The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  The officer bowed. “You were taken into protective custody, my lady. I have orders to ensure your safe arrival in Rome, and that you do not harm yourself on the way.”

  He snapped his fingers. Two of his men stepped forward. One had thin iron manacles in his hands. They grabbed her hands and forced them into the manacles. The manacle had a piece of iron between each hand, which meant she couldn’t put her hands together.

  “Why are you doing this? I have done nothing wrong.” She glared at the officer.

  “We were told you are subject to violent fits when adverse news is given to you.”

  She stopped moving and stared at him. His eyes were dull, unblinking, as if he’d already seen too much in his life.

  “What adverse news awaits me?”

  “Your son passed through this port ten days ago. He was heading for his father’s territories.” The officer paused.

  “What your son did not know was that there is an official order from Rome that he must not set foot in Britannia, or he’ll be subject to the punishment of death.”

  XXXIV

  Gesoriacum, northern Gaul, 306 A.D.

  In the stone palace of the governor of Gesoriacum news of the arrival of Constantine, son of the emperor of the west, spread as quickly as if a war horn had sounded from the town gatehouse. Excited whispering spread from the flagstone palace kitchen to the wooden lookout towers. Even the rats, who outnumbered every other living thing by far, knew something was happening.

  The emperor, Constantius Chlorus, Constantine’s father, was busy with matters of state, meeting his Legates and other senior officers. The meeting, in the basilica, the largest hall in the palace complex by the port, had begun to bore him. The arrival of his son at the south facing town gate, notified to him by an excited messenger, gave him the opportunity he’d been waiting for to end the meeting.

  “We will finish.” He waved dismissively at the officers around him. “We’ll come back to planning how to eradicate the Picts tomorrow.”

  “Crocus, you wait behind.” Crocus was the commander of his Alemanni cavalry, auxiliaries who followed their own customs, but were sworn to fight for Rome.

  The chandelier with fifty candles, hanging by a chain from the central wooden beam, swayed a little as the double height doors swung open and the salty wind from the sea swept in.

  The Emperor Chlorus was in his mid-fifties. His hair was gray, but still thick, his beard well cropped. His iron-gray eyes were shadowed by heavy brows. For military briefings, such as the one he’d just been conducting, he still wore his old soot-black, chain-mail shirt with the two large medallions from his most illustrious campaigns secured in position above his heart.

  From Chlorus’ wide leather legionary’s belt hung an ordinary dagger, the only weapon he ever wore these days. It signified his roots as a legionary. A purple cloak hung in drapes down his back. He was sturdy, fit for his years, and tall like his son, and he wore his prestige like a second invisible cloak. Almost everyone in the town knew that he had, against great odds, reunited the western empire since his elevation to the rank of Caesar fourteen years before. And the officers he commanded, who were filing out of the room, knew exactly how he had achieved his success.

  Crocus waited. Braziers around the oak map table they’d been standing around kept the chill from the cloak-penetrating sea breezes at bay. The gray spume-flecked channel that separated Gaul from Britannia, from which the breezes came, could be seen from two small grilled windows at the end of the room. Crocus went to warm himself by one of the braziers. The emperor joined him.

  “You hadn't much to say.”

  “You know my opinion about those officers. They make my blood run to ice. Did you not hear them? They think logic wins wars.” He rubbed at his beard. The matted hairs would not be cut until their summer campaign had ended.

  “And they all know what you think of them.”

  Crocus made a noise like an animal growling.

  “But you’re right, they are an innocent bunch, though even you must have been young once. Us two, we make the real decisions, you know that.”

  Silence flooded the hall.

  “It's your son, isn't it?” Crocus seemed very sure of himself.

  The emperor looked around, as if examining the legionary banners that hung from the walls for the first time. “Perhaps I will find him a post as a senior Tribune.”

  He paused and turned to Crocus. “I hear his experience is with cavalry. Do you have room for another officer?”

  Crocus’ expression didn’t change.

