Chapter 1: Constantine's Tutelage

The silhouette of the distant ridge emerged from a serene
darkness. Milky stars in the moonless sky faded as the sun's rays
spread blush upon the eastern sky and dispelled the mist
shrouding the plains. Dawn sparkled in eyes of teal as the
resurgence of day was beheld. The chill of the night fell away
and daylight illuminated the garden.

Seated on a crimson settee, with her lute on her lap,
Helena Flavia Constantina took in the natural beauty of the
garden. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the black
birch pine. She wore a light shroud under a heavy woolen cloak,
which hung loosely from gold brooches on her shoulders, belted
tightly around her waist, and flared slightly down to her calves.
Positioning the instrument on her lap, she began plucking it,
filling the garden with sounds from her youth. When she had first
learned the melody, she had been a young girl living in
Drepanum. She was a decade in age then, the same age as her
only child.

Constantine emerged, like the sun at dawn, as if
summoned by his mother's rhythm. His kilt, with a gold Greek
key design along the hem, stopped short above the knee,
exposing his stout young legs. A soft breeze blew through his
short wavy hair as his olive eyes stared at Helena. He kissed her
on the cheek and she smiled.

"Good morning, mother," he said blithely.

She embraced him with all her warmth, her love, her
being.

"Do you wish to join me?" she asked unnecessarily.

"Only if I may play the lute," he said eagerly, then added,
as if she might need convincing, "After all, I've already
interrupted you."

The back of her hand caressed the side of his face. "Only
if you think you can keep up."

He looked at her with a grin. "I haven't spent my days
practicing with the tutors for nothing." He took the lute from her,
positioning it in front of him to play. His fingers glided along the
strings of the instrument, synchronous in time with her singing.

This was a ritual for them, for they both enjoyed this time
together, these songs with nature at dawn.

"Now go to your lessons, so we may have breakfast in
time," Helena told him when the song ended.

Constantine kissed his mother on the cheek and left the
lute in its place. He passed under the arch of the garden and into
the villa. It was a typical villa, with various pagan statues about,
drapes in the corners of the rooms, and large open areas with
brackets for candles.

The study chamber, however, was not typical. Uniquely
designed and well lit with kerosene lamps, it was a small closed
area with no view of the outside. Helena had made sure that the
walls were covered with maps, arithmetic formulas, and the
alphabets of the Latin and Greek languages. In the center was a
marble desktop supported by stone legs in the shape of miniature
longswords. One rounded-backed chair with black upholstery
was the only other piece of furniture in the chamber. Helena
herself had designed the stark room to ensure that the visiting
tutors were always on their feet, and hence, always in a position
to instruct. Split reeds, ready for writing, lay on top of a stack of
papyrus sheets on the comer of the desk. The ends of rolled
documents protruded from wicker baskets placed around the
room. Everything was tidy and organized; it was a place for
countless hours of study where Constantine had long ago
discovered that knowledge is king.

As soon as he sat at his learning desk, Constantine began
to work on his studies. From a young age, he had developed the
habit of using his time well; procrastination was the enemy and a
prelude to failure, which he intended to avoid. He was
completing his assigned arithmetic problems, his most dreaded
subject. He would scribble numbers, pause to extend one finger
after the other, and then jot down the sum.

Immersed in his studies, Constantine didn't notice when
one of his tutors, Amynterius, entered the room through the open
double doors. Wearing a kilt of scarlet wool, he walked across
the room, his sandaled feet making almost no sound. A gold
bracelet with silver studs, covered his wrist and lower forearm.
On the hand holding the tutorial material for the day was a
bronze ring with a large black sapphire. His black eyes focused
on the material in front of Constantine.

A shadow formed on the desk and floor from over
Constantine's shoulder. Constantine's eyes widened; he knew he
was caught. Amynterius pulled back the chair, turning
Constantine around to face him. He bent forward and placed the
scrolls he was engraving on the desk. Then, without warning, his
palm collided with the side of Constantine's face. Before the ten-
year-old boy could regain his bearings, the back of Amynterius'
hand violently struck Constantine's other cheek. Papyrus sheets
on the desk lifted with the wind of Amynterius's movement, then
fell to the floor. Constantine quickly sprang to pick them up and
reorganized the material upon the desk.

Amynterius closed the study chamber doors for privacy,
then turned back toward his pupil. "When an instructor assigns
problems, they are to be completed by the following lesson. This
way, you as the student, will have learned the previous subject
matter and can move forward to more advanced arithmetic. Since
you are still behind, I will allow you a few moments to finish the
page you are studying, and then we will continue."

