in his arms. He wanted to kiss those breasts, lick them.

  Abruptly she pushed him away. She struggled to get free from his arms.

  “Stop. I wish it were different, Constantine, but I made a vow. Don't ask me to break it. I'm not one of your giggling slave girls.” Her hands held him away.

  She looked unbearably gorgeous in the flickering light. The warm touch of her soft skin had been exactly what he'd needed. Her breasts were beautiful as any he’d ever seen. As she turned away from him their pendulous curves stiffened him more.

  “Sybellina.” His tone was throaty, full of desire. He moved toward her.

  She held her hand higher. “Stop. I will give you what you want, I promise, when the time is right. I want you too, but please stay back.” She looked anguished.

  “Sweet Constantine.” Her tone was pleading. “I have sworn my life to share my body only when the Mother Goddess permits it, and she has not so far permitted it for you and me, but she will, I’m sure.”

  He thought of begging her, pleading his need, but he wouldn't. Then he thought of forcing her. But he wouldn’t do that either. He sighed as he fought his desire away. She stepped back, her nakedness calling to him like a siren’s voice.

  “Tell me when your goddess changes her mind.”

  He walked stiffly from her room. Perhaps there was something of the daemon about her, as Lucius had suggested, but she was a daemon he desired more than anything else. And also a test, a laurel to be won, definitely not a plaything to be discarded like so many others.

  He'd known such tests before. And he'd always won them. He'd win again. Her goddess would permit whatever he wanted. His time approached. And sooner, rather than later. The words, emperor's son, whispered too strong in the female heart.

  He grinned, anticipating the moment, and remembering how she'd looked. Those breasts! Their journey north together would certainly be interesting.

  He turned often in his sleep that night. He couldn't find a comfortable position on the lumpy straw mattress for long, and he got up twice, seeking distraction, pacing about his room. Then he went outside into the courtyard. He could hear a woman laughing and distant splashes. He walked the courtyard for a while as the noises died away. He went back to his room, pleasured himself with an image of Sybellina filling his mind. He came quickly. Then he slept.

  The following morning as he was about to start a breakfast of breads, cheeses, olives, honey and milk, served at a low table in the courtyard, Sybellina appeared. She touched his arm then kissed his cheek affectionately.

  “Do you forgive me?” she whispered, as she sat.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It's nothing. Forget it.” She had the same perfume on, he noticed.

  Lucius appeared. “Looks like Bacchus is making you pay for plundering his fruits,” said Constantine.

  Lucius grunted. Then he joined them. Sybellina smiled broadly at him. Lucius returned the smiled in the theatrical manner some people use to indicate that although they find nothing to smile about, they are willing to be friendly.

  The coolness between them had lifted a little. It would be good if Lucius had decided to make the best of their enforced companionship. And he was pleased Sybellina seemed willing to forget Lucius' previous behavior. She was more soft-hearted than he'd expected.

  He also enjoyed the way she took every opportunity to touch him, on the hand when she passed him something, or on his thigh when she gave him the selection of soft breads that they all delighted over, and he even caught her looking wistfully in his direction once or twice. It looked like the test would prove easier to pass than he'd expected.

  Soon after, one of the governor’s officials, a small bald man, arrived to inform him that he would be travelling with them to Treveris, the capital city of his father’s province of Gaul, and that the preparations for their departure were complete. Constantine shook his head. He was attracting an entourage.

  Sybellina delayed their departure that morning. As they waited, Juliana seemed more distant than he’d remembered. She looks glum, he thought. Had Tiny been bothering her again? He decided to ask her, but in the hubbub as Sybellina finally reappeared, he forgot.

  When they were all ready, the governor met them in the stable yard.

  A brisk wind blew over them as the last strap was being tied on the packhorses. Dark clouds loomed overhead, like the portents of some daemon’s army streaming toward them.

  “Are you sure you don't want to stay? The storms can be bad this time of year,” said the governor.

  Constantine shook his head firmly.

  “Farewell, then. I wish you good fortune.” He looked pleased his meddling uninvited guests were leaving.

  Once they’d started out, he didn't look back. Soon he'd be with his father and he'd be given real power. He imagined the governor scouring the appointment lists the next time they came through, and his shock when he saw the position Constantine had been elevated to.

  The road north from Massilia was one of the oldest in the empire. It carried people long before Agrippa put his name to the new Roman road, and before Julius Caesar ever dreamt of conquering Gaul. It had been there since the earliest times, when Gaul had been a land of innumerable tribes and underground gods, trading slaves, amber and skins with empires all over the Middle Sea.