  He knows the art of hiding his real feelings.

  “Whatever you wish, my lord. I am sure he’s won many laurels. You must be proud of him. The stories in the taverns about him get more incredible every night.” Crocus passed a hand over the warm coals, as if testing how hot they were.

  “If half what they say is true, he's the type who’ll be looking for a good post.” Crocus sniffed. “But I'm not sure if our cavalry unit is big enough for his aspirations. He's the right age to lead a whole legion, isn't he? The younger the better, I always say.” He looked at the emperor, a slightly quizzical expression on his face.

  He knows how I resent getting old.

  “He’s the right age, all right,” Chlorus answered. He put a hand over the coals to test their warmth as well. “But he’s been away a long time. I once thought we might never see him again. And do you know, I have no idea why Galerius released him. That toad never acts unless there’s something in it for him.”

  “I have no idea what he wants.”

  “Neither do I. That’s the problem.”

  He looked around, checking to ensure no one else had remained in the hall without them noticing. There was no one to be seen. The heavy studded doors had been closed from the outside by his imperial guards, and the long hall was quiet except for a faint crackling from the braziers. Thin lines of smoke curled up from them to disappear high among the blackened rafters.

  “May I speak openly?”

  “Yes, speak your mind.”

  Both Crocus’ hands were testing the heat of the brazier now.

  “Five years we've fought together, my lord. We threw back many tribes until the rivers ran red with blood. I won my place at your right hand through my skill in battle, and in leading my men to victory, but I hold my place now through my wit in understanding the men around me. Is that not so?” He waited for the emperor to reply.

  “It is.”

  “Well, I must tell you this. Every spring my daughter asks why I must go away and fight for you Romans again, and every year I tell her we are accumulating booty and fighting to secure the peace of a great empire and our place in it.” He stood up even straighter and pushed his chest out.

  “But every year the booty gets smaller, and as for peace, it’s as far away as ever. These Picts.” He spat the word out. “What gold will they have? A few torcs and bracelets that when melted down won't even pay my men for a month's fighting. We need rich cities to plunder, emperor. How else can we get ready for when our axe hands grow weak and our daughters look for dowries?”

  The emperor’s eyebrow rose slightly. “Tell your daughter we have plans for another ten years of campaigns. After Caledonia we will take Hibernia and then . . .” He waited, weighing the effect his words were having. “The forests of the Franks. There’ll be little gold, I know, in all of this, but there’ll be land we can farm, and tribespeople for our slave trade. We will allocate these new lands to all who fight with us when the task is done, and I promise you, your tribe will be granted enough to easily pay the dowries of a hundred daughters.”

  Crocus shrugged indifferently.

  “There are many risks to every plan, emperor. You know this. The greatest threats arise around our own camp fires, even from our own hearths.” His hands went out, palm up, in a gesture of finality.

  “You cannot think Constantine is a threat already!” The emperor laughed. He’d thought about it, but he wouldn't give Crocus t
he satisfaction of knowing any of his fears.

  “Not a threat.” Crocus replied. “But you must know if we give him a senior position in the cavalry he’ll quickly earn the loyalty of his men. You know that. Even if he’s half as good as they say, he'll get respect for who he is, for being your son. And then he’ll want more. And he'll have some of our best as his blood brothers then. Who knows what he’ll aspire to. Do you?”

  “So how do you suggest I deal with him, Crocus? Remember he's not Hannibal arriving at our gates with his elephants.”

  How far did Crocus think he should go?

  “When a son comes of age for position in our tribe, emperor, he either fights his father, submits to his father's every wish, or he is banished.” His tone dropped. “And do you know which is the most difficult way for a father? Winning.” He pointed a finger at the emperor. “Being the victor if the fighting path is chosen. Sacrificing a son is not easy, but the price of power was always high.”

  The emperor didn’t reply. His silence hung in the room.

