“You did not write to me about this.”
Constantine lifted an eyebrow, a habit I recognized as my own.
“My dear mother, my father is an honourable man, and there has always been trust between him and Maximian. Things are quite otherwise in the eastern part of the Empire. Even when I served in Diocletian’s household, one of his freedmen read our mail, and Galerius had even less reason to trust me.”
I sighed, realizing that my own letters, perhaps in response to the restraint in his, had over the years become increasingly perfunctory, with the result that neither of us really knew the other at all.
Drusilla brought in the porridge and Constantine rose to embrace her. There were tears in her eye when he let her go again.
“Did you go with him on the second campaign as well?” I asked when he had eaten a little.
“By that time I was serving in his bodyguard. I have to say that Galerius learns from his mistakes. The Emperor gave him an army of Illyrian veterans and Gothic auxiliaries, and we took the northern route, through the mountains of Armenia where the people were our friends. I will also admit that the man has courage—he scouted the enemy camp by night with only two men to guard him, and led the charge when we overran them. That day, there was enough glory for everyone. Narses was put to flight, and the treaty we finally made bids fair to secure our eastern borders for at least a generation.”
“Galerius must have appreciated you, to keep you in his guard.” I set down my own spoon.
Constantine grinned. “Oh, I can fight. I will not tell you about my narrow escapes—they would only frighten you—but I know the gods protect me, for I came through both campaigns with scarcely a scratch. Still, I think Galerius wanted me close so he could keep an eye on me. He thinks he will outlive Father, and be supreme, and I am a threat to his plans.” Abruptly his gaze grew grim. “How much news about the abdication did they release to the provinces, Mother?”
I looked at him in surprise. “Only that it had taken place, and two men I’ve never heard of were appointed as Caesars.”
“Galerius made those choices,” Constantine said through stiff lips. “I don’t know what pressure he put on Diocletian to do it—perhaps he threatened civil war. Do you know, the mint at Alexandria had actually minted a coin with my name on it? I was ready to ask Maximian if he would set a date for my wedding to his daughter Fausta, who was betrothed to me when Father was made Caesar, and is finally of age. Everyone was sure the choice was going to fall on Maximian’s son Maxentius and on me.
“We stood waiting on that damned hill, beneath the column of Jupiter, and Diocletian tottered to his feet and complained about how frail he was becoming and that he was seeking rest after his labours, and so my father and Galerius would become the Augustii, and to assist them he was appointing Maximus Daia and Severus as Caesars! People were whispering, wondering if I had changed my name, until Galerius shoved me aside and pulled out Daia, the son of his sister!”
“Some have said it is just because you and Maxentius are the sons of emperors that you were passed over, to avoid establishing a hereditary monarchy,” I said mildly.
Constantine swallowed an oath. “I could name you a dozen men who would have been more worthy of the honour! Men I would have been proud to serve. Severus is Galerius’s best friend and neither he nor Daia has ever commanded anything bigger than a detachment. Galerius does not want colleagues, but servants, and all Diocletian wants is peace and quiet so that he can continue to believe he saved the Empire!” he said furiously. “Galerius was a good servant, but by the gods, he will make a poor master. He is continuing to harass the Christians in his dominions, when clearly the persecution has failed.”
I took a deep breath. “I am surprised he let you go.”