Elena

By R E Shrubb

Elena - the bar girl who became an empress and transformed
an empire

__________________________________________________

HIStory - or should it be HERstory?



As is the case in some societies today, for the fi rst

300 years of the Roman Empire, women were the possessions of

men. Many women resisted, some dying horribly rather than

obeying orders to marry men chosen for them. HIStory barely

mentions them.



Another example of HIStory is the conversion of the

Roman Empire from pagan
to Christian by Constantine the Great. He issued the

decrees.

But:


- his early coins have the Unvanquished Sun as their

religious symbol,

- his victory arch in Rome bears pagan symbols..

- he was ruthless in destroying opponents.

- he had his fi rst born son executed,

- he had his wife murdered in her bath.

- he was not baptised until his death-bed.


His mother Elena nurtured him through the turmoils and
dangers of the time and became an important fi gure at
court. She founded churches around the empire and gained
a reputation as a holy person. She is regarded by the

eastern church as equal to the apostles.


The HERstory of Elena tells of her life from bar girl to

empress through the perils of the late empire and its savage

religious persecutions. It relates her role in the martyrdom

of St George, the dramatic escape of Constantine from

hostage of the pagan Galerius and her hand in guiding her

son to his conquest of Rome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452093055

Book preview

Contents

Part One

Part Two

Part 3

Part 4

Cast

Part One

Power is a seductive mistress. Like any mistress, she withholds complete satisfaction from her adherents. No power in the world before could match that of the Roman legion. If the very sound of five thousand hobnailed boots hitting the hard ground together were not enough to subdue an area, then the seemingly miraculous construction of an organised and almost impregnable fortified camp each night of a march would do so.

Such power has its limits. At the very outset of Imperial Rome, General Varus discovered this when his fifteen thousand strong force was annihilated near the Weser River in Germany, haunting the final years of the reign of Augustus. But the seduction was undiminished. Over a century later, Emperor Trajan crossed the Danube and seized the lands on the far bank, establishing the buffer province of Dacia and constructing the huge bridge over the river. He then moved east and expanded the empire to its greatest extent. He died in the process.

Emperors came and went, and the bridge stood. For decades it served its purpose as the artery for sending power to the province and for bringing back the gold from its mines. But the focus of power changed as a rival super-power grew to the east of Egypt. After another century, the great river was becoming again the de facto frontier of the empire.

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She kept very quiet, flattening herself behind the boulder. The barbarians were very close. She could hear their strange voices clearly. She must stay hidden. And yet, she really wanted to have a good look at them. But what if they caught her? She tingled with a mix of fear and excitement. The soldiers from the camp told terrible stories about what the barbarians do to their prisoners. Perhaps she would be a slave to a hairy, smelly barbarian. They might even eat her! Though, there’s not much meat on her, surely? Maybe they would fatten her up, as the shepherds did to the sheep and goats before market. A shudder ran through her. But just a little peek. The barbarians had stopped for a rest on the low slope below where Elena was hiding. They were far enough from the banks of the great Danube River that the roar of the waters could hardly be heard. The only sounds were the occasional snicker of their grazing ponies and the chink of their swords as they moved.

She just had to peek. She edged forward around the boulder. She could see about a dozen ponies down below her, still dressed with their harnesses and packs. The slight breeze was blowing away from the animals and towards her. She caught the scent of them. They smelt of men and earth and blood. She carefully moved some loose stones and wriggled forward some more. She could just see the backs of two of the men. They had long, unkempt hair and wore strange hats of woven cloth. One of them turned slightly to the side revealing a bushy and matted red beard. They were wary as they ate, listening for any sound of Roman auxiliaries approaching.

She would have to stay hidden until they decided to leave. But what if they decided to set up camp for the night? Well, what a tale she would have for her friends in the village. She stretched forward to improve her view. There were eight men sprawled on the grass. She could tell that they were not the peaceful traders who were allowed across the bridge and could be seen in the village on market day. These men wore body armour of dark hide, each had a short bow and a quiver of arrows and they rested with their long swords at their sides.

