Carefully I transferred the bundled baby into his mother’s arms.
“A son?” she asked, “and unblemished?”
The midwife nodded. “He is perfect in every way.”
Fausta relaxed with a sigh and the baby quieted, though his features were still creased in a frown.
“My Constantinus…” she kissed the top of the baby’s head and held him closer, “the Emperor’s first legitimate son.”
“There are some who question the validity of my relationship with the Emperor’s father,” I said drily. “I would advise you against speaking in those terms to Constantine, lest you appear to doubt his own legitimacy. And in any case, the Roman tradition has been that the man best qualified shall wear the purple, not necessarily even a relative, much less the most legitimate son.” And surely it is Crispus, with the advantage of maturity and his native brilliance, who will be chosen when the time comes, I thought then.
Lost in contemplation of the wonder she had produced, I do not think that Fausta even heard. It was I, remembering tales I had heard of kin-fights among the Persians when a new Great King came to the throne, who felt the first chill of fear.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
« ^ »
AD 321-24
“Domina—there is a letter from Crispus—” Cunoarda paused in the doorway to my sitting room.
“Close the door, please, and let’s see it.”
The brazier was doing its best to counter the dank chill of a Roman February, and I rested my feet upon the flank of Boreas, son of the first hound to whom I had given that name. But even after the renovations I had ordered when Constantine bestowed the Domus Sessorianum upon me, the place was subject to draughts. I had done my best to keep it home-like, hoping for a restoration of the relative simplicity of the suburban villa this palace had once been, but the architects were infected with the new notions of Constantinian grandeur, and only in this room, whose walls were hung with British weavings, and where striped British rugs covered the cold mosaic floor, did I feel truly warm enough to keep at bay the periodic attacks of shortened breath that plagued me in the winter.
“Mistress, what are you doing?” asked Cunoarda as she held out the cased scroll.
“Spinning…” I flushed a little as I twisted the loose wool around the distaff and set it and the spindle down, well aware that this was peculiar behaviour for an emperor’s mother. “When I was a girl the spindle was scarcely ever out of my hand. I wanted to see if I still knew how.”
“I used to spin too, when I was a child in Alba,” said Cunoarda, her voice softening.
“Then we shall get you your own spindle, and you may sit with me by the fire,” I replied. “But first, let us see what my grandson has to say.”
The scroll was in Crispus’s own careful writing. He was now nineteen, with the title of Caesar, and for the past two years had been residing in Treveri as Constantine’s deputy, between campaigns on the German frontier. Only last summer his troops had gained a major victory against the Alamanni. I missed him, for Fausta and her children lived with their mother in Mediolanum, and I rarely saw them. After a late beginning, she had proved exceptionally fertile. A second son, Constantius, had been born the year after Constantinus, and a third, called Constans, just this year.
“Avia Nobilissima,” he began. “I have tidings of great happiness. I am to be married to a most charming girl, the daughter of the senior magistrate of Treveri. Her name is Helena too! Is that not a fortunate coincidence? I call her Lena. I learned to love her this past winter, but I did not know if we would be allowed to marry. Now my father has given permission, and we will hold our feast next month, before I leave to rejoin my legion on the Rhenus. I hope that you can be with us for the celebration, but if it is not possible, I ask for your blessing.
“May the most high God keep you in health, dearest Avia. I remain, your loving Crispus.”