“Mother, you look well—”
I look old, I thought as the Emperor took my hands and pressed his cheek to mine. Even if I had desired it, court robes did not permit a more affectionate salutation.
“I have brought my boys to see you—Constantinus, Constantius, Constans, salute your grandmother.”
Their names might proclaim their sire, but in features these were Fausta’s sons, whom I had not seen since they were very small. The oldest must now be about eleven, and the others a year and three years younger. As they reluctantly relinquished the sweetmeats and got up to make their bows I wondered what they had been told about their mother’s passing.
“Do you have horses?” asked Constantinus. “I have a white pony that I rode in the procession.”
I repressed the memory of the white stallion that Crispus had ridden in our triumphal entry into Rome. At least this child was trying to be polite. His brothers were already roaming about the room, tugging on the curtains and picking up the alabaster vases and delicate bronze figurines.
“I am too old to ride, but I have dogs. If you wish to go out into my gardens you may play with them.” Leviyah would avoid these children with the caution of a wild thing, but my other dogs were friendly. With another pang I pushed away the memory of how Crispus had used to play with my dogs.
“Yes, why don’t you boys run outside? It is a fine day!”
Clearly the boys recognized the difference between fatherly indulgence and an imperial command, and made no protest when the servant I summoned arrived to lead them away, especially when I picked up the silver tray of pastries and set it into Constantinus’s hand.
“They are fine lads,” said Constantine fondly, gazing after them.
They are mannerless brats, I thought, but they were his problem, not mine, and he deserved them.
“I like to keep them with me,” he went on. “There are those who would use them against me, you know, young as they are.”
I nodded, and seated myself on one of the carved ivory chairs, whose rounded back had been carved with scenes of Penelope and Ulysses. Its mate, which creaked as it took Constantine’s weight, portrayed Dido and Aeneas.
How did I come to have a son so old? I wondered then. Since I had last seen him the flesh had begun to sag a little on the big bones, and the skin of his face was deeply scored by lines of anger and suspicion as well as power. He seemed to have bounced back from the tragedy of Crispus and Fausta, but not without scars.
“Your journey to Palestine was a great success—” Constantine poured a goblet of wine from the flagon that had been left with the pastries upon the table. “Even if they can agree on nothing else, both Eusebius and Macarius are unanimous in praise of your virtues.”
He grimaced as he remembered his battle to force the bishops to consensus. I had heard that the compromises of Nicaea were already fraying. In the old days, men had served the gods as their temperaments inclined and no one would have seen any point in trying to make them all see things the same way.
“As I hoped, the image of the imperial family is beginning to shine brightly once more. Now I would like you to make a journey to the churches founded by Saint Paulus in the cities of the Greek diaspora.”
“No.” Though I found great beauty in the words of Jesus, I was becoming increasingly aware of a difference between the truths he taught and the church that Paulus had established in his name.
Constantine was still talking. I cleared my throat. “No—I will make no more journeys for you.”
“But why? Are you ill?” The Emperor’s eyes opened wide as he realized that I had denied him.
“I am well enough, for now, but I am old. I have served you and the Empire. In the time that is left to me I must care for myself—the true Self that lay so long neglected while I was paying attention to other people’s needs.”