The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  He remembered what his father had done, how he'd humiliated him, treated him like a stray he'd let in from the street, the type you could break and have their tongue cut out if they became too troublesome. He saw the hollowness inside him, his disappointment, fear, and rage, all mixing together.

  He rubbed his forehead, pressing in, as if by doing so he could rub away all feelings. He wanted to tell Juliana that he would do as she asked, but he couldn't speak the words. He looked at her and shook his head, slowly.

  She sighed gently, came up close to him and kissed him on the lips, as if saying goodbye.

  “Be careful of Sybellina,” she said.

  He pulled her toward him and kissed her again, more lustily this time, their tongues touching, stroking.

  “I will,” he said, when they finally came apart. His voice sounded oddly hoarse as he told her what he would do next.

  He was sure that everyone could see his nervousness as he made his way back through the palace. His eyes met those of every man he passed. They all seemed to look at him suspiciously. Even talking about what they'd been talking about would be considered treachery, never mind doing anything about it.

  He knew he could be arrested at any moment. If Sybellina had told his father of Lucius' plans, he would be implicated. And what would they do to Juliana? He shuddered. He should go to his father, tell him everything. Beg him for help.

  A group of guards appeared to be whispering about him as he approached the doorway to his father's rooms.

  LXVIII

  Eboracum, Northern Britannia, 306 A.D.

  Anxious shouts filled the corridor with a clamoring wave of noise as the emperor was carried toward his rooms, four, then five of his personal guards helping with the task. Other guards clearly wanted to be involved, as if every hand that helped him might possibly be due some reward when their emperor recovered. The emperor himself was tossing from side to side in their arms, groaning loudly, making their task exceedingly difficult.

  “Clear the way. The emperor is ill. Clear the way,” someone shouted, again and again, in a shrill tone, which added to the wave of urgency that engulfed the corridor.

  A door banged open. Two old female slaves in dirty kitchen wear, clearly not the type to be seen in the dining room itself, stood gawping at the sight of the emperor's body jerking spasmodically as it passed.

  Behind the emperor’s guards came Constantine, his father's physician keeping pace by his side. Constantine shouted at the man as they turned the corner toward the emperor's private rooms.

  “What sickens him? What should we do?”

  The physician looked worried, his lips pressed together, his brow furrowed. He didn't answer.

  The double height door of the emperor’s bedroom burst open with a bang that echoed down the corridor. The emperor's body sped headlong into the large, sparsely furnished room. A feeling of austerity rather than grandeur greeted them. The elderly physician fluttered around, as two tall shaven-headed eunuchs removed the emperor's embroidered ceremonial toga, and the guards who'd carried him there were waved away.

  Underneath the toga, the emperor had on a yellow cotton tunic that came down only as far as his knees. A double width bed with an unpainted wooden headboard, carved into the shape of a double-headed eagle, stood in one corner of the room. Slaves pulled away the purple silk bed cover and laid the emperor onto the pale gray linen. His struggles had lessened into occasional jerks, and his head was lolling now, as if he were in a deep sleep.

  Constantine turned to the crowd of officials that had filled the room behind him. Some were shouting suggestions as to a course of treatment, others were crying out for the gods to intercede, many were simply craning forward, as if at a freak show. Almost none of these people would have been allowed to come anywhere near this room, if the emperor had been well.

  “Out, out, all of you out, all of you,” he shouted. The slaves attending the emperor froze. Every face stared at Constantine.

  “I'm the emperor's son. This is a matter only for our family. Clear the room. Clear. The. Room.” His voice commanded attention. You had to be able to give orders if you wanted to lead a cohort or a century into battle. The head of the imperial guard, his purple helmet plume at right angles to his men's, presumably assuming he was excluded from Constantine's command, began herding people out.

  Constantine thanked the man, waited until he'd almost finished his task, then told him he too should wait outside, but as a concession to his position, that he should guard the door against intruders.

  Visibly bristling, his face stern and his step firm, the man left.

