The goddess in the shrine was portrayed in the Roman fashion, with a crown of wheat and flowers surmounted by a crescent moon, and flowing draperies. The sounds of commerce outside seemed to fade as I cast frankincense upon the glowing coals in the brazier before the altar.
“Goddess,” I whispered, “for the sake of your son Horus, the mighty warrior who is the Hawk of the Sun, watch over my child and bring him safely home.” I waited for a moment, contemplating the play of lamplight on the marble features, and then cast a second handful on the coals. “And watch over the Emperor also, as you watched over Pharaoh.”
Any citizen might make offerings on behalf of the Emperor, but I no longer had the right to pray for him as my husband, and even if I had, the fidelity of Isis is remembered because Osiris died. I went home, but found myself still uneasy. Still, the reports continued to be positive. I am becoming an old woman, I told myself. There is no reason to worry so…
At the end of June, I received a letter from Constantine.
“My father collapsed on the way back from Alba. He is up again now and we have reached Eburacum, but he seems often to be in pain. The physicians will say little, and I am afraid for him. Please come. He is asking for you…”
Constantine had sent an order for post-horses. Travelling by carriage and changing horses at each government mansio, it took a little over week for me to travel north to Eburacum. A fifty-five-year-old body was not meant for this kind of travel. By the time I reached the fortress, I was bruised and exhausted by the constant sway and jolt of the carriage, but though the word of the Emperor’s illness had spread through the countryside and I saw many worried faces, at each stop I was told that Constantius still lived, and so hope sustained me through my journey.
I was realizing now that the sorrow of our separation had been eased a little by the knowledge that Constantius still walked the world. And yet, as I travelled, I could not keep from remembering the image of Isis sorrowing for her husband. Even the gods lost those they loved, so why should I think myself immune?
Word of my coming had run ahead of me. Constantine came out of the presidium as we rumbled through the gate, and when the carriage halted, lifted me out. For a few moments I clung to him, drawing strength.
“How is he?” I asked, when I could stand alone.
“Each day he insists on getting dressed and attempting to do a little work. But he tires very easily. I told him that you were coming, and each hour, it seems, he has asked where I think you are now.” He managed a smile. “But we persuaded him to lie down a little while ago and he is sleeping.”
He escorted me into the building and showed me the chamber they had set aside for me and the slave girl who would attend me. When I had washed and changed my gown I found Constantine waiting in the adjoining room where a table with wine and honey-cakes was laid.
“And how are you?” I asked, noting the dark smudges beneath his eyes. Physically, I might be the more exhausted, but he was suffering too.
“It is strange. When I go into battle I feel no fear. But this is an enemy I cannot confront, and I am afraid.”
It is true, I thought sadly, even the strength of a young man who does not believe he can die is helpless against some enemies.
“I remember,” he said slowly, not meeting my eyes, “from when I was a child… you can do strange things sometimes. You must help him, mother, or we are lost.”
“Did you call me here as your mother, or as a priestess?”
He looked up, and for a moment I thought he was going to crouch against me with his head upon my breast as he had when he was a little child.
“I need my mother, but my father needs the priestess.”