The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  A knock sounded at the door. Had someone been knocking for a while? Juliana couldn't tell. The corner of her mouth twitched.

  Constantine shouted, “Wait!”

  The banging stopped for a moment after Constantine's shout, but it resumed after a moment, this time with greater urgency. It seemed as if the door was being hammered by desperate hands.

  Constantine walked to it and with Lucius by his side now, he yanked it open. The door flew inwards, and the head of the guards massing outside fell forward. He recovered, took in Sybellina's dead body with an impassive look and stood to attention. There was an array of grim faces behind him.

  “Sir, a raiding party of Picts has overrun the North Gate. It was open late to let visitors in for your father's banquet. There’re druids with them too. Setting fire to everything, they are, and they’re headed this way. The city reserve has been called out, but. . .” As if to confirm what the man was saying a sudden clamor could be heard. Somewhere down the corridor swords were clashing and a great roar, like a hundred berserk warriors on the loose, was coming toward them.

  “Hold your post,” shouted Constantine. “I will join you!” The man fled. The physician, bowing, had positioned himself by the man's side as he was talking. Muttering about getting some things he needed, he followed the guard. Constantine closed the door and pulled across the wooden piece that locked it.

  He turned back and gave a thumbs down signal to Crocus. His eyes had a look of doom in them, as if they’d been hollowed out by all the talking they had done about protecting those you loved, no matter what the price.

  Juliana watched as Crocus bent over the emperor. One of his hands was covering the emperor's mouth and nose, pinching tight. Then he bent closer. His other hand was patting the emperor's brow. The emperor's body convulsed, noiselessly.

  Juliana wanted to scream stop, but she couldn’t. It was his life or theirs. And she couldn’t look away. Time slowed as the emperor’s body twitched on the edge of death. He was refusing to die. Juliana raised her fists, pressed them into the side of her face, distracting herself with pain.

  A final convulsion came, like a shiver.

  Crocus looked round, an expectant expression on his face as if he wanted to be congratulated. Constantine and Lucius were busy whispering.

  Juliana remembered what Sybellina had called her. Witch. Was it true? Had she brought all this about? If she hadn’t made Constantine fall for her, none of this might have happened.

  No, he deserved this. Even without her being involved, plots would have formed against Constantine. He would have had to make a similar decision sooner or later. Her role had been to help him see what had to be done. Tiresias had also told her stories about how mothers and young children were being put to the sword in Caledonia by the emperor's legionaries and how it would be right and good to seek his death before more died that summer.

  She looked around. Lucius was staring at her. His face was white. The windows rattled. A bloody stench had filled the room, whether it was from Sybellina's corpse or the emperor’s was unclear. Most likely the guts had loosened for both.

  She covered her nose. Her arm was throbbing terribly.

  Crocus stepped back from the bed. “Your time has come, my lord,” he said. He bowed toward Constantine.

  Constantine went to his father's bedside, listened for breathing, his ear close to his father’s mouth. Then he slapped his father's face and Juliana jumped, expecting the emperor to wake.

  But he didn't.

  Constantine shook the emperor’s shoulder, pulled the body toward him, and hugged it, tenderly. The emperor's arms hung limp at his side. Then, as if an uncontrollable rage had overcome him, or he’d remembered some terrible injustice, he thumped his father's back with both hands as he held him, an animal howl emerging from him, part mourning, part anguish. He let his father fall back, grabbed one of the dead emperor’s hands and then rubbed the emperor’s forefinger on his own forehead.

  Then he wiped his hands on the bed cover and stood.

  His tone was sullen when he spoke. Everyone else was standing still, as if they were playing parts in some nightmare tableau.

  “My father, the emperor . . .” His voice faltered. He looked lost, but only for a moment, and a moment later he looked composed, as if what they’d witnessed had never occurred.

  Juliana's skin was tingling, and her breath was coming fast. Was this what that slave girl had meant all those years ago when she’d told her she was being saved for something?

