The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  “He murdered a good man for speaking out.” Constantine's voice was raised. His anger showed clearly in his tone. He had to suppress it. He couldn’t risk a confrontation with his father.

  The emperor stood, slowly, as if his bones ached. He pointed at Constantine. “I need loyalty and obedience in a son. I have no time for barrack room sentimentality. My decision is final. A governor has the power of life and death over everyone in his province. You know this, but you question his decisions.” His finger jabbed toward Constantine.

  “He decides who lives and who dies.” The emperor stepped back. His hand became a fist. Then it opened, and a smile came to his lips, as if he’d just thought of something.

  “The festival of the Goddess Ceres begins in these parts. You may wish to drive our team in the main chariot race, if you want to display your prowess, that is.” His expression was magnanimous now, as if he'd presented Constantine with a costly toy, hoping it might placate him.

  Constantine closed his eyes and thought about it.

  “How long do I have to learn the team's habits, a week, two?”

  “Two days. It’s enough.”

  Constantine sighed. “And if I win, will you have the governor replaced then?” He licked his lips.

  His father exploded. “You’re starting the wrong way with me, Constantine. I didn't plan to tell you this now, but I perhaps I should.” He stood over Constantine, daring him to rise up against him. His finger poked Constantine’s shoulder. “After the festival is over you will go to Treveris. There you will be appointed a Prefect of the city and you’ll learn the art of administration. Then perhaps you’ll understand why we appreciate our governor at Massilia.” His tone had turned dismissive.

  “What!” Constantine spat out the word.

  His father stepped back and was examining him coolly, his hand by his dagger. Constantine tried to calm himself. He could die here if he pushed things too far. He’d heard stories of fathers who’d killed their sons during minor disagreements.

  “I know nothing of civil administration, Father. Those jobs are for lovers of smooth-skinned young boys. Do you really want me to waste myself minding dusty scrolls?” A pained silence fell between them.

  Constantine turned away in disgust. He couldn’t believe it. He'd been so confident he'd be placed at the head of a cohort at the very least, if not a legion, or even the whole army. In the distance, the sound of crashing plates came to him, then a reprimanding shout. The air had grown warmer, but it was lifeless. He thought of things he might say, arguments he might make, but nothing came out of his mouth.

  “I didn't know you valued the dangers of war so highly.” His father sat down on the bench opposite him. “But if I ask you to do this for me, will you please me?”

  There were few better ways to test the depth of a man’s loyalty than to ask him to do something he hated. Perhaps that's what this was, a test.

  Constantine stared straight ahead, his lips pressed together, filled to the neck with disappointment. “If you order me, I will do it, but I came to Gaul to help you in your campaign this summer. I have led legions. You must know that. And I’ve won laurels in three campaigns. I could be very useful in your campaign. Do not waste me on administration.”

  The emperor held up his hands as if he’d relented. “Stop.” He took a long breath, hissed it out, then pursed his lips. “You may come with me to Britannia. You may be one of my military advisors and help me ready the men. But you will not fight. I will not risk it. Once the campaign begins, you go to Treveris.” He spoke the final words slowly. He was used to offering such compromises.

  “I make war only so that the empire can be at peace. Peace and prosperity, they make the Pax Romana. That peace brings safety to millions. There is nothing so sweet as to live in a well-protected city, a well-administered city, a city where you can listen to tales of people striving to win peace or honor, using their wits to win what you already have won. Now, I have spoken too much already, and I am in no mood for arguments.”

  Constantine had to accept the offer. He had no choice. At least he could go to Britannia. He would not be dismissed at once. There’d be time to change his father’s mind.

  He bowed his head. “I am grateful. I do want to serve you, Father.”

  The emperor called out for a servant.

  “Show my son to his rooms,” he said, when the man arrived.

  Constantine bowed toward his father, then followed the harried looking servant. The man kept his gaze down whenever he spoke, indicating which way they would go. Constantine barely noticed, and hardly saw the corridor or the people they passed. He was wondering how he could change his father’s mind.

