Her foster mother had warned her about what happened many, many times. “If you don't have to be a whore, don't, please god, don’t.”
She was looking forward to being alone. She had a lot to think about. She opened the door of her room. Someone had lit the oil lamp and left a covered jug of water and an extra patterned woolen blanket on her bed. It should have felt good, how the masters must feel every night, with people looking after them, but it didn’t.
The beggar’s words were going around in her head. She lay down. The Great Mother needed blood for her spells to work. Could it be true?
She remembered what she'd heard at Massilia, how dangerous Sybellina could be. What had happened to Tiny proved that Sybellina was capable of anything. And she’d snared Constantine's heart with a spell. That would have taken powerful magic. Magic born from blood.
She closed her eyes. If Sybellina hadn’t travelled with them things would be so different. She remembered Constantine's disappointed face after Sybellina had left their table to join his father. Anger tightened inside her. Why would he care so quickly about Sybellina? She was a bony fingered witch and ugly too, in her pale face creams and tied up hair. Why did he not see it?
It had to be because of a spell.
Soon it would be too late. Juliana had to face that. A voice inside said no, she couldn’t interfere, she was only a slave, she had to accept it all, not gamble with her life. That she could do nothing against her masters. That way led to the tortures laid down for unruly slaves, and certain death. She had to accept it. She was a slave.
But what Tiresias had said meant she could be more than a slave, and that meant she had to do something she’d feared she might have to do since Massilia. For as long as she could remember she’d pretended not to care about being a slave, but the thought of Constantine with Sybellina made her fate so totally unjust. She was better than a slave, that was what Tiresias had said, wasn’t it?
Juliana had nothing physical to remind her of her mother, but she remembered how she’d been so proud that their family had never been slaves. They had never been tallied among those whose offspring, being blinded from a young age, ground millstones endlessly, or worked inside villas and were not even allowed to speak.
Round and round her thoughts went. Would she ever be free again? What would it be like? For a while she tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. It felt as if she was in a cave, her room was so big. Her cheeks ached, as if she’d been crying. She remembered things she’d heard about the power of evil, and how spirits fought inside you.
When all sounds in the villa had died away and only the distant howling of hungry dogs could be heard, she got up. Wrapping her cloak around her, she made her way out into the courtyard. The faces of the statues around its edges seemed to be frowning, disapproving of her mission.
The waning moon lit Sybellina's door brightly. A finger-sized curse tablet lay against its bottom edge. She bent down. On it there was a depiction of Erinye, the snake-headed spirit who pursued unpunished criminals. It was a warning, a marker to warn spirits to stay out, but it also confirmed that whoever slept here had not yet returned.
She put it to one side and creaked open the wooden door. A fluttering night lamp lit the room, flickering as if it might go out from the breeze Juliana had created by opening the door. She held her breath. She hadn’t brought a lamp. She didn’t want to be seen. Shadows jumped across the walls. A sweet odor of musk made her want to sneeze. Laughter tinkled distantly. She tensed. Every instinct begged her to run, not to take such risks, to remember how she would be punished if caught. She looked over her shoulder. The courtyard was empty, waiting.
She quietened her breath. Waited some more. The only sound she could hear was a distant shout from somewhere else in the city. This was her chance. She stepped forward.
Eyes seemed to be watching her from the shadows, aghast, as she crossed to the low table in the far corner of the room. The words of a Persian curse came to her - thieves never get what they expect. Her mouth fell open. On the table standing proud was a huge engorged black phallus, a bull's phallus. At its end a jeweled scarab glistened. Beside it there were two pale marble cosmetic pots and a large heart-shaped silver box.
Behind the phallus stood a green marble container carved into the shape of a grasshopper.
She'd heard that love potions could be made from grasshoppers. She reached for the lid, almost touched the phallus as she did, lifted the lid quickly, then closed it again fast with a loud and disconcerting click. Her hand shook as she pulled it away. The smell of decay, a rotting vapor, had seeped from the dark tangle inside the marble container. She rubbed her hands against her tunic and reached for the silver heart-shaped box.
A loud creaking noise sounded from the courtyard. She turned. Through the half-open doorway she glimpsed a light moving.
She ran to the door noiselessly on her toes, closed it, then stood with her back against the wall, her blood pumping in her neck. Footsteps echoed. They were coming toward the door.
It would open in a moment. She closed her eyes. If Sybellina came into the room all she could do was run past her, throw herself at once at Constantine's feet. If she told him what she'd heard at Massilia he might protect her, he might understand. He was her only hope now.
XLIV
Londinium, Southern Britannia, 306 A.D.
At the feast, most of the guests were long gone, but the emperor was still deep in conversation. It was the first time all evening he'd had Sybellina to himself.
“You ask me about blood ties,” he said. He took a sip from his goblet. His wine had been diluted until it was almost water. It was the way he liked it.
“You should know they mean less to me than to most people. I fought my way up day by day. I had no father to help me. No family to help me up. I have proved that it can be done.” He looked at her and grinned.
