The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  VII

  Lower Armenia, 297 A.D.

  It is said each person sees seven sights of wonder in their lives. No more. This had to be one of them.

  The largest camp Constantine had ever seen lay like a stain across the grasslands with an azure haze hanging above it. The banners, tents, picket lines and smoking fires of the Persian camp melded together in the distance like a giant creature sprawled out.

  In the glow of the setting sun he took note of every detail, calm now, his breathing steady. The boredom of marching every day in the heat and the knowledge that the Roman army was being pursued had left him agitated for weeks, wanting action. Seeing the enemy, their pursuers, felt good, even if, spread out like this, they looked far more numerous than their own army.

  What surprised him, though, was the absence of any proper defenses to the camp. No palisade had been raised, no ditch appeared to have been dug.

  White pennants flapped on top of a group of grand circular tents at the near edge of the camp. Persian nobles’ tents, he guessed.

  Then a shout rang out. Instinctively he lowered his head. Lucius copied him a moment later. He reached for his sword handle. Had they been seen?

  An answering shout echoed in the distance. Then another further along. He raised a finger in front of his face as he leant back close to the gully wall. They hadn’t seen him or Lucius, not yet, anyway.

  His mind raced. An attack could be launched from here. A dawn raid perhaps. Honors could be won, promotions. This could be his chance.

  But if they were to mount an attack it would have to be done quickly. By morning any slim advantage the gully gave them would be lost. Tomorrow the Persian army would move on. He looked back toward the forest. They had to go.

  VIII

  Lower Armenia, 297 A.D.

  The bulk of the Roman army rested in hide tents in neatly laid out rows within the rectangle of low palisade walls the forward legionaries had constructed toward the end of that day’s march in the wooded foothills of the great Palendoken Mountain.

  The cart track through the foothills the army had been following had not been used, except for hunting purposes, since a nearby gold mine had been worked out during the time of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.

  The tent of the emperor who’d led the army into Persian Armenia had been positioned, as usual, at the center of the Roman camp. Inside it he waved an ivory-handled knife in the face of an optio, one of his junior officers, his voice gruff with menace.

  “Tell me everything.”

  “My lord, all they did was ask when we’re going to engage the Persians. They’re not dishonoring you, my lord. They made no other comment.” The optio trembled, despite him being a seasoned soldier.

  The emperor traced the tip of his knife up the man’s cheek to the corner of one of his odd-shaped eyes. The man blinked spasmodically. Galerius gripped the handle of his knife as if he would plunge it in, skewering the eye. Then, with a disappointed sigh, he pulled it away.

  “Come back when you have something I can use. I want to know who the cowards are. I will spare you, if you find out for me.”

  The optio bowed low, retreating rapidly.

  Galerius had vowed that morning to flog anyone complaining of the slow progress of the Roman campaign. He’d been hoping someone might have been found by now for the punishment he’d devised. He’d been looking forward to forcing his Egyptian concubine to watch as well. It would do wonders for her manners.

  He sat down slowly onto the ivory and rosewood campaign chair. It had been specially reinforced for him. His flattened nose and the pale scars on his wide face were the marks of his journey from defiant centurion to feared emperor.

  He pressed the ball of his fist into his forehead. He hated running from the enemy. They would have to fight soon or face the prospect of defections from the mercenary troops and scouts he’d promised rich pickings to.

  He could be confident of one thing, though: the quality of the Roman legions he’d assembled. They were the best in the empire, hand-picked veterans from the Danubian border provinces, who thought only of fighting and dreamt only of victory. These were his men, chosen so there’d be no mistake.

  But to have any hope of victory he needed to know where the Persians were and what they were up to. He slammed his hand against the arm of his chair, rattling its joints. He stood and began pacing. Deception and surprise, the handmaidens of the god of war, could only aid him if their blindfolds were removed.

  Where were the scouts? What were they doing?

  He should never have trusted that spoiled ingrate with such an important mission.

  IX

  Lower Armenia, 297 A.D.