  The physician, meanwhile, was listening to the emperor's breathing, tutting and hissing as he continued his examination.

  Lucius and Sybellina had arrived moments after Juliana in the final rush of excited onlookers. Juliana had been lucky to get past the guards, and only her vigorous insistence that she'd been specifically called for by Constantine had allowed her, her blood thumping in her ears, to follow them in from the dining room. Constantine had pulled them all to his side when he saw them.

  The governor and military prefect of the city stood, their hands together as if they were a matched pair of statues, at the end of the emperor's bed.

  The military prefect, a tall bald man with wispy ridges of graying hair above each ear, spoke. His clipped disdainful manner marked him out as a true patrician.

  “This is a matter for the army physicians, Constantine. I've sent for them. I'm sure you know the army takes precedence here, even over the emperor’s family.” His lips broke into a thin, fake smile.

  Constantine looked at the man and took a deep breath. His father’s physician turned, as if he was about to say something. Constantine put his hand up for the physician to be silent.

  “You are wrong, Marcus, this is a family matter,” said Constantine. “A troop of Alemanni cavalry has been sent for. Your men will not be needed. Now, let my father's physician get on with his duty. Crocus.” He turned, looking for Crocus. “Are your men expected soon?”

  Crocus was standing near the doorway, his hands on his hips, his face grim, one hand close to the handle of his sword.

  “The imperial family has the full loyalty of the Alemanni cavalry, my lord Constantine. You may all rely and depend upon us for your lives. My troops will arrive before the start of the next watch.”

  “You see. We have no need for more men.” Constantine turned to the military prefect. And then his father moaned, and all eyes went back to the emperor. Constantine's tone softened when he continued, but it was still firm. “Go now, both of you.”

  He waited. The military prefect of a province or a colony had a variety of duties, one of the most important of which was to protect the emperor's person. Constantine however had rights as the emperor's oldest son. The man hesitated, one hand pulling at an earlobe, in obvious indecision.

  Crocus leaned forward as if he was about to do something. The temperature in the room rose. Constantine put his hand up as if to silence everyone.

  “We cannot treat the emperor with so many by his bed. Do as I ask, leave. Come back in the morning when my father's recovered. We'll tell him of your concerns as soon as he awakes.” Constantine's tone was firm, persuasive. The atmosphere changed again.

  The military prefect bowed slightly to Constantine, then turned and walked stiffly toward the door. The governor went with him, whispering to him and looking back fearfully over his shoulder as soon as they reached the doorway. Constantine followed them and closed the door behind them.

  Now there was the emperor, Constantine, Crocus, Sybellina, Lucius, Juliana, and the physician in the room. The emperor groaned again. The physician looked expectantly at Constantine, as if he had been waiting for permission to speak.

  “What’s wrong with him?” said Constantine.

  As if in reply, the emperor's eyes opened for the first time and then closed slowly, as if he was attempting to wake himself, but couldn't. A low moan escaped his lips. />
  “It appears he's been poisoned,” said the physician softly. He emphasized the word poisoned. His eyes darted from face to face.

  “Will he live?” asked Constantine flatly.

  “If he wasn't killed by the first rush of poison there is a chance he'll flush it out by morning. I'll administer a purge. With luck he'll vomit much of it away.”

  The emperor’s eyes opened halfway and then closed again.

  “Droopy eyes and a rigid body are a sure sign,” said the physician. “I'll have to get another physician to confirm it, but it looks to me like hemlock mixed with soma. A strong dose too. Plenty of water and a purge and he'll most likely survive. Without such help, he could well die.” He looked wide-eyed, as if suddenly aware of what he'd just said. He rummaged through a small bag attached to his belt. His eyes darted occasionally toward the doorway.

  Juliana's back was wet with sweat. Her worst fears had arrived, like in her most frightening dreams. This was something that could not be undone. Poisoning could not be taken back like words could. If he recovered, all their lives would end in some terrifying way if there was a hint that any of them could have been behind the poisoning. Multiple deaths invariably happened if emperors suspected anyone had tried to kill them.