  “I will be the emperor now, as it was prophesized,” he said. His tone lacked any note of rejoicing, as if he would simply take the prize offered him but had not enjoyed its winning. “Crocus, arrange for a proper funeral. One fit for a victorious emperor. A great emperor.”

  Crocus nodded in reply.

  Juliana looked from Crocus to Lucius. In their eyes she could see only emptiness. Cruel, expressionless emptiness. She wondered was that how her own face looked.

  She was suddenly overcome by a longing for her childhood home. She closed her eyes. Vivid memories came to her; the sweet scent of the olive orchards, the taste of figs at harvest time, the songs of the slaves as they worked in the fields. It all seemed so very far away now, unreachable.

  There was a knock on the door. A single soft knock. Then once again, more softly. Crocus went to the door.

  “My Alemanni guards have arrived,” he said.

  He unlocked the door, opened it a little and slipped outside. In a few moments he returned.

  “My lord, we are ready. The Picts have disappeared into the darkness, as they promised.” He stared straight ahead. “My men have relieved the remaining troops who were on guard outside.” He jerked his thumb toward the corridor beyond the door.

  Constantine nodded. He raised his hands and spoke.

  “Quick justice was done tonight. My father was ill served by that wicked priestess. As far as the public is concerned, my father succumbed to an illness, an old illness. Sybellina poisoned him.” He turned to Crocus. “Deal with the physician, tonight.”

  Crocus nodded.

  Constantine continued. “All of you, tell me the name of anyone who presses you for more detail about what happened here, or who spreads wild rumors. Refer such troublemakers to me. Say nothing of what you have seen. Now come, we must announce the emperor's death.”

  Crocus opened the doors. Directly outside and arrayed down the corridor stood a double row of his troops. Further down the corridor a cluster of men waited, high imperial officials in spotless togas, leather-clad military officers from other legions, and the governor of the city, all standing close together, as if to support each other.

  They were whispering frantically as Constantine took a step toward them and raised his hands above his head for silence.

  An aura of command envelopes him, thought Juliana.

  The officials surged forward but stopped within a sword's reach of Constantine.

  “Friends, officers of my father. Dread news. The gods have looked aside tonight. Our glorious emperor is dead.” He stopped, lowered his head. Around him a shocked silence settled. Someone moaned, softly.

  “The witch who has been treating him for his illness for some time,” he continued, his head lowered, as if in mourning. “She has paid for her failure with her life.” He paused. There was a sudden babble of voices.

  “You will all. . .” His tone was stern.

  The crowd instantly hushed.

  “Respect our grief in this period of mourning. I will inform the public and send the correct messages of condolence to the empress.” He paused, looked from face to face of the men surrounding him.

  “My father's dying wish was that I become emperor in his place. He made a sign with his blood on my forehead to prove this to you all.”

  There was a collective intake of breath.

  Juliana stared, saw the sign for the first time. It was an X in blood on Constantine’s forehead. She at once knew where the blood had come from. Con
stantine’s hands were covered in it from the stream that had flowed from the wound on her arm. The mark on his forehead was her blood.

  “I have decided, however, not to put myself forward for the succession. We will wait on word from the senior Emperor Galerius, as to who he will appoint over us. Now please, friends, go home, and pray to the gods for my beloved father.”

  Juliana couldn't believe what she'd just heard. He was turning it all down.

  The military prefect, Marcus Scipio, stepped forward.

  “I must be allowed access to the body, Constantine. I have a duty to report to the senate in Rome the exact circumstances of the emperor's death. Please, let me through.” He lifted his hand, as if to move Constantine aside. All eyes gaped at the confrontation.

  Constantine raised his hand equally high in reply. Crocus' men stiffened in anticipation.

  Then Constantine put his hand on Marcus Scipio's shoulder.

  “Come, Scipio, we have much to discuss. Crocus will assist you with your report later.” He took a step, turning the tribune with him. Marcus Scipio resisted for a moment, then went along.

