The Sign of The Blood

by Laurence OBryan

  “Sybellina, that's so terrible,” said Valerius. “Do not worry, I’ll arrange a guard. And we’ll replace whatever’s missing.”

  “What was taken?” said Lucius.

  “A charm, an irreplaceable charm.” Sybellina stood with her hands on her hips, a vision of injured innocence.

  “What charm, Sybellina? I’ll have my slaves search every room in the villa for it. But we need to know what they’ll be looking for,” said Valerius.

  “It’s too late,” shouted Sybellina. She stamped her foot.

  “Why would anyone steal such a charm?” said Constantine.

  She glared at him. “I do not know, but when I find out...” A look of malice slid across her face. It was not a pretty sight.

  “Sybellina, I told you, if we find out who did this, they'll have more than you to answer to,” said Valerius. “We treat thieves like they deserve in this city. Come, try to forget about it. We must go at once, or we’ll miss everything. And I’ll buy you ten charms in the forum later.”

  He escorted a still raging Sybellina outside to where their litters were waiting. Constantine was glad it wasn’t him who had to placate her. And in an odd way he felt pleased too. Pleased that something had been taken from her. She deserves a little ill luck, he thought, as he climbed into the last litter.

  At almost every street corner people recognized Valerius' litters and greeted him as they passed. Constantine noticed that among the oversized busts of the emperors that lined the entranceway to the Forum, there was none of Galerius. That would never have occurred in a city in the east. As they came nearer the arena the streets were lined with hawkers, sausage vendors, oyster sellers and cake merchants, and crowds lined the streets. Echoing roars from the arena could be heard in the distance now.

  “Lance him, lance him,” was the shout. Then the shouting stopped. A rhythmic stomping of feet, like rolling thunder, indicated that the crowd's desire had been granted. He felt the old excitement he always experienced when he attended the games. He knew many of the gladiatorial contests might have been staged in the theatre for all the acting involved, but he’d always been drawn to the real bloodletting and the ritual. It was compulsive viewing, whatever you thought about the rights and wrongs of such contests.

  The arena, a cliff-like brick structure, like the Colosseum in Rome, held ten thousand people, he guessed. Its size indicated how far Londinium had grown in the past century.

  He climbed the wide marble outside stairs into the emperor's box. A great cheer went up when he emerged from a garland-fringed doorway. The purple awning over the box cracked in the wind, as if in response. The crowd cheered again, then again as he raised his fist high in salute. It was the most wonderful feeling, public acclaim. Suddenly, he wished he'd brought Juliana along to help serve him, to see all this and to feel all this, to know who he really was.

  XLVI

  Londinium, Southern Britannia, 306 A.D.

  Juliana was waiting to see Crocus. She tapped the front of her right sandal nervously on the marble floor of the courtyard and twirled her hair around a finger. She’d seen her reflection in the bronze mirror hanging in her room and the sight had shocked her and pleased her. She’d never looked so womanly.

  The clatter of horses broke the silence. She stood straighter, her hands pressed into her sides. Why had Lucius asked her to do this? He was one real bastard.

  After a few moments Crocus came swaggering into the courtyard. He wore a greasy sheepskin coat and tight breeches strapped all the way up his legs. A Roman short sword in a heavy purple lacquered sheath hung from his belt. He came straight up to her, looked her up and down, sneered, then pinched her cheek, sniffed, and ran his hand over her hair.

  His hand ran down to her breast and he squeezed it, hard. As he did so he leaned forward, stuck his tongue out and licked her cheek. His breath smelled like horse dung.

  She shuddered, muscles tightening in revulsion, but moving as little as possible. This man had killed one of his wives in a knife throwing contest, if she could believe what the other slaves said. She’d overheard one joking about how they’d pass out if he asked them to hold an apple as a target.

  She spoke as clearly as she could.

  “Great commander of the Alemanni, I have come with a message, a message from my master, Lucius.” What she wanted to say, was, “Do you always smell this bad?”

  Crocus snorted as he undid his cloak. He passed it to a slave.