  At first the road headed west, up through the circle of hills that surrounds Massilia, then it turned north, skirting marshes and lagoons, and headed up through a broad and fertile river valley, passing straight through small, but bustling towns and by early blossoming orchards, olive groves and vineyards, heading up, up to where the valley narrows, where the silver groves of olive trees and the green alternating stripes of vines peter out, and the knobbly limestone hills, heathlands, airy pastures and steep gorges of what the locals call the massif begin.

  Their first days on that road were spent enduring fierce thunderstorms and the largest grape-sized raindrops he'd ever seen. At one point the high wind set a whole olive grove swaying like tassels. They took accommodation where they could, wherever a warm meal and clean rooms were on offer near the end of each day’s riding.

  He settled quickly into the rhythm of travel, listening patiently to the endless gossipy stories Lucius regaled them with and enjoying the tales of life in Rome Sybellina could be pressed to tell. The governor's official and the four guards who accompanied them kept well back behind the packhorses, and at times he forgot they were there.

  Lucius made up ribald stories about the roadside sanctuaries to Pan that they passed and about the sacred groves with garlands strewn around, dedicated to some unpronounceable local god.

  He took care to stay
away from Sybellina at night, usually going to sleep before any of the others, leaving Lucius to engage the tavern keepers in conversation. She would come to him when she was ready. That was the way he wanted it to be.

  The skies cleared the day they arrived at the old veteran colony at Arelate. The town had a faded air, as if its best days were long over. They were feasted by the local magistrate that evening, a most generous host, and early the following day rode on. Blue skies and a warm downy wind cheered their way that day.

  The road ran near the swift flowing Rhone, a river that hid man-eating monsters in its fast currents, waiting for anyone who dared to swim her, so Lucius claimed. Then they were in a steep gorge, where villages were less frequent, and later they were up onto the high massif, where central Gaul begins.

  The weather warmed. The winter was gone. A tapestry of flowers covered the ditches on either side of the roadway some days. A sense of hope, of rebirth, added to his growing optimism. If Sybellina didn’t come to him during the journey, she certainly would when she saw the position he’d win from his father.

  He’d always enjoyed the routines of travel. He woke before anyone else and usually helped Tiny get the horses ready, checking for saddle sores, checking strap lines, bruises and hooves. Juliana would wake next. She seemed always to be cheerful in the morning too, as she helped the tavern girls prepare their breakfast.

  She’d become much quieter since Massilia and never spoke more than a few words when he engaged her in conversation.

  News of the imminent arrival of the son of their emperor preceded them from town to town, probably due to the occasional fast messenger who raced past them on horseback. They were welcomed by administrators or sometimes by settled ex-legionaries, or whatever other official the village or town could muster.

  When, after nine days, they finally arrived at Lugdunum, the bustling capital of the central region, their small guard was replaced by a troop of twenty seasoned cavalrymen. The local magistrate told them he simply wouldn't allow him to proceed without a proper escort. It was a matter of the city's honor, he said.

  Constantine's anticipation grew as the landscape changed from high barren hills to rolling countryside to flat, thickly forested plain. He was constantly pushing himself up in his saddle, wondering what lay ahead, willing the journey to be over, his future to begin.

  He knew they still had a long way to go, but this was a land he'd never seen before and he longed to see it all and understand it. When they finally reached the thin forests on the broad plains of northern Gaul, after fourteen long days, the villages and towns became more prosperous.

  Forests still abounded in places, but there were huge estates where the forest had been cut down completely from horizon to horizon. They arrived at Alesia, the town just before where the road forks for Treveris, to find that a messenger awaited them.

  His father must have heard he was on his way. He’d sent word for him and his party to come directly to Gesoriacum, the main port for all sea journeys between Gaul and Britannia, where, the message said, his father prepared for a campaign. A festival and games in honor of Ceres, the mother-earth goddess, would be held in Gesoriacum before the army's departure. They should arrive in time to join the festivities, if they rode swiftly. The emperor awaited him with great joy, the message concluded.

  It was the middle of March, a day before the Ides. Six more days at a fast pace and they'd arrive at the coast.

  One morning, outside the small tavern they had stayed at, Lucius sought him out as he and Tiny were preparing the horses for that day's journey. Lucius looked irritated.

  “I do not think Sybellina is a suitable companion for someone bound for high office, do you?” he said.

  Constantine had spent a lot of time talking to Sybellina the previous evening, probably more than ever before. She had detailed knowledge about the lives of previous emperors, and how their sons had come to power, and she was entertaining too, with stories of mistresses, magic and love affairs, and although she went to bed alone soon after their meal was finished, their friendship must have been obvious to everyone.

  “She helps make the journey more bearable, Lucius. That’s all.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Constantine, but I wish you'd be more careful. If a priestess like that gets her hooks into you. . .” He looked away.

  “Don't annoy me.” Constantine slapped Lucius’ shoulder. “She's not my type, Lucius. I like my women big and blonde, not skinny like Sybellina. I think perhaps she's more your sort. Am I right?”

