Children played chasing games near the house. They stopped and stared, shading their eyes as Lucius led the way forward from the tree line. When they were near, some of the children rushed forward to slap the sides of Lucius' horse.
“This place belongs to his kin, I'd wager,” whispered Tiny.
She nodded. But why were there so many eating outside in the cold? The only time she’d seen crowds on her old estate was for a bumper harvest, or once when a watercourse needed to be dug quickly in a drought.
Dark-haired slaves led their horses through a gateway into the crudely paved area in front of the villa. She dismounted. Her muscles ached all up her legs and her back. Constantine and Lucius were greeted with bows, but the slaves didn't seem to know who Constantine was. He’d put his purple cloak into the bag attached behind his saddle the first time they’d stopped to rest, and now he wore a ragged brown one. He looked like a legionary officer on leave or retired early for some awful injury.
“Welcome to the estate of Marcus Aurelius Armenius,” a slave said to Constantine. “Your father’s expecting you, Lucius,” he said, turning to Lucius.
They were escorted through an open doorway into a torch-lit corridor at the end of which a closed, studded door barred their path. Tiny and Juliana kept respectfully to the rear. Tiny beamed at Juliana, perhaps delighted with the aroma of hot food that filled the corridor. A slave running ahead opened the door in front of them and welcoming light spilled out. The room they entered had a high ceiling, crimson stucco walls and a long table at the far end. The people at the table were sitting on low-backed chairs, the way servants and commoners did. All faces turned in their direction as they entered.
It looked like an odd dinner group to Juliana. Four elderly Roman men, with close-cropped hair and traditional whitened togas sat at one end, two shaven-headed men in the roughest dark-blue tunics sat in the middle, and a curly haired bear of a man in multicolored garb dominated the far end. At that man’s side sat two brown-skinned Nubians who wore long hooded robes made from some thickly woven textile that reminded her of plaited hair.
It seemed they'd interrupted something. Lucius walked up to the bear-like man and hugged him. Tiny and Juliana hung back by the doorway.
“Father. It's good to see you.” Lucius pulled away and gestured for Constantine to come forward. “I present the honorable Constantine, son of the emperor of the west. He has come. I told you he would, Father.”
The group at the table bowed toward Constantine.
“You are welcome, Constantine, son of an emperor, most welcome. And call me Marcus. Come, you will come join us, we were about to eat.” He looked briefly past Constantine then gestured to a nearby slave, who ran to Juliana and Tiny and motioned angrily for them to follow him.
She could hear the others at the table greeting Constantine as they walked out. All she wanted was to rest, or at least to sit. Trays of food passed them on their way. She saw a particularly pretty female slave. No, she wasn’t that pretty. Her eyes were too close together. Juliana’s mood darkened.
The slave led them to a noisy kitchen where a squad of men and women bustled around, shouting as they prepared more food.
They passed through the kitchen, down a short corridor and out onto a cold balcony with early budding jasmine tendrils intertwined through a rickety sun-whitened railing. A blackened wooden table surrounded by benches faced out over an orchard of beaten looking cherry trees. In the distance, a mirror calm sea shone like ebony. A bright moon hung like a disc in the sky. She could hear children shrieking, playing games among the trees.
“Food will be brought. Please, rest.” The slave pulled a bench out for them and left them alone.
“If they feed us I'll not complain.” Tiny sat down heavily.
Juliana pulled the other bench a little toward the railing.
“All I want is to sleep,” she said. She had seen too much that day. Tiny nodded.
As soon as they’d eaten the small fried white fish and bread served to them, and it appeared as if Tiny had settled down to consume the flagon of wine which came with the food, Juliana slipped away to find out where they would sleep. She hated sitting with Tiny and had an urge to get away from him. He was always watching her. Always making stupid jokes.
When she returned, Tiny’s gaze rolled around as if he’d drunk too much. Two wine flagons stood on the table. She approached to remove the plates and take them to the kitchen. As she bent down Tiny reached out a hand and held her arm, lightly at first but then tighter as she tried to pull away.
“Come here, girl. It's long past time we got to know each other.” He pulled her sharply toward him. Then he stood, twisted her arm quickly and painfully and pushed it up behind her back, knocking her off balance as he did so.
He wrapped his other arm around her and clamped his hand to her mouth. Then he rubbed his body hard up against her. She groaned in defiance. A rush of anger flooded through her. His eyes were shining, wide with animal lust.
How could she stop him? She reached with her free hand toward the goblet on the table.
XXII
Nicomedia, 306 A.D.
In the dining hall, the household's best green glass goblets from Carthage were being raised. “Pax Romana,” was the toast.
The goblets sparkled in the torchlight, as the serving slaves stood around the table with delicacies piled on the silver platters they carried skillfully on one hand. Other slaves rushed in to top up the goblets as soon as they were lowered. Constantine didn’t speak much. He spent much of the meal going over again and again in his mind what Galerius had said and thinking about all the worst and best things about the eastern provinces that he would soon be leaving behind.
Toward the end of the meal, as the attention of the diners became distracted by a troop of lyre and flute players, he got a chance to observe the men around him. He was sure he'd seen some of them at Diocletian's court, before Galerius had become emperor, and wondered what had brought them all together again.