  “All I say is that you must consider what even the dogs know, the cubs of the strongest want themselves to be the strongest. It is only natural. Your son will pick his path, if you do not pick it for him.” Crocus braced himself on the flagstone floor, his feet shifting wider. “If you need services from me, any service at all, I am your loyal servant.” He bowed his head slightly.

  The emperor knew at once what he was referring to. Crocus had arranged for two disaffected officers to disappear in the past twelve months and he dealt with local disaffection quickly. All that made him useful.

  “I know what the dogs know, but I am no Agamemnon. No sacrifice has been demanded of me. If there’s no room for him in your cavalry, I’ll not force him on you. Go now, fetch him here. Fetch Constantine, I will greet him publicly.”

  Crocus saluted, turned and strode away.

  The emperor stared into the glowing embers of the brazier. Was Crocus right? Would Constantine be a danger, not a support? No, he had to give his son a chance.

  Bloody Alemanni succession rituals. They are not the Roman way. Constantine had survived the east. He deserved a place with his father. He remembered the tall adoring youth he'd sent away, against every familial feeling, to Diocletian's palace many years before. Now he should make amends.

  No. That would only make his son soft. He remembered his long ago promises. You have nothing to fear. That was all lies. So, did he still feel guilty? Was that why he was so wound up by his son’s arrival? Did he bring back too many memories of his mother? The dismal Helena.

  He’d have to make provision for her now.

  She could move back to Treveris, now that he'd vacated the city. He would notify her. But would she want to come and visit Constantine? That would be interesting, especially if Theodora got to hear about it.

  Old wives and new rarely got on well in imperial circles.

  As he walked down the flagstone corridor lined with small busts of the great emperors, the aching pain in his stomach returned. Cursing the sickness that had reduced his nights to sleeplessness and dull pain, he held the palm of his hand firm against the pit of his stomach.

  Prepare for everything.

  That was what Diocletian always used to say, whenever he’d been asked for advice.

  And he’d almost decided what to do about Constantine. He just needed answers to a few questions. Why had Galerius released Constantine at this time? Was his allegiance being tested again?

  The ache in his stomach felt worse as he considered it all.

  For years, he'd imagined helping his son when he returned, and now that time had arrived, the idea suddenly seemed unwise. Why was that? He’d striven hard not to spoil the boy. Had he gone too far?

  He stopped, leaned a hand against the red brick wall, sniffed. He could smell salt. Salt and damp. Decay tainted every crevice in this place. It was even in the plaster. It never survived too long on this coast. He rubbed the wall. A small crimson coated piece crumbled into his hand. He examined it, looked at its perfect shiny skin and then its fragile powdery underside.

  Why was everything so flimsy, so fleeting, every shiny victory so soon forgotten, every pleasure gone so soon after the moment it was felt, while all around the wolves stalked, waiting for their opportunity?

  He'd fought his way up only to find his greatest task now was to thwart others who tried to follow his example. Powdery ash trickled through his fingers, drifting to the foot polished floor.

  Everything would be different now that his son had arrived. He’d known that, felt it instinctively, since he’d first heard Constantine was coming. But did that mean Constantine would be the wolf? How would he know?

  The last piece of the plaster crumbled through his fingers and fell to the floor.

  XXXV

  Gesoriacum, northern Gaul, 306 A.D.

  The stone walled traveler’s rest room inside the south gate was cold, despite the spring sunshine outside. The busy sounds of the town, clanging from the swordsmiths, shouts from traders and the neighing of horses came to Constantine clearly, and after the many days of near silence on the road they added to the anticipation and excitement growing inside him. They wouldn't keep him much longer, he was sure of that. They couldn’t. His father could not. Almost every clatter of hooves made him start in expectation.

  A rumor must have gone around that the son of the emperor had arrived. Legionaries and officers peered into the room whenever they passed. He thought about closing the flimsy wooden door but decided against it. He wanted to see everything that happened in the cobbled yard, and anyway these troops were his father’s, they would want to know about him.

