The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  They made slow progress toward the island that evening and had to row at the end through very choppy seas. They would have to wait for the turning of the main current, she heard, before the captain would even consider making a run through the Straits.

  The slim sea passage between Sicilia and the mainland of Italia could not be taken lightly. They anchored off a steep jagged-edged rocky shore, in the lee of a headland. The thin ash column towered eerily above them. It was the beginning of a nervous wait for their run through the Straits.

  Juliana heard another crewman grumbling that they could have docked at Syracuse or Catania, ports along the coast of Sicilia, but he was rounded on with derision by an old hand, who wondered if the first man wanted to offer his own share of the profits from the trip to pay the harbor taxes.

  The sun set soon after, and they swung wildly at anchor as the wind turned, and a squall dumped torrents of rain that seemed oddly gritty onto the deck. Rain soaked everything. Juliana's cubby hole door even blew open, saturating her and her rope bedding, before she managed to wedge the door closed again.

  Juliana slept badly that night. The column of smoke overshadowed her dreams. Every creak of the boat made her fearful. She imagined monsters swimming up from the deep toward her. She woke with the light of an azure dawn spreading across the sky and the purple hued mountains of Italia revealing themselves across the channel in a misty gloom. The column of smoke from Aetna had changed. It grew fatter and darker now.

  The captain was loudly abused by a damp Lucius when he awoke for not making a run for one of the ports along the coast of Sicilia before the squall came on, but the captain just shrugged, and pointed at the sea and shook his head as if something under the waves had prevented them docking.

  “What's down there?” Juliana asked one of the crewmen a little later, after they’d hauled in the small anchor. A stench of fish rose from the man, as if he'd rolled in the food slops, and his skin appeared to be flaking. She recoiled away from him.

  “Scylla and Charybdis live down there, girl. The captain is a superstitious bugger. He never stays in any port around here. He has to time the current just right, you know, and all hands have to be clear headed, he says, ’cause if we stay too long in the Straits, those two monsters’ll suck us down into their steaming whirlpools or smash us onto rocks. The channel gets tighter and tighter, you’ll see, until we pass through the final bit, only two leagues wide! We sacrificed to Neptune early this morning, so I expect he'll let us through, but you can never be sure with the gods, girl.” He chuckled to himself.

  Soon after, they passed the mole and lighthouse at the harbor of Messina. Juliana could feel the current flowing beneath them, speeding them on.

  The coast on either side sat draped in the last of the morning haze, as the captain steered them toward the center of the narrowing channel. The oarsmen grunted. The sail had been stowed a little before. The drummer beat the stroke faster as the sea grew increasingly choppy. The ship shuddered expectantly as it broke through the waves.

  A galley out of Messina plied swiftly across their wake on its way to the mainland, its two banks of oars swinging fast in perfect unison like a pond creature skimming the waves.

  “Pull men, pull hard for the mainland. And while you’re at it, pray to the Fates that Morgana stays below this stinking sea today,” the captain roared.

  Juliana peered ahead. She'd not taken the Syrian’s shouted advice to hide and she gulped as she caught sight of a patch of swirling water directly in their path. She pointed frantically and when she looked back the captain grinned, ignoring her.

  Then water sloshed over the deck. Waves broke over the side. She held tight to a rope as cold water sucked over her sandaled feet. The ship creaked as it changed course, pulling at its nails, until suddenly they reared up on a wave and hung for a moment.

  Crash, the ship smashed down, and seawater flooded in, rushing around her ankles. Her fingers slipped a little down the wet cord.

  Some of the oarsmen were calmly scooping water away with battered pots. Most were continuing to row. Then the cold seawater fell away, as the prow reared up again and they crashed over the next wave.

  A sudden awful stink made her groan. Her face twisted with revulsion as she saw a massive clump of clinging seaweed swirling beside them. For a hideous moment, she thought they'd all be swallowed into it. Then it was gone, sucked away, leaving only a bubbling, swirling patch of water behind. The walls of the Strait pressed high on either side. It felt as if they were sailing a turbulent river.

