The Caesar of the East tossed his purple cloak on a couch and Constantine saw that he was appareled in the formal regalia of a highranking Roman officer. His sandals were laced with thongs which had been covered with gold leaf and his white silken tunic was pleated as only the highly trained slaves called plicatae were able to do. A silver breastplate and helmet, the latter complete with the towering formal plume of Phoenician purple that distinguished generals in the Roman army, completed the picture.
“You over there,” Galerius spoke to Constantine as he might have spoken to a slave, and nodded to the half open door leading to another room. “In here.”
Severus followed Galerius through the door and, as he passed, Constantine was surprised by his quick nod of reassurance. Galerius went immediately to a cushioned couch and threw himself upon it, shouting for a slave to bring him wine. He extended no invitation to either Constantine or Severus to join him and only after draining a silver goblet at a gulp, did he speak again.
“So you are Constantius’ son,” he said. “How old are you?” “Nineteen, sir,” said Constantine.
“Why didn’t you kill the Alemanni just now?”
“He is my friend. Besides, it was not a fight to the death.” “The crowd wanted it, and he tried to kill you.”
“I understood that we were to engage simply in a demonstration of fighting from horseback.”
“At which you are not very good,” Galerius said contemptuously. “Any cavalryman in my army could have cut you down.”
“I have not had much training yet in that kind of combat, sir.” Constantine kept his voice even, though the taunt stung.
“I suppose you expect to be given a high place in the army because you are Constantius’ bastard.”
Constantine remembered Dacius’ warning and made no denial. He was not quite certain why Galerius was goading him, though he was beginning to suspect. But he was determined not to give the older man an excuse to subject him to the kind of punishment he’d seen meted out to soldiers, and even officers, for the most trivial of offenses. The dreaded scourging with the whip of many tails, some tipped with small iron balls, could turn the deeper layers of a man’s flesh into a pulp without breaking his skin, crippling him for life.
Responsible place in the army
“I hope one day to earn a responsible place in the army, sir,” he said. “But through my own efforts, not because I am the son of a Caesar.”
“Where is your mother?” Galerius asked.
“At Drepanum, with her family.”
“I remember her well, when she was a barmaid in Bithynia.” Again Constantine forced himself to be calm, certain now that Galerius was seeking to goad him into a retort that would constitute an excuse for punishment.
“What sort of a son are you?” Galerius sneered. “Don’t you even resent your father’s deserting your mother?”
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