  And all the clean-tunicked officials that passed by would follow every word of everything that happened to his family. He would be at the center of a thousand gossipy conversations that day. He breathed deep and with pleasure. This would be his world too.

  He gave out new duties to Tiny and Juliana as they waited. Tiny was to check their horses’ feeding and exercise routines and was to make sure any new ones they were allocated were given suitable stables.

  As for Juliana, she was to find the kitchens and make sure the food served them was what he and Lucius liked. “You should know all about that by now,” he said. Sybellina looked at him as if she was surprised he still trusted Juliana. He looked away.

  “And tell the chefs I never eat boiled sausage. I always hated it. If they ever serve it to me, I’ll stick it up their shit hole with the point of my dagger. That should convince them.” He laughed.

  They waited some more. Sybellina rummaged through her bags and pulled out her green cloak, the one with the gold embroidered edges. Then she pulled out an ointment and dabbed some onto her cheeks.

  “You look better without all that stuff,” he said. She's about to lose her chance for me, he thought. She knows she’ll be on her way back to Rome soon. He felt glad he hadn’t asked whether her goddess had changed her mind during their ride from Massilia. She didn’t expect I’d be able to resist her. Now she’ll have to come after me if she wants me. Sybellina was smoothing her cloak and picking fluff from it in the light by the doorway.

  She turned toward him. “If only everyone was like you, Constantine.” She paused, looked at him, then turned back to her task with a sigh. “I was thinking, now you'll have all the slaves you need, would you pass Juliana on to me, to help with stupid tasks like this.” She picked at her cloak in sudden and obvious frustration. “You will name your price.”

  Juliana was sitting on the floor by the doorway. She looked up, wide-eyed, when her name was mentioned.

  Sybellina's tone was petulant when she continued. “What will the emperor think of me if I arrive like this?” She started rubbing at a stain on her cloak, trying to remove it with spittle.

  “Ask Lucius,” said Constantine. “Juliana belongs to him, not me.” He turned to Lucius who was sitting near him on the wooden bench that ran across the back of the room. Lucius’ eyebrows were raise
d. He shook his head in mock disbelief.

  “I would have thought Tiny would be a better pick for you, Sybellina. He seems to be your devoted bodyguard these days, so much so I believe he drank a love potion,” said Constantine.

  Tiny, who was sitting on the floor in a corner, looked intently at the red tiled floor. He blushed a little when his name was mentioned.

  “Neither Tiny nor Juliana are for sale,” said Lucius, flatly.

  Sybellina sniffed. Juliana went to her, took the cloak and began picking at it.

  “Stupid ugly pig!” Sybellina slapped Juliana hard across the cheek.

  Juliana spun back and fell to her knees, clutching at her face. A trickle of blood ran down her cheek. One of Sybellina's rings had cut her. She cowered away from Sybellina, whose hand was raised again.

  “Never beat a slave that doesn't belong to you,” said Constantine. He had moved quickly and now held Sybellina's wrist, turning her toward him as he twisted it.

  “You like your clumsy little bed warmer, do you?” said Sybellina, as she faced up to him. She stuck out her tongue and with her free hand cupped his testicles through his loose woolen tunic. No one had dared do that since he'd been in that high-class brothel in Alexandria. She squeezed, then pulled her hand away. No one else had seen what she'd done, they were standing so close together. “You’re bigger than I thought,” she whispered. She tried to pull her arm away. He held her tight. She leant toward him, teasing him.

  “Do you know how much this cloak cost? I could buy two stupid Juliana's for the price of it. Release me or never touch me again.” She was like a pampered child, the type who relishes making other people’s lives unbearable.

  Juliana had moved to the far corner of the room.

  Constantine laughed as if Sybellina’s threat amused him. He pushed her away roughly. Sybellina swirled her hair around her as she turned from him like an overconfident whore.

  He had an urge to slap her ass until she begged for mercy.

  Suddenly from outside, commands sounded. A troop of legionaries was being called to attention.