  Rain splattered against three high iron-grilled windows above. She looked up. The thick circles of glass made the windows look as if they had been stuffed with goblet bottoms. A summer storm was about to hit Eboracum. The first deluge had begun.

  Soft golden light shone from two outsized glass oil lamps halfway up each side wall. The light made the room feel like a refuge.

  A window rattled. The bronze brazier standing in one corner dimmed for a moment, as did the lamps. An eerie feeling came over her, as if people were listening, lots of people. A roaring wind pounded the window again, as if some frenzied animal was trying to break in.

  Sybellina was staring wide-eyed at Constantine, fear coursing through her, as if she too had been poisoned.

  Crocus walked to a large polished oak chest with brass corners. He unsheathed an ornamental sword lying on top of it. The sword had an elaborately carved ivory handle. As he pulled it free a slip of papyrus fell to the floor. He picked it up, looked at it, then at each of them.

  His twisted grin made the hairs on Juliana’s back stand up. She thought about all the men he must have killed and guessed that they’d have seen this grin just before they died.

  “This is the sword of the emperor. Mars, the god of war, is released when it is unsheathed.” All eyes were on him. No one spoke. Outside in the wind, a bird wailed.

  “Deliver.” Crocus looked at the sword, examining its edge. “An immediate recovery, physician, or your life will be forfeit. That’ll encourage you to pick a speedy cure for our emperor's sickness, verein damut sheiserus.” He spoke in guttural Germanic Latin, in a tone that resembled a spiky shard of ice cracking and dropping from a high temple colonnade on an icy winter morning.

  The doctor drew his breath in sharply then glanced at the others around the bed, looking for a sympathetic face.

  “This is poisoning, not a sickness,” he said confidently. “There is no immediate cure.”

  Sybellina spoke. “Physician stop babbling.” She circled the physician, then went to the bed and bent her ear close to the emperor's mouth.

  “Do you want me to help, my emperor?”

  The emperor's eyelids fluttered. Then he gurgled.

  Sybellina wiped his brow, leaned in toward him and began making soothing noises.

  Juliana felt uncomfortable, as if she shouldn’t be watching this.

  Sybellina looked up at Constantine. “Will you not soothe your father?” She spoke softly, while staring innocently at him.

  Constantine stood still, his expression calm.

  Juliana's mouth opened wide, as if she was about to say something. With a snake-like motion, Sybellina had pulled a thin silver-handled knife from inside the folds of her green gown. Juliana could see the three-faced symbol of Hecate, goddess of sacrifices and the cross-roads, emblazoned on a ball at the end of its handle.

  Sybellina looked blankly at Constantine, as if the knife meant nothing, then waved its tip in small slow circles between them.

  “You are so close to what you want, Constantine. So very close. Perhaps Hecate will finish the job for you? Remorse can be a thousand worms eating at your gut, but you might rather that, than to be burnt alive as a traitor.”

  Juliana wanted to shout at her, but that would spoil everything. The rebuke had to come from Constantine.

  He glanced at Juliana. She nodded, almost imperceptibly. They might never have this chance again. Everything turned on this moment. Their futures and the future of the empire, and of the millions of people in its sway, were all finely balanced, waiting to be tipped one way or another. And afterwards there would be no going back.

  “By all the gods, you’ll not trick me so easily,” Constantine said. “This is your doing.” He pointed at Sybellina. “I know about your cures made from blood and the charms and dark spells you use.”

  The physician was staring at Sybellina. His face was contorted, as if he knew more than he should, but that nothing was working out as he’d expected. Sybellina looked surprised, her eyes wide and staring. She turned to Crocus.

  “The emperor will decide who is behind this when he awakes.” Her tone was matter of fact.

  Constantine turned to Crocus. “She handed him his wine. She is the only one who could have poisoned him.”