  They’d been allocated the best guest bedrooms, but they were still small. Gesoriacum was no imperial capital. Constantine and Lucius’ bedrooms were beside each other. Sybellina’s was on the far side of the small courtyard their rooms opened onto. For some reason, he’d thought she’d be sleeping elsewhere. He found Lucius in his room and told him the news.

  Constantine tried to give the impression he was happy with the role he'd been offered, and Lucius thankfully made no derogatory comment about it, but he sensed shock and was sorely tempted to criticize his father. But Constantine had learnt over the years to keep his thoughts to himself, especially any critical thoughts about his father.

  They stayed up talking for a while, but Constantine soon felt tired. Someone had lit the oil light in his room. His bags had been unpacked too. He hadn't seen Sybellina nearly all evening and it came to him, in a final depressing afterthought, that his hopes of winning her were slimmer now. She'd learn soon enough what had happened between him and his father, and she’d understand what an administrative position in Treveris really meant.

  His elation while waiting to see his father earlier that day, Sybellina’s vindictiveness to Juliana, and the way she'd teased him, all seemed so long ago now. Sybellina had been almost ready to come to him, he was sure of that. If only his father could be persuaded to change his mind. Otherwise he’d have to forget about Sybellina, and a lot of other things.

  It had all turned out differently to what he’d expected. He looked across the floor. Even the mosaics here were only crude imitations of what he’d left in Nicomedia. He made a fist, pressed it to his lips. His defense of Juliana wouldn't have helped him with Sybellina either. He sat on his bed, undid his sandals. Why did he feel so protective toward a slave girl? Her beaming face came to mind. She was more attractive now, that was true. She was blooming like a dirty rose does when plucked from the dust and placed in sweet water.

  So why not have Juliana tonight, if I want her? Why wait for Sybellina?

  No. I will not force her. Especially not here. His father, and especially his mother, had forbidden such pleasures with the slaves when he was young, and despite being teased for this in the east he’d never taken part in the orgies of slave rapes that had accompanied some of their victories.

  He remembered an old dream. One he’d cherished for as many years as he could remember. In it, he took his place at his father's side, learning to command multiple legions, take war councils.

  They ruled together.

  A cold and bitter feeling seeped into him. Why was his father set on this path? Why did he want to give him so little?

  XXXVIII

  Gesoriacum, Northern Gaul, 306 A.D.

  At dawn, as the first stirrings of the town could be heard echoing distantly, a lone figure in a purple toga sat on a stone bench in a private courtyard. Two opposing walls of the courtyard provided views through low arched openings braced by green Spartan-marble pillars, no wider than the thickness of a wrist. The man was staring off through one set of openings at the sun rising through the thin blue mist that cloaked the smudge of the distant forest.

  The emperor had woken early. He had a headache. That boy was so ungrateful. Did he not know that everything he enjoyed, his father had risked his life to win? Why did he argue so? It was humiliating, and frustrating.
He would have to be taught gratitude and respect again. The qualities of an honorable son. The qualities Theodora was always prattling on about. If I'm not careful, that boy will bring shame on us all. Perhaps that’s why Galerius loosed him on me.

  He called for a slave.

  Not long after, a woman draped in a thick cloak was ushered into the courtyard. The slave who accompanied her bowed low as he waved her forward.

  “Welcome, Sybellina. Come in.” He raised a hand in welcome.

  Sybellina walked forward confidently and prostrated herself fully on the tiled floor in front of his bench. Then she rose and bowed.

  “To be in your presence is an honor, my lord.”

  Her lilting voice was a net to draw men in, he knew. She'd certainly been well trained.

  “Come. No need for formalities at this hour. Sit beside me. You’re a beautiful young creature. But you know that. Tell me, are you really as quick as a salmon, and as wily as a vixen, as my agents in Rome tell me all you priestesses are?”

