The emperor, he'd been told, was preparing for a triumphal procession to the marshalling grounds outside the city walls. He'd returned only two days before from Hadrian's Wall and the fort at Corstopitum, where he’d supervised the execution of more than a hundred Pictish captives, men and women, who had refused to submit to Rome. Their heads were to be displayed along the wall.
Constantine lay face down on the floor as a dutiful emperor's son should. To one side a group of tribunes, legates, and other officials watched. Constantine awaited permission to rise.
“Father, I come to claim my place at your side, and to honor your victory,” he said, his face turned to the floor. It annoyed him to be face down, but he had no choice. It would be seen as a public act of defiance if he didn’t. But still it was hard to keep himself from standing and screaming defiance at his father. He was pushing him too far.
He heard the swish of someone approaching across the mosaic floor, then saw the leather and gold threaded sandals his father wore right in front of his head.
“You should have waited our order to return. You must follow my orders, Constantine, always. I will not say this again,” his father shouted. It sounded as if he too was struggling to control himself. He certainly didn't sound sick.
“I don't know what habits you've picked up in the east, but they are not acceptable here.”
A beetle crawled in front of Constantine. He watched it. Down here he was like that beetle, insignificant, easily crushed. The cold from the floor rose up through his bones. No matter how many braziers burned in such rooms, the floor was always cold. There was a faint smell of beeswax in the air down at floor level too, as if every officer had had his sandals polished recently.
He needed to stand, to raise his fist, to tell his father where to stick his stupid orders. He wished he'd never come to Eboracum. Every man in the room would be watching him, noting his humiliation.
“May I rise, Father?” Memories of other, older humiliations came to him, painful public rituals his father had subjected him to during his childhood. He'd hated those times of his father's spite-fueled rages. He could easily reach out and pull the bastard to his knees before any of his guards could reach them.
But reach them they would and a sword in his own belly would then be a real possibility if he struck his father now.
“Before you rise, Constantine, think on this. We will hear no complaints as to your role and orders. You will do what I say, until you display the gratitude required from one so fortunate, as you have been.”
Constantine lifted his head a little. The emperor was bending down, looking at him. Constantine turned his face back to the floor.
“You know you look like a cockroach down there, Constantine.” The emperor laughed. Laughter spread around the room.
Constantine trembled with rage, his brow furrowing. His father had gone too far. How could he mock him like this? A wave of fury passed through him.
The emperor bent down, his face near Constantine’s, his wine filled breath pouring over Constantine. “You must be careful not to meet a cockroach’s fate.”
Constantine looked up, saw his father’s head thrust forward, tightly trimmed beard bristling, flowing purple robe shimmering around him.
“Force, not affection, is the way all order in my empire is maintained. You of all people should know that. Obedience is the least of what I expect you to have been taught by Galerius.” He leaned closer. “I have been informed that you left his domain in a hurry and killed some post horses in your haste.”
“I did not.” Constantine stared at the mosaic in front of him, his rage growing with each breath. The mosaic depicted the choice of Hercules; a life of ease, or a dangerous voyage to recover his honor. He turned his head a little to look up at his father. Officials stood around, gazing down at him with scorn on their faces.
“Arise, Constantine.”
His stomach had a stone in it, as if he'd eaten something rotten. He rose slowly to his knees, as if by delaying, he could mock his ill treatment. He reached down, kissed the embroidered hem of his father's robe, then his ring, quickly. As he did, he caught the reek of some disgusting ointment his father must have been using. It had the smell of decay, as if the maker had used some putrefying afterbirth in its concoction. He pulled away.
Constantine looked around. “It is unfortunate the empress isn't here,” he said. “I am sure she would have enjoyed this.” It was dangerous, he knew, to make any comment about the empress, but he couldn't resist. What had just happened was the type of will-breaking scheme she was capable of thinking up.
Like a snake uncoiling, the emperor hit Constantine with the back of a closed fist across the side of his face. The blow sent Constantine reeling.
Something wet ran down his neck. His cheekbone ached. He forced himself, with every muscle bulging, not to fling a fist up and strike back. Around him, a murmur of approval buzzed.
“No pup like you will ever speak in such a way about our empress. Join us at the gatehouse when you're ready, and make sure you find a clean cloak from somewhere.”
The emperor turned and dismissed him with a flick of his hand. Constantine stood and walked out of the room, suppressing a terrible, trembling frustration. He’d been publicly humiliated. Like a child. The stone walls seemed to close in around him along the passageway as he walked.
His breath came heavily, his chest jerking as he fought to suppress his rising anger. Outside, at a small fountain, he used his cloak to wipe the blood from his face, then held the wool under the cold water and against his face for a long time, until the bleeding stopped, probably from a nick from one of his father’s rings. He felt his jaw. It wasn't broken, but some teeth felt loose. And all the time he was thinking, what should he do?
His father had always been his ideal of a good ruler, courageous against his enemies, but fair in his dealings with friends. Years before, he'd taught him that there were only two types of men in the world, those who were for you, and those against you.
