Shouts echoed behind him from the yard, followed by the sound of a horse neighing. A creak echoed from the back of the stable.
“Is that you, Crocus?”
He was being observed. He knew it and he didn't like it.
There was no reply.
“Crocus? It’s Lucius.” Louder.
He paced slowly toward the gloom at the back of the storeroom. He passed a stack of wheels, turned. There was a blur of movement.
A hand clamped firmly over his mouth. The point of a blade was being pushed into his side.
“Say another word, prick, or struggle one little bloody bit and you'll not have time to even ask for your stupid god’s forgiveness.” The hand pressed tight across his mouth. Lucius could hear his assailant breathing. Noises from the yard reverberated through the storeroom. He consoled himself with the thought that if his assailant wanted him dead, he'd have been on the floor in a pool of blood by now. The rushing in his ears calmed.
He was pushed roughly forward.
Lucius wiped his sleeve against his mouth, then pulled his dagger from its unadorned scabbard and turned.
“Put that girly blade away,” sneered Crocus, as he sheathed his own weapon. “I was only teaching you a lesson.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Lucius did as he was asked.
“Did I injure your pride, my friend?” Crocus grinned. “Well, I hope you’re not too touchy, before we even begin this.” He took a step toward Lucius. “But first, you'll swear an oath, to that stupid fish god you yellow skinned Armenians cling to and swear that you'll never speak of this meeting to anyone, any god or any man or any man god. A sacred oath on your blood and life, if you value it that is, or on anything you do value, like the cunt who shat you out. Do you so swear?” Crocus pushed his face forward to within a hand’s breadth of Lucius'. The blood vessels were bulging on his forehead. Thick sinews, cables, had appeared on his neck.
“I so swear,” snapped Lucius.
Crocus looked around. He went to the open doorway, peered outside, then closed the door over. The light dimmed. He padded back and stood in front of Lucius.
“I have news for you, brave bloody Lucius.” He leaned in toward Lucius, his expression smug.
“Yes,” said Lucius.
“Theodora, our wonderful and valiant empress, will be here soon with her grand plans for her family, thanks to your friend, the priestess of darkness, Sybellina.” Crocus touched his forehead with his middle finger, looked up, raised his finger high in the air, then turned and spat in the dust, over his shoulder, as if warding off evil.
“That priestess cunt has been pressing for too many favors from our emperor,” he said. “I expect the empress heard all about her and her ways. She’ll have her banished as soon as she gets here. We’ll fix your donation to my coffers when the empress is gone. It will be difficult to get him to listen to your cause until then. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
Lucius looked at him, weighing up how far he could go with his response. Two days before he'd received a letter from his father. There’d been another edict proclaimed in Syria, Palestina and Cilicia. It was the first new edict against the followers of Christ in a year. Disaster was now being piled upon disaster for them. He had no choice. This door was unlatched. He had to push on through.
“The Fates always reward those who help their friends in some way, is that not so?” On such moments, so many hopes hung. His mission had been an abject failure so far. Only someone like Crocus could help him now. Someone on the inside.
“Well, it's not your body I'm here for,” replied Crocus.
Lucius looked down. Crocus was clearly amenable, but how far would he be prepared to go? That was what he had to find out.
LV
Lindum, Northern Britannia, 306 A.D.
Constantine arrived late, as he’d planned. A blustery wind, the type that carried the smell of rain and death from far off, swirled at his back as the giant double doors of the hall were opened for him. The clusters of candles in their ornate bronze candleholders near the doorway streamed sideways, flickering like the pennants of a Pictish army, until the doors were closed behind him.
He'd put on his new black leather tunic. His gold campaign medallions had been pinned to it.
He advanced into the room. Everyone stared at him. He’d become used to such gatherings, had even come to enjoy the attention and the whispers of the people pointing him out to their companions. Two women winked at him, despite the presence of their escorts nearby. He turned away and saw Lucius at the far end of the hall.
“Where in bloody Hades have you been? I thought you'd deserted us,” was how he greeted Lucius, after he'd made his way through the crowd.
“I don't desert people, you should know that. A good Roman never gives up, isn’t that what they say?” Lucius had barely finished speaking when Sybellina appeared at his side in a long white skirt, slit open at the sides all the way up her thigh. Her sleek midriff was bare. A wide band made from a mesh of gold wires covered her breasts. Snake bracelets circled her olive hued arms. Her hair had been piled into curls high on top of her head, as was proper for such gatherings. A dusting of blue-gray hematite drew attention to her eyes. She was attracting some very appreciative glances.
“If you do desert us, may I go with you?” said Sybellina. She sounded almost apologetic.
“I’m sure you’re too good a Roman for that,” said Constantine.
She leaned toward him, whispered in his ear. “What’s turned you against me, my lord? Once you would have jumped at any chance to be with me. You’ve found someone else, I think. Tell me who it is, so I can pluck her eyes out.” She arched her eyebrows and hugged his arm in a friendly manner, as if she'd had too much wine already.