She knew from the talk of the soldiers in her father’s tavern that Pontos fort was no longer fully manned. The bridge was a few miles down river, but she had seen it on an earlier exploration. It was half a mile long and as high as twenty men. Emperor Trajan had ordered it to be built during his invasion of Dacia. There weren’t enough troops left in the area now to defend that province, and so only one end of the bridge was guarded. The river was fast becoming the real frontier of the empire and the soldiers spoke of the need for regular patrolling to ensure defense in depth.

One of the barbarians was about her age. He had no beard, and was sitting apart from the men, taking no part in their talk. He was looking in her direction. She could see his dark grey eyes…looking in her direction. She froze. Her blood ran cold. The boy stood. He said something to the men. Elena shrank back, terrified. She had a sudden vision of shepherds slaughtering sheep. She could almost feel the sharp knife on her throat. There was a clash of swords on stones as she could hear the men moving. Time to run. Uphill. Go where their horses could not follow. She fled, heading for the steep goat path which had brought her to her hiding place.

She could hear them behind her. They were laughing and calling to each other as if they were hunting an animal. They were spreading out to surround her. She was gasping now, with panic as much as exertion. Her heart was pounding. She felt no pain, though her bare feet were cut and bloodied from the stony ground. She had to get on. There was a gently increasing slope of about fifty paces before the hill rose sharply. If only she could make it. She could hear the breath of the nearest hunter. They would catch her long before the safety of the hill. She tripped and fell. She shut her eyes tight and curled up as small as she could. She could hear their shouts of triumph. She would never see her parents or the tavern again.

Something changed. She was no longer a quarry. The triumphant cries of the hunters had become shouts of alarm. She heard them change direction and start to run away, back down the slope. She opened her eyes and looked down the hill. A lone cavalryman in what looked like gleaming armour and riding a fine white horse was charging, not at the barbarians, but at their ponies. The ponies were galloping off towards the river in fright. The barbarians had turned back, racing in pursuit of their horses.

At last, Elena remembered her father’s strict instruction, Stay away from the stretch of frontier by the river. It was time to obey. She ran and ran up the goat path over the ridge until her lungs were bursting and her legs ached for a rest. At the top of the ridge she turned to view the river valley below. Away to her right she could make out the tops of the turrets of the bridge where the river narrowed. She thought she could see her white knight away to the east, perhaps heading for the track through the pass to the camp on the other side. Of the barbarians there was no sign. She carried on scanning the horizon as her breathing slowed and the ache in her legs faded away. Before too long she was making her way down the escarpment, skipping from rock to rock, as sure footed as the mountain goats. She stopped to pick and smell the aromatic herbs that grew on the southern slopes, her fear forgotten in the delight of the perfect day.

After a while, she could see the army camp below her. With its moat and high walls it was the most impressive thing she had ever seen, more striking even than the old bridge. The soldiers called it a castrum stativum. It had grown from a temporary winter encampment for one legion to a permanent fortress designed for two legions and six cohorts of auxiliaries, over twelve thousand fighting men. The orderliness of its design, as well as the power of its defences, was a testament to the civilisation and might of the empire, though the legions were far away with the mobile army. Only the frontier troops remained to patrol the river and protect the bridge, holding up any major incursion until a legion could be sent to relieve them.

The village of Zanes, which lay beyond the soldiers’ practise ground, was far less organised. It had grown as a result of the army’s presence and consisted of shops and poor dwellings scattered along the banks of the river. It wasn’t a picturesque village but much of the surrounding land was fertile, sheltered by the rugged beauty of the hills. The village was downstream from the camp, but at least while the camp was lightly manned the river water would serve for most of their needs, although drinking water came from the village well. Zanes was home, the only home Elena knew.

She was not a naughty girl. Lively, yes. Inquisitive, certainly. And stubborn without a doubt. She could run faster than the village boys, and in the tavern she could heft the great wine jars as well as most men. Although she had no education, she was sharp witted and quick to grasp the nuances of any subject she heard in the tavern or down at the village well. When she was doing something she had been told not to, which, she admitted, was not infrequently, it was because she thought the telling had been wrong, not the doing.

She was a natural leader. Even when she was tiny she had led the other children of the village in new games she’d invented. There was always time for climbing trees, hiding in the rocks and playing at wolves stalking the local shepherd’s flocks. She was a passionate girl, full of energy and lust for life.

