“Hail, Thou resplendent and sovereign sun,
Adore we Thy glory, oh Thou holy one!
So help us and heal us, until as above,
Below, all is beauty and all know Thy love…”
I felt the tears start in my eyes as the pure sweet voices intertwined, remembering how I used to sing with the other maidens on Avalon. It had been a long time since I had called upon the Goddess, but the singing awakened in me a longing I had almost forgotten. The chant was for Apollo, or whatever name they used for the sun-god in the Danuvian lands. It was the custom for each emperor to exalt the deity who was his patron, but it was said that Aurelian wished to go further, and proclaim the sun to be the visible emblem of a single, all-powerful being who was the highest god of all.
At Avalon also I had encountered such an idea, though it was the Great Goddess whom we saw as Mother of everything. But I had been taught also that any honest impulse of worship will find the Source behind all images, no matter what name is called, and so I set my hands upon my belly and closed my eyes and sent forth a plea that I might carry this child the full term and bear it healthy and alive.
“Come, Lady Helena,” said Vitellia. “The ceremony is over, and you won’t want to keep your lord waiting. They say that Constantius is a man with a future. You must make a good impression at the celebration.”
I had hoped that Vitellia and I might be seated near each other at the banquet, but Constantius escorted me to a couch just below the dais, while she and her husband remained near the back of the room. She had been correct, I thought as I stretched out and spread my skirts modestly over my ankles and watched him speaking with the Emperor. The fact that my husband had won Aurelian’s favour was becoming clear. I tried to ignore the murmur of speculation from the women nearby. Constantius would not have brought me here without the blessing of Aurelian, and what the Emperor approved, no gossiping woman, however exalted her status, might deny.
On the next couch lay one of the largest men I had ever seen. Obviously he was a German, from his flaxen hair to his cross-gartered breeches, with muscular arms showing beneath the short-sleeved tunic. But around his neck was a golden torque, and the bands on his upper arms and wrists were also gold.
“You are Lady Helena, yes?” he asked. I flushed, realizing he had caught me watching him, but he did not seem to mind. With such a physique, I thought then, he must be accustomed to attracting attention. “Constantius says much about you.” His accent was guttural, but he spoke good enough Latin, by which I concluded that he had served with the legions for some time.
“You were on the campaign?”
“In the desert—” he grimaced, holding out one brawny arm, where the fair skin had been baked nearly to the colour of brick by the sun.
I nodded in understanding. I had learned quickly that it was not modesty but necessity that impelled women to go veiled when they walked outside in this land.
“I am a leader of auxiliaries—of Alamanni spears. You Romans cannot pronounce my name.” He grinned. “So Crocus I am called. Your man saved my life at Ancyra, more than his duty. I give him my oath, I and my kin.”
I nodded, understanding him as, perhaps, a Roman woman could not, and understanding as well that this loyalty extended to Constantius’s family.
“Thank you. My father was a prince among the British tribes, and I know what this means to you. I accept your service—” I set my hand upon my belly, “for myself and my child.”
Crocus bent his head with even greater reverence than before. “I see that it is true, what he says about you.” He paused as I lifted an eyebrow, and then continued. “Among my people we know that women are holy, so when he says you are like a goddess, I know it is true.”