The Circus arena for the chariot races had been constructed outside the town walls. It was a small circuit, compared to some he'd raced, even the temporary arenas his legion had built outside their forts, but it had the familiar wooden spine down its center, wooden tiers of seats along each side, and gates at the top end from which the chariots would hurtle at the start of each race.
Two days later the festivities began with the slaughtering of a bull in front of the Temple of Ceres near the forum in the town. A procession, headed up by a statue of the bountiful Ceres, held aloft by scantily clad maidens, was followed by trumpeters and chanting, shaven-headed priests. It wound its way to the Circus, where the charioteers were blessed and the matae, the turning posts, were anointed with the pouring of oil.
It was customary for the emperor to wait for the seats around the track to be filled before entering his box under the flapping purple awning. At the Circus Maximus in Rome statues of the gods were arrayed below the imperial box, but here carved local sea gods sufficed.
Constantine went to help with last-minute grooming in the marshalling area. He was there when he heard the trumpeters announce the arrival of the emperor. Like the sound of a great animal stirring, everyone in the arena stood and with one voice cheered and whooped. A bitter sea breeze made the hairs on his arms bristle as he and a groom pushed their way through the commotion of horses and handlers to the gates.
“Hail, Caesar Augustus, our beloved Emperor Flavius Chlorus,” the heralds roared.
They were answered with a great cheer. The center gate from the marshalling yard was opened and to a tumult of roars and cheers the charioteers marched around the arena in three rows, their sandals kicking up the sand.
They were all blessed with oil flowing, this time in front of the emperor's box by a wiry priest. Each charioteer basked in the cheers of the crowd, as if each roar was for him alone. Young women blew kisses, pulled open their tunics to expose their breasts and waved invitingly at the charioteers as the priest chanted. It took an effort for Constantine to keep his expression stern as the blessing finished to laughter and roars.
The day’s events began with a young recruits’ race. That was followed by a race for the local tribes. He could tell from the expectant faces in the tiers of seats that many of the legionaries had gambled every denarii on these races.
As he observed the crowd through a gap in the wooden gates he saw Sybellina arriving in the imperial box like a goddess, her hair swathed in a golden veil, which sparkled as it fell over the thick folds of her green cloak. There was an ‘ooh’ from the crowd. His eyes narrowed. Sybellina acknowledged it all with a bow to the emperor, then another to the spectators, which revealed most of her breasts. They roared. They loved it.
He’d been wondering when she’d arrive. A priestess from Rome would give the proceedings glamour. She’d probably acknowledge him in front of the crowd too. He’d barely seen her in the last few days, but almost against his will he’d been looking out for her. But what he saw that day stunned him. She sat at his father’s feet and looked around, as if she was his favorite concubine.
She looked ridiculous.
He went to finish his preparations in the marshalling area. Everything had to be checked, then checked again. But his mind was wandering. His father couldn’t be with her. He couldn’t. It was all just a show. He tightened a strap too tight, then had to loosen it again.
He had to win, or at least do well. Everything was in the balance now. If he showed courage he'd be respected. He licked his lips. There was sand on them.
Unable to resist, he went back to the gates. She was still there by his father, but she was leaning away from him, talking with an officer. The excitement around the stadium was infectious. The cheering lifted his spirits. He looked through a gap in the wall, raised his fist and roared the lead chariot on in the race that had just started.
The crowd groaned as a local son tumbled, smashing head first into a wall near him, marking it with blood. Slaves rushed out to retrieve the body. Pale bone poked out from the charioteer’s neck. Blood dripped. A roar went up. The race had been won by the greens, to hoots of derision from the crowd. The bubble of excitement expanded around him as he fought his way back to his chariot. Charioteers were shouting at grooms, grooms were roaring at slaves, slaves ran about as if the ground was a fire under their feet.
Then the trumpeters blew to announce the main race. He stepped onto the springy wooden platform of his chariot. In his mind, he saw himself winning, receiving the laurel from his father to the acclaim of the crowds. Sybellina was blowing him a kiss. His father would know he shouldn't send him to Treveris. He would know his worth. He would keep him by his side.
Constantine gripped the soft leather rim of his chariot and waited for his horses to be led forward. Sand churned around them as the chariots and horses were positioned in the starting gates.
They were ready. He licked his lips. Sweat trickled down his nose. He wiped it away quickly. He could smell sweat and blood and shit and fear.
The horses shuddered, responding to the baying crowd. Get out of the gate fast. That was what the stablemaster had said. It was what every stablemaster said.
The spectators came to their feet. Only one thing held the chariots back now; an arm-thick chalked rope.
This would be the first time most of the crowd would see their emperor’s son.
A winner’s name was never easy to earn.
He pulled at the strap holding his leather helmet tight under his chin, then leaned back, balancing his weight over the single axle, pulling the reins of his two shivering horses, ready to release them.
A trumpet blew. A high note.
The race was about to begin. The crowd hushed. The cries of seagulls echoed in the sudden silence.
The reins were wrapped around his fists now, so he could use his bodyweight. He pulled lightly at them. His horses neighed, straining to move. He looked along the line. His opponents stared straight ahead. They would give nothing.
