The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  “Good timing,” said Constantine.

  The doorway darkened, and a scruffily uniformed centurion walked in. He looked around, then motioned Constantine to follow him. Outside, astride an oversize dirt-brown horse, was a red-bearded barrel of a man wearing a gray mail coat. Constantine grinned. Old friends are always the best. Crocus jumped down from his horse and bent low to kiss the hem of Constantine’s cloak.

  “My lord, it is so good to see you again. Rome was far duller after you left, which was why we had to leave. Your father sends regrets that he could not meet you in person. He's burdened with official business, as always. The army departs soon. You've been fortunate to catch us. You always were lucky. Do you remember that girl?” He slapped Constantine on the back and turned toward the others. Constantine introduced Lucius and Sybellina.

  Crocus and his Alemanni officers had made his brief time at Diocletian's Triumph in Rome a real pleasure. It had been the only time he'd felt truly safe in many years. He wasn't allowed stay with his father while he was in Rome, because of Diocletian's paranoia, but in the confusion of the late autumn revelries nobody remembered that the Alemanni auxiliaries were the close allies of his father.

  Horses were brought out as he reminisced. They mounted up. Crocus rode with Constantine beside him. As they left the courtyard he looked back. Juliana was standing looking at him, a sullen look on her face. Tiny was saying something to her, but she wasn’t paying any attention. He turned away. It was true what they said about slaves being ungrateful.

  Everyone in the street stared as they rode past, many speculating loudly as to who he was. “Will the army move on now, my lord?” someone shouted. He'd seen towns garrisoned like this before. Sometimes inhabitants almost abandoned the town until the legions were gone. He'd also seen townspeople who couldn't leave scrabbling like frightened mice for food until their protectors had gone. He looked around. There were more beggars here than in similar towns in the eastern provinces, although they all held their hands out the same way.

  They entered a large courtyard, the type normally used for marshaling troops. Thin pine trees stood around its edges. Salutes were shouted out as they passed through a heavy wooden door and out into a smaller colonnaded courtyard. Guards banged their swords to their shields as they entered. He noted the number of them and wondered what it was the garrison commander feared. Was this part of the empire still so lawless that doubled guards were needed on every doorway? They waited to be announced into the basilica meeting hall at the far end of the courtyard.

  He pictured his father waiting for him with open arms. Lucius said something. He didn't reply. He hadn’t understood what Lucius had said. He took a deep breath, then followed Crocus through the doors.

  At the far end of the long hall was his father. He knew him immediately, though he looked far older than he remembered him. He was sitting on a Greek style throne, the kind that had no back support and golden arms like lion’s paws. The lavishly embroidered purple toga he wore looked out of place in the gloomy hall. As Constantine walked forward he saw the thin pearl band on his father's forehead. So, he too had taken to Diocletian’s changes.

  Behind his father, in an attendant semicircle, stood a group of officials in dazzling white togas. An expectant hush descended as he approached, like that moment in the circus when a gladiator's fate is about to be decided.

  Constantine strode purposefully forward. A group of onlookers, petitioners and traders mainly, had parted down the center of the room on his arrival. He could hear them crowding behind him as he walked forward. He hadn't seen his father in over two years, and that had been only briefly, at Diocletian's Triumph in Rome, and all the time he was there he’d never felt free enough to say what he thought. Now, at last, he could. He had returned. A rush of sentiment threatened. He fought to quell the feelings welling up. The promise of returning to his father had been the rock he’d clung to whenever despair had threatened in the east. The yearning to see his father had been the mission of his life.

  This was the man who'd made him. The man who'd played games with him through the rocky orchards at their home in Moesia. The man he respected more than any other. A shiver ran through him, as if an arrow had flitted past his ear. He straightened his back. He had to do this properly.

  He had to be utterly sure of himself, utterly confident, utterly a real emperor's son, striding up the room, his cloak flicking behind him. Then no one would notice the too-stiff way he held his expression, his struggle to hide his emotions. He reached the far end of the room and prostrated himself on the mosaic floor directly in front of his father.

  He placed his hands out wide, his forehead touching the floor. It was the fullest act of submission possible. He waited to be told to rise. It was an honor, not a humiliation as some barbarian chiefs claimed, to prostrate yourself in front of an emperor, a man chosen by the gods. He forced away all thoughts of rising.

  The onlookers murmured. This was the dutiful son they'd heard about. The son who'd come all the way across the empire to be with his father. Surely now, the gods would grant their emperor an easy campaign, and the gentle winds needed to carry his army safely to Britannia. This arrival was a good omen.

  “Arise, son. You are most welcome. Come. Come close.” The emperor opened his arms. His unhurried tone had an imperiousness to it. He was well used to ordering things as he wanted, though his guttural accent still gave away his origin from the western provinces of the lower Danube. Some things do not change.

  Constantine embraced his father and looked behind him. Thank goodness his first impressions had been right, his stepmother the empress was nowhere to be seen.

  “I have come to offer my sword.” His words came with difficulty, as another rush of warm feeling toward his father almost overcame him. He pulled away, pressed his lips together, and ground his teeth.

