set like concrete. Fausta’s three sons stand in a row near the back of the room and fidget.
Nobody asks what I’ve done. Nobody thanks me, commiserates, accuses. Helena hands me a scrolled piece of paper.
‘Read it.’
‘“To the great god Nemesis, I curse my enemy and give him into your power. Drive him to his death …”’
I don’t need to go on. ‘This is the curse I found under Crispus’s bed in Aquileia.’
Helena fixes her pitiless gaze on me. ‘But?’
‘Without the names.’
‘And do you know –?’ She’s addressing me, but I’m just the sounding board. The words are aimed elsewhere in the room. ‘Do you know where I found this?’
No one dares to answer.
‘In Fausta’s room.’
I’m seized by a violent, uncontrollable shaking; so hard I think I might faint. No one notices – or, if they do, they don’t care. My mouth’s dry and my head hurts; I’m desperate for a drink.
Fausta tries to shrug it off. ‘I copied it off the tablet. I wanted a record of Crispus’s treachery.’
‘I took this paper to the temple of Nemesis in Aquileia.’ Helena continues as if Fausta hadn’t spoken. ‘I showed it to the priestess. She told me that she wrote it out for a woman who wanted to know the correct form of words. A noblewoman, too well bred to know how soldiers and fishwives curse.’
‘I suppose you would know,’ Fausta snaps, ‘being a brothel-keeper’s daughter.’
Helena ignores the insult and looks at Constantine. ‘The noblewoman was your wife. She wrote out the curse on the lead tablet, stole your pin and hid it under Crispus’s bed.’
Colour rises in Fausta’s cheeks. ‘You’d believe this priestess? She’s probably just a prostitute. And what about the guard captains who said Crispus bribed them to turn against my husband?’
‘I’ve spoken to them, too.’ Helena’s tone is sharp, like hooks in a dungeon. ‘They retracted their claim.’
Her eyes shoot daggers at Fausta, who stares back in furious defiance. If they had armies to command, these two women, the whole world would tremble.
They both turn to Constantine, who’s listened to the exchange in silence. The only sign he’s heard anything is the way he flinches each time they say Crispus’s name.
The whole room holds its breath.
‘What about Claudius?’ I ask. I’m as surprised as anyone to hear my own voice. Through the pain and dizziness burning in my skull, I’ve lost all sense of what’s appropriate. ‘Fausta said Crispus tried to murder him.’
All eyes turn to the three boys. They’re still children: even Claudius, the eldest, isn’t yet ten years old. They carry themselves proudly – their mother’s made them aware of their rank since the day they were born – but they’re out of their depth here. Constans, the youngest, is trying to blink back tears; Claudius looks at his mother, silently begging her to speak for him. He won’t look at Constantine.
‘She made us do it.’
It isn’t Claudius who says it; it’s the middle brother, Constantius. He steps forward, head held high. ‘Our mother cut Claudius’s ear and then told us to blame Crispus when he came.’ He glances at his father, falters. ‘We didn’t want to.’
A sickened silence grips the room. Fausta’s face has crumpled in like a pillow; Constantine is so still I wonder if his heart has stopped. Only Helena takes it in her stride. She expected it.
‘How old are you?’ she asks Constantius. He’s Helena’s grandson, but you wouldn’t know it from the contempt in her voice.
‘Nearly nine.’
‘Old enough to know it was a murderous lie.’
He wilts. ‘Our mother told us.’
‘And if she’d told you to stab your father while he slept, would you have done that too?’
‘No.’ It’s the first word Constantine’s spoken, and even that’s been wrenched out of him. ‘Not the children.’
‘They were accomplices.’
‘They’re your children,’ Fausta pleads to Constantine.
‘Crispus was worth the three of them put together.’ Helena’s hated that family since Constantine’s father jilted her for one of old Maximian’s daughters. Now, at the end of her life, they’ve robbed her again. She’d like them obliterated from the face of the earth.
‘Show mercy,’ Fausta begs. She must know her life is over, but she’s fighting like a lioness for her cubs. She throws herself to the floor, grabs Constantine’s purple shoes and starts kissing them wildly, which turns into a scream as Helena steps forward and kicks her in the face. She was born a stable girl, and even at eighty she still has that strength. Fausta reels away, blood trickling from her lip. And Constantine still can’t move. For a long moment they look between each other, chained to each other like slaves on a sinking ship. Fausta, whimpering on the floor; Helena, breathing hard; Constantine like a statue.
Unexpectedly, it’s Constans – the youngest son – who breaks the moment. He’s only six, with a head of blond curls and soft pale skin like a barbarian. He runs forward and wraps his arms around Constantine’s legs.
