Centurion Dacius was seated behind a table in a room at the end of the long barracks building. His skin was burned to a leathery hue by the sun and wind, his hair was an iron gray, and his craggy face was scarred from the wounds of a hundred campaigns. When Constantine stood before him, the boy felt his very soul was being probed and appraised by the penetrating gray eyes of the Master at Arms. He met the scrutiny silently, however, and finally Dacius unrolled the scroll and began to read it slowly, his lips moving silently as they formed the words. Letters were not the grizzled officers strong point, Constantine decided, and felt an immediate kinship of spirit, for neither were they his.
“So you are Constantius’ get,” Dacius said at last. “He and I fought together in many a campaign, but now that he is a Caesar, I suppose you expect me to prostrate myself before you and crown you with the plumed helmet of a tribune.”
My father sent me here to learn to be a soldier. I want nothing I cannot earn for myself.”
Spoken like Constantius’ son,” Dacius approved. “But still not quite the truth. You were sent here because Caesar Galerius persuaded the Emperor that a hostage is needed to keep Constantius from proclaiming himself an Augustus as soon as he gets to Treves in Gaul. The legions already know your father is the greatest soldier in the service of the Empire.”
“I hope to be his equal, sir.”
Dacius studied him again for a long moment without speaking. “You may be. We shall see. Flavius Valerius Severus commands the Imperial Guard, and the cadets, at the moment. You will find him fair, but he is a close friend of Galerius, who is also the Emperor’s soninlaw, so you’ll get no favors here. A wintry smile showed briefly on his weatherbeaten face. “But a true son of Constantius Chlorus should not need them. How did you come to Nicomedia?”
“On horseback.”
“Then at least you can ride. Did you use the Imperial Post? The seal on this scroll would have entitled you to it.
“I we rode our own horses.”
“I’ll have your mount sent to the stables of your Uncle Marios, Dacius told him. “The Persian curved sword that crippled him cost Rome a fine officer, but very likely did him a favor. No soldier ever got rich, unless he was a general.”
He shouted an order and a slave wearing a short tunic of rough homespun appeared in the doorway.
Flavius Valerius Constantinus
“Find Cadet Flavius Valerius Constantinus a cubicle, a sleeping pallet, and some gear,” Dacius ordered, and turned again to Constantine. “Your training will begin tomorrow; the exercises are finished for the day.” The wintry smile appeared again momentarily. “May Jupiter give you luck. My guess is that you’ll need it.
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