Then Marcus struggled to his feet. As he did so, he tapped Constantine's shoulder and bent his finger at him. He wanted to show him something. They stood. Lucius followed toward a door at the back of the hall. Beyond, a large terrace overlooked trees in deep shadow below a bright and low moon.
A pale green marble table took up much of the terrace. It was surrounded on three sides by blanket-covered couches. Trails of smoke drifted away from oil lamps set into the wall. Their light was dim and golden.
Marcus urged Constantine to sit in the place of honor beside him. Then he ordered a warming brazier and cloaks to protect them from the cold night air, as well as wine and fruit.
When they were comfortable, and the wine had been served, Marcus turned to Constantine.
“I truly wish you the best for your journey home.” He raised his glass. They all touched glasses. “Do you know what position you will be given when you reach Gaul?”
“No, I don’t,” said Constantine. “But I'm sure my father will find me something to do. Getting there, before Galerius changes his mind, is what concerns me. Lucius told me you have a ship.”
“Indeed, I do, my friend, though it is only a small vessel. It waits in the harbor at Nicomedia, ready for my signal to sail for Rome. You are welcome to sail with her.” He paused. “I will be very happy to help you.”
There will be a price for this.
“Come, let us be open with each other, Constantine.” Marcus’ smile was that of a skilled merchant, a man used to forging alliances and doing deals.
“I have a proposal for you. I dearly want Lucius to take a message to your father. This is where I need your assistance.” He gestured with both hands, palms up, in front of him.
“Will you encourage your father to give the matter his attention? If you feel you cannot, do not worry, my ship will take you to Rome anyway. I cannot ask you to do something you’re not happy with.”
Constantine sipped from his wine. It was good. It had the soft taste of sun and f
lowers.
The old man continued. “I've been told your father had some difficulties raising taxes last year. This is a pity. But all good emperors seem to have these problems. Too many mouths to feed. It’s an old story. And the payments to the legions when a man becomes emperor these days are shocking. But you know all this. I would like to help him a little, if he’ll let me. Perhaps I can show you how.”
Constantine nodded. He was well used to men, and women, trying to use him to get to his father.
Marcus clapped his hands. He whispered something to the slave who came forward. The man went away and returned soon after with four burly guards who staggered onto the terrace under the weight of an iron-studded wooden chest.
They had the look of retired legionaries. Marcus took a wooden key from around his neck and handed it to one of the guards. When the chest had been opened, Marcus stood up.
Constantine leaned forward. The chest brimmed to the lid with tan leather bags. Marcus took one out. He emptied a mound of gold solidii coins onto the marble table. One coin rolled off. Lucius picked it up and returned it to the mound.
“Each of these bags has two pounds of gold. This bag has some of the first solidii Diocletian minted. Others contain older coins. There are a hundred bags in here.” Marcus gestured at the chest.
“We have five such chests, if my guards haven’t lost any.” He looked up at the guard with the key. The man shook his head sternly.
Constantine could smell a leathery aroma from the bags. A familiar smell. He'd been invited once by Diocletian to view the treasury, row upon row of similar chests in a secret room deep below the palace. Diocletian had informed him curtly that emperors rose and fell, lived and died, depending on the availability of such chests when they were needed.
“What is this message that Lucius will carry?”
Lucius answered him. “I will offer all this to your father. It is practical support for his reign, in exchange for a few small favors. Nothing unreasonable. I have sworn only to negotiate with your father. But better than all that my friend, I will come with you. I will see the western provinces I keep hearing about. And all I need is for you to get me an audience and perhaps . . . “His voice trailed off. “Perhaps your father might look even more favorably on us Christians.”
Constantine picked a coin up and looked at it. It had Diocletian's head on it. It had probably been extracted in taxes by Marcus from Roman traders passing along the caravan trail through his lands in lower Armenia. He’d heard that recently over one third of the product of the empire's gold mines went each year to purchase spices and silks from far off lands, accessible most reliably via caravan trails through Armenia. The tax extracted by the protectors of those trade routes, many of them followers of the one god, was probably one of the most reliable sources of income in the eastern empire.
“I heard you Christians believe we will all be judged at the end of the world, emperors and all the rest judged in the same way.”
“It is true,” said Lucius.
“I can understand why Galerius hasn’t taken to you. His lust for blood started early and never left him,” said Constantine.
“If you agree to the plan,” said Marcus. “I will send riders along the post road tonight toward Rome. They will use your name at every change of horses. And then they will disappear. Galerius will not be able to stop you if he changes his mind. He will be looking in the wrong direction.”
“I like that,” said Constantine.
A scream shattered the silence. Constantine looked around. Were they being attacked? He stood and looked over the balcony. The scream died.
“Wait,” said Marcus, anger on his face. “My guards will tell us what's happening in a moment.”
No one spoke. Constantine sat back down. Then a boy came running onto the balcony.
“My lord, one of Lucius’ slaves had an accident.”
“Take me there,” said Lucius. He stood, moved away from the table. Constantine and Marcus followed.