  LXIX

  Eboracum, Northern Britannia, 306 A.D.

  “Augustus, Augustus, Augustus.” The acclamation, reserved for the most senior of emperors, rolled over the crowd like giant waves, so loud the gods must surely have heard the roars. It was noon, and much of the vast assembly on the heath had been waiting since early that morning. Three times the ceremony had been arranged and three times it had been cancelled, on one occasion as late as the night before. Anticipation had grown with each delay and rumors had blossomed, but now at last, the ceremony was about to begin.

  Even as the roars went up, the last of the plebeians were filling the spaces allocated them behind the tightly packed ranks of the legions in their full battle array, their spears glinting, lined up behind their standards, raised high against the pale midsummer sky.

  At the rear of the crowd hawkers sold the last of their bead bracelets, cornbread, and long-lasting sandals as urchins raced through the crowd, like wild things released for the day, and proselytizers of every cult and persuasion worked the edge of the crowd, like wolves around a flock.

  “He's coming, he's coming,” people whispered, excitedly.

  Two urchins stopped the fight they were having over a crust of bread and jumped up again and again, trying to see over the heads of the onlookers.

  “Calm yourself, boys, our day will come,” said a soft Pictish voice. The boys looked round. A tall, thin, aged figure of a man, wearing a long brown cloak stood behind them. The cloak looked new, being unstained, and having that soft look of a wool cloak that has yet to see the mud of a long winter. Around his neck hung a string of gray pebble beads, with a sickle moon-shaped emblem hanging from the center. The boys stared, their mouths wide open, as the man wagged a bony finger at them, then continued on his way, pushing straight through the crowd.

  By the time the old man reached the lines of legionaries, the soldiers had begun to stamp their feet in mock impatience. It was ten days since the end of their beloved emperor's period of mourning. They needed a new leader. A new Caesar Augustus. The one that had been promised. An emperor of their own.

  A braying cacophony of war horns could be heard now and the chink, chink, chink of body armor moving as the legionaries swayed while raising their fists in unison. Then all the war horns rang out together, as if they were announcing the arrival of a god.

  The old man showed a freshly minted bronze pass to a disgruntled marshal, who reluctantly let him through. He walked slowly up a passage between the long rows of men. Behind him, a murmur ran through the crowd. How did such a lowly dressed man gain entry to a restricted area, he could almost hear them say.

  As he walked through the lines, he could feel the power these men represented. The acclamations were still rolling from legion to legion, alternating from cohort to cohort, but what impressed him most was the cohorts that remained silent, while the others around them were shouting. Men stood like statues, their cloaks barely moving in the light breeze. Discipline, that's what made these Romans strong.

  He could smell the torches now. A pungent mix of hazel wands, tallow and yew.

  He walked on alone until he reached the open area at the front of the massed ranks. Skirting the open area, he headed for the large leather tent set up at the far end, with pennants flying from each of its four corners.

  At the tent he was stopped again. After being searched and questioned, his pass examined and passed from one marshal to another, he was allowed entry. With a few more steps he was in the tent.

  The crowd hushed as a troop of trumpeters blew a long signal. The dignitaries of the city, the board of ten councilors of Colonia Eboracum, stood to attention in their long white togas with the other high officials. They too had been waiting all morning. They too were getting restless. The praise singers had orated their endless panegyrics.

  It was time.

  A wooden stage had been set up on the crest of a low ridge. To each side of it a gold, double-headed eagle glared out at the crowd. A striped purple and white canopy provided shade. Beneath it, and alone on a raised dais, was a backless chair, whose golden arms were carved in the shape of sleeping lions.

  The trumpets blew again. Then, to an audible sigh, a line of pale skinned virgins appeared from behind the imperial tent, hair running loose about their bare shoulders. They wore long yellow gowns and had green laurels perched on their heads. Each girl carried a wicker basket, and as they mounted the stage they sprinkled rose petals all about them. Then they waited in a line on either side of the throne, their heads bowed.

