Secrets of the Dead

‘When is Uncle Crispus coming home, Father?’

A tear runs down Constantine’s face. He crouches and hugs his son, closing his eyes in agony.

Undeniably, it’s a tender moment – and after what’s just happened, everyone in the room is susceptible. We’re desperate to believe in reconciliation. But I can’t help wondering. This family gobble each other like primordial gods. Fausta betrayed old Maximian when he plotted against Constantine; now Constantius and Constans have condemned their mother and probably saved themselves.

Constantine rises, keeping his hand on his son’s shoulder.

‘You destroyed Crispus,’ he says to Fausta.

Blood’s still running from her cut lip. She rubs it with the back of her hand, smearing a ghastly rictus across her cheek. Her eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal, and finally come to rest on Constantine.

‘I did,’ she whispers.

‘Why?’ He turns away. ‘No, don’t tell me.’ He glances at Helena. ‘You can take care of this? Discreetly?’

‘And the children?’ Helena presses.

‘Find them a tutor.’

She wants to argue, but Constantine isn’t listening. He turns his back and walks to the door, his shoulders slumped in defeat. I want to run to him, to put my arm around him and console him. With a great pang of loss, I realise that I can never comfort him again. Not after what I’ve done.

Helena grips Fausta’s arm so hard she gasps. ‘I think it’s time that you and I visited the baths.’

Memories collapse; my own voice comes back to me out of the recent past.

Cato the Stoic died in a bath, opening his veins so that the heat would draw the blood out of him. Though I’ve heard another version, that he didn’t die of his wounds but actually suffocated from the steam.

It doesn’t matter which version you hear. They all end the same way.

Villa Achyron – 22 May 337

Whatever happened today, Constantine effectively died over those four weeks during his vicennalia. For eleven years the empire’s been living in that shadow. We have an emperor with three sons, but no wife; history books full of victories, but no victor. We’ve kept our eyes down, our voices low, and never dared to contradict the lie. Some days I think the effort of the charade has driven the whole empire to the brink of madness.

Did it cost Alexander his life? A week ago, I was convinced he must have been killed because of what he knew about Eusebius. Symmachus, too. Now, I’m not so sure.

Constantine: Symmachus said he knew the truth about my son.

But Bassus, sweating in the baths: He said he’d found out something about a Christian bishop. A scandal.

Which was it?

Alexander burrowed deep in the Chamber of Records, stripping out every last reference to Crispus. I know he was looking at the papers from Aquileia, and from Helena’s household. Did he find something that got him killed – and that Symmachus saw when he took the document case?

Does it matter? What are one or two deaths against the death of an emperor? I remember something Eusebius said: Leave the dead to bury the dead. It sounds like good advice.

But if there is a truth behind Crispus’s death – a truth that’s worth killing for – then …

Heavy boots echo down the corridor. The generals have emerged from their meeting. They knot around the courtyard in twos and threes, grim-faced and urgent. Flavius Ursus comes across to me, flanked by four guards. His position is the most powerful – but also the most precarious.

‘Is everything decided?’

‘The Emperor’s sons will divide the empire between them.’ He’s holding a piece of paper; I imagine a map on it, the fates of millions described in a room in this villa.

‘Does everyone accept that?’

‘The army’s content.’ No doubt Claudius, Constantius and Constans will reward them handsomely for their support – and there’s the war with Persia, which promises rich pickings for the army and its sycophants. ‘This is a time for unity.’

I think of old Constantius, left on his deathbed for two days after he died until Constantine got there. It’s lucky York’s so cold.

‘When will you announce the death?’

‘Constantius is coming from Antioch. We’ll wait for him.’

That’ll be two weeks – maybe three or four depending on the roads and the mountain passes. ‘Can you keep the secret that long?’

‘It’s safest. The army is united, but there are other factions that might try to take advantage. Already, there are rumours …’

‘There are always rumours.’

‘And they need to be investigated. So we have a job for you.’

He hands me the piece of paper – not a map, but a list. I scan down it: eminent senators, retired officials. The