  “Galley! Galley!” A shout rang out.

  Juliana spun round. Her mouth opened.

  A giant war galley with a rearing horse-head prow bore down on them as if it hadn’t seen them.

  Its sides were crusted with barnacles, making the vessel look like a giant sea creature as it cleared the waves. Only the crash and swish of oars gave any indication that there were people on board her.

  “Pull to Sicilia. Pull to Sicilia, pull!” the captain roared. Another voice joined in, Constantine’s. She looked around. He stood by the steering paddle, while holding an oar in the air, as if he could fend off the galley by himself. Lucius swayed near him, saying something, laughing. Juliana felt a tingle of exhilaration and then the sudden warmth of desire as she watched Constantine steady himself, his short wet tunic clinging to his body. She looked away and up at the galley.

  They were turning across the current far too slowly. It seemed certain that within moments they'd be cut in two. The long twin banks of oars dropped near them with a splash, then reared up, and smashed down nearer again as the galley changed course, as if it intended to follow them.

  “Oars in,” the captain shouted. He pulled suddenly at the steering board.

  A flood of water cascaded over them. The prow of the galley loomed over them. She could have touched it if she stood and reached up. They keeled sickeningly to one side in its bow wave. A heartbeat later the prow had gone past and the galley’s oars struck them with a clatter, sending everyone ducking. One oar broke, spinning wood into the air.

  Water rushed in as a swallowing wave but then they were upright, and the galley had passed, and they were bobbing low and drunkenly in her wake. Constantine had dropped the oar. Everyone bailed frantically now, swaying, and clinging desperately to whatever handhold they could find.

  Juliana looked at the galley as it moved ahead. A pudgy face crowned with a shiny bald head at its stern peered down dispassionately at them. She saw superiority and malevolence chiseled into his gaze before the face disappeared.

  They bailed and bailed. For a while it seemed they were getting nowhere, but then the current carried them out of the Straits and the sea became calmer and the job easier. She looked back and saw with a shudder that Mount Aetna had marked their passing with a wider, dirtier column of ash-gray smoke rolling high into the air.

  “Neptune sails with us,” one of the crewmen shouted. A desultory cheer went up.

  The captain steered them toward the rocky coast of Italia and they anchored soon after in a small bay.

  “This is the Tyrhenum Sea, the last leg of our journey,” one of the crew told her. “With this Euros wind at our back, we’ll be in Rome in days. The only thing we have to worry about now is blind galley captains. How that one didn't see us, I'll never guess.” He shook his head.

  Juliana remembered the face looking down at her from the galley. He’d almost looked disappointed.

  That night she dreamt of her birth mother. Vixana reached out to her, then drifted away. Juliana wanted to follow her, but she was already gone. She woke with cold sweat chilling her and lay awake for some time thinking of her childhood and the certainties of their life and role in the village. Everything would have been so different if the Persians hadn't come.

  They tacked in long sweeps all through that day. They passed tall limestone cliffs and the sea around them became an intense blue. Groves of dark cypress trees came close to the shore and in the distance, there were
orchards of flowering lemon trees and grand villas. As they tacked past the great bay before the fire mountain named Vesuvius, they were pursued by a storm and had to run before the wind until they found shelter in the lee of a headland. As they did so, the mast creaked noisily as if it would snap, and they lost an oar and nearly lost the steering paddle.

  Wind and rain beat down on the anchored ship for a whole day, and the heaving seas threatened, she was sure, to smash them apart. The captain laughed when he came to check on her and saw how frightened she looked.

  “This isn't a real storm,” he said. “This is only a squall.”

  She stared defiantly up at him. He laughed some more and left her in peace.

  The wind had died by the following morning and the sky was cloudless. Only the feathery touch of a light breeze ruffled the glassy blue waters of the bay. It was as if the storm had never happened. The crew rowed the ship well out past the headland, where the wind blew stronger, and they sailed on.