There was much to be happy about in these times. The tavern provided a good living for the family, the proximity of the fort kept brigands and intruders away and Roman law provided security for the whole community. Elena knew her work, obeyed her father in the tavern and was well liked by the children of the village. There was also much to be sad about. Death was commonplace, particularly among the young, and the lives of the servants owned by the villagers and soldiers depended on the whims of their masters. Treatment varied from great kindness to downright cruelty. Elena was fortunate in having a freedman for a father and enjoyed the privileges of a citizen. As a girl, she was her father’s possession and would never have the rights enjoyed by men, but she was well fed and safe. Too safe, perhaps, for she always had an eye for adventure.

There was work to be done before the soldiers at the fort had finished their daily exercises. The off-duty centuries would soon be looking for refreshment in her father’s tavern. At the stream on the edge of the village, she brushed the dust from her tunic, washed the dirt from her hands, legs and feet and walked sedately into the village and to the tavern beside the fort.

How well behaved she was that day. She cleaned the wine mugs, scrubbed tables and the long counter, swept the tavern floor without being asked, and took Dea and Flea, the two asses, down to the stream to drink. Her mother, Elisa, knew the signs but said nothing. Vinus, her father, was concerned with his own affairs and noticed nothing different. He, as usual, expected all his orders to be obeyed without question, just as he had obeyed his father when he was a young boy. Those were the days before the legions had brought civilization and the empire’s might to his father’s lands. There were good years when the crops provided enough to feed everyone throughout the spring. Then it was good to be the chief’s son. There were bad years when the roving tribes from the East harried and robbed the villages. Then the son went to the caves with the women, with little food and nothing to do but wait and rest. This they did in the season when the horse riders from the East had come in such numbers that the Roman legion had been forced to advance across its border and drive them back. With the legion came offers of protection and the benefits of Roman law, order and trade. It was the refusal to accept those benefits that had cost his father his realm and his life. He had fought well, but the legion had suffered losses to liberate his lands from the horse riders. They regarded his resistance as treachery. The tribe was to be no more.

Everyone who was still living was rounded up. As the slaves were being sorted and allocated to the army, the circus and service in the fields, Vinus’ ash blond hair and startling blue eyes had attracted the attention of a young centurion. There had been no point in resisting. Vinus had accepted a new name, a new land and a new position in life running a tavern for the army. He ran it well and was allowed to marry an olive skinned local girl and have a family. And when his owner, who had risen rapidly through the ranks, went to fight on the Persian front, he had been granted his freedom.

As he often complained to Elisa, Elena was not one of nature’s followers. Obedience did not come naturally to her. If she had been a boy, it would have been beaten into her, but as a girl she was not expected to achieve much anyway and discipline was less important. But she possessed, he had to admit, her grandfather’s nature. Determined, stubborn and proud. Her dark auburn hair and tanned skin had come from her mother, but her blue eyes, broad forehead, wiry strength and her character, those came from him.

Within the family, he could take a relaxed view of her behaviour, but in the tavern his rule was absolute. Elena could serve the soldiers their wine and food, but she was to remain silent. A tavern girl was considered as fair play by the soldiers, available for a casual roll in the hay, and Vinus was determined to protect her from their easy ways. His daughter was never to exchange banter with the customers. A nod, a gesture, a smile perhaps. But never a word. He knew she was almost bursting to speak at times, but it was the rule she was to live by while at her work.

Since the mobile army had left the area to fight the Persians, the soldiers that remained were not the best the empire had to offer. But they were well paid and the off duty soldiers were the main source of income for the tavern, except on market days when the village filled with farmers, peddlers and their customers.

The soldiers’ talk was generally of all the goings on at the fort; the stupidity of the latest batch of recruits, the idleness of their officers, the crookedness of the commissariat or who was doing what with various camp followers. Sometimes they spoke of the latest rumours coming from across the river. Sometimes it was the latest news from Persia, where the legions were facing a resurgent superpower.

On this particular night several of their favourite subjects were coming together splendidly. There was talk of a new officer and a stupid youngster. There was a story of an incursion and a lazy officer of the guard who was refusing to investigate it. Elena served the wine and food and paid little attention as the evening progressed and the storytellers got noisier.