The horses pawed the ground, each set feeding off the excitement of the next. A tremble passed through the reins.
Focus on the rope.
As soon as the cloth fell from his father's hand, the rope would be lifted.
It twitched. It twitched again. The crowd roared.
“Purple!”
The gate opened. He flicked the reins. The chariot jumped under him, almost throwing him. He gripped the reins tighter, spread his legs, remembering what his first chariot master had told him. He leaned sideways as the dust from the chariot in front flew into his face. He could smell salt and taste it on his lips. The boards under him rattled like angry snakes as the chariot flew forward.
The race was a blur from that moment on. At every turn it seemed as if he would fall and his chariot be upended, as he fought, cracking his whip on and on to drive his horses forward. He felt the flick of a whip across his shoulders as a man behind tried to unseat him. Then the whip hit his shoulder. He shrugged it away. He wouldn’t be unseated so easily.
There was only one chariot ahead. The crowd roared. The last lap loomed. The dolphin lap counter at the turn showed clearly that he had to make his move now. The chariot ahead was close enough that he could hear the urgings of the driver, see him look back, his face drawn, muscles in his neck tight like ropes.
And he saw his chance. He could go inside. He jerked the reins, pulling them hard to the left. A huge spurt of sand rose in the air as the chariot wheels creaked, then bounced high unsettling his feet and sending him crashing into the wicker side of the chariot.
One hand instinctively went to the rim. The chariot bounced again, this time onto the other wheel, which creaked loudly. Ahead there was only the winning post. A roar filled his ears, “Purple, purple,” as his horses put their ears back. One of them turned its head. Its eyes were wide, rolling. He cracked his whip over it.
XL
Gesoriacum, Northern Gaul, 306 A.D.
“You are my slave, not his
, Juliana,” said Lucius.
“But if he wants you, I'll not refuse him, and when he grows tired of you, you can always run back to me. Maybe then you’ll be more willing.” He winked at her. She looked down at his feet. How big they looked in his military sandals.
“I'll be with Crocus’ cavalry from tomorrow. I have a riding tunic that’ll need cleaning every day, but when that's done, and properly mind, you can serve Constantine. I'm sure you’ll have no problem with that.” He made a pleased face at her.
Juliana nodded, keeping her expression as blank as possible as Lucius walked away. What concerned her most was that she'd heard they would sail to Britannia soon. The thought of travelling to the land of her father filled her with anticipation, which made her wish each day and every duty would pass quickly.
Constantine was recovering from his injuries, a gash on his thigh and a badly grazed shoulder, sustained after his chariot tipped over just beyond the winning post, after winning the race, and she was sure Sybellina was using the opportunity to employ charms and spells to enchant him. Juliana attended his room as often as she could. Fortunately, Sybellina said nothing about her conscientious cleaning routine, though she did not see her spreading salt on the floor to disturb any spells set in Constantine’s room.
The cleaning regime was necessary, as far as Juliana was concerned, because Sybellina's scent hung sickeningly in the air for an unnaturally long period after she'd departed from her visits to Constantine. Juliana had not yet found any charms hidden in his room though, but she knew she needed her own powerful charm to protect him properly from Sybellina’s spells.
Back in Bithynia Juliana was well used to creating charms, talismans of hope, for other slaves on the estate. They had worked too, usually in matters of love that were not about Juliana herself. Self-directed charms were always the hardest to get right.
In this case, with Constantine, she needed a charm that would have a high probability of working. He could not become Sybellina’s plaything. She was a dark witch who could only harm him. Adding other spells to Juliana’s own would give him a chance to fend off Sybellina’s magic. And those extra spells would have to be bought.
But she had no money, and she didn't dare steal. So, she would be patient. Her chance would come. Constantine was not finished in his dealings with her. And Sybellina's guard would fall, her watchfulness dim. It was only a matter of time.
Some nights Juliana dreamt she was administering to Constantine’s wounds, as she'd spied Sybellina doing. He was lying naked before her, as he did for Sybellina. She was rubbing soothing oils into his body. All over.
She woke after those dreams in a sweat, her nipples erect, a tingling heat flowing between her legs. And when she was finished touching herself, she prayed no one had heard her, and wondered what effect Constantine was having on her, that even she didn’t fully understand.
She felt an echo of the same heat whenever she was near him now, and she enjoyed it, enjoyed circling him, cleaning his room, helping him in any way he wished. She had tried taking on Sybellina's airs too, the way she held herself, upright, like a stiff flower, and the way she spoke, clear, but with a glow of enthusiasm, but he never noticed, or at least he didn’t say anything about it if he did.
During each day, aside from looking after Constantine and her other duties, she also helped check supplies for the imperial household, which were being counted before their departure. Tiny was helping move these supplies to the galleys tied up at the dock. Most of the fleet however, the legionaries transport galleys, were pulled up along nearby beaches. Some were anchored a little offshore.
To her it was an incredible sight every time she went to the dock. All those ships. All that activity. Each person intent on their task. It felt strange to be a part of it.