“But you are a force with the power of a god. Few have what you do, lord,” replied Sybellina.
“Did you hear that funny little man offering to build a temple to me?” He shook his head, bemused.
She shook her head.
“Not until I'm dead, I told him. They soon lose heart, you know, when they realize they'll get no reward from me on this side of death. He said Londinium has started collecting for a victory arch already, before the campaign has even properly started. Were you here when he said that? His eyes were bulging. Or was that before I rescued you from Constantine?”
Sybellina looked serious. “The campaign is important to a lot of people, my lord. They will want to commemorate it after your victory.”
“You are right, I suppose. This will bind Caledonia into the peace of the empire at last. My predecessor Severus had a good plan, but I will make it happen.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“I will have my triumph in Rome. I will be the emperor who achieved what eluded all others. Our victory will change everything for this island. We’ll be rid of those Picts, or whatever they call themselves, once and for all. We’ll unify all these islands after that. We will totally eradicate any tribe that stands against us. It will be a good example to all the stupid painted barbarians on our borders in Germania.”
“Will Constantine help you?” she asked sweetly.
He squinted, as if he wanted to examine her before replying. “I'll tell you a little secret.” He looked around. Only a few revelers remained at each table. There was no one else at theirs. “I want to test him first.”
She looked suitably shocked.
“I cannot put him with the forward troops. If he died in battle the Picts would claim a great victory, proof of their Druidic powers. I cannot allow any possibility of that happening. If he accepts the duties I've offered him he'll learn the things that will be most important in this empire when my work is done, the duties of peacetime, the duties of administration.”
Sybellina looked at him for what seemed like ages. He stared back. He was right in his decision about Constantine. Every time he saw Constantine
, he knew his son needed to prove his loyalty more than anything else, for his own sake as much as anything. He’d avoided the whole issue while Constantine was in the east. Diocletian had been insistent before he’d retired that he was right to overlook Constantine for elevation to a senior position. He’d been right too. Constantine wasn’t suitable for elevation as his successor. The campaign reports Diocletian had shown him in Rome were impossible to argue with. Theodora had been pressing him about Delmatius, the son they’d made together, who was a far more likely candidate to be his heir than Constantine, so she kept saying, even if Delmatius was still only a child. But she did have a point.
When Delmatius grew up he would not be tainted by failed campaigns in the east. Constantine would have to learn to accept his assigned role. If he didn’t he would have to die. One way or another. It had to be that simple. He’d hardened his heart a long time ago to the reality that Constantine’s life hung by a thread, never mind the fact that Theodora kept adding, in her inimitable nagging voice, that sons could be as dangerous as a worst enemy.
Sybellina reached over and touched his hand, then withdrew it quickly. “I see your great qualities in him, my lord, your vitality, your courage.” She stretched out her hand again, touched his cheek, and rubbed a finger slowly across to his lips. “But more importantly, when will I pass my test with you?”
He stared at her. He was well used to beautiful women. But this one was different. She'd recited whole sections from a play by Euripides, one of his old favorites, when the talk at the table had turned to Agamemnon waiting for a wind, as he had before the start of his campaign. He’d even wondered if someone had told her his reading habits.
Then she'd engaged the governor, a corpulent Prefect and a sour looking Legate in a debate about what was the most effective sacrifice to placate the gods.
“Scapegoats will always be needed,” she'd said. The Legate had claimed sacrifices were used simply to placate the superstitious.
“Sacrifice a scapegoat. Their suffering releases our guilt,” she'd said. She'd looked at him then. Had she meant something by that comment? He still wasn't sure.
“Agamemnon sacrificed for his arrogance. A good scapegoat is a good distraction. It allows us to start anew.” She'd laughed then, when she'd seen the serious faces all around her. Then she'd turned to him and raised her goblet.
“We are lucky to have such a wise emperor. A man who understands the need for scapegoats.” They'd all toasted him then.
She'd enthralled everyone at the table. They all either wanted her or were afraid of her. He rarely stayed to the end of a feast anymore, but he felt a lot better in the past few days. He'd tested the medicine she'd given him on one of his hunting dogs of course, and when the dog had suffered no ill effects, he’d tried it on himself. The pain in his side had diminished. Most days now it was gone. It was time to invite her to his rooms. He’d been right not to send her back to Rome. They had enough priestesses there.
He enjoyed the scent that filled the air around her as they crossed the torch-lit courtyard. At the feast he’d felt the heat from her body beside him, like the heat of a roaring fire.
The head of his household slaves, an old man with a bald head, opened the doors to his quarters and bowed. All the other slaves were shooed away. Only this one would stay, just out of view, ready to serve him should the need arise. His private courtyard was aglow with torches. Plumply cushioned wooden seats under a flowering jasmine entwined trellis invited them to sit. The emperor touched Sybellina’s arm, guiding her. A gold wine jug and tall green glasses awaited them on a veined marble table. The old slave came forward bowing low, poured two glasses and then disappeared.
“You look like a goddess tonight, Sybellina.” He kissed her hand.
“Your attention is flattering, lord.” She leant toward him, her gown opening, exposing the top of her breasts.