‘Them officers say anything for a bit of glory,’

Cernan, a large, overweight legionary, who fancied himself as a poet and orator, was up and addressing the whole crowd.

‘He’s just a kid with a successful father, and there he is dolled up in pretend white armour with his expensive white horse. You’d think that was enough glory for a kid. He struts about the camp like he owns the place. Talking to no-one, nose in the air. He makes me sick. There’s something wrong with him. There’s no colour. White hair, white face, grey eyes. Constantius, he’s called. Chlorus, I’ll call him.’

Elena’s ears pricked up. She tucked herself into the corner between the long counter and the door to the wine store and listened. Perhaps it was her white knight they were talking about.

‘Chlorus, the pale. That’s what he is. Spoilt to death and big headed with it. Just because his daddy has made it to the protection unit. We all know it’s the easy way to the top. Close to the imperial backside. He’d better hope he chose the right imperial backside to cosy up to. There are more emperors than rats in the food store these days. And those Persians are no pushover. Wouldn’t put it past them to give the protection unit a chance to earn its pay. And dead heroes are soon forgotten. That Chlorus kid will never make it round an emperor, anyway. Give him the creeps, looking like the dead walking.’

He forced his florid face into a deathly stare. Roars of drunken laughter greeted his slapstick.

‘Came back today with his horse run nearly to death. Told the guard commander he’d chased off a gang of barbarians, single handed! What a liar. Down by the river, barbarians driven off by a twelve year old, I tell you!’

The soldiers cheered him on.

‘Brancus was on duty. And he’s not princeps posterior for nothing, always at the rear when there’s trouble. Ain’t that the truth? He wouldn’t move himself if a whole German army appeared in the village. He told Chlorus where to go, I can tell you. Back with the village kids and a long way from the army.’

Cernan minced around the room, thumb in mouth, waving his knife with the other hand. The crowd roared with laughter.

Elena was bursting with indignation. She ran from her corner and stood in front of the huge soldier. For a moment there was silence. The tiny girl, fists clenched, her face flushed with anger; Cernan, face red with wine, was towering over her, but stopped in full flow at the sight of her.

‘Elena! Out, now.’ Vinus ordered from his place behind the counter.

‘But, but.’ She stammered.

‘Silence. And get out.’

‘But he did it. I saw it. The barbarians were chasing me. They very nearly caught me. They did! He was so brave. He chased…’

No more words were possible as Vinus grabbed Elena and dragged her out through the back of the tavern. As he pushed her into the wine store, his voice dropped to a menacing growl, ‘You have been over the mountain against my orders and you have joined in the tavern talk like a common stabularia. You will be punished.’

The door slammed and the bolt was drawn, and Elena was alone in the dark. She wasn’t afraid. The store was clean. She had scrubbed it herself earlier that day. She knew where everything was, so she could organise a little nest for herself without needing to see anything. But what she felt was anger. All she had been doing was telling the truth. And now she had the shame of a beating to come. Buba, the servant girl, would be ordered to punish her. She got on well with Buba, who was just a little older than Elena, but big-boned and strong. She had a broad face and flattish nose, with eyes so narrow they almost disappeared when she smiled. She was always telling Elena in her slow, impassive way how proper obedience was important in the scheme of things. The difference between the civilised society within the empire and the dangerous world of the barbarians beyond the great river was proper obedience – the servant obeying his owner, the wife and children obeying the head of the family, the soldiers obeying the centurion, the centurion obeying the general and the general obeying the emperor. That was just the way of things.

Buba would beat her well in loyal obedience to Vinus, and the pain Elena could take. But she tried so hard to be obedient…the shame would really hurt.

Cernan was deflated, drunk and sullen. Even his own squad mates were enjoying the discomfiture of a natural bully. His mood became steadily worse the more the other soldiers spoke of the boy who had chased off a barbarian host, the story improving with each retelling. A drunken Cernan would not usually have been a concern. He was an expert at keeping his drinking away from the officers. Over many years he had kept his slate clean and had now advanced through the ranks to become official specialist soldier, and immune from the menial tasks done by lesser men. But that night he started throwing rocks at the residence of the camp commander, intoxicated by wine and self pity, and petulantly howling abuse at the emerging officers and their families. The weeks he spent in chains as a result gave him ample time to store up a special hatred for the boy with the white horse and matching complexion. His demotion to munifex and consequent time of drudgery completed the process. He spent the rest of his career hoping to be within a quick sword’s thrust of Chlorus in battle.

