The Sign of The Blood Page 7

  “Armenia!” A spirited shout rang out ahead. Armenian cavalry auxiliaries rode toward him, their cloaks flapping, filling the gap between the tents ahead as if he’d been dropped into the path of a horse race. They clattered by him in a moment, dividing like water around him. He stood still. He could feel the air move around him. A horse pulled up with a neighing shudder.

  “My lord, I see you’ve been seeking victory alone. I know Romans are brave, but I doubt even you can vanquish the whole Persian army.”

  He recognized the voice, though croaky from shouting. The horseman pulled his helmet up. It was Lucius. Constantine grinned wide and patted Lucius’ horse, as if he needed to check it was real.

  His attention turned to Lucius’ fellow cavalrymen, who were engaged in a noisy clash with the Persian cavalry. A Persian mace swished through the air, swords clanged, a spear thudded into the ground nearby. Yells rang out, and roars of pain, oaths, and on top of it all the neighing and whinnying of angry horses and the beat of drums filled his ears.

  “Can we help them?” he roared, as Lucius dragged him up behind him.

  Lucius shook his head.

  “We're only assisting your retreat, not helping your raid, my friend.” Lucius wheeled his horse around. “That way we are following Galerius’ orders.”

  “You’ve stirred up a nest of hornets.”

  The thump of the Persian war drums grew louder by the moment. The early morning air reverberated with the noise.

  With a shout to his men, Lucius turned his horse and they galloped away.

  “Stop at the edge of the camp,” he shouted in Lucius’ ear. He needed to oversee the end of the raid.

  “Yes, my lord, a thank you is most welcome. I am Lucius and you’ll repay me, I'm sure.” Lucius grinned avariciously.

  A swarm of Persian arrows followed them as they raced between the burning tents to the edge of the camp. One struck the back of his breastplate with a clang.

  He dismounted, then heard the three-blast signal for retreat blaring out from Jovian war horns. In the distance, Jovians were running in disarray from the interior. Further along, a troop of Jovian cavalry raced, firing burning arrows into areas of the camp not on fire. A billowing curtain of smoke hung over the Persian camp. A spiral of wheeling vultures whirled nearby. They would feed well today.

  He sniffed the acrid stench of burning tents. Surprise had allowed the Jovians to ravage a significant part of the Persian camp, but the price would be heavy.

  He looked around for the Queen. She had to be somewhere nearby. He turned his head, trying to see between the tents, as they cantered along the edge of the camp. Then he saw them and, pointing, he urged Lucius to ride toward the tents. The Armenian cavalry followed. When they reached the captives, they were squirming on the shoulders of their Jovian guards. They were probably hoping if they delayed things, their countrymen would free them soon.

  “Lucius, get your men to take a prisoner each over the front of his horse. Then ride these prisoners back to camp as if the hounds of hell were at your back,” he said, as they reined in next to the captives.

  “You do like pretty faces, my friend.” Lucius grinned. Then he turned and roared orders at his men.

  The Persian Queen gave Constantine a look of venom before she was bundled onto a horse. The girl he'd rescued was the last to be lifted up.

  “Lucius, this one is to be separated from the others. She was their prisoner.”

  Lucius gave a thumbs up.

  The girl had a look of wonder on her face.

  “She is not to be ransomed or sold back to the Persians. Put my name against her record. Now go. I have to rally the men.”

  He looked around. He could see lots of Jovians making their way out of the interior of the Persian camp. He had to form them up. An orderly retreat would save lives.

  “Don't worry, you'll get your cut when she's sold,” said Lucius. “Have you been injured?”

  Constantine looked down. Blood dripped onto the grass from his right hand. He lifted it. A long cut across his forearm just below the elbow, on the outside, bled slowly into his arm guard. He was lucky. The blow hadn’t severed his arm. And now the cut throbbed, and he couldn't even remember when he’d taken it. It would have to be tended to soon.