  The crowd hushed, except for some distant nervous coughing. Somewhere, a horse neighed.

  First out of the imperial tent came the priests and priestesses of every temple in Eboracum. Dressed in white, green, or sky blue they strode out two by two, and stood below the stage. Some wore elaborate headdresses of horn, and others wore wide gold bands, others were shaven headed, including two priestesses. At their rear, and alone, came that tall figure in a brown cloak. He had the appearance of a druid, but the large silver cross that now dangled from a chain around his neck made it clear he was a follower of the cult of Christ.

  “Tiresias, has returned,” whispered a local dignitary who stood behind his Roman overlords, to one side of the stage. “The one god's hand is in all this.”

  The flaps of the tent were held open by slave boys, and out came the man who almost everyone in Eboracum now wanted to be their new emperor. He wore a purple silk toga, and his head was bare. Behind him came a young page in a short tunic, who held a cushion in front of him, on which a diamond-studded band, the imperial diadem gleamed.

  A woman walked out of the tent after him. Her gaze was focused down onto the thin trampled grasses in front of her. Her hands hung stiffly by her sides. She was wearing a long black silk gown studded with precious stones; a stunning dress for one so humble, some women who saw it would later say.

  The trumpets blew again. The woman looked up. Three long notes sounded as the claimant and his entourage mounted the stage. The commander of each legion present approached and greeted the claimant with a low bow. The pageboy stood behind the throne, the emperor-to-be stood in front of it.

  The legion commanders kneeled. A cheer went up from the assembly. At last, the uncertainty was over. The most senior officers of the legions in Britannia lowered their heads, slowly, until their foreheads were touching the stage. The claimant raised his hands, for silence.

  “I will accept what has been pressed on me. Remember this day, all of you, and that you were present when a new age began, and tell your children, and your grandchildren, when you wheeze by the fire, in your dotage, that you were there the day it all started.” He paused. “I am ready.” His voice was clear and loud as it rang out over the heads of the legionaries, toward the townspeople.

  He sat. Behind him, Crocus, the most senior legion commander, lifted the diadem from its
cushion.

  He held it in the air for all to see, then placed it, slowly, on the new emperor's head. For a moment it looked as if he was about to take it away, because he lifted it up again. Someone in the crowd sniggered, nervously. Then Crocus placed the diadem more securely back among Constantine's thick black curls.

  Constantine stood to bask in the acclaim of the crowd. “Augustus, Augustus, Augustus,” was the cry, and wave after wave of cheering rolled over him, until the trees themselves seemed to bend to the cries.

  Behind him, Juliana was beaming at Tiresias, who stood nearby at the end of the line of priests. He smiled back. No longer would he have to hide among his brothers. He led the priests, as they prostrated themselves in front of the new emperor.

  Juliana moved forward and whispered in Constantine's ear, one hand resting on his shoulder. A thin snakeskin bracelet slid down her wrist.

  “My lord, I'm sure I should be reminding you how quickly these cheers will die away, but I've other news for you, a surprise, and a present for your coronation.” He made to turn his head. She touched his shoulder, leaned closer to him, was on the tips of her toes as she spoke. “Our first baby will be a boy, so Eborus predicts.”

  He pulled her toward him and kissed her, eagerly. A great roar went up from the crowd. And at that moment the sun broke from behind a cloud and lit their faces and the whole podium as if god was blessing their union. If anyone, a year before, had told her she'd be kissed like this, by an emperor in front of his troops, she'd have laughed at the idea. She could not be happier.

  Epilogue

  The official announcement of Constantine’s succession was made throughout all of what had been his father’s provinces. Many had heard rumors that the old emperor had died, but Constantine had refused to let the announcement of his father’s death be officially proclaimed until the succession was agreed.

  A period of toleration for all Christians was later proclaimed in all the western territories he ruled. The marriage of the Christian church to the state was entered into willingly. Lucius pointed out to Constantine that by controlling men's souls, a more permanent empire would be created than one that relied solely on physical force for control.