The gold mesh binding her breasts was a loose weave. Her nipples poked through it. They’d been smeared with gold dust. The mesh scratched against the leather of his breastplate. The smell of her perfume, the whiff of flowers at night with a faint trace of burnt animal fat, made him turn his head away.
You’re too late, he thought. I’m not under your spell any more. Compared with someone innocent your snares are overdone.
She was not as attractive as he'd once imagined her to be. And especially not smelling like this. He wasn't sure why, but perhaps he’d seen too many party girls dressed like her. Perhaps the thought of his father with her had turned him off too. He thought about Juliana, her innocence, how different she was to Sybellina.
“Have you greeted the empress yet?” purred Sybellina.
“The empress is here?” He looked around, startled. If his stepmother had arrived she had to be scheming about something. A sudden chill ran up his back, as if a window had been opened behind him.
“Yes, she has arrived. I hear she's with the emperor,” said Sybellina in a low voice. She looked pleased. That puzzled him. Surely his stepmother’s arrival would affect her too?
He felt a sense that something had caught up with him, then anger. He knew she’d be scheming with his father. Her every move was meant to diminish him.
“I must greet her. Thank you for the news.”
He headed out of the hall and walked quickly to his father's rooms. Guards stood to attention, their spears crossed, barring his way.
“I’m the emperor's son, let me pass.” He pushed at the spears.
“Sorry, my lord. No one is allowed enter the emperor’s quarter unless invited.” The centurion pointed to a marble bench.
“Rest, my lord. I’ll inform the emperor you are here.”
He clamped his lips together, controlled his rising frustration, and sat. The centurion slipped through the door. He saw a glimpse of marble floor. He took a deep breath and began examining his leather boots, repositioning the thin straps that bound them to his calves.
Muffled laughter echoed through the door. He wondered for a moment were they laughing about him. No. He had to remain calm. Accept it all. Be careful. He remembered what that had meant before, the la
st time he'd met the empress. In Rome that was. He'd been treated like the despised runt of the family then, someone whose very existence was a deep embarrassment. Since then he’d hated her. He shivered with the memory.
Every moment was like an age as he waited, but then finally, with a creak, the doors swung open and he was called inside. At the far end of the large, richly decorated room, was the empress. His mouth went dry. He got the strange sensation that time had speeded up, that things were moving faster than he’d expected. She was lounging on a purple, silk brocade covered couch in front of a dark massive wall hanging of a huntress, draped in a boar skin. The dark marble floor that stretched between them was strewn with bearskins. Bronze oil lamps glowed all around.
His father, the emperor, was standing in the center of the room. A slave moved around him, adjusting his purple and gold toga.
“Constantine, I'm very glad you came,” said the empress. She nodded toward the emperor.
He bowed low to his father, walked past him, went down quickly on one knee, and kissed the glassy surface of the back of her hand. A perceptible shudder ran through her.
“Your father tells me you brought not one single gift from the eastern provinces. How typical.” She withdrew her hand quickly, as if his kiss was poison. She looked at him disdainfully as he straightened.
“You are getting fat, Constantine. Going to too many feasts, I expect.” She motioned him to step back, so she could examine him. He did as he was asked.
“I’d prefer to be in the field, empress. I am sure . . .”
She interrupted him, loudly. “I did not come all the way from Treveris at the far end of Gaul to talk to you about your duties.” She shot the emperor a knowing look. “I must tell you some bad news.” She paused, sighed grandly.
“Your mother waits for you. You must visit her at once in Treveris. She is ill, very ill.” She raised her eyebrows, as if daring him to contradict her.
“What's wrong with her?” he said. He wondered if she was lying.
His real mother, Helena, had kept his hopes alive with tales of his glorious future all through his childhood, as they'd moved together from province to province following his father. She'd taught him about the legendary emperors of Rome, Augustus, Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius and she’d promised him that one day people would tell stories about him too.
“She suffers a lot, but I know little of her actual condition. All I can tell you is that she is waiting for you in Treveris. It is your duty to go to her.” The empress looked at her husband, as if for support.
It was very convenient timing, but there was nothing he could do. They would get what they wanted.
“Come now, Constantine, you are fortunate Helena hasn't been taken to the other side yet,” said his father. “Believe me on this matter, I'll send for you if I need you.” He slapped away the slave boy who was still fidgeting with his toga.
“If you stay in Treveris, Constantine, I'll also consider what position I can give you in our legions facing Germania. That’s what you want, isn't it, a senior role over our legions? Come on then, it’s agreed. Let's all go to this feast together. I don't want any disagreements, especially not in front of these provincials.”
Constantine knew it would not be wise to press his father. Arguing with him in front of the empress would be a bad mistake.
At dawn the following morning, Constantine paced the courtyard of the villa he and Lucius had been assigned to. He was waiting for Juliana. He'd gone to her room but had found she’d left it earlier to start her daily tasks. He’d ordered a house slave to find her and send her to him.
When she appeared, he waved her forward. He felt strangely nervous as she approached but knew what he'd decided was right. She came toward him and bowed.