Constantine bowed his head. "Thank you, teacher."

Amynterius used the most physical punishment of all of
Constantine's tutors. Even Alexander, his Pankration instructor,
rarely raised a hand to punish the boy. Amynterius, however,
was different. He gave a child a man's beating upon the slightest
provocation. At least, Amynterius always explained the reason
for the pain he inflicted. Naturally, Helena disagreed with these
types of disciplinary tactics, but it was Constantius, the child's
father, who had sanctioned such punishment.

"All right, let us begin." Using a wax tablet and metal
stylus, Amynterius scribbled a problem in front of Constantine.
"Back to multiplication for today's lesson. It is similar to the
assignment you had not completed. Therefore, we will move on
and you'll continue with both assignments later."

Although strict and extreme in his discipline measures,
Amynterius was a good instructor, and an excellent
mathematician. He had patience, although he would snap if he
had to repeat too often. Constantine did try his best to please the
tutors, even with the most challenging academic tasks demanded
by his father. However, although he was gifted, his study skills
were still imperfect and he also had habits that irritated
instructors. Now, Constantine began performing one of these
habits unconsciously.

He was counting with his fingers again. Amynterius was
furious at the long-dismissed tutor who had taught the child that
annoying habit. He raised his arm and angrily struck the child
down with the back of his hand, knocking Constantine out of his
seat. The boy slowly sat back up, and gazed above at his tutor.
Dilated nostrils above hard pressed white lips transformed the
sweet young child. All at once, Amynterius felt uneasy.

Constantine knew that, even though Amynterius was three
times his size, he had the skill to thrash him. Fortunately, he was

rational enough to look ahead to the dreadful punishment he
would receive for such a rebellious act.

Amynterius was aware that he had struck the child out of
rage. He had crossed the line as young Constantine's fierce stare
made evident. A small cut was ripped open under the comer of
the child's right eye, no doubt caused by the ring on the tutor's
hand. Blood droplets trickled off his face and dripped onto the
papyrus below. Constantine's eyes remained dry, white, and
fixed. Amynterius knew he was at fault, although the mere fact
that the child never cried seemed a challenge to authority. He
wanted to grab Constantine and beat reverence into him. Yet,
Amynterius realized he had crossed the line, and he also knew
that Constantius would not approve of these extreme methods of
tutelage.

"Please do not count with your fingers."

Without a word, the child returned to his arithmetic. He
carefully solved the problem while his tutor paced around the
study chamber. Constantine raised his hand, indicating he was
through. Amynterius walked over to the desk. But what he saw
made his brows draw together in a frown. The answer was
written in blood.

The tutor clenched his fist as his face turned red with
anger. He leaned over the desk; Constantine didn't flinch. The
doors opened and a sound brought peace to the tense, volatile
situation.

"Excuse my interruption," Helena said pleasantly.

Amynterius forced a courtesy smile. "No, not at all."

She continued, "I would like Constantine to join me for
breakfast if it doesn't interfere too much with your lesson plan."

He looked at Constantine, who was using the tutor's
handkerchief to wipe the drying blood from his cheek.

"Please go, but return as soon as you finish."

The child rose and went directly under his mother's arm.
He turned and smiled at his tutor as if to mock him. Helena left
with her son, leaving Amynterius in the study chamber to wither
in his anger.

They sat in the patio under a woven tarp with various
Greek designs. They could see most ofNaissus from those seats;

they could see their world, and they could see each other for a
few moments.

"How is Amynterius? He is a good tutor, no?"

"Yes, the best," Constantine responded straight-faced. He
was silent for a moment, then burst out in laughter.

Helena ignored the beating that would be occasionally
inflicted upon her son, and never inquired about marks left on the
child's face and body. Instead she would comfort her son
through conversation and warm embraces. She kissed his
forehead before leaving the patio to fetch the food.

Thanks to his mother, Constantine felt like himself again.
Everything appeared beautiful—the other villas, the trees, the
mountains, the sky. Oh, and that west wind that was blowing in,
caressing his face like his mother's hand, brought him back to
the serenity that he found in her presence. No screams, no harsh
voices, just peace. This was his mother's world, and although at
times monotonous, it enabled him to control his anger.

