Secrets of the Dead

happy occasion.

And Constantiana looks radiant. At twenty-four, she must have worried that she’d be left on the shelf, a chip for a bargain never to be struck. At one stage there were rumours that Constantine might have offered her to me. Now she’s sister to one Augustus and wife to the other – the most powerful woman in the world, you might think.

In fact, she’s not even the most powerful woman in the room. Constantine’s silver-haired mother Helena supervises the slave girls, who are combing and pinning Constantiana’s hair, while Fausta, Constantine’s wife, lounges on a couch and offers pointed compliments. How much improved Constantiana looks with her hair up; how well her dress disguises her flat chest; how lovely it is to see a mature bride. It doesn’t seem to inhibit them that Crispus and I are in the room, waiting to escort Constantiana to the wedding. They’re used to talking over children and servants.

The door bangs open. There’s only one man who could barge in to this gathering like that and, sure enough, it’s Constantine. He takes in the three women, spies me and Crispus in the corner and fixes his gaze on us for safety.

‘Gaius. I need you.’

Constantiana turns in her chair. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Licinius is making trouble. He’s still willing to concede toleration of Christians, but he’s demanding that I offer to send Crispus back to Nicomedia as a hostage.’

‘Surely it’s not too much to ask,’ says Constantiana.

‘No.’ Helena’s tone allows no argument.

Constantine, who defers to no man on earth, struggles to defy his mother.

‘You weren’t so squeamish with me when you sent me to Galerius’s court,’ he complains.

‘That was a necessary gamble – now you have everything. You don’t need to take this risk.’

‘You’re speaking as if my future husband is some sort of murderer,’ Constantiana complains. ‘Why shouldn’t my nephew come to stay with us in the east?’

She might as well not have spoken. Helena crosses to Crispus and puts a protective arm around him. He’s thirteen now and growing fast, with an easy manner and a ready smile that make him the palace favourite.

‘Your only son,’ Helena reminds Constantine.

‘Your only son so far.’ Fausta rolls back on the couch and pats her belly, which has finally begun to swell under her dress. In my experience, there’s nothing so smug and anxious as a pregnant empress.

Helena isn’t interested. In her mind, her divorce was never legitimate. Constantius’s children by his second wife were no children of hers: ergo, Constantine’s children by his second wife will be no grandchildren of hers, whatever blood goes into them.

‘I can go to Nicomedia,’ says Crispus. ‘If it has to be done.’

Constantine dismisses it. ‘Licinius is just trying to drive a better bargain.’ He thinks a moment. ‘What if I offer him an extra province? Moesia, maybe.’

‘If you offer him land, he’ll think you’re intending to take it back,’ I point out. Constantine and I share a look behind Constantiana’s back.

‘Are the Christians so important that you want them to ruin my wedding?’ says Constantiana. The slaves carry on, oblivious to our argument, pinning up her orange veil and tightening the belt on her dress.

‘Do you have to name the Christians?’ I suggest. ‘Why not make the declaration vaguer – religious freedom to all, none specified.’

‘No,’ says Helena again. ‘Who gave you your victories? Whose sign did you paint on your army when you defeated Maxentius?’

I cross the room and stare out of the window. ‘Licinius doesn’t care about the Christians. He wants reassurance.’

‘So how do I reassure him?’

‘Offer him nothing.’

An outraged squeal from Constantiana.

‘Nothing more than you’ve already given,’ I continue. ‘Tell him it’s a fair offer and that to ask more suggests bad faith.’

Constantine considers it. ‘And if he says no?’

‘He’s staying in your palace, in your territory, guarded by your army. If he pulls out of the marriage now, he’ll embarrass you badly.’

I leave the implication unspoken. I don’t want to offend Constantiana so close to her wedding. But she’s not obtuse. Denied armies, provinces or money to throw into this contest, she uses the only weapon she has and bursts into tears.

‘For once in your life, can’t you arrange a marriage without thinking what you’re going to get out of it? It’s almost as if you want your Christians to be there in the marriage bed with us.’

‘Not at all.’ Constantine rushes across and embraces her in a fraternal hug. ‘It’s Licinius who’s complicating things. But Valerius is right. It’s a fair offer and your husband’s sure to see it.’ Another hug. ‘He won’t want to let you get away from him.’

An empress isn’t supposed to cry. Constantiana’s tears have ruined her face. Half a dozen slave girls rush to mend the damage, dabbing and painting until the repair’s invisible. By the time they lower her veil, her stormy face shows nothing but bright spring sunshine.