“I need your help, Juliana.”
She looked taken aback.
“I must start out for Treveris this morning and I need someone to put my things in order.”
“Of course, master.”
“I have something else I want to tell you.” Without waiting for her reply, he led the way to his room, beckoning her to follow. Inside, he closed the door, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up the amber necklace he’d placed earlier on the marble table beside his low bed. He held it toward her. She approached slowly, looking at it strangely. There was something different about her these days, something compelling. This all felt so right. And he was totally aware of her femininity. He could even smell her. A soft rose smell.
“It's simply a token of our friendship, Juliana. You brightened my journey here. And now we are entwined. Please, honor me by accepting it.” The skin on her bare arm shone like silk. He was spellbound by her presence. Desire surged up inside him.
Her hand flew to her face. She looked aghast, reached toward the necklace, then withdrew her hand before she'd even touched it. Her cheeks were red.
“I cannot accept such a gift. I am a slave,” she stuttered. Then she lowered her eyes. He stood. Her black mane of hair, shining in the light from the doorway, said “touch me”. He bent toward her, breathing in the smell of roses, which seemed to come from her. He took her hand gently, raised it up, and kissed it. She didn't resist. He wondered if the same longing he had ran through her too. He felt a little light-headed. He wanted her badly now. Needed her.
She reacted with a sigh, stepped back, and pulled her hand away, shaking her head like a dog throwing off water.
“Please, master, do not deceive me.”
He stepped toward her, stroked her hair as if it were braids of silk. She wavered, looking around as if she might run. He opened the clasp of the necklace and placed it round her thin neck.
Her eyes brimmed. She stared open-mouthed at him.
“Juliana,” he said. “I am not your master. You are under no obligation to me.” The air between them was warm and thick. “This is not a deceit. I . . .” He took a deeper breath.
Could he say it? He licked his lips.
“I cannot stop thinking about you.” It felt as if he was taking an oath. And for once, he didn't care if he was displaying his eagerness to a woman.
She looked up at him, found her voice. “But, master, any friendship between us is. . .” She looked hopeful, even if her words said something less. “. . . impossible.”
“You will call me Constantine, please.” They were standing very close. He reached up, held her shoulders lightly. “I long for you, Juliana. You fill my dreams. Nothing is impossible when you love. That is what the poets say, isn’t it?”
She shook her head slowly, disbelievingly.
“Please listen to me,” he continued. “I will petition Lucius to grant you your freedom. I will pay him whatever compensation he asks for. I want nothing in exchange. I promise you, you will not be deceived by me, Juliana. You are the only woman I think about. Every time I see you now, I want you more. It is eating at my heart.”
She had to understand that he had no intention of harming her.
She sighed, a sigh of submission.
“I want you too,” she whispered. Her voice echoed like a bell in his heart. She turned her face up, opening it to him.
He moved closer, close enough to feel the warmth from her body and hear her breathing. Their lips hesitated, inches apart, then came together. Gently at first, then with a burning fervor, their passion awoke.
His deep ache, his physical longing for her, hardened, pressed up against her. She responded, rubbing gently against him, moaning. Then, abruptly, she pushed him away, struggling against his arms.
“Stop, please,” she gasped.
It was a physical jolt to the sweetness that had engulfed him. Her kisses glowed hot in his memory.
She tilted her head as if she was listening for noises from outside. All he heard was a songbird filling the air with sweetness.
“I love you, Juliana, and I need you, I need you very much.” He was almost begging. That wasn’t like him.
She looked at him, clearly assessing him for what seem
ed like an age. She looked scared. Every possibility flashed through his mind. No, he would not force her. If she didn’t want him, he had to accept it.
He bowed his head, broke their stare.
She reached out her hand.
They kissed again. This time she didn't resist.
She wants me. He kissed her. Stroked her neck. Her skin felt like water. The tension flowed out of him. She was everything he wanted.
He reached under her soft woolen tunic. She pressed against him. He ran his hand up her legs. She groaned. He pulled her tunic up over her head, threw it aside. Her breasts burst free. Their tongues met. He ran his hands all over her body, then pushed her legs apart, pushing her back onto the wall.
He moved inside her. She gasped his name, responding to his urgency with thrusts of her own.
More, more, faster, faster.
LVI
Treveris, Northern Gaul, 306 A.D.
Helena turned in her bed. She pulled the blankets up tight under her chin. These northern provinces at the edge of the empire were as cold in summer as Alexandria ever got in the middle of a normal winter.
She felt under her pillow. Yes, it was still there. Soon it would be time to pass the vial on. The question was, should she give it to Constantine, and risk it being found on him and all that might mean, or should she give it to someone else?
There was a second problem. Could any of them trust what was in the vial? Perhaps it was meant to make whoever took it sick, but not die, which would expose the person who’d delivered the poison.
No, whatever happened to the person who drank the vial was up to the one god. Whether they would die was not the point. What the vial would do would be to draw out the desire to kill, by providing the means to do it.
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