  “Who have you brought with you?” The emperor looked quizzically over Constantine's shoulder. A feeling of unease rose in Constantine, then dissipated as quickly as it had come.

  He waved his companions forward and presented them after they too had prostrated themselves. The emperor greeted Lucius coolly. Sybellina, he stared at a moment longer than was necessary. The empress was definitely not nearby, if his father was taking an interest in beautiful messengers. He remembered how his father paid little attention to women when they'd met up in Rome and how impressed he’d been by that.

  “I'm happy to meet you, Sybellina. If you’re a priestess of the cult of the Sibyl, you must have knowledge of our future. Do you?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. We always find it a little difficult to see the future clearly.”

  “I am honored to be here, Imperator. I have a private message for you, my lord.” Sybellina bowed low.

  “Good. Good. You must come to the feast honoring the return of my son.” The emperor turned, motioned for Constantine to follow him, and walked slowly toward the rear door of the hall.

  Constantine, disappointed that his father had paid so little attention to him, followed him out through it and across a courtyard, one pace behind him, and into a long dining room set out for a meal with goblets and wine jugs and large golden dishes.

  Lyre players struck up jerkily as they strode together up the dining hall. In moments, a soothing tune flowed around them.

  “Welcome home, Constantine.” The emperor turned and hugged him again, more warmly this time, but there was still something distant about him, as if he was distracted by something. It was not the welcome Constantine had hoped for, but he consoled himself that he should not expect too much on their first meeting.

  Slaves swarmed around, urging them to sit. They did so and the crowd that had followed them from the basilica sat at tables set near the walls as if each person knew instinctively where their place was.

  Delicacies of the region were served first, stuffed mushrooms and other things he mostly didn’t recognize, then the usual Roman fare appeared. The roast thrushes tasted good, as did th
e spiced boar and the braised hares. Wine and a dark local beer were served, and at the end of the feast huge cheeses and earthenware plates of small honeyed cakes were laid on the tables.

  Lyre players and a troop of singers chanted traditional Roman songs as they ate, both fast and slow. But no lewd, almost naked dancers appeared to entertain them, unlike such feasts in Rome or in Nicomedia, since Galerius had taken power.

  When the meal was over most of the guests departed quickly. Many visited the emperor’s table before they went to express their joy at the reunification of father and son. He'd always felt hypocritical when forced to join in rejoicing with the emperor in Nicomedia, his position had always seemed so tenuous, but now for the first time in as long as he could remember he felt truly content and at home. The well-wishers seemed sincere too, perhaps that was how people were in Gaul.

  But he wanted to have a private conversation with his father. There was so much he had to tell him. After a few more guests had departed, the emperor rose to his feet and indicated with a nod that Constantine should follow him.

  Constantine went after him, his mind racing. Why did his father look so frail? Was he ill? He’d been like an oak the last time he'd seen him, his face all red and healthy. Now he looked gray and more aged than appropriate for his years.

  A full moon lit the small private courtyard his father led him to. He’d waved away their torchbearers a moment before and now dismissed the two red-cloaked bodyguards who’d accompanied them from the feast.

  “I expect you know how difficult it is for me to be alone with anyone,” said the emperor. “But it is time you and I talked.”

  Wooden benches faced each other in the square trellis-bordered center area of the courtyard. Constantine, after being waved toward it, sat on one. The echo of ironclad wheels grinding on cobbles came to them from beyond the courtyard walls. The noise grew louder.

  His father held up his hands for silence as Constantine started to speak. Then he stood, his head at an angle, listening intently, his mouth half open. Constantine started to say something again, but his father shook his head sternly. The sound of the wheels faded slowly. Then a guard called out far away and an answering call came from somewhere further along the town wall. That call was different, longer.

  The emperor turned to him. “My apologies, I’ve begun a new watch system. The calls let us know how the whole town is after each circuit and at each watch.”

  Constantine raised his thumb, tried to look impressed. His father sat beside him and placed a hand on his arm.

  “I am proud of you, Constantine. You bring honor to our family.”

  It felt good to hear those words.

  “That is why.” His father gripped his arm. “You must be given a proper job, a role in keeping with your position, something that will help my campaign, and our objective.”

  XXXVI

  Rome, 306 A.D.

  The legionaries with the black breastplates ran behind the chariot. They were lucky the two horses had been set to a walking pace, but Helena wouldn’t have cared if they’d all fallen by the wayside clutching their hearts.

  The officer with the red cloak and black helmet held the reins of the two horses tightly. He’d barely spoken to her during their journey along the road to Rome. Now, at last, they were nearing the city, which loomed ahead with the smoke from its cooking fires and temples turning the sky gray above it.

  “I will scream when we get to Rome’s gates, if you do not tell me where you are taking me and why.” Helena had been trying since they’d joined the road to Rome to get information out of the officer. Up until this moment she had failed.

  The officer turned to her.

  “Now that we are within sight of the city, I am free to tell you that I was ordered to take you wherever you want to go in Rome, and then I must escort you back to Ostia, leaving the city by nightfall.”

  She pointed at him. “That won’t allow me even enough time to visit the baths. Who gave you these orders?”