  Juliana had edged closer to him and, having seen knives being thrown by disgruntled slaves, she flung her arm across Constantine's chest. Later they would call it a premonition, but at that moment it was instinct that made her do it, an instinct that cawed loudly in her ear.

  Sybellina drew her hand back, and with a practiced motion hurled the knife at Constantine.

  A sickening thud ran through Juliana’s arm and up her shoulder. Her hand shook violently, as if it wasn't hers. Constantine's chest felt wet. He grabbed her hand. Before she had time to think about it, the knife was out and in his hand.

  Blood spurted down her gown.

  At the sight of all this, Crocus laughed uproariously.

  “Your great mother has few powers this far from Rome, Sybellina. Your scheming has gone too far,” he boomed. He slashed the emperor's sword through the air, as if testing it, then shook his head, as if already regretting what he was about to do.

  Sybellina dodged the first sword thrust, but Crocus had experience in such matters. On its way through an arc the sword hissed as it sliced into Sybellina’s thigh. She screamed in anger, staggered back as blood pumped down her leg, flowing onto the mosaic floor like spilled wine.

  Juliana caught an acrid smell. It was a smell she remembered. A smell that lingered in your mouth if you went too close to the source. With Sybellina’s blood she could smell it from across the room.

  Sybellina did not go down on her knees and beg, as some might have done. She stood and faced her end. The second blow skewered her stomach. Her hands clawed angrily at the blade as it was jerked back out, until they too were bleeding. Then a screaming curse rang out, high pitched, enraged.

  “Son of a whore, you’ll lose everything you love. Everything!”

  Constantine, seemingly oblivious, was cutting a strip from the sheet on the emperor's bed. He wound it tight around Juliana's hand, taking no notice whatsoever as Crocus impaled Sybellina again with a sword thrust deep into her chest. Constantine seemed well practiced in binding wounds. He reassured Juliana gently as he worked.

  “It’ll be over soon.”

  Sybellina flailed, her hands like claws. Crocus stepped out of her reach. Juliana's skin prickled. Sweat flowed as if she'd stumbled into the hot room at the baths. She’d assumed Sybellina’s death would be quick. Something sharp and heavy pressed at the inside of her chest as she watched Sybellina die.

  Pity bloomed inside her. Was this a just way for a priestess to die? But she kept her
mouth clamped shut. A vision of Tiny’s contorted face had filled her mind.

  Sybellina crumpled to the floor. Her gown fell open to reveal full breasts, both of which were slick with blood.

  Then, as blood bubbled from her mouth, Sybellina spoke, while glaring at Juliana.

  “Witch.” She coughed, then her eyes flared wide, animated, like a dying snake’s.

  Crocus grabbed the folds of Sybellina’s gown and placed them over her face, as if blocking her eyes would diminish the power of her words. He pushed her down to the mosaic floor and stabbed her again, this time across the front of her neck, as if he was dispatching an injured animal.

  A final jerk ran through Sybellina’s body. Then she lay still.

  Crocus pulled the covering from Sybellina's face, unsheathed his dagger, opened her mouth wide with his fingers, grabbed her tongue and pulled it up until her head came right off the floor. The tongue looked like the tail of a sea snake emerging from her mouth. He sliced it off. Sybellina’s head hit the floor with a resounding thud. Blood flowed from it. Crocus placed the tongue into one of the braziers lighting the room. It flared and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. He grunted in satisfaction and looked around, as if for approval.

  Juliana’s stomach turned. She had never seen so much blood come from one body. But she could not object to what Crocus had done. Tiny’s death and her awareness of how close she’d been to losing her own life, and any future for her baby, ensured that her lips were sealed.

  The physician, meanwhile, was so startled by all this, his mouth was opening and closing, as if he wanted to scream but had decided attracting attention to himself was not a good idea.

  Constantine picked up Sybellina's knife. He put it to his nose as if checking for poison, then put it down and hugged Juliana. She wrapped her arms around him. Relief ran through her. She closed her eyes again as a dream came to her. There was more of this to come.