  It had taken twenty-one days to sail from Nicomedia. It had been a fast voyage for that time of year, she overheard an oarsman say. When they at last came within sight of the massive mole that marked the harbor at the mouth of the Tiber in the early morning, the scene of galleys and trading ships converging and departing reminded her of bees around a hive.

  “Tax collectors, captain,” the Syrian shouted, as he pointed at a skiff that appeared alongside. Two men were hauled on board. One loudly requested the names of the ship's officers and any passengers, before being rowed away. The other stood by the captain, directing him and enquiring about his cargo.

  The dock ahead had two semi-circular moles. They stretched at least half a league out to sea. “The Portus,” the Syrian whispered. Juliana hadn’t noticed him coming up beside her. She checked where his hands were. His arms were folded across his chest so she didn’t move away. He pointed at the lighthouse at the end of the longer mole, then swept his arm around. “This is the greatest harbor ever built. It is the real gateway to the capital of the world. See those storehouses.” He jabbed toward a long row of squat granite buildings. “They're full of oils, wine, corn and a hundred other goods, shipped here from every province round the Middle Sea and well beyond. I've carried many cargoes to those storehouses.”

  She stared and stared, sensing something familiar about the scene, as if she had seen it before, or in a dream.

  She listened to the other crewmen talk and, as they came closer to the dock, became fascinated with all the galleys and trading vessels maneuvering, wheeling, and turning among the cawing flocks of sea gulls. Runners in short tunics stood along the mole as they passed along it, calling out for news of their cargo or events at their home port. The captain waved them all away.

  Tiny, who'd been standing nearby, turned to her. He was drinking from a wineskin being passed around. He choked, spluttered, then recovered.

  “Lucius’ gods were with us. Let's hope the rest of our journey turns out this well.” He held the wineskin out to her.

  She shook her head. He turned and guzzled at it greedily. Someone shouted at him to pass it on. He kept drinking.

  XXVII

  Alexandria, 306 A.D.

  Helena watched as her villa burned. The flames reached as high as the lighthouse. From her vantage point, down the road toward the port, she could even hear the crowd who had set it alight. The stench of burning wood and charring mud bricks filled her nostrils.

  “Curse these heathens all to hell,” muttered Hosius.

  “How did you know they were coming for me?” She couldn’t take her eyes off the flames. Her scribe had a bag of her most valuable possessions under his arm, including her very last gold coins, and the only real silver plate items, but everything else was gone now, especially the villa itself.

  “I knew this morning. We have people everywhere. The Prefect of Alexandria has been scheming against you for weeks. You let too many Christians cross your threshold and he knows I spend time with you. He wants you gone from the city. His opportunity has come. My spies are quick when their own lives are in danger.”

  Helena looked around. Passers-by were staring at them. They had to move, but it was difficult not to keep staring. Helena sniffed. The smell of burning grew stronger with each moment. She wiped at her eyes. She couldn’t let him see how much this had affected her.

  “My ex-husband will support me. He will provide for me.”

  “But he is a long way away. The notaries say he is campaigning in Germania.”

  “Wherever he is, he will help me. And I will be a lot closer to him when I get to Rome.” Her voice cracked in places but was still strong.

  Hosius took her arm. The stola she wore was more for indoors than for the street. One of her arms lay bare.

  “We must go to my house. I can seek passage for you at the port while you wait there. My wife will give you some other clothes too.”

  She put her hand on his and moved her face toward him.

  “You will come with me to Rome, won’t you?”

  He hesitated, then laughed. “Why do you need me? My work is here.”

  What he didn’t say was that his wife would not want him to travel with her.

  “Because if you don’t come I will have no connections to the church in Rome. I need your influence there.” She dug her nails into his hand. Whatever the consequences, she had to get to Rome. “You know I will do anything for my son. That includes denouncing you to the prefect as the secret linchpin for the followers of Christ in Alexandria.” She dug her nails in harder as he struggled to free his hand.