  He had no time to bind it. He held his sword arm up to stop the blood flowing onto his hand.

  “Stay away from your emperor's surgeons, Constantine. I hear they remove good limbs for any minor injury at all. You'll end up with a burnt stump if they get their hands on you.” Lucius saluted, turned his horse and headed away after the prisoners.

  “Form up!” Constantine roared, his sword in the air. Some men nearby ran to him. They stood to his left and right. Others followed. Soon ten of them were standing abreast.

  In the end, he rallied almost two centuries of Jovians. They stood their ground as a rear guard for other Jovians, who he urged to hurry past them. After beating off a counterattack from a Persian cavalry unit, they finally slid down into the gully and headed back into the woods to join a stream of other Jovians making their way back to the Roman camp. He could hear shouts behind them at first, but they died away.

  When they arrived at the Roman camp he had to wait until midday for the Jovian's own physician to examine his wound. He didn’t seek the emperor’s physician. An overworked assistant applied a cold herb and honey compress and bound it up, after the cut was painfully probed by the physician. He muttered prayers to Asclepios, the god of healing, as the binding was finished. It was long after noon before Constantine presented himself at the tent of the emperor.

  The sun beat brutally down overhead, like every afternoon in the summer between the headwaters of the Tigris and Euphrates. He was used to heat, but this valley was exceptional, even by the standards of the east. He waited with two other officers in the shade of a wide awning attached to the emperor’s tent. Neither man looked happy. They didn’t converse, in case the emperor might be disturbed by their chatter. But they did stare at the sword he was carrying. It was clearly not Roman.

  Wild cheering erupted at one point from inside the tent. When he asked the next orderly who came out what was going on, the man replied in surprise.

  “Have you not heard?”

  Constantine shook his head.

  “Emissaries from the Persian King are demanding the return of his Queen and his sisters. Imagine! He’s offered an immediate truce and good terms. The emperor ordered a search. The Persian queen has been discovered among the captives!” The man raised a fist in victory. “Praise the emperor, avenger of Rome. We are victorious!”

  Constantine said nothing. He had made it happen. Soon enough everyone would know.

  The orderly held his hands. “You are Constantine, yes?”

  Constantine nodded.

  “Give me your weapons.” The man’s expression darkened, as if he was expecting trouble.

  Constantine stared at him. It was not unknown for officers to leave their weapons outside, but it usually signaled the person asked to do so was not trusted.

  “Orders from the emperor.” The orderly moved his hands closer to Constantine. “You can collect them when you leave.”

  For a moment he thought about refusing, but the many guards nearby would not make insubordination easy and he did not want to kill men he knew.

  He handed over the sword he had captured, then took his short sword and dagger from their scabbards and passed them over too. The orderly examined them, then went to place them on a rack nearby.

  “The Persian sword is a gift for the emperor.” The orderly nodded and placed the sword Constantine had captured at the end of the rack.

  He knew, instinctively, that Galerius would be unlikely to praise him, but he’d have to listen and grudgingly grant him what he deserved. It had been a long time coming. Too long. He kept his expression fixed when the orderly at last beckoned him into the emperor’s tent.

  “What are you doing here?” shouted Galerius, as soon as he was usher
ed in. “I thought you were dead already.” A group of officers standing around the emperor looked on impassively.

  “I've come for the favor promised on the Jovian raid’s success.”

  “What?” Galerius roared. “But you've only been successful in saving your own skin. You ran off, I'm told by your own optio, when the fight became desperate.”

  With a sinking feeling, Constantine knew how stupid he’d been. He took the Persian scabbard from around his neck and laid it on the ground. Galerius had to listen to this evidence.

  “I did not run off, my lord. I took the sword of the commander of the Invincibles guarding the Persian queen. This is proof of my actions. I gave it up at the entrance to this tent. I searched the tents of the Persian nobles. I came upon a troop of Invincibles and with the help of my men we overpowered them. We took prisoners after we defeated them, one of whom was their queen.” He stepped back. Galerius had to believe him. He felt a sudden chill in the air.