  “I am further ordered to give you a gift for your son, which you are to take to him in Gaul.”

  “And if I don’t agree to all this?”

  The officer cracked the reins, so the horses sped up. They passed a farmer’s cart carrying amphora to the city.

  “If you do not agree I am to take you to the Tullianum to be imprisoned. Charges of supporting the outlawed Christian sect have been prepared. You will also be charged with treason in Alexandria, supporting enemies of the empire.”

  Helena stared at the road ahead. The gravel on the surface most of the way up to this point had given way to regular shaped pink blocks. Whether the change was due to the fact that more blood was spilled the nearer you got to Rome, or that the road’s designers had simply decided to make the entrance to the city more inspiring, was hard to know.

  What she did know was that she did not have much choice. Almost everyone sent to the Tullianum, the prison on the slope of the Capitoline Hill, ended up executed. They didn’t have to wait long either. The courts made special arrangements to try anyone charged with treason.

  She turned to the officer. “What is it I am to take to my son?”

  He reached into a pouch on his belt and passed her a small brown vial. Its stopper was sealed with string and covered over in red wax.

  XXXVII

  Gesoriacum, 306 A.D.

  “The care of my provinces weighs heavier each year. I should have learnt more than war when I was your age.”

  A shadow of unease fell over Constantine. He shifted in his seat.

  “You are young. You can broaden your skills now. And help ease my burden.”

  The emperor licked his lips, slowly. His tongue was dark red. He paused.

  Relieved at last he had an opening, Constantine jumped in. There was much he had to say before any decision was made about his role.

  “I know you’ll find a place for me in the army that suits all these concerns, Father. You must know my experience is ideal for your upcoming campaign.” There were other things that needed to be discussed, though. He’d been going over them in his head during the meal.

  “I hope we can also discuss other matters, father.” He leaned forward. “The man I came with, Lucius, I met his father before I left Bithynia and I promised to arrange for his son to deliver a personal message to you.”

  His father looked angry. His lips were pressed together as if he was holding himself back. Memories of shouted reprimands came to him, thickening his tongue. He took a slow breath. Sweat prickled his brow.

  “I have told you all about Lucius. He saved my life on the Persian campaign,” he said.

  His father shook his head.

  “I wrote to you about it. If Lucius hadn't stood up for me, I'd have been demoted to the ranks and humiliated for who knows how long. You know what Galerius is like. He wanted to get to you through me.” Frustrated at the coolness of his father’s response, he looked down at his feet. His father’s sandals were ordinary, drab, like a lowly centurion’s.

  He continued, as he stared at his father’s sandals. “Lucius risked his life for me. He gave evidence for me and had his commander do it too. They both swore to my courage. I was fortunate they were in Galerius' tent that morning. They did not have to speak up.” His voice was trembling a little. It had all come back to him how close he'd been to disaster that day. He pressed his fists against his thighs to steady himself.

  “Lucius went as far as to laugh in front of Galerius, to say I deserved a laurel, not demotion. If the Commander of the Armenian auxiliaries, his Commander, hadn’t been there to back him up, I know what would have happened. You must give him a hearing. He has some offer from his father. An offer you might consider.”

  “All of this is news to me,” said his father slowly, almost indignantly. “We received no letters from you in all the time you were in the east. Your mother despaired. She has been writing to me ever since. My new empress took it upon herself to help her. She used her influence to get Galerius
to confirm you were still alive and would be freed. And it has worked. Her letters are the only ones he ever responded to.”

  Constantine knew at once what that meant. His stepmother, the empress, had written the letter urging Galerius to place him in the front line all those years ago in Persia. When he'd met his father in Rome, they'd had so little time, there had been so many ceremonies they’d had to attend together, he hadn’t any time alone with his father to ask about that letter. In any case, he had survived, and Galerius had softened a little toward him after their victory over the Persians.

  The excitement in Rome had distracted him as well, and he'd been wondering whether Diocletian's abdication meant he'd be released. That had been his focus while in Rome.

  “Did you see the empress’ letters to Galerius?” Constantine blurted out.

  His father looked at him sternly, his brow creased. “I don't ask to see my wife's correspondence. Are you suggesting I should?”

  “No.” Constantine shook his head, tried to look unconcerned. Theodora had been scheming. Was she still at it? She wanted him out of the way, that would be normal. Stepsons were often despised. Well, he'd be with his father on the upcoming campaign. This would be his chance to claim his rightful place beside his father, while his father was away from his stepmother’s influence. He had been right. He bowed his head. He had to be cautious. Change the subject.

  “There’s another matter, Father. The governor of Massilia.” His voice slowed as he picked each word carefully. “We disagreed. The man is corrupt and a murderer. His actions cast a shadow over his whole province.” He checked himself. His tone was becoming vehement.

  “Nonsense. That governor is one of my best,” his father snapped back.

  “He had a Tribune who was under my protection killed. The man was about to give evidence against him.”

  His father raised a hand.

  “Stop now, Constantine. The governor of Massilia has my full support. He’s the only one who ever took on corruption in the merchant classes and their blatant tax evasion in that province. If I had a man like him as a governor in each of my provinces, all my problems with coin would be solved in a year.”