“Do you wish to retire from the world? Perhaps to a community of holy women, praying for the Empire—”
I could see the beginnings of calculation in his eyes. I could not really blame him—this ability to extract political benefit from everything was, I suppose, one of the things that made him an effective emperor. But in a world that was full of stories of young people rebelling against their parents, I had never considered how hard it might be for an elder to win freedom from her children.
“I will not head your congregation of Christian Vestals, Constantine,” I said tartly. “But I am going away…’
“I cannot allow that—” Constantine shook his head. “You are too useful to me here.”
“Useful!” I was growing angry at last. “How useful will I be if I begin to call the death of Crispus a murder, or proclaim myself disillusioned with Christianity and go to make offerings at the Temple of Juno Regina on the Capitol?”
“You will not! I can imprison you here—” Constantine was half out of his chair, his face flushing dangerously.
“Do you think I have taken no precautions?” I snapped back at him. “I am your mother! I have distributed letters to be sent out in a week’s time unless a word from me recalls them.”
“You will say that word—”
“Or you will murder me, as you did Fausta? I am old, Constantine, and death holds no terrors. Neither threats nor pain will bend my will!”
“Are you still a Christian?” This was not self-interest, but a deeper and more superstitious fear.
I sighed. How could I make him understand?
“I have always wondered why a man who can see only one colour is considered disabled, and yet is praised when he will accept only one deity. I believe that Christ bore the power of God, and I honour his teachings, but I know that the Goddess in her many guises loves her children as well. Do not try to define me as Christian or Pagan, Constantine.” I took a deep breath, remembering the sigil I had seen Josephus of Arimathea inscribe upon the tomb. “I am a servant of the Light. Let that be enough for you.”
There was a long silence, and in the end it was Constantine’s gaze that fell.
“I do not understand, Mother—what do you want?”
Even now there was a part of me that longed to take him in my arms and comfort him as I had done so many years ago, but I could not allow it to rule me.
I took a deep breath, and answered gently, “I want my freedom, Constantine…”
At last I understood the error I had made so long ago. We give birth to our children, but we do not create them. In my pride I had believed Constantine to be the justification for my existence, and claimed his sins, as well as his achievements, as my own. I could pray for him, but Constantine was an immortal spirit, and though it was through me that he had come into this world, I must neither take upon myself the fate his deeds had earned, nor blame him for my own.
“But how? What will people say?”
“You may tell them I am dead, for indeed I will be dead to you, and to this world.”
“What do you mean? What are you going to do?”
“I will leave the world you know, and make my way to a place where you will never find me. In the chapel of my palace lies the body of a poor woman of this city. You may bury her in that tomb at the Church of Marcellinus and Petrus—one old woman looks much like another, and people will see what they expect to see. Tell whatever tale you like, Constantine, mourn the icon of Helena that you have created to feed your glory. But let me go!”
“You are my mother,” he protested, his heavy head turning blindly. “You cannot abandon me…’
“Your mother is dead,” I rose to my feet. “You are speaking to a memory.”
He reached out, but I had drawn a veil of shadow about me in the way I had learned long ago on Avalon, and his grasping fingers closed on air.