“Men are mostly ruled by fear,” he remembered his father telling him. “They will make no move against you until you weaken. And, when you have a sworn enemy humiliated, you must destroy him, utterly, if you are ever to find peace.”
I am that enemy, thought Constantine. Lucius is right. He could well have to return to Treveris empty handed. He shivered. Too much suffering makes a stone of a heart.
LXVI
Eboracum, Northern Britannia, 306 A.D.
“You can't stop me,” said Juliana. “Constantine won't be back for ages. I must tell my father I'm here. His house is just across the bridge. I'll be there and back before you've even half-finished that flagon of wine.” She walked to the door without looking back.
“You have certainly become even more willful,” said Lucius. “Go, but make damn sure you come back soon.”
She ran through the afternoon cart traffic. Off duty legionaries, officials and farmers, and hawkers selling everything from fried fish to hard sandals filled the streets. She had to dodge a dozen outstretched hands as beggars, seeing her fine tunic, tried to catch her attention.
At one point a clattering of hooves on the limestone cobbled street made her spin round. She half expected to see Sybellina pursuing her at the head of a troop of horsemen, but it was only some cavalrymen, probably off to join the procession everyone was talking about. All around her people were smiling. The emperor was going to finish off the Picts, and business was booming.
An army needed many types of diversions, and the city was obviously determined to provide them all. Every second doorway was a tavern and at many, a girl stood by the door to entice customers to share her delights. One of them even stared boldly at Juliana. There is a girl for every taste here, she thought, and, spying young boys in the doorways of some taverns, a boy for the others.
She reached her father's smithy. It faced onto the roadway between a tile shop and a small wine merchant. The door was barred, its shop front boarded up. Her mind raced. She h
ad to get back soon.
No one answered when she knocked.
She was about to go around to the rear of the building when a voice called out, “Are you still looking for a good smith, girl?” She spun around.
Tiresias was sitting on a stool near the doorway of the wine shop. She gasped. She'd walked right past where he was sitting a moment before and hadn't recognized him. But he looked much younger now, more Roman, his scarred eye socket covered by a pale pigskin patch. He'd shorn his hair too and he must have dyed it, as the gray was gone, replaced by smooth black. He wore a faded blue, belted, Roman style tunic. She stared, dumbstruck.
“Don't just stand there like a fool. People will think you're a fly trap,” said Tiresias. He waved her forward.
After speaking to the owner of the shop they went up a rickety wooden staircase to a private room above. Tiresias winked at the owner as he mounted the stairs. Juliana kept her head down.
“You know, we’ve waited a long time for someone like you to appear, someone we could trust inside the imperial household,” said Tiresias, as he mounted the stairs.
“Is that all I am, Tiresias, a smooth skinned snake to infiltrate and find a soft ass to bite?” said Juliana as they entered a low-ceilinged room. A long, dark and roughly planed wooden table took up most of the room. A shuttered window kept the light from the street out.
She turned on him. “What's happened to my father?” She had to know.
“You've become bossy since you went to Gaul,” said Tiresias. “You are a real Brigantian princess now.” He sat on a cushioned backless stool at the end of the table.
“But you're late too. Ten slippery wine-licked days I've waited, and as you're asking, your father and family are all well. They went south to avoid any complications, if all of this comes to the wrong ears. And now, before you ask any more questions, tell me what's happened. Is Constantine here in Eboracum?”
Juliana nodded.
He punched the air with a raised fist, then shook it above his head as if he'd won some great contest.
“Only the final ingredients to add now,” he said. “And the great pot is nearly cooked. A quick stir and it'll be ready. Come, sit, I'll tell you what you must do.” Juliana sat beside him on the bench.
*
She arrived back at the courtyard just in time. Constantine was sitting on the same marble bench, but with his head bowed, listening to Lucius, who looked to be berating him. He scowled at Juliana as she came forward. Then he told her what had happened.
“It's you or him, Constantine,” hissed Lucius as she sat beside him. She took Constantine’s hand and held it tight.
Lucius’ voice went low as he continued. “This is it. You must decide! Will you fight all these agents of the empress when they come to get you, or will you fight now, while you still have a chance?” Lucius’ fists were balled at his sides as he spoke.
“Stop, Lucius. I have something to say,” she said.
Constantine looked at her, amusement on his face. Lucius was searching his tunic pockets for something. He waved for her to continue.
“I have spoken with a druid high priest,” said Juliana. “He says that no man should be forced to give up his inheritance.” She spoke softly, but unhesitatingly, unconcerned as to whether Constantine or Lucius might interrupt her. She was looking at Constantine’s hands, at a scar from some old sword nick. She could smell his sweat. The day had warmed up. It was the hottest since she’d been here. There was barely a breeze.
Lucius let out a low, satisfied growl; he'd found what he'd been looking for, support. He waved something in his hand, brandishing it in the air. It was a small brown earthenware vial. She could see the Greek letter Alpha painted on its side.
“This potion causes the sleeping sickness, but not death.”
Lucius held it forward for Constantine to see.
“Some Christians use it to numb the pain of torture.” His eyes darted about, as if even talking about the vial made him nervous. He looked from Constantine's face to hers, then over his shoulder.