  “Many have already claimed a part in the Queen's capture, Constantine. You are late to the list. You ignored the integrity of your unit as you went off in search of personal glory. You should be ashamed, rescuing a slave girl, when it was other officers, officers who followed orders like your optio, who held off the Persian counterattack and made our victory possible. Know this, you disgust me.” He raised his finger and pointed it at Constantine.

  “Think on this. I’ve had two officers beheaded already this morning for cowardice. If you think your lineage will save you, you’re mistaken. I will have discipline in my army. Only my friendship with your father stops my hand. Go, leave my presence. I hereby demote you to the rank of legionary recruit and assign you to digging latrines for the next twelve moons. You shall not lead a unit again under my command or even take any active part in a campaign. There’s no room for cowards in my legions.” Galerius had gone from angry to enraged.

  The ground swayed under Constantine’s feet. He’d guessed Galerius would find a chance to humiliate him, because of his father’s refusal to go along with Galerius’ plan to outlaw the Christians, who he blamed for every calamity, but this was worse than he’d expected and a shocking blow to his hope of leading a legion.

  Blood pumped in his neck. He wanted to kill Galerius. His face felt hot. If only they hadn’t taken his weapons. It might well be worth dying to enjoy seeing Galerius with his neck cut open.

  He pressed his lips together. Could there be a way out of this?

  Such hasty demotions rarely occurred, but that didn't make any difference. He'd sworn to obey Galerius. A field trial had taken place, and an instant verdict had been handed down. That bastard optio. He had twisted everything. He looked around. Was he here? No. But there were others who could give evidence for him.

  “My lord, is Sextus here to speak for me?” It was his last hope. He felt like a bruised gladiator about to receive a final death blow.

  “Don't pretend you don’t know that Sextus was carried dead from the field this morning!” Galerius' voice echoed with rage. “The loss of that one man is like the loss of a legion. He was by you when the attack began, I am told, and soon after that you ran away. All this is undeniable. How many officers do you want to give evidence against you? I’ve heard all about your actions on the field already, and so will your father. Now, I have given my judgment. Go. And spare me your denials. Follow my orders.”

  His stomach cramped, as if he had been struck and a cold sweat broke out on his brow. One of the very few men who had stood by him, and possibly the only man who could save him from the emperor's wrath, was dead.

  He couldn’t believe everything that had just happened. It was as if a veil had been lifted. How could he even reply without it sounding like an excuse now?

  He turned to go, knowing that as soon as he exited the tent his fate would be sealed. He'd make a few simple farewells and then move his bed roll to under the awning where the shit hole diggers lived, downwind of the regular troops, as they often stank like the holes they dug.

  His hands were fists now. He couldn't beg. And he'd be throwing his breath away in argument if witnesses were ready to give evidence that his actions had been cowardly. The emperor would simply say he’d failed the biggest test of his life so far.

  No right of appeal existed against an emperor’s judgment on the day of battle. He turned and walked out.

  The sunlight outside glinted hard, bleak. Resigned to his fate, disgusted and exhausted, he looked around.

  Striding toward him was Lucius, grinning. He raised his fist when he saw Constantine. “Why so glum? We have victory, my friend.”

  Constantine told him what had happened.

  “Wait. I’ve been called to see Galerius. Let me see what I can do,” said Lucius. “Do not do anything hasty.”

  XV

  Alexandria, 298 A.D. - One Year Later

  Helena disentangled her limbs from the priest’s. She wrapped a thin purple veil around her and went to the couch, by the balcony overlooking the city.

  “Bring wine and cheese,” she said.

  The young male house slave, who had been standing in a corner waving a fan, walked quickly toward the door, as if his life depended on it. It gratified her to see how eager the new Nubians were.

  “Hosius, wake up!” She went to the bed, slapped the priest’s bare thigh hard.

