Secrets of the Dead

past that’s vanishing before my eyes.

Constantine’s breathing is fast and ragged. ‘I need to prepare. I have to confess my sins.’

‘You don’t need to confess anything to me.’

‘I do.’ A hand shoots out from under the sheet. Bony fingers clasp my wrist. When did he get so thin? ‘Eusebius says I need to confess my sins before I can receive baptism. I told him I could only confess to you.’

I doubt Eusebius liked that. No wonder he kept me waiting.

‘You know what I did.’

‘Then there’s no need to say it.’ I pull the sheet back over his chin. ‘Keep warm.’

‘Please. The door to heaven is closing on me, Gaius. The things I’ve done … Not just this. Every death warrant I signed, every child I failed to protect, every innocent man I condemned because the empire demanded it …’

I wonder if he’s thinking about Symmachus.

‘I still see him, you know,’ says Constantine, suddenly. ‘Only a month ago, at dusk as I was riding through the Augusteum. I was so happy I almost jumped off my horse to embrace him. I thought of all the things I would say to him, and every drop of bile seemed to flow out of my soul.’

A fleck of spit has dribbled down his cheek. I wipe it away with the corner of the sheet.

‘Of course he was gone when I got there.’ He rolls over – a jerky movement, like a man being tossed on a wave. ‘So many times I prayed you’d disobeyed me. That it was all a lie, that you’d let him escape. Remember, the joke we used to have, when we were trapped at Galerius’s court? That we’d run to the mountains, leave our fame and troubles behind and live as shepherds in Dalmatia. That was what I hoped had happened to him.’

Is this a confession? I doubt it would satisfy Eusebius. I can’t blame Constantine for skirting around the issue, but there isn’t much time. The bronze doors at the far end of the room keep making noises, thuds and groans as if there’s a boxed animal behind them. Eusebius must be coming soon. This is his moment of triumph: he doesn’t want death to snatch away his prize convert too soon.

Constantine’s speaking again, but his voice is so low I can barely hear it. I slip off the stool and kneel on the marble floor. My eyes are inches from his. I can see the web of red lines surrounding the irises; the puffy, bruised skin around them. Eyes that surveyed the world.

‘Why do you think I sent you to Pula?’ he whispers. ‘I thought if anyone would show mercy, you would. You should have known better.’

His words are like a jagged knife sawing open my heart. Does he mean it? Was it my mistake all along? Or is he rewriting history again to suit his conscience? I stare into those eyes, hardly able to breathe.

What is truth, after all? Philosophers say that the gods know, and perhaps they’re right. For the rest of us, it’s just an accumulation of faded memories and lies.

‘I did what you sent me to do.’

His eyes seem to lose their focus. ‘Do you remember Aurelius Symmachus?’ he whispers.

Is this another part of his confession?

‘The day before I left Constantinople, he wrote to me at the palace. He wanted to see me. He said he knew the truth about my son. Should I have seen him, do you think?’

‘The truth about your son?’ Surely he means about Alexander, about Eusebius and the persecutions.

‘I didn’t want to know. I sent him to my sister.’

My head’s starting to spin. ‘You sent Symmachus to see your sister?’

But this conversation isn’t about Symmachus. ‘I thought perhaps the truth …’ He trails off. ‘I saw him, you know. In the Augusteum, among the statues. He should have been there.’

‘You’ll be reunited soon,’ I say.

‘Will we?’ Suddenly, the eyes are wide open, the voice firm. ‘This life I’ve lived, do you think I’ve earned it? Eusebius says he can wash away the deepest stain.’ He shakes his head. ‘Do you believe that?’

‘You lived a good life. You brought peace to the world.’

‘I brought no peace but the sword,’ he says, inscrutably. ‘I’ve campaigned every summer for the last ten years. I’ll die here with more soldiers around me than priests. Do you think the titles I’ve accumulated will count for anything when Christ meets me at the gates of heaven? Unconquered Constantine, four times victor over the Germans, twice over the Sarmatians, twice the Goths, twice the Dacians … Is that how he’ll call me?’

At the far end of the room, the bronze doors creak open. A worried priest’s face appears.

‘Eusebius …’

‘Tell him to wait!’ I shout. But Constantine is running out of patience – and time. He clasps his bony fingers on to the front of my tunic and hauls himself up. I can feel the fever burning off his face.

‘Do you forgive me?’

Do I? I can hardly draw breath. For eleven years I’ve waited for him to ask me. It’s been the void between us, the death of our friendship and the hollowing out of our selves. And now that he’s asked, the reply sticks in my throat. I don’t know what to say.

I remember something Porfyrius told me about Alexander: He forgave me everything. No rebuke, no lecture.

I lean across to embrace Constantine. I put my head against his shoulder, feeling the powdery skin against my cheek, and wrap my arms around his head. I whisper in his ear.