Helena returned, placing trays of fresh food on the thin
granite table, which was supported by gargoyle legs. She
uncovered the trays; grapes, yogurt with honey, and two slices of
wheat bread still warm from the oven with cheese and ham
smashed in between them. She poured fresh squeezed goat milk,
placing his full chalice in front of him. "Drink. It will make you
big and strong."

He inhaled the food as he always did when his mother had
prepared it herself- She slowly ate the yogurt, observing her
precious son enjoying the meal as usual. Just as Helena brought
her son serenity, Constantine brought his mother peace.

"Finish it all. You have Pankration instruction today."

Constantine stopped eating for a moment, smiling with
pleasure. Pankration was his favorite subject, and Alexander his
favorite instructor. Perhaps he enjoyed it so much because he got
to be with other children. The fact that he excelled at Pankration
was another reason he enjoyed it so much. Physical skills came

easily to him. He was also glad, because this meant no language
and no music lessons today—although he would gladly study
those subjects daily, in exchange for arithmetic.

He thought of Amynterius and realized he was behind in
his studies. His anger had subsided, and he was in a rush to
return to the study chamber. He gulped down the remaining milk,
then stood in front of his mother. She wiped his mouth and
pointed to her cheek with a raised brow. He pecked at the exact
spot she pointed to. He was full, she was satisfied, he was free to
go.

Constantine's forearms became his pillows as he rested
his wounded cheek, and slept on the marble top on which he had
been studying arithmetic so diligently. His body was accustomed
to a midday nap; a habit Amynterius had cheated him out of
many times. He had almost completed both assignments prior to
recess. He had told himself that he would only close his eyes
briefly, that he would awake well before it was time for his
second lesson of the day. He had done well for the first part of
the day. He had redeemed himself with Amynterius, allowing
him to rest easy. More importantly, he had made extra time for
Pankration later on in the day.

Doors slamming together interrupted Constantine's
dream, announcing that Leonidas had entered the room. "Good
afternoon child."

Constantine sat up straight, his eyes puffy and reddened
from sleep. "Good day teacher." He returned to the work before
him, reminding himself of the personal deadline he had set for
himself earlier.

Unlike Amynterius, Leonidas was not as strict about
Constantine's studying of other materials in his presence. He
allowed Constantine a few minutes to finish his arithmetic

assignment- That way, the tutor knew the boy was more apt to

focus his full attention on the history lesson.

Leonidas folded his arms across his white chlamys and
stood in front of a map on the wall. He was a short stocky man,
with a black beard and ponytail. He was a Spartan, named after
an infamous Spartan king. He had been raised, however, not in
the battlefield but in the schools. He was a Spartan of a different
nature, one who despised death, destruction and danger. He was
gentle and soft spoken, a philosopher and lover of the arts. He
had never laid a hand on any child.

"Shall we get started?"

Constantine shuffled the papyrus sheets in organized piles.
"Yes, I'm ready." The child lied out of courtesy for his second
favorite instructor.

"We spoke of Alexander the Great, his campaigns, tactics,
and influence. We covered quite a bit in a short time, so do you
have any questions?"

Constantine contemplated a question he had thought of the
other morning, but was hesitant to ask.

Leonidas continued. "Very well, we'll move on to
literature in the-"

"Wait. Yes, why was he given the title, 'the Great'?"

The tutor ran his fingers through his black beard. "Ask
yourself this question."

"I have and I think that it was because be had such a vast
empire."

Leonidas shook his head as if to add something, but was
cut off by the child. "He also used revolutionary new tactics, and
employed men from the comers of the world to fight in his
armies. Alexander the Great was great because he conquered so
many different people?"

The tutor drew a deep breath with the last sentence of the
child's answer. "Many rulers have killed and conquered vast
peoples but were never given the title 'the Great'. Yes, he had
revolutionary tactics for battle, although most were acquired

from his father. King Philip II." Leonidas paused. "The answer
you are looking for is not directly related to acts of violence."

"He united Hellas," Constantine blurted out.

Leonidas nodded his head in approval. "Indeed he did. All
these facts you have mentioned contributed to his being given his
title. However, it was his spread of Hellenistic culture and his
tolerance of other religions and peoples that truly ensured that
the world would bestow upon him the title of 'the Great'. And
let's not forget he did this all in a very short time. Remember that
he was only thirty-one years of age when he died."

Constantine hid his embarrassed smile by bending his
head, understanding the actual lesson behind the historical story.

Leonidas continued, "It is a shame that aggressive
measures must be taken in order to ensure changes or force
developments that will better mankind. Alexander was 'Great'
because he gave the world a new culture and he promoted
tolerance through education. In other words, the peace at me end
of his reign and his contributions to the improvement of human
kind distinguished him from all other rulers."