  “What kind of message?” he grunted.

  “I must say it in private, my lord.”

  He waved the slave away, then asked her, “Are you a gift?” He stroked her hair again, pawed his hand down her back and squeezed her arm, hard.

  She had to bite her lip to stop herself striking him. Not now. Not now. She pressed her hands tight against her sides.

  “No, I only have a message, my lord.”

  “Come on then, tell me your message.” He walked around her.

  She stood still, hating every moment she was near him. “My master offers to make a donation to help with your personal expenses.” She said it in as clear a voice as she could muster.

  He gripped her arm, squeezing it as if it was a rag.

  “Ow.” She flinched. His eyes were as cold as any she’d ever seen. They bulged as she stared at him.

  “Did you tell anyone what you just told me, any of your slave friends?” She shook her head, tried to pull away. He tightened his grip. He clearly knew what making a donation meant, that he’d be expected to repay it in some way at a future date. He’d be a client of Lucius.

  “Well, know this, pretty slave. If you do, I'll pluck your sultry little eyes out one by one, and then cut out your writhing tongue and feed the whole lot back to you boiled into a soft stew when you get hungry.” He laughed, then released her.

  It was raining hard as Juliana made her way back to the villa. In two moments, she was dripping wet. It felt as if a shroud had descended on the city. She looked around. No one was interested in her. Hawkers plied their trade under the shelter of the colonnades. Grinding noises could be heard from some shop doorways. A tavern beckoned. A hubbub of voices came out as she passed. An aroma of onions and sausage drifted with them.

  She turned. A litter's occupant had screamed as he was tipped into the rain. One of his attendants had slipped. Rising up, dripping, he stared at Juliana sullenly as she went past, then roared at his attendants like an angry child. Sensing something, she looked around. Three emaciated youths were staring at her wide-eyed from a dark alley.

  She ran for their villa as fast as she could. Earlier, Sybellina had looked at her like those boys, accusingly, as if she knew Juliana had been in her room and had some retribution planned for her. A pair of greyhounds yapped as she passed the doorway they were guarding.

  Juliana knew that her best hope was if the effects of Sybellina’s love charm wore off soon. Everything would be different if Constantine saw Sybellina for what she was. She glanced behind her. Please, heavenly mother, let that be my last visit to that monster. She stumbled. Who was that in the long cloak walking after her, staring directly at her?

  XLVII

  Londinium, Southern Britannia, 306 A.D.

  “How do people live in such weather?” said Constantine, as they waited for guards to form up to escort their litters back through the city.

  The emperor didn’t reply. The gladiatorial games had ended early on his order. It appeared to him as if the canvas awnings above the stands might collapse with the rainwater they’d collected. People had been streaming away in any case because of the downpour and the leaking awnings, so he’d cancelled the last bout. It had been a clearly rigged contest, between a loyal Roman gladiator and a Pictish barbarian, brought here to have his throat cut publicly after a one-sided fight.

  The brick-lined high-ceilinged room below the imperial box echoed to the sound of rain on the wooden stairs and walkways above.

  “They’re used to it. Rain falls all year round here,” said the
emperor. “Treveris is warmer than this place. It would suit you better. Why don't you go and visit your mother there? I hear she arrived from Rome a few days ago. Britannia is too damp for people who’ve lived in the east.” The emperor examined his son’s expression. It was blank. He could read nothing.

  “I’ll go,” said Constantine. “When your campaign against the Picts is over.” He sounded very sure of himself. “I'd rather fight in the rain than be bored anywhere. I want to help you, Father.”

  “I am sure you do,” said the emperor. “Did you enjoy last night?”

  “Yes. What about you?”

  The emperor shrugged his shoulders and looked away. One of his guards appeared at the doorway. Their escort was ready.

  As soon as he arrived back at the governor’s palace, the emperor sent a messenger to fetch Sybellina. The rain continued to pour outside. As usual there was lots to be done. Reports from provincial governors had to be responded to, letters from imperial agents read, decisions had to be made about appointments, building work needed funding, policies on runaway slaves needed to be reassessed.