  Constantine leaned forward. The horse’s sweat-slicked mane flicked like a loose rope against his face. He had to concentrate. He rode fast. Maybe too fast. Thankfully, the fates had been kind so far. The moon had risen as darkness had engulfed the woods. Its light filtered through the thin ranks of trees. He always enjoyed the pleasure of a night ride, the sway and rhythm, the exhilaration in his chest as his mount found the track to take and their pace quickened.

  He raced out of the wood. His thighs and shoulder muscles were stiff from the ride. His mount’s stride lengthened. He tightened his grip on the reins, leaning forward again, whispering, enticing the animal to race faster.

  A sentry hidden near a solitary tree shouted for the password, ordering them to halt. Constantine shouted the password, swayed as his mount raced on. The palisade wall could be seen like a pale scar in the distance.

  He could see guards at the gate, their spears out in front of them. Their breastplates and greaves glinted in the moonlight as they came closer. Lucius pulled up beside him. Constantine slowed his horse to walk ahead and heard an order ring out. Someone had recognized him. He saluted. The gate of sharpened stakes was pulled aside. Lucius rode behind him as they cantered through the quiet of the sleeping camp.

  The first person he’d report to was the Legate of the Jovians, the emperor’s personal guard. Standing orders said scouts must report to the Legate, but too much of the night had gone already. If he could persuade the Legate to rouse the emperor, there might just be time for the army to be readied. If he had to wait for dawn it would be too late. The nights were too short at this time of year. He had to rouse the emperor.

  Two stone-faced guardsmen crossed their spears in front of the Legate’s tent as they rode up.

  “The Legate is not to be interrupted, unless we are under attack,” one of the guards said, before Constantine even had a chance to speak. He knew from the man’s officious expression that it would do no good to argue. He looked around. The camp lay still. The only sound, the heavy breathing of their horses.

  Opportunity slips away fast. Soon it would be gone.

  He took a deep breath.

  “To arms!”

  He wheeled his horse, bellowed again, louder this time, as if he’d been unleashed from sense. “Jovians! To arms! To arms!” He sounded different, as if someone else’s voice echoed over the camp in the darkness. Lucius’ mouth hung wide in amazement. Wild dogs barked in the distance.

  Men stumbled from their tents, some clearly half asleep, but ready to fight, their swords drawn. Two centurions clutching spears appeared beside him before the echo of his words had passed, looking around eagerly. Constantine grinned as more men rushed forward. They roared questions at him.

  He shook his head in reply. They gripped his legs, as if at any moment they might pull him from his horse. He raised his hands. The men around him went quiet. The quiet spread outwards like a baton being passed from man to man. He licked his wind-cracked lips, both scared at what he’d done, and exhilarated at how free he felt.

  “Centurions,” he shouted. “Assemble the men. The time for fighting has arrived. We'll teach the Persian chickens not to rest while Roman wolves are about. The daughters of Ctesiphon are waiting.” A lusty cheer rang out. Fists punched the air.

  A babble of questions launched towa
rd him. He ignored them all. More legionaries appeared out of the dark. Two centurions stood at the back of the crowd, staring at him. They were smirking condescendingly. He wanted to say something to them, to slap their smiles away, but he had other things to worry about.

  An orderly threw the flap of the Legate’s tent back and a roar bellowed out.

  “Constantine get in here!”

  If he couldn't get the old cynic on his side he'd be on punishment duty, or worse, before the moon set.

  The Legate, Marcus Julius Sextus, was a lean, sturdy veteran with spiky gray hair. Unusually for a legion commander, he favored decency toward his men, not brutality. He’d earned his men’s respect because of it.

  “I see no need for your stupid theatricalities out there,” Sextus said when the questioning was done.

  Constantine and Lucius stood to attention in front of him. His angry expression was gone. He gripped Constantine’s shoulder.

  “Your father lives the same way, always looking to parade himself.”