  Sybellina sat beside him, undid her cloak. It dropped from her shoulders. Her gown was held in front by thin taut leather straps.

  “Who would say such untruths?”

  “Indeed,” he said. “So, tell me your message, Sybellina.”

  “Maxentius sends greetings, emperor,” she said in a rush, as she bowed her head. “He wishes you the success of Hercules in your campaign and desires to bind his house tighter to yours.” She paused, bit her lip.

  “Say it girl.” He waved his hand, as if coaxing something up from inside her.

  “Maxentius has a sister, Fausta, my lord. You met her, he tells me. She is young, but ready for the marriage bed, and eager to marry into your great family.”

  The emperor let out an amused tut.

  “Aaah, but I am already married, girl, and into his illustrious family. I won't put aside his half-sister for his sister, no matter how young she is.” He rocked back and forth, shook his head, raised his eyebrows and looked at her.

  “My lord, it’s not you Maxentius is thinking about. It is your son, Constantine.” She lowered her eyes.

  “I see,” he said, slowly. “And you've told him about this?” Was this Galerius’ plan? Elevate Constantine and sow division within his family?

  “No, my lord. The message was for you alone. Fausta is a most suitable wife. Her offspring carry the seed of the great Emperor Marcus Aurelius. And she will bring a large dowry.”

  The emperor ran his hand along the smooth, lovingly-crafted wood on the arm of his chair. He sniffed. A whiff of bread from the bakeries in the town came to him, carried on the early morning breeze from the sea.

  “I’ll consider our reply. I assume you’re to take a reply to Maxentius.”

  “Yes, my lord, as soon as you give it.”

  “Well, you'll have to wait, girl, and join our retinue. Now, tell me about your training. Do they still treat some priestesses like prisoners in Rome?”

  “We would never consider ourselves prisoners, my lord. I trained in the arts of divination and healing, though recently many in Rome no longer wish to learn about their future, so our coffers are low.” Her head bowed. “I shouldn't be burdening you this way. Should I leave you?”

  “No, not yet, Sybellina.” She was very good, he had to give her that. “My treasurer will make a donation, of course. But tell me about you and Constantine, have you, you know, become close?”

  “My lord.” She shook her head vigorously. “We have strict vows.”

  “Yes, I know.” He placed a hand on the wood in the middle of the foot-wide gap between them and splayed out his fingers. “There is another matter, Sybellina. It’s the reason I brought you here.” She looked at him directly. He sensed eagerness. That was always gratifying.

  “It is a personal matter.” He paused, studied her face. “My soothsayer suffers a sickness, brought on no doubt by fear of my wrath, due entirely to his many ridiculous divinations. I would like you to read the augers for me this morning, Sybellina. Will you?”

  “I am your servant in all things, my lord.”

  Was that disappointment in her tone? It could be.

  “Very good.” He reached across, stroked toward her bare arm, not touching the skin, but feeling the ends of the downy hairs on her forearm and the heat from the skin below. She kept her arm still. Was her training in divination, or something else?

  “The Temple is through here.” The emperor stood abruptly and led her toward a small wooden doorway carved with spirals.

  They passed down a corridor, met only slaves, and then they were outside, in front of a temple to Hercules, set in the center of an enclosed, deserted, colonnaded courtyard, the pillars of which were thin and covered in plain red plaster. The temple, he told her, had been built soon after Julius Caesar's men had first captured the town, more than three hundred years before. It looked that old and was big enough to house a large elephant, or maybe two.

  In front of the red columned temple stood a wide platform, approached by three broad granite steps. He gestured to Sybellina. She bowed, walked ahead up the steps, and then paced out an equal-armed cross, the division of the world, at the middle of the empty platform at the top, inside the colonnade of pillars. In a low voice, she intoned supplications to the gods as she worked.

  On finishing her chanting, she stood at the center of the platform, her face up, awaiting the augers. The emperor stayed at the bottom of the steps observing, then followed her gaze into the pale blue morning sky. Puffy white clouds edged with red drifted toward the recent sunrise. They waited, standing patiently, until a cawing flock of gulls appeared from the west, swooping down over the town.