  The pile of scrolls never got smaller.

  And he kept wondering about Constantine. There were good positions he could appoint him to, if he really wanted to. The Legate of the 30th should have retired some time ago.

  But there were other things to consider. It was likely Crocus was motivated by something other than loyalty in warning him about Constantine. Perhaps Crocus and his Alemanni would need their wings clipped soon.

  The messenger returned. Sybellina had been found. She'd been with Constantine's friend Lucius. They’d been on their way to some temple, but a rider had caught up with them and she’d been given the emperor's summons. She would arrive soon. She had gone back to her villa first.

  He called for the best wine to be brought and whatever delicacies could be found in the kitchens.

  He also dispatched a message to the master of the treasury for him to send one of the best pearl necklaces from the treasure chests at once. When an orderly arrived with the necklace he examined it for flaws, and on finding none, draped it on the side arm of his couch. Then he stood and paced to and fro.

  The marble floor of his reception room was warm from the underfloor heating. The bellows and stompings of the guard being changed could be heard from outside in the courtyard, and distantly from somewhere else he guessed must be the main gate. More lamps would be needed soon, but not yet. The darkness certainly gathered slowly here. He sat and read some more letters.

  It was dark when Sybellina finally entered through the high doors that led to the outside courtyard. The slave who opened the door took her cloak.

  “Ah, Sybellina. I'll be finished shortly.” He glanced up from a report. A net of raindrops shimmered in her hair. The golden light from the oil lamp suspended on a chain near the door reflected warmly on her skin. She bowed but stayed a few paces away from him. He looked back down at the scroll.

  She would have to wait for him, as he had waited for her. When he reached the end of the report, he put it down, picked up another one. He listened for any movement that might betray her impatience, but there was none. When he’d finished that scroll, he glanced at another one, picked it up, then, as if he was bored with it, he placed it down and motioned her forward.

  “I came as quickly as I could, my lord.” She sounded apologetic. “But it takes time to prepare for an audience.” She was wearing a pale blue knee-length tunic, split open at the front.

  “And you did a wonderful job. Come now, sit beside me, Sybellina. I have something for you.”

  She sat close by him on the couch, then looked with a theatrically puzzled expression at the piles of scrolls and letters on the low marble table in front of them.

  “Surely someone else could attend to all these, my lord.”

  “You are right. I’ll have them taken away,” he said. He called for his personal slave and had the scrolls removed. Then, after having wine poured, he dismissed all the slaves.

  “You said you had something for me, my lord. Are you teasing me?” She laid a hand softly on his bare knee, then withdrew it.

  The emperor reached behind him and picked up the pearl necklace. It had been glaringly visible against the purple and gold brocade of the sofa arm. He saw a flash of something cross her face, which she hid quickly. Was it disappointment?

  Anger rose inside him.

  She leaned forward. Her smooth pink nipples peeked at him. His anger turned into desire.

  Pearls, the pay of a courtesan, would not be enough for this one for very long. Had she heard the story of the cup bearer he’d been with, who he’d bestowed an estate in Gaul upon?

  “Thank you so much, my lord, you are so kind. Really. What a beautiful necklace. I have one just like it back in Rome.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “Come here, you little vixen.” He pulled her to him, kissed her lips hard. They were like ripe fruits bursting with juice. He tasted Cinnabar. His lips tingled. She pressed her breasts against him, pushed her fingers roughly through his hair. Then she got down on her knees in front of him and each hand went up inside his tunic. She stuck her tongue out at him as she worked to make him harder.

  “You are in better health today, my lord.” She blew a kiss at him.

  “Come closer,” he commanded.

  She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his.

  When he was finished he groaned, stood and called loudly for his scrolls to be returned.

  “I must finish what I started,” he said.

  “Am I to be discarded so soon?” She scowled petulantly and smoothed her tunic with angry strokes as his slaves hurried about.

  “I’ll call for you again. This will not be forgotten.” He waved at the bear skin rug where he’d been sitting. He knew it was good to keep seductresses like Sybellina waiting, nearby of course, guessing, with limited male company, like pheasants being cooed to and fed morsels before their plumped-up bodies were roasted.