Constantine raised his head proudly. "One day I will be
known as Constantine the Great,"

Leonidas smiled and walked over to him. He ran his hand
through the boy's wavy hair. "Your ambition reveals to me your
capabilities. It is within you to pursue a destiny you already
know exists." He paused. "But to choose to follow such a path is
to choose a dark life, filled with adventure, but void of family
and ordinary pleasures."

They moved on to the next lesson, although Constantine's
mind remained fixed on the last. He would never again admit his
desire to anyone, but it would linger within his heart until his
dying breath. He was a child with a dream, who did not
comprehend what diversities his life would face in pursuit of it.
He had made a vow to himself, and would, at various times, be
reminded of fulfilling it. But he was still a child, and his future
goal seemed intangible. He knew little about being a leader,
running an empire, and as yet he had no idea what contributions

he might offer the world. But he had a dream, and everything
great starts with a dream.

The group of boys sat in a circle around a large sandpit
with their instructor in the center. Sweat glistened off their
bodies from the five-kilometer run they had just finished. Except
for the instructor who was dressed in a sable loincloth, all the
boys wore identical gray loincloths, for unity.

Their instructor, Alexander, was a muscular man with
wavy ocher hair, dark brows, and clear brown eyes. He was
naturally broad shouldered with massive arms. His left eyelid
and brow flickered occasionally when he spoke. He moved
around on the floor of the pit, ensuring he had the attention of all
the youths.

"I have said this hundreds of times, and I will say it
hundreds more until it is embedded in each one of your heads.
Attack, attack, attack! Never think defense. Even when
retreating, you must think of attack. Think only of offense and
everything else will surely follow. If you are put into a hold, if
you are in a position that seems inescapable, if you are surprised
in an attack, whatever, attack back and allow your instincts to
guide you to victory. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

Constantine and his good friend Anicius were next to each
other. They were the smallest and youngest of the group.
Ironically, Constantine was the most talented, even including the
boys of eleven and twelve. Anicius, however, was the least
talented.

Alexander nodded at Constantine. It was the boy's
privilage to be designated to lead. "You may lead the stretching
exercises today."

"One," he commanded, trying not to show how proud he
was.

The boys bent straight down and touched their toes
without bending their knees. They continued, listening as their
instructor walked by them, pushing a boy a little further with
each stretch.

"Drills, time and again. We practice in this manner to
make movements instinctual. Soak up the knowledge, the skills,
like a sponge does water."

"Two."

The group changed position into another stretch. The
instructor proceeded. "Relax and take in everything. Relax, and
allow your body to move by itself in competition."

"Three."

"We do not drill today. No, we do round gladiator
instead."

"Switch."

The boys smiled from the news, changing position while
Alexander continued. "Constantine will start it, Eusebius will
follow, and then all the others in order. Understand?"

"Yes sir!"

-Four'"

The silence of concentrated effort was interrupted by the
sound of galloping hoof beats. The boys' heads came up from
their split stretch. Constantine could see what appeared to be the
silhouette of his father, accompanied by two guards, halting their
horses outside the villa. He blocked out the thought and forced
himself to concentrate on the lesson. To foul up once would
cause him to lose his position as stretch leader.

to hook his right arm under his opponent's armpit. He pivoted,
locked his legs, and hurled his good friend's body over like a
bronze tray falling on a marble floor. Dust sprang from the
ground as the young boy's limp body crashed onto the warm
sand. It was too late for him. Constantine's knee was already
pressed on his throat by the time he realized what had happened.
The group cheered.

"Very good- Constantine, stay here. Anicius. take a seat."

His next opponent entered the pit. Diophantus was a
twelve-year-old boy who looked fifteen. This was Constantine's
biggest challenge yet. As Constantine closed his eyes, his
opponent positioned himself.

"Go'"

The boy kicked at Constantine's solar plexus. He brushed
the attack away with a parry, leaving his opponent off balance
and vulnerable. He hesitated, and his opponent continued the
attack with a punch to the ribs, followed by a leg tackle.
Constantine fell as a result. The boy crawled up as if to mount
him, but Constantine clasped his opponent's arm, placed it
between his legs and over his hip, almost breaking the arm. The
boy slapped the ground in pain. Constantine let go victorious.

"Good counter attack. But what went wrong on
Constantine's part?"