  She flung her arms up.

  “The augers agree, Nuntatio, my emperor. Your campaign will be favored. It pleases the gods.” She came down toward him, frowning and hurrying as she came close.

  “You are suffering! What is it?” She touched his arm.

  He was about to reprimand her but didn’t. He'd tried to hide the pain but holding the side of his stomach brought much relief. He'd had similar attacks before in the early morning. She was very observant.

  “It is nothing, nothing at all. I've had stomach cramps for a few days, that’s all. It will go away.”

  “And does it get worse after you feast, or after you exert yourself, my lord?”

  “Umm, sometimes,” he replied.

  “My lord, I know a remedy that may help you. We treat many members of the imperial families in Rome. Will you try one of our potions? I’ll bring it to you later. I assure you, you’ll not be poisoned.” She said that part with conviction, her eyes fixed on his. “We are sworn to protect the imperial families. You know that.”

  “Thank you, Sybellina. My physicians are bumbling fools.” She knows I can have her potion tested and her life would be forfeit should the mixture kill.

  He led her back into the low roofed palace, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

  They passed through the dining hall. Constantine and Lucius were there. Constantine was clearly taken aback to see Sybellina with his father, so early in the morning. He half stood, then sat, then he stood again.

  “Sybellina, Father.”

  “Constantine, good morning,” said the emperor brightly. “Your friend Sybellina has read the augers for the campaign for us all. The signs are good, she assures me, which is better than what my normal soothsayer tells me. He keeps seeing evil portents.” He shook his head, then sat at the table opposite Constantine and patted the place beside him for Sybellina to sit.

  She gave a brief triumphant smile, and sat beside the emperor, linking his arm. Constantine looked as if someone has taken away his favorite toy. The emperor suppressed a grin.

  “You can practice all day with the chariot team if you wish, Constantine,” he said. “I've already sent word you'll be there after breakfast. Practice is the key to many things.”

  “I shall take my leave,” said Sybellina. “But I’ll be back.” Her eyes flicked down to whe
re the emperor’s hand still pressed against his side. He moved it. His pain was too obvious.

  He kissed her hand, called for one of the slaves and whispered to him. The slave followed Sybellina from the hall.

  “You will keep Sybellina with us?” Constantine sounded surprised.

  “She’s to wait until I have her answer,” said the emperor. He turned to Lucius. “I understand you're a cavalry officer. Constantine tells me you train new recruits.”

  “I was assigned to help start Galerius’ new Jovian cavalry division,” said Lucius.

  “Excellent, I have need for good cavalry officers.”

  “I am expected back in the east,” said Lucius, in a worried rush.

  The emperor raised his hand. “You also carry a message for me, don’t you?” They could hear the stamp of legionaries drilling beyond the high brick walls. Shouts roared out. He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “I do, my lord.” Lucius’s eyes darted one way, then another. He reached for his goblet. His hand was trembling. Good. A slave replenished the goblet with honeyed milk.

  “It is a delicate matter,” said Lucius.

  The emperor looked around at the slaves. There were too many around them. All with their ears open. He waved his hand. They disappeared.

  “So, come on. I never punish messengers.”

  “It’s about the persecutions, my lord,” said Lucius. “My father wishes to make a proposal.”

  The emperor leaned forward.

  “I must go to the arena,” said Constantine, abruptly. He stood, and with the briefest of bows left his breakfast mostly uneaten behind him.

  XXXIX

  Gesoriacum, Northern Gaul, 306 A.D.

  Constantine spent the whole day getting to know the horses he was expected to drive at the chariot races. He'd been a regular winner some years before, in the races his legion had held from time to time on the orders of Diocletian, and he knew well the importance of understanding your horses and getting to know them. Chariot races were one way for middle ranking officers to impress the men under their command, before leading them into battle. It took courage to race chariots.