A portent of change to add to all the others came to her one afternoon when she visited the docks to give Tiny a message. Flocks of seagulls were moving constantly about the sky. She looked at the gulls, closed her eyes, reached toward them with her mind, warning them that their easy pickings would be gone soon.
When she opened her eyes again the gulls were descending on the dock as one, sweeping down, scavenging between the legs of the men carrying sacks of grain. Among the men they were targeting was Tiny. They had found him for her.
Most evenings that week Juliana and Tiny met in the basement of the main hall in the palace, further along the corridor from the narrow individual cells set into the walls where the slaves slept. She was still wary of him and had no intention of being drawn in by his stupid attempts at friendship.
As they ate the leftovers that served as their final meal each day she usually simply nodded or gave a quick answer if he asked her anything. He told her often he’d forgiven her and asked her repeatedly why she hadn’t forgiven him.
Sybellina addressed her in a reasonable manner now too, as if nothing had ever happened between them. This made Juliana more nervous than anything else. Could her refusal to give Sybellina what she wanted have been so easily forgotten?
On the morning of the day before their departure, as Juliana was crossing the kitchen courtyard, Tiny beckoned her to him from the corner by the slops bucket. She wondered at once if she should scream, but he looked distraught, with his hands held out, so she walked hesitantly toward him.
“Please, Juliana.”
She looked behind her. There were slaves in the kitchen who would come running if she screamed.
“What?”
“It’s Sybellina,” he whispered. Then he looked around, as if he thought someone might be listening. A cloud passed in front of the sun and the courtyard fell into shadow. Juliana’s mood darkened. She raised her eyebrows.
“Please help me, Juliana. Tell me what to do. I swore to. . . She is. . .” He stopped, looked down, composed himself, then more words rushed out of him. “I can only serve her if I keep my promise. She says I will be cleansed, fit to help her. I don't know what to do.” He looked distraught, his face scrunched up, as if he was struggling with some awful burden.
“You can refuse her,” she replied.
“But she itches at me, like a worm inside. I cannot sleep. Is this a spell? Please, Juliana.”
“Has she given you potions to drink?”
“Yes, vile liquids.”
“Refuse them from this moment, if you wish to be free of her.”
“But she tells me she will purchase me from Lucius.” He looked at her, his eyes pleading. He wanted reassurance, and more, which she wouldn't give. His mouth was working, as if he wanted to say something else, but couldn’t get it out.
“Tiny, listen to me. Sybellina is dangerous. Do not go near her again. Do not trust her. Now I must go.”
His mouth was open, as if there was more he wanted to say, but it was too awful to speak about.
“What are you not saying?” She leaned toward him.
“She…” He stopped.
“Tell me.”
He was shaking. She put her hand on his. He relaxed, slumped a little.
“She cut me. She collected the blood in a bowl.” He shuddered. “She made a sign over it. Then drank it.”
“Show me.”
He held his arms out. There was a bloody scab half way between his elbow and wrist.
“She said not to tell anyone.”
She held his hands tight. Then she stepped back from him. This was the lot of slaves. They had to accept everything and anything. She'd heard of things like this before, involving male and female slaves doing things to secure a position with an adored mistress or master. Some slave girls painted their bodies, others had to submit to whips and the cutting out of tongues or even being blinded if they’d broken some rule.
Often cruelties happened just for the sake of it, because their owners could do whatever they wanted with no consequences, even unto the death of the slave.
Juliana gripped his shoulder, then went away. She felt sad for him, but also relief and then guilt. Sybellina had moved on. She was foc
using on Tiny. Perhaps now she would get her chance with Constantine.
That night she was woken by shouts and running. Slaves peered from their cells to see what was happening. Screaming pierced the air. Agonized screaming. The voice seemed familiar. Juliana followed as a rush of slaves poured through the kitchen.
In the courtyard, under the light of a full moon, surrounded by slaves, lay Tiny. Juliana’s eyes went wide, then wider again, as she took in the scene. Dark blood flowed over the rough ochre tiles, spreading out beneath him. An icy cold hand gripped her heart.
She'd seen two slaves who’d hung themselves, still dangling from a tree, and others brought back dead after fighting with villa guards, but she’d not seen a slave who’d castrated himself, and her vision from tales of such events, about slaves who’d been induced to do it in a ritual to some goddess, had been nothing like this.
Blood was oozing, gleaming. Tiny looked like a half-butchered animal. And still the blood flowed. And he was bellowing again, like a speared pig, and panting, as if he'd been chased by dogs. Moments later, guards with shiny breastplates shoved past, ordering everyone away.
Juliana tried to step forward to help but was elbowed viciously by another slave. Her last glimpse, before the guards surrounded him, was of Tiny's hands curled in the air grotesquely, his face as ashen as the moon, contorted in a pained rictus.
Juliana pushed through the crowd. She had to tell Lucius.
Someone she passed said, “The stupid ox will be dead soon, he's done it all wrong.”
A woman laughed. Then abruptly the bellowing stopped, and all the crowd’s mutterings died away. Even the guards became silent. There was a cough. Then a long gurgle.
Her stomach heaved. Her hands shook. Her legs wanted to buckle. Blame might fall on her.
The Sign of The Blood Page 27