“Aaah, the uncomplicated ambitions of youth.” He kissed her hand again, admired her silken skin.
She leaned forward a little more. Her robe slipped open some more. Her breasts dangled firm in front of her, gold powdered nipples sparkling in the torchlight.
His eyes widened.
She stood, let her robe slip away.
He noticed with a thrill of pleasure that all her body hair had been shaved or plucked away. That was a task he would enjoy.
She knelt, bent slowly forward until her forehead touched the tiles underfoot, long legs spread out behind her. Her naked buttocks were high in the air. She looked up at him.
“How may I serve you, my lord?”
XLV
Londinium, Southern Britannia, 306 A.D.
Constantine visited the villa's bathhouse the following morning. The hot room was as hot as Vesuvius. Valerius and Lucius were in the warm room, enjoying the pleasures of a bath house breakfast. Slave girls, barely dressed, hurried about, fretting over their every need, serving hard bread, hard cheeses, walnuts, boiled eggs and sweet unfermented grape juice, while they sat naked by the edge of a mosaic lined pool. Each had a different girl expertly kneading his shoulders, whispering in his ear. Constantine left the hot room and joined them.
“Did someone tell you there’ll be games this afternoon, in honor of your father?” said Valerius. “You'll get to see our famous female gladiators.” He stroked the hand of the slave girl massaging his shoulders. “The animal fights have started already. But we're not expected until this afternoon. If you don't mind, I'm off to test this new slave girl.” He stepped out of the water, his erection clearly visible. He pulled the stone faced girl after him.
They stayed beyond midday in the bathhouse. Lucius enjoyed one of the bath house girls, twice. Valerius expressed amazement that Constantine didn't want to taste their pleasures.
“Are my slaves not good enough for you?” he asked, sliding back into the pool. His eyes narrowed. “Or are you dreaming of another?” He paused, laughed.
“You are, yes. I see it in your eyes. It's not that priestess, I hope. You were staring at her half the night. Maybe if you ask your pater, he'll pass her on to you when he's finished. Isn't it so hateful when your father spoils your fun?” He splashed water toward Constantine, who shook his head in response, though it clearly annoyed him that Valerius imagined he cared about Sybellina.
“I’ve had enough of easy girls, Valerius. Most simply make your manhood wither, as you should know,” said Constantine. He stared pointedly at Valerius’ small and flaccid member visible in the water.
Valerius scowled at Constantine, and then cajoled him to play dice by the side of the pool while they waited for Lucius, who had disappeared again with a different girl. Soon after a messenger came from Valerius' father, summoning him to the arena, to be present for some executions. Valerius scoffed disdainfully at the idea.
“The pleasure of watching condemned men fight to their death with a single bread knife between them is hardly sufficient to make me attend these games early. Pater should pay me to attend for the plebs’ pleasures. Do you not agree, Constantine?”
“I do. I've seen enough executions to last me a hundred lifetimes,” said Constantine.
Valerius laughed and dismissed the messenger.
“Would you like to go out again this evening,” he said, turning back to Constantine.
“You've got a better head than me for drinking, Valerius,” Constantine replied. “I could never keep up with you. Despite the temptation, I will decline. Perhaps Lucius will keep you company.”
Lucius, who had rejoined them, shook his head.
“You're trying to kill us, Valerius. I drank more than I had in a year last night. I'll go drinking with you again before we leave, but not two nights in a row.”
“And when do you leave?” said Valerius.
“At the new moon at the earliest,” said Lucius. “We’re waiting on reports from scouts and we’ll have to get lots more augers read, you know, before the actual date can be agreed. We'll be here another week at least. There'll be plenty of time fo
r sampling more of Londinium's entertainments.”
Later, as they waited in the atrium for their litters, honeyed beer flavored with mulberries was served to them. It was not to Constantine's taste, so wine and water were brought as well.
Lucius went off to find Juliana. He found her mending a tunic in her room.
“You look pale,” he announced as his greeting. “Have you visited Crocus?”
She spoke quickly, stumbling over her words. “I slept badly, master, that is all. I went to where Crocus is staying early this morning, but he'd gone to the camp outside the city. He’ll be back this afternoon. That’s what they said.” She put her needle down.
“Go to his quarters and wait for him there.” Lucius looked around, as if wondering if anyone was listening to him.
“Yes, my lord.” She turned and left without another word.
Sybellina had joined the others by the time he’d returned to the atrium. Pale blue silk ribbons streamed from her coiled hair. She looked like a sculptor’s model of a Roman priestess, an unhappy Roman priestess.
“Someone's been stealing from my room, Lucius,” she said in a tone that could cut stone.
He tutted loudly.
She stabbed a finger toward Valerius. “This sort of thing happens only in the worst households. I demand that a guard be placed outside my room, day and night. Do you hear? And if you cannot arrange it, I'll speak to the emperor myself. He’ll get something done. And...” She turned to Lucius, her expression viperous. “If I catch the thief who dared do this they’ll pay and pay dearly.”
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