  He groaned, shifted his body away from her. Then he turned onto his back.

  “You do not want to share the mystical marriage again, Helena?”

  “We will do it again, after the letter is finished.” She pointed her finger at him.

  Hosius groaned louder this time, then reached for the silver wine goblet on the bedside table.

  “Composing this type of letter is not an easy task, my lady.” He slid from the bed, walked to the marble-topped table by the door, under the painting of Hercules tricking Atlas to take the sky back onto his shoulders.

  He unrolled the papyrus scroll, placed silver weights in the shape of slippers at each corner, and peered down at it. Most of the text was done. It needed only a last line and a florid signature.

  “Have you decided how we will end it?”

  Helena stood beside him. “Yes, write this. The return of my son is essential. I cannot live another day without him.” She stroked his bare shoulder.

  Hosius leaned forward on the stiff-backed chair, picked up the silver pen, and dipped it into the matching ink pot.

  He began writing on the papyrus. He looked at her when he had finished.

  “How many titles shall we put with your husband’s name?”

  “Augustus is enough. He will be that by the time this arrives.”

  Hosius wrote carefully and finished with a flourish, then sprinkled pumice all over the papyrus, before lifting it and letting the pumice fall away onto the marble floor.

  “It is done,” he said. Just then the bell of the night watch could be heard, first nearby, then further away, echoing through the room.

  Helena lay on the bed. The young Nubian slave boy had returned.

  “Have you seen how big this slave gets?” She giggled.

  “I do not care.” Hosius slid onto the bed beside her.

  “He told me he can summon daemons to do my bidding.”

  “Then he is a follower of Satan.”

  She reached for Hosius, took his chin in her hand, and held it tight.

  “He is not. But maybe I should change to his god. A god that he claims gets more results than you followers of Christ.”

  Hosius put his hands out, as if in supplication. “This letter will work, Helena. I have prayed over it. You know any delay in your son’s release has been a sign that he is needed where he is. The one god will not allow you to suffer a moment longer than is necessary. I know that.”

  “He’d better not. This had better work. I am getting tired of promises, Hosius.” She pointed at him again.

  “I promise you it will.”

  “Good. Now, do you want to go back to bed?” She laug
hed, stuck her tongue out at him. “And if you pick the right answer, I will let you stay for the whole day.”

  XVI

  Nicomedia, 306 A.D. - Eight Years Later

  “Come on, you will like it.” The slave master pushed her head down toward his cock. As she took it in her mouth he felt for her breasts and groaned. Soon she could feel him nearing the end, so she pulled away and retched into the dirt, bringing up some bile. He growled in disgust. Her hand came up to finish the job and within moments his seed flew high into the air.

  “Bitch! You should have swallowed it.”

  She forced more bile up, coughing and retching into the dirt. “My mouth is not the right place, my lord. You might catch something from me.” Then she pulled herself into a womb shape. He stood back and let his tunic fall, covering him.

  “That was your last chance. I’ve turned down every slave boy who begged for you since you first came here, and every time this is all I get. I don’t know why I waste my seed with you. There’s far prettier waiting for me who will do everything I want, you ugly bitch. Let’s see how you feel tomorrow.” He laughed, turned and stalked out of the low roofed outhouse.

  Juliana had learnt, soon after her arrival on the estate seven years before, that their master had crippled a previous overseer for getting two slave girls in the household pregnant. The mistress in the house had accused the master of doing it. The current overseer had to get enjoyment from the slave girls in a way that didn’t give them a child, but which still satisfied his regular needs.

  She lay still on the packed earth, listening, breathing, waiting, hope and despair turning inside her.

  The outhouse was cold from the cutting midwinter winds that had gusted all that evening through the tall cypress trees that sheltered their master’s villa. She found the skimpy blanket he’d thrown here earlier and pulled it tight. It was as useless as a cobweb against the cold, but its presence reassured her.