The group said nothing; they felt that Constantine had
executed a drilled technique perfectly.

Alexander shook his head, "The parry of the kick was fine,
but there was no counterattack. Everyone pay attention to what I
am about to say, and never forget it. Hesitation means death!
Yes, Constantine won the match. However, that would mean
nothing on the battlefield, surrounded by multiple attackers with
weapons, hungry for blood. You take him out and move on. This
is what we are striving for: the ability to be trained enough to
defeat multiple adversaries, no matter how strong, or how skilled
they may be,"

His favorite instructor's words settled deep into
Constantine's mind. He made sure that the other ten opponents

he faced were defeated quickly without any hesitation
whatsoever. He knew he was still the best in the group and was
still Alexander's favorite pupil.

Alexander watched his favorite pupil closely, pointing out
Constantine's minutest faults, ones that he would let slide had
they been committed by any of the other boys. Alexander was
certain that one day, Constantine would lead men into battle. He
would need to use the skills he had been taught, both to protect
himself and guide his men to victory. Alexander saw greatness in
Constantine and he would miss no opportunity to make certain
that one day, long after Alexander was no longer his tutor,
Constantine would be able to prevail in combat.

Sand mixed with sweat on Constantine's body as he
entered the villa through the garden arch. Immediately, he caught
a distinct scent from inside. A sort of musk lingered in his
nostrils tike a cloud on the horizon. He was hesitant and uneasy
until he heard his mother's laughter. Relaxing, he recognized the
familiar scent. His mother and father were in the room he had
just entered, but an off-white column concealed him from them.
Constantius was speaking to Helena- The skin on his father's red
face crinkled around his eyes and above his shaggy brown and
graybeard. Constantine stayed behind the column, listening
curiously.

Constantius' deep voice echoed in the room. "The
ceremony was held five kilometers from Nicomedia, on a hill
overlooking the city. The ceremony went as usual. You know,
the army saluted, brief speeches were made, and then Diodes
became the new Augustus."

Constantine's eyes widened. He moved closer to hear his
mother words.

"That was a twist of fate for him," she said under her
breath.

"There is more- Upon oalh, he swore that he was
completely innocent of responsibility for the death of
Numerianus. He then turned abruptly and pointed to Aper who
stood unsuspectingly beside him. He accused Aper of plotting
and concealing the emperor's death. Then, in view of the army,
the generals, and a few present members of the senate. Diodes
drew his sword and plunged it into Aper's chest. I think Aper
was just as shocked as the rest of us. His hands held the sword
until Diodes kicked his body away and freed his weapon. The
man drowned in his own blood."

Constantine smile vanished as he observed the look of
disgust on his mother's face. She embraced her husband, relived
that he had not harmed.

"Promise me that you will never get involved in politics
any further than you have already through the army."

He touched the top of her head and smiled. She knew her
request had come too late for the asking.

"I've been appointed governor of Dalmatia."

Constantine placed his hand over his mouth in shock and
excitement. He could not utter a word as his mother stayed silent,
with her arms still wrapped around his waist. His hands pulled
her face toward his; he kissed her.

Constantius saw the tears form at the edge of her eyes. She
hugged him tightly, her tears falling upon the doth that covered
his shoulder. She concealed her emotions the best she could and
Constantius chose to pretend he didn't notice. His eyes caught
the furtive glances of his son behind the column.

"Constantine!"

The child, uneasy, came forward with his eyes lowered. It
always took him a bit of time to grow accustomed to his father's
presence.

"Come here son." Constantius opened his arms.
Constantine's head came to just above his waist- His arms
wrapped around his father's spiked leather kilt. Above it,
Constantius was dressed in leather chest armor, topped with a
scarlet cloak held in place with golden brooches.

"Look how much you've grown!" His father pushed him
back and examined him. He smiled proudly at his prodigy. Then,
he bent down on one knee and pulled the child to him. His lips,
along with his shaggy beard touched the child's wounded cheek.
Frowning, he examined the cut. "Have you been disobeying
Amynterius again?"

"No, Father, I-"

"What is this, then?"

"It happened at the beginning of my Pankration training
today."

Constantius knew his son was lying, but chose not to
spend the few moments that he had with him scolding him.

Helena intervened before Constantius could change his
mind. "Go bathe. Supper will be ready when you return."

Constantine left the room, and his parents were alone
again.