  Constantine was about to reply when Sextus raised his hand. “Say no more. Galerius, no doubt, is already raining bruises on his orderlies because his precious sleep’s been disturbed. Take your news to him with my blessing. And bring the Armenian.” He pointed at Lucius.

  “But I warn you, you've picked a bad time. He's a wounded lion these days. It would have been better if you’d stayed out of his reach.” He paused, bit his lip, looked at Constantine. “In fact, I should go with you.”

  Constantine held himself still. This would be the easy part.

  Sextus gave a thumbs up and a growl-like cheer ran through the lines of men still forming outside the tent as he and Constantine hurried past, with Lucius trailing behind.

  At each corner of Emperor Galerius' council tent torches sent ribbons of smoke and flame up to the stars. A guard stood to attention by each torch. For a moment Constantine wondered what he was doing.

  No. He wouldn’t falter. Opportunity lay ahead.

  “The honorable commander of the Jovians,” a guard shouted as they passed through the entrance flap.

  “I hope to all the gods he’s got a bloody good reason for keeping me from Morpheus,” Galerius roared.

  He stood at the other end of the tent behind a long map table. Constantine stopped one step behind and to the side of Sextus, just a little inside the tent. Lucius followed behind, so close Constantine could hear his breathing. He wondered if Lucius had ever been inside an emperor’s tent before.

  Galerius’ thin pearl diadem sparkled in the lamplight. Around him, in a deferential half circle, stood the protector of the imperial intelligence agents and three senior officers of his personal guard.

  All were bare headed, except for Galerius and a giant, who wore a black hood pulled down to cover his face. Galerius stood taller than the officers around him. Expectation filled their expressions, as if each man faced either his execution or his triumph. This would not be how Constantine would command, when he came to power. He moved his feet, trying to settle into a more comfortable position.

  The dragon pattern rug felt odd under his sandals, too thick, its acanthus leaf edges reminiscent of the distant palaces he’d stayed too long in before joining the Jovians. A scent of pinecone incense tickled his nose. A marble bust of the Emperor Diocletian, Galerius' father-in-law and mentor, sat nearby on a thin pedestal. Behind it, a tiger skin rested on a rack made of jeweled spears.

  “Who roused my legions?”

  Sextus walked two paces toward the irate emperor, then bowed low.

  “My lord, good news.” Sextus sounded hesitant. “This will turn our campaign.”

  The air in the tent sucked at Constantine’s breath, as if he stood by the door of an oven.

  “Just one piece of good fortune can change the course of a war, as you know, my lord.” Sextus motioned Constantine forward.

  Every eye turned to him.

  Constantine held his expression still. He stepped up beside Sextus and bowed as low as the legate had done.

  “My lord, I roused the legions,” he said, as he stood up straight. “I have news from my scouting patrol.”

  Galerius looked at him as if he'd crawled into the tent, not walked.

  “You know my orders. All scouts must come direct to the Protector or his officer when they return,” roared Galerius, his fists in the air. “You do know this, don’t you?” This was not what Constantine had expected. But he knew not to reply.

  “I pity you.” Galerius’ tone oozed contempt. “Having a father like yours only shows up your many weaknesses.”

  Constantine felt his cheeks burn. It had been months since he’d been berated so publicly by Galerius. Constantine felt like drawing his sword and lunging at the bastard.

  “I seek only victory, my lord. The glory will soon be yours,” he said.

  “How will I get this victory?” Galerius said.

  “The Persians have camped near a gully only a few hours’ march from here. It’s the nearest I've ever seen them.” He looked at Galerius. The man had to see his opportunity in this.

  “Their nobles' tents are an arrow flight from the edge of the camp. I saw the pennants myself, my lord. Only one row of perimeter guards have been posted. Their camp is defenseless right now.” Enthusiasm got the better of his training, but he didn’t care.

  “If we attack before dawn we’ll take them unawares. I’ll volunteer, my lord. I wish to be a part of the raid and to lead it.” He stopped. Galerius snorted. The other officers were sneering. Blood pounded in his neck. Could they not see the opportunity? He gripped the handle of his sword.