  “I haven’t been to one of his trials by fire, but I hear they are shocking to watch.” She leaned closer. “But I am sure it is even more shocking to be one of the victims.”

  XXVII

  Portus, outside Rome, 306 A.D.

  “Would the Tribune Constantine step forward?” the centurion bellowed. “Tribune Constantine come forward at once.” His tone grew strident, shrill.

  The speaker stood to attention on the stone quay beside them. His commands were backed up by a troop of ten red-cloaked, rod-stiff Praetorian guards, their blackened leather breastplates trimmed with purple silk. Everyone within earshot stopped what they were doing and stared.

  “Who calls for him? By what authority?” Constantine moved close to the rail, as he tried to work out what this meant. Surely Severus hadn't heard of his arrival yet? He governed Italia, but he should be busy at his headquarters in Milanium. But who else would have any interest in him? He looked along the line of legionaries to see if any carried chains or leg irons that might signal he was about to be arrested.

  “We speak for Maxentius, son of Maximian.” The centurion waved his men forward. They tramped up the gangplank, making it bend, and stood to attention along the deck, their hands conspicuously on the pommels of their swords. The centurion came up to Constantine and bowed. Most of the crew were helping get the ship’s cargo, amphoras of olive oil, ready to be extracted from the hold and carried to the emporium trading hall across from the dock.

  “You are the Tribune Constantine?”

  Constantine nodded, staring at the centurion as bleakly as the man stared at him.

  “You are invited to attend Maxentius at his palace on the Via Labicana at once.”

  An invitation was certainly better than an arrest.

  “Maxentius is expecting me?” His eyebrows shot up in mock astonishment. The centurion shrugged his shoulders.

  “Wait for me ashore. It’ll take time for my people to get ready.” He waved the centurion away. For a moment, he thought the man wouldn't go. Constantine stomped to the small cabin that had been his home for the past few weeks. He threw cloaks and tunics out of his saddlebags as he picked what to wear.

  “Do you know Maxentius well?” Lucius stood at the door of the cabin, his hands on his hips, his bare arms blocking the way out.

  “I’ve met him once, Lucius. When I came to Rome for Diocletian's triumph. He was a boy then, seventeen or eigh
teen. I rebuffed an invitation from him.” He snorted. “He's got a long memory, if he's getting me back for that. He had a liking for young boys then and some other even sicker things if I remember. That’s why I didn’t meet him. I hope his tastes have changed.”

  “Not in three years they won't,” said Lucius. “If he's the Maxentius I heard about, the one passed over for advancement the same time you were, I think you'll need me with you, and Tiny, just in case.”

  Constantine pulled his travel tunic on. The brown hide was soft and well creased. The faded decorative patches near its bottom edge and on its shoulders were depictions of Hercules’ labors. Juliana had redone the stitching on the patches during the voyage. He wished they had time to visit the nearby baths.

  “Tell Tiny to get ready. And tell that Juliana to stop moping around like a homesick foal, and to get herself ready as well.” He placed a hand on Lucius' arm.

  “If Maxentius thinks I'm a threat, anything could happen. I hope he doesn't want to dump us all in the Tiber. If he tries anything we will have to fight our way out of his villa. Are you ready for that?”

  Lucius nodded. “It will be like old times.”

  Horses stood ready for them at the end of the dock. When they set off half the Praetorians rode ahead, half behind. The centurion, whose name was Rufius, rode at the front on a black charger ornamented with silvered fasteners and pendants. Juliana and Tiny rode together, directly behind Constantine and Lucius.

  A line of carts at the gates to the Portus slowed them down, but before long they were cantering along the road to Rome.

  “We will be in Rome by midday,” said Constantine.

  He held his reins tight. A strange sensation came over him, that they were still swaying, as if at sea. He felt queasy a couple of times on the ride, but the sensation subsided as they neared Rome. Mostly he wondered what Maxentius wanted with him. The man would hardly be so rash as to harm him, but there was no telling with his type.