  It was, after all, what she deserved. It was what anyone who tried to manipulate him deserved. She would learn to wait. To pine for him. He waved his hand dismissively. It would teach her an important lesson. A familiar feeling of power coursed through him.

  “Before I go, my lord, please, I must talk to you about Maxentius' offer.” She was speaking quickly, a note of desperation in her voice. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, my lord. It is wise to marry Constantine to Fausta. Maxentius is right. If you don’t, Constantine will only pick someone unsuitable for himself. If he’s half the man you are, he needs a wife, my lord, a suitable one. Please, let me have your answer. Maxentius’ support for you will be obvious to all if you do.” She looked over her shoulder as if worried someone might be listening.

  “You know you must be careful, my lord, there are rumors, rumors of plots against you, plots against your person.”

  “Don’t bother me with talk of rumors, Sybellina. The day they stop plotting against me is the day I’ll get concerned. You will get your answer. When I'm ready. Not before. Now go.”

  She looked crestfallen. He saw her eyes fill, as if she might cry. A surge of feeling coursed through him. The urge to pity was easy to resist though. And he enjoyed the feeling of power his self-control gave him. This surely was the right moment to tell her his terms.

  “Go now. But wait for me. And be with no other. I warn you. I know the oaths you took. Break them and you’ll not get another audience with me ever, never mind your answer. Keep your oaths and you keep my protection. And if you have real evidence about a plot against me come and tell me immediately.” His tone was curt, aggressive, the tone he used to get people to do exactly what he wanted.

  She looked shocked, then nodded, bowed, and stepped backwards, a little unsteadily, while still facing him. When she’d taken seven paces with her head bowed, her pearls clutched tight in her hand, she turned, and in a moment, she was gone. It was the procedure priestesses like her had for departing the presen
ce of an Augustus.

  He’d enjoyed that, enjoyed teasing her, getting her going, giving, then taking away, showing her who was the master, and how far he’d come. And how much he’d learned.

  XLVIII

  Londinium, Southern Britannia, 306 A.D.

  The following morning, Constantine was summoned to go with his father to inspect the legions massing on the heaths to the north of the city. Most of the troops had arrived, but a significant number of horses were still missing, most likely because of foul play or trickery on the road.

  They met with the Legates and the Tribunes from each legion and discussed the army’s state of readiness, their marching orders and the contingency plans for the push north. All the officers agreed, the painted Pictish tribes would flee their hill forts and easily-taken raths when the Roman legions approached, and that if cutting the tendons on Roman horses was the Picts best trick, their cavalry had nothing to fear. At the end of the meeting every officer swore not to make the mistake of leniency the Emperor Severus had made.

  The last time such a large Roman army had ventured beyond Hadrian's wall, ninety-six years before, Emperor Severus, a wily African, had lost more than 50,000 legionaries to the mists and harrying Picts on his first march north. In revenge, Severus had planned the massacre of all the tribes north of Hadrian's Wall, and the salting of their fields. Only his death at Eboracum, while planning that campaign, had saved the Pictish tribes. The plan was subsequently cancelled by his son, Caracalla, whose only concern of course was how to consolidate his own power back in Rome. The plans for the march north had been handed down however, and now, at last, Severus' scheme would be carried out. Rome would get her revenge.

  The emperor had studied the obstacles Severus had encountered. He’d decided to send three separate cavalry cohorts ahead to determine where the Picts would flee to and where they would muster.

  These reconnaissance troops would maraud beyond Hadrian’s Wall and by the full moon after next would pull back to Eboracum, where the main body of the army would by then be stationed. They would engage Picts they encountered, fight, then run. Such tactics should encourage the Pictish leaders into thinking the Roman campaign might be beatable and gather to counter it. If the tribes then decided to take on a Roman army in open battle, the legions’ task would be so much easier. With most of the Pictish warrior class dead - no quarter would be given - the task of clearing the highlands would be reduced.