  “This is the truth,” he continued, addressing the room now. “A great victory awaits you all, my lords, like the one that gave Persia to Trajan.”

  Galerius raised a hand for silence, then walked toward Constantine. His knee-length cotton tunic tightened like a skin around his massive frame as he moved. When he came close his finger stabbed into Constantine’s chest, the only man in the tent who matched his height and build.

  “Maybe, but the last time you were part of a raid, you had to be rescued,” he said.

  He brought his face up close to Constantine’s. Their noses were almost touching. Galerius’ breath stank of stale wine. “You see, I decide when we attack, not you.” Veins stood out on his forehead as he pulled his lips back in a show of rage. His gums were black with garum.

  Constantine pressed his lips tight, looked toward the back of the tent. Two young orderlies, their faces pink as if they’d just bathed, stood there like statues, carefully avoiding his gaze. They both looked terrified.

  Galerius glared at him a little longer, then turned away, as if he’d remembered something.

  “This is a good time to tell you about a letter from your father.” His tone was friendly. Constantine stiffened. He hadn't had a letter from his father in over a year. Why had he written to Galerius? Distant shouts could be heard as Galerius drank a long draught from a gold goblet on the map table.

  He turned to the men around them. A smile beamed from his face. His officers grinned back almost as one. They reminded Constantine of the chorus from a theatre show he’d seen in Nicomedia.

  “Your father had some sound advice for us all, as usual.” He turned back to Constantine. “He said I should give you all the dangerous duties, leading the first cohort, for example. He said you’re to receive no more special treatments and . . .” he paused.

  His shadow swayed across the tent wall as he gestured irritably to the nearest orderly, mouthing something at him. The boy rushed to a wooden chest at the back of the room. Within moments he’d returned with a small papyrus scroll held out in front of him.

  Constantine hissed air in through his teeth, imagining what Galerius might have planned for him. He would love to impale the bastard.

  As the scroll was unrolled, its gold imperial seal swayed beneath it from a strip of purple silk. The orderly bowed, held it up for Galerius to read.

  “Yes, I'd al
most forgotten the best part,” he said. “Your father has celebrated the birth of a son. Wonderful isn’t it? Best thing he ever did, discarding that tavern girl mother of yours. Though I hear she was a favorite of many men years ago.” He smirked.

  Constantine’s hands turned to fists at his side.

  Galerius continued. “This new son will be appointed his successor, he tells me. No doubt that'll be the new empress' wish. New wives always want the old brood out of the way quick. They are most demanding, aristocratic women, I think you will find. If you are lucky ever to find one after this.”

  He pressed his palms against the side of his leather tunic. He'd expected his stepmother to be against him, since his father had told him he would remarry, but he’d not expected her to scheme to exclude him from the succession so soon.

  “We are all you have, Constantine.” Galerius looked around, grinning. “You do not even qualify as a member of the imperial family any more, now you’ve been removed from the succession.” He shook his head in a mockery of sympathy.

  “Well, don’t worry, boy, we'll not strip you of all honors, yet.” Galerius let the scroll drop on the map table.

  “We had your future divined after we received this letter. Our most reliable soothsayer predicted you’ll never inherit your father's titles. No one should try for what’s beyond their grasp.” Galerius’ beady eyes reminded Constantine of a boar’s, greedy and pitiless.

  “He also foresaw our victory over the Persians, and that you’d be part of it, so your good news does not surprise me. The dawn raid will be mounted. And you’ll lead the cohort into the Persian camp. Your father’s will must be respected. It’s the end of skulking around in the rear for you.” He looked at his officers. They nodded energetically.

  Constantine willed himself to stay quiet, to hold the curses at the edge of his tongue. He’d never skulked in the rear. He’d been following orders. Galerius’s orders. Bathhouse whores spoke more truth than this bastard.

  “We will win this war,” Galerius continued. “And it’s time you played your part.”