The story of the barbarians and the young hero soon reached the camp commander, who was delighted to have his scribe record the event and send the account on to the emperor’s headquarters. The boy’s father was a rising star who had done very well in the cavalry wing of the legion. Provided that he survived the present Persian war, his recent posting to the imperial protection unit would surely lead to a notable promotion. It did no harm for a camp commander to keep on the right side of such men. A good war and high level of casualties could see them rise rapidly. He could return a tribune, a master of horse. Who could tell? Meanwhile, the strange, pale boy would be well cared for, tutored by the Greeks in the writings of the ancients, educated by the officers on the methods of successful generals, and trained by the best fighters in the techniques of battle.

Constantius, as his stepfather named him, was unaware of the stories and rumours that buzzed around him. Even as a lad, he felt himself to be different, and not only for his albino appearance. He did not fit in with the children of the camp followers, nor did he make friends readily among the men around the camp. He had been adopted as a babe in arms by his soldier father, Constans, who was himself childless. He would never know why he was chosen, or where exactly he had come from. When his mother had died in one of the plagues that inflicted the empire while his father was away fighting, he had been taken into the home and under the care of the camp commander. He had never felt the need for friends, but was polite, if distant, with the servants who taught him at home, the officers who tutored him on campaign training exercises and the weapons specialists with whom he practiced with the new long swords, and the artillery soldiers who took delight in demonstrating the destructive power of their machines.

He learned fast and made up in speed for his lack of mature strength. He would ride out on his horse every day, dressed in the white outfit his father had sent him, exploring the countryside around and thinking always of how he would deploy his troops on any terrain which lay before him. He took pleasure in setting himself problems. What if my infantry cohort encountered a large cavalry force in this place? What if I needed to prize an enemy from this hill? What if I needed to relieve a siege on that fort? It was partly daydreaming, of course, and he always won in glorious circumstances against amazing odds, but his eye and his instincts were being prepared for battle in the same way lion cubs would engage in play fights and pretend hunts long before their lives depended on it.

Elena was still sitting in the dark. The lessons she was learning were just as necessary for her survival. She learnt that the truth is valuable, much too valuable to be blurted out in a tavern. Obedience is a debt that must be paid, but there was more than one way of paying it. And pride is an expensive luxury.

Buba was only a servant, bought by Vinus to help in the tavern, but being a freedman himself, he did not regard her as less than anyone else, less fortunate certainly, but of no less of a person. He had bought her mainly for her good solid strength, but also because her clear golden complexion and good teeth could only be of benefit in attracting customers. She, for her part, knew that she was extremely fortunate to find such a benign owner. She worked hard to please the family, to be obedient to them and to have them accept her. After Elena’s siblings had succumbed, one by one, to the vicious plague that devastated the area five years before, she had become increasingly like a big sister to Elena. The two girls talked freely as they worked around the tavern and were friends, in so far as a servant could be a friend to a citizen. However, Buba knew her first duty was one of obedience to her owner. The order was to beat Elena, so she did it with gusto. Elena’s sore back and her disgrace in the eyes of Buba paid the debt, and her dry eyes and refusal to cry out restored some of her pride next morning.

‘Buba, what do you think about when you are beating me?’

‘I think how lucky you are that your father is a freedman.’

‘Is it lucky to be beaten, when I have done nothing wrong?’

‘It happens all the time to servants like me. My father died without being freed. My mother told me that he had died because he had been in a house where someone was murdered. It was a full house and the death was nothing to do with him. He had seen nothing. But the law requires that all the servants in the house must be questioned under torture. Our master was very annoyed when my father died after the torturers spent time with him. The master had to sell my mother and me to buy a replacement. I am lucky though, my mother knows who bought me. One day she can find me.’

‘Torturing is silly. If they tortured me, I would ask them what they wanted me to say and then say it. Then what kind of evidence would that be?’

‘The evidence of a mere servant. We count for very little, Elena.