Chapter 5: The Weight of Purple
Constantius. The Augustus. Alive, and asking for him. Alistair processed the words through the filter of Constantine’s memories. The name resonated with a complex mix of awe, filial duty, and a thread of fear – the natural emotions of a son towards a Roman Emperor who was also his father. For Alistair, the pragmatist, these inherited emotions were data, highlighting potential vulnerabilities and leverage points. The core information was clear: the current fulcrum of power in the Western Roman Empire was close to collapse, and he, this eighteen-year-old Constantine, was being summoned.
"I will go to him," he said, the Latin words emerging with Constantine’s familiar cadence. His voice was still weaker than he’d prefer, a reminder of the body’s recent frailty.
Helena’s worried expression tightened further, yet there was a flicker of approval in her eyes. "He will be gladdened. You... you seem clearer, son. Stronger."
Observation noted, Alistair thought. My demeanor is already diverging from this Constantine’s recent behavior. He had no baseline for how the original Constantine had acted during his illness, only the chaotic swirl of remembered fear and weakness. His current lucidity, his focused intent, would likely be conspicuous.
He pushed aside the rough furs and swung his legs over the side of the cot. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the dull ache in his head intensified. This young body was far from peak condition. He steadied himself, taking a slow, deliberate breath. Helena rushed to offer support, but he waved her off with a slight gesture. Dependence was a weakness he could not afford.
"Some wine, perhaps, if there is any. And a moment to... collect myself." He needed to assess his appearance, to understand the face this world now saw as Constantine.
Helena nodded quickly, fetching a small, tarnished silver mirror and a ewer. The reflection was jarring: a youth’s face, pale and drawn from illness, but with strong bones, a determined jaw that hinted at the man he might become, and eyes that were... searching. Constantine’s eyes, now looking out with Alistair’s calculating gaze. The inherited memories supplied the context of who usually looked back from such reflections; the mind behind them was an utter stranger to that history.