  Lucius nudged him. They both watched as Sybellina made her way toward them.

  “She’s always appearing from nowhere,” he muttered.

  Constantine didn't answer.

  By the time they reached the coastal plain, everyone in the company had heard at least three times how Lucius had rescued Constantine from the Persians, and at least twice about every honor he’d won in his campaigns.

  As they travelled toward the sea, the road crossed two wide wooden bridges set over deep mud-brown rivers. Their wooden pilings were as thick as any he’d seen. The farms were smaller in these parts and they saw many native Gauls herding or sowing around stockaded villages not far from the roadway. Constantine was amused by the tight animal-skin breeches the men wore in these parts and by their striped cloaks and long beards. No one in Bithynia would dare wear such barbarian garb. Some of the men greeted them warmly and offered them rest or provisions. They spoke in a gently lilting tongue and those that did speak Latin seemed ill at ease with the language.

  The days were cooler now that they'd come so far north. At times they had to shelter from violent rain storms which swept over the plain and turned everything to sandy mud, which splattered them from cap to sandal if the wind blew strong enough. It was no soothing Zephyr.

  The road ran close to the sand-duned coast then and gulls drifted in the air, calling to their mates. The sea appeared one morning as they crossed the top of a low wooded hill, like the blade of a great sword laid out on the horizon. A heavy smell of salt came to them on the breeze that day.

  This sea was gloomier, more menacing than the Middle Sea. Waves broke far out in lines of bone-white foam and gray clouds marshaled on the horizon, like enemy forces waiting for an order to move forward.

  He'd begun to lose patience with Sybellina and decided that a few days without his attentions might speed her acquiescence. The cavalry guards, who Constantine rode with for the next few days, told him stories about Britannia and how girls from that isle were friendlier and had bigger breasts than any female to be found in the rest of the empire.

  The cavalry guards who'd never been to Britannia, especially swore that this was true. They also told him about the Druids who could kill you with a curse, or a look, and about the large-scale human sacrifices they practiced before the empire had arrived. One man said they still practiced human sacrifice in the places where Roman law had not taken hold.

  The road crossed a bubbling marsh by a wide causeway. In the distance, he saw the low hill that stood, his guards said, over the town of Gesoriacum. In fields on the lower slopes of the hill he could make out lines of dirty gray army tents. He raised a clenched fist.

  He'd made it. At last he’d made it. He’d been eighteen, and scared, when his father had left him with Diocletian to learn the arts of war. But that wasn’t the only reason he’d been left behind. He’d been a hostage for his father’s good behavior as Caesar in the western provinces and, although he’d met his father on a few occasions since, the insecurity of knowing his life might be forfeit for something he had no part in, had been with him like a nagging injury, almost forgotten, but always there for all those years.

  Now, at last, at thirty-three, all that was over and the future he’d longed for, yearned for year after year, could begin. He had much to learn and a future to carve out but was determined not to be found wanting, no matter who stood in his way.

  XXXIII

  Portus, outside Rome, 306 A.D.

&n
bsp; Helena looked down at the dock. A troop of legionaries had lined up where the gangplank was being lowered. She’d seen a signal passed by flag between the galley and the shore, and knew the troop was for her.

  The previous three days sailing since they’d left Hosius on his knees had passed without incident. She’d spent most of the time confined to the captain’s cabin. It had a golden piss pot and a window, where she could stare out at the sea, but iron bars, intended to keep boarders out, prevented her from jumping overboard to swim ashore or drown herself.

  Beside the gangplank being lowered onto the dock stood three of the galley crew, ready to take hold of her. Their job was to ensure she didn’t jump down into the water between the galley and the stone of the port wall. But there was no chance she was going to do that. Helena would do whatever was needed to help her son. She even looked forward to meeting whoever had arranged her capture.

  It had to be someone important. There were few people who could pay for a galley to intercept someone on their way to Rome. Whoever was behind it clearly wanted to ensure Helena did not leave the ship at any of the ports they would stop at after reaching Sicilia. Setting agents to abduct her on arrival in Ostia would not guarantee that they would catch her. And there were too many small ports south of Rome to make having agents at every port impractical.

  Helena walked forward to the gangplank. “No one will hold me,” she said loudly.

  The captain shouted an order in Greek. Two of the men waiting grabbed her arms. The third man went behind them as they carried her, a foot off the ground, down the gangplank to the dock. She didn’t struggle. There was no point.

  At the bottom of the gangplank, three legionaries with black breastplates waited. An officer with a red cloak and a black helmet stood to the side.

  She pointed at him as soon as she was released. “Why have I been kidnapped? My husband will have you gelded if you don’t answer.”