Part 29 (2/2)

And then I realized that, as in childbirth I had created my own tormentor who would feed on me and destroy me, at the end of life I must endure the painful process of giving birth to the Self, for myself alone.

I had to give up power over my child to become detached and uninvolved and let him build his world.

Why was this such a surprise? Had I not always known that what I did was by my own will-to leave Avalon with Constantius, to accept responsibility for my child? When I did that, I became the G.o.ddess, with the same ruthless power.

Now I had renounced my child, and the grandchild I loved had been taken from me. It was for younger women to bear and care for children now. I might lend wisdom and counsel, but it was no longer my part to meddle in the affairs of the world, unless it was to teach the young ones what I had learned.

There was nothing left to me but old age and declining strength, and in the end, death. But I was beginning to see that this might also be an opportunity. As a mother, I had had to deny myself in favour of others. Now, it was given to me to be free again, to be uniquely myself, living for myself, procreativeness giving way to creativity.

By the time I had the strength to get up and around, spring had come once more. The little thorn tree, which I had put into the earth just outside the chapel in my palace, had survived its transplanting and was now putting out strong green shoots, starred with white bloom. When I looked at it, I did not see my well-tended gardens, but mist on the water and the smooth green slope of the holy Tor.

I summoned a magistrate, and with his help and Cunoarda's I began work on my will. Every detail must be covered, from freedom for those members of my household who were still slaves to the disposition of the items I had brought back from Palestine. A man's robe, which the merchant had a.s.sured me was the very garment worn by Jesus, was to be sent to the bishop at Treveri, and a set of diadems worthy of the Wise Men to the church at Colonia. To Bishop Sylvester I left the Domus Sessorianum itself, with instructions to use its resources as needed, and to take care of the little thorn tree.

Cunoarda pulled a long face, but I found that even simply planning to give so much away left me feeling lighter. How much freer would I feel if I simply walked away? Though I a.s.sured Cunoarda I was feeling better, it was likely enough that death would soon release me. But if it did not, perhaps one day I would abandon all that held me in Rome.

Attached to the Church of Marcellinus and Petrus was a kitchen and a covered area where the poor could come for a meal. There was also a small building, lone survivor of the barracks that had formerly occupied the s.p.a.ce, where the sick could be nursed for a while. It was a long time since I had been trained in the use of herbs and simples, but I knew more of such things than the priests did, or most of the other women, and they were happy to have my help when I could come.

I had told them that I served a family that had estates in many places, and must often travel with them, which excused me from becoming too close to the community. Still, it was good to go among ordinary people again. In the spring that followed my return from Palestine, I was spending three afternoons a week at the church, while Cunoarda told any enquirers at the palace that I was resting.

It was on one of those afternoons that the old woman from Gallia collapsed over her soup and was carried into the shelter. She had been coming in for the past several weeks. Her name was Drusa, and she had moved to the city with her son, but now he had died and left her alone. I had noticed her particularly because the other helpers thought she resembled me. Perhaps it was the Celtic bone structure we shared. She did not know her age, but I guessed her to be a few years younger than me.

Drusa died just before the Feast of Pentecost, on the day that a messenger had come to tell me that the Emperor was on his way to Rome. Ever since, my stomach had been acid with anxiety, for I knew that there must be a confrontation, but the old woman's death put my own fears into perspective, and in that moment of clarity, from the depths of my soul emerged a plan.

”Drusa is my sister in Christ,” I told the priest, ”and I will act the part of a kinswoman and see to her burial. A waggon will come for the body this afternoon.”

Constantine made a triumphal entry into the city. I did not attend, though even from my palace I could hear the cheers. He was scheduled to attend services at the Lateran cathedral and on the following day, to address the Senate, and then, no doubt, there would be a banquet. It was not until the third day after his arrival that the messenger came to tell me that the imperial entourage was on its way.

By then the domus was worthy of sheltering the imperial presence, every surface polished and s.h.i.+ning.

Constantine should have no reason to scorn his mother's surroundings now. I received him in one of the private chambers, more intimate than the audience hall, though no less splendid, since I had added the draperies of Tyrian purple and richly-coloured carpets I had purchased in Palestine.

It suited him well, I thought as I rose to greet him. He had come from some formal reception and was still wearing the purple toga brocaded with flowers. I had decked myself out in the robes of an Empress Mother, my hair confined by the pearl diadem.

Three smaller figures, dressed in similar garments, followed him. For a moment I thought they were dwarfs, intended to make the Emperor look even larger. Then I looked again and realized that they were boys, all three of them dark-haired, with skin that did not get enough sun. They gave a supercilious glance at the room's beauties, then flopped down on two of the large cus.h.i.+ons next to the table where I had placed a tray of the fig pastries drenched in honey that Constantine used to love.

”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 pa.s.sing.

”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 G.o.ds 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 s.h.i.+ne 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.”

”Do you wish to retire from the world? Perhaps to a community of holy women, praying for the Empire-”

I could see the beginnings of calculation in his eyes. I could not really blame him-this ability to extract political benefit from everything was, I suppose, one of the things that made him an effective emperor.

But in a world that was full of stories of young people rebelling against their parents, I had never considered how hard it might be for an elder to win freedom from her children.

”I will not head your congregation of Christian Vestals, Constantine,” I said tartly. ”But Iam going away...'

”I cannot allow that-” Constantine shook his head. ”You are too useful to me here.”

”Useful!” I was growing angry at last. ”How useful will I be if I begin to call the death of Crispus a murder, or proclaim myself disillusioned with Christianity and go to make offerings at the Temple of Juno Regina on the Capitol?”

”You will not! I can imprison you here-” Constantine was half out of his chair, his face flus.h.i.+ng dangerously.

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