After supper, Constantius spent time alone with his son in
the courtyard. Whenever Constantius would come to the villa, he
made sure to tell Constantine about his adventures on the field.
The child found his stories interesting, not only because he
learned from them, but also because they helped him better
understand his father. They sat on the patio, with his father's
back to the military city on the Danube.

"The Gauls appeared in front of the legion; we were
outflanked and out-manned. They chanted their cadence of war
with screams that are customary for warriors from these parts.
Half the men wet themselves. They were unaccustomed to an
enemy with paint on their faces, and to the other fear tactics
these barbarians used. Even my stallion was taken off guard. I
risked him throwing me before regaining control. I ordered the
archers to just aim while the rest of the cavalry maneuvered
around the flank. My strategy proved correct, for we had

reversed the situation and were on course for victory. Had the
Gauls been an experienced Roman legion, with a surprise attack
such as this, we would have lost almost the entire force. Instead
we were victorious." He paused. "Tell me now, what had I
learned from this experience?"

Constantine's smile vanished. He was caught up in
thought. His father took the seat across from him, caressing his
beard with his fingers.

"To begin with, no soldier in his right mind rides a stallion
into battle, especially not you. Father. Even the barbarians are
smart enough to stake out a mare in heat where the stallions
could smell her and go crazy. That's why the cavalry uses
geldings." He thought for a moment. "Also reconnaissance might
have possibly prevented the surprise attack. A different route that
didn't leave the regiment as exposed to the enemy would be
another factor. Experienced soldiers should have been mixed
with inexperienced ones. And, lastly, I know you would never be
so negligent as to allow such an attack to fall upon your legion.
This is not what actually happened. It is a fable."

Constantius laughed warmly. "You are right through and
through. I can no longer fool you my son." He then continued,
finishing this story with its usual ending: "One day you and I will
fight side by side in battle. Then you will know." Constantius
rose, then patted Constantine on the head, before leaving for his
bedchamber.

Flavius Constantius loved young Helena deeply, despite
his many absences. He provided his wife and child with
everything but himself. He was, after all, an officer in the Roman
army, and to get ahead, he had to put duty before family.
Constantius' promotion to governor put him closer to home,
while creating new opportunities for him to advance as he
became one of Diocletian's favorites. On occasion, his musk
scent permeated the villa, as his presence did their lives. That
unique aroma and the sight of blood stained body armor were not
the only memories Constantine had of the stranger whom he
knew as his father. It was how the stranger came to his mother,

whose kisses and love were transformed into valor in battle. As
quickly as Constantius appeared, he vanished. Wife and son were
alone again.

Over the years, Constantine grew accustomed to his
father's absence. He knew his father provided him with tutors
such as Alexander, Leonidas, and Amynterius, as well as the
numerous other instructors whose specialized knowledge was
bestowed upon him. He respected Constantius and his efforts,
but his love was solely for Helena.

Helena's days with Constantine seemed short; the twilight
would come as speedily as sunrise. Although they slept in
different chambers of the villa, she made sure to see him to bed
every night with a story of moral importance. She would at times
speak of emperors, sometimes warriors, and on occasion about
"The Way."

"The way of salvation," was how Helena referenced to
Christianity. She read to Constantine in Greek, so that he would
understand the meanings of each word of every story, while at
the same time expanding his knowledge of the Greek language.
The pages of The New Testament lay before her eyes. She set the
codex aside, and concluded her recital with an expressiveness all
her own.

"I am the giver of light. I am the Alpha and the Omega."

His head tilted toward her and his eyes closed. It had been
a long day. His body was at rest. Helena tucked him in and
kissed her son on the forehead. She glanced to her right at a
bronze icon with sixteen rays radiating from a central disc that
hung on the wall. It was a representation of Sol Invictus,
conventionally identified with the deity Apollo.

She untied the netting, allowing it to hang over the entire
bed. Without it, mosquitoes would steal his blood. The fretted
doors of the child's bedchamber closed. Another day had come
to an end.

Mother of an only son, Helena vowed to do everything in
her power to insure a prosperous future for Constantine. As the

years passed and Constantine grew into a man, her devotion to
him encompassed her world. Like the wives of many important
rulers, it was she who was solely responsible for the proper
upbringing of her husband's son.

In a decade, she had borne witness to his growth, from the
dependence of his babyhood, to moments of sheer individuality.
For Helena, the days she spent with her son were the only ones
she truly lived. He enlivened her. Then abruptly, his absence—her
world languished. At age eleven, her only son was taken from
her, forced to the court of the emperor Diocletian, as a hostage to
ensure his father's good behavior.