When they arrived at the kitchen balcony they found Tiny cradling his hand. His face glowed pale in the moonlight. One of the household slaves, a young boy, was tying a wet cloth around Tiny’s hand.
“What happened to you?” Lucius roared.
Constantine looked at Juliana. She was by the door to the kitchen, holding herself stiffly, her arms crossed.
“He hurt his hand, my lord,” she said. There were shards of broken glass on top of and underneath the table.
“Is that your story?” Lucius stood over Tiny. The slave boy who'd been binding him cringed back. Tiny looked up with a pleading expression.
“Yes, master. I had an accident. I beg forgiveness. I didn’t mean to scream.” Lucius slapped him across the head. Tiny groaned, put his head down.
“The cost of that glass will be added to the price of your freedom.” He looked at Juliana. “Nothing else occurred here? Tell me if it did. It will only be worse for you if I discover something later.”
Tiny cringed.
“It’s a small matter between slaves, nothing important at all,” said Juliana, calmly.
Constantine put a hand on Lucius' arm.
“Come, leave them. You’ll need plenty of sleep if you’re coming with me.”
As they left the balcony, Constantine glanced over his shoulder and caught Tiny glaring hatred toward Juliana. He would have to keep his eye on them both. There was nothing worse than traveling with bickering slaves. Lucius would have to punish them if it continued.
The following morning a biting wind had sprung up. Constantine paced his room alone before the villa woke. He'd planned endlessly in anticipation of this freedom. He’d imagined he’d be ecstatic after it came, but now it had, he wasn’t. Old anxieties had reappeared, and some new ones had arrived, conjured from who knew where. What was happening in his father’s provinces? How would he treat him when he got there? How would his stepmother react to his return? He had no way of knowing.
And he had no idea how his father would react to Lucius' offer, but about that he didn't care. There were too many other things to worry about.
Most importantly, was it too late for him to secure his inheritance, his rightful place in the succession? So much had happened. He’d been away so long.
He went out into the colonnaded courtyard that dominated one end of the villa. There was a clear blue sky above. The wind blew toward the sea. Good weather for sailing.
XXIII
Alexandria, 306 A.D.
“Hosius, I should never have doubted you.” Helena sat with Hosius, the leader of Alexandria’s Christians, in the inner courtyard of her villa in the best part of the city. The view from the upper floors extended over red tiled roofs to the port and on toward the giant lighthouse, which dominated the skyline even in daylight.
Hosius looked pleased. He adjusted his new tunic. A row of pearls stood out at the neckline. She wondered if he’d dare wear it at the meetings he held for his followers, or had he put it on just for meeting her, his patron.
“Prayer, under the correct guidance, has always been effective for me, though sometimes, as you can see, it takes time.”
“You sent messengers to your friends at Galerius’ court, didn’t you?” Helena had a few people who would tell her what was really going on. She had to make it clear to this priest that she was not one of his imbecilic followers, who believed every crazy story he told them.
Hosius raised his hand, waved it dismissively. “I cannot think any words of our followers in Nicomedia could make Galerius do anything. Our prayers worked, nothing else.”
“You are too modest. I hear your friends at court prevented a dozen executions for failing to sacrifice at the temples.” She picked a date from the bowl in front of her and stripped its flesh with her teeth.
“These things are all done with the power of prayer alone.” His eyes were bright now, wide.
Helena nodded. He believes everything he claims, or he’s a very good actor.
“Do you think t
hese two things are connected, the persecutions and my son being released?”
Hosius came forward in his chair. “I do. I absolutely do. The spirit is moving though us. Your son comes at the right time. The age of daemons is almost upon us and only by the power of prayer can we hope to stop the daemons taking over the whole world.”
Helena made a humming noise. She’d heard this daemon talk before. It was no more than a rallying cry for slaves and plebs to her.
“It seems you do not believe that daemons are loose, domina.”
Helena stared at him. He rarely used that word for her. Usually he reserved it for when he was most angry with her.
“I need proof. I told you this. I do not believe every scare story I am told.”
“And I told you that I will provide proof if you come out of the city with me. I will show you the daemons.” His arms were wide, shaking with the force of his words.
She stood. “Yes, I will go with you this time. But there is one more thing you will do for me before we go.”
“You know I will do whatever you ask.”
She bent down and spoke in his ear.
XXIV
Nicomedia, 306 A.D.
After Juliana picked up the goblet, she smashed it on the edge of the table, turned it in mid-air and rammed the base into Tiny's hand. He screamed as he’d assumed she had rammed the broken edge and might lose his hand. But she wasn’t that stupid. If she’d slammed the jagged edge into his hand with the same force, she’d have cut his hand deeply. And for that she might lose her own too, for damaging someone else’s property.
She dropped the broken lower half of the goblet on the floor near him. As she did he cursed her and punched her in the side with his other hand.
Juliana winced but had learned long ago to disregard pain. She dodged backwards from his next bow, aimed at her head. Maybe she should have used the jagged edge after all. But he’d stopped as the household slaves appeared. For a moment she was sure he’d kill her for striking him. But he calmed down quickly when other slaves appeared. He clearly wasn't as fearless as he seemed.
The Sign of The Blood Page 13