“If this is used carefully, by tomorrow morning your father could be sunk in such an illness. And in his waking moments he will be consumed with worry as to who will protect his family, should he succumb to whatever is afflicting him,” said Lucius. He sounded excited, like a little boy talking about some adventure he'd planned, not the poisoning of an emperor.
“He will know that no child of your stepmother, the empress, could possibly succeed him so soon, no matter what anyone says. Your presence will seem fortunate then, your experience and loyalty already proven. Sybellina will nurse him as we wish, I've seen to that. He trusts her, and with you, a newly appointed successor at his bedside, a speedy recovery will be imminent.” Lucius laughed. It was grim laugh, showing clearly that he knew what he suggested was a path fraught with danger.
“This is your chance. By tomorrow you'll have all that you desire.” Lucius turned to Juliana.
She was shocked, but hopeful. It felt as if a curtain had been thrown back, and a barely caged lion had been revealed, blocking their path. They could all be executed for thinking such thoughts.
“You are a lucky man, Constantine,” continued Lucius.
Juliana shook her head.
Constantine shook his head too. “You are mad, Lucius. You know Sybellina tried to kill Juliana. She'd never help us. She's a plaything of my father's. You've fallen into one of her traps.” He sounded exasperated.
“She's fallen into ours.” Lucius' tone was angry now. “If your father finds out that Sybellina revealed the contents of his message to Maxentius, her fate will be sealed. He can press Maxentius to have her strangled after her return to Rome, for breaking the cardinal rule of her profession, trustworthiness. Others of her kind have met that fate before. You didn't tell the emperor everything about Sybellina yet, did you?”
Constantine shook his head. “No.”
“Good. She'll say nothing of our little group, for now. As for her treatment of Juliana, she swears she meant no harm, that it was all a misunderstanding.”
“Well, know this, if my father has me thrown in a river in a sack full of snakes because of her testimony, I'll see to it that you come with me, my friend. You are truly mad. Give me that vial!” He reached forward.
With a swift movement Lucius put the vial under his tunic. Then he pulled his short sword from its scabbard. He held its point to his own side, the handle toward Constantine.
Juliana took a step back. Was he serious?
“I call on you to repay your debt to me, or take my life,” said Lucius. “I might as well be dead anyway, if you don't agree to this.”
“Lucius, stop!” said Juliana. Her tone was more concerned than angry. “If Constantine doesn't wish to do this, you cannot change his mind this way.”
Lucius looked at her, groaned as if a weight had dropped on him, then sheathed his sword, turned on his heel and walked out of the courtyard, slamming the door behind him. He was gone before either of them spoke.
“And now I have to choose,” said Constantine. “And all my life I have dreamed of helping my father to win his battles, and then to sit by his side.” He groaned, as if a knife was twisting inside him.
“He is clearly not the man you dreamed about,” said Juliana.
LXVII
Eboracum, Northern Britannia, 306 A.D.
Constantine was still thinking about all the dreams he'd nurtured. Dreams of leading armies further than any emperor had ever done before, and of uniting the empire once more.
He'd hated his life as a hostage, being a token for his father's good conduct. When rumors came of disagreements his father had with Diocletian, he’d lived with a never-ending fear that he'd be executed the following morning as a punishment to his father. He couldn't live like that again.
But he still respected his father. Total respect and unquestioning loyalty had been bred into him from the moment he could swing a toy sword. How could he plot against him? But what would happe
n if he did nothing?
His thoughts circled like crows, each one alighting for a moment before another fluttered down behind, looking for a place to land. He remembered Helena, his mother, her ambitions for him, and Juliana, and hers, and his loyalty to Lucius, and above all, his memories of his years as a hostage.
The danger of battle is preferable to this, he thought.
He and Juliana made their way to his father’s private quarters, where one of the ceremonials, highly embroidered purple silk cloaks encrusted with rubies, amethysts and topaz was brought to him. As they were waiting for adjustments to be made, Juliana closed the door of the robing room. Constantine was sitting on an elaborately carved wooden bench fitted to one wall. She paced nearby. Neither had said much since Lucius' outburst. Juliana spoke first.
“How can we hope to continue? The dream is over. I must go. You must forget me.” Her face was composed, stern.
“No,” said Constantine, angrily. How could she think such a thing? Where did she get the idea she could oppose him like this? Hadn't he enough to deal with?
She turned her face away, looked along the mosaic path into the middle distance.
“Lucius will never sell me to you after this,” she said. “He will not sign the papers, and you have no power to force him. Your father will not support you in it. I have no choice. I must go.” Her tone was resigned.
His anger faded, like snow on a brazier cover. She was right. She had no choice.
But he could choose. Choose to be weak, to accept his fate, to lose the woman he loved, or to seize the moment, and risk all for his future, their future. They'd spent every night since they'd left Treveris naked in each other’s arms, their lovemaking the most fulfilling he'd ever known. She was one of the few women he'd ever wanted to keep repeating the act with, and that in itself was a sign, and there were more. The cold ache inside him he'd felt for so long, was gone when he was with her. He could remember the way he’d lived without her. He didn't want that back. Whatever the price.
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