Secrets of the Dead

‘Eusebius was her chaplain. Her spiritual guide. When Crispus exiled him, Constantiana turned to me. I saw how we could all achieve our aims.’

‘I thought your God preached peace and mercy.’

‘Sometimes, we have to do terrible things to achieve God’s will.’

It sounds glib, a throwaway justification. But the pain behind those words is immense, a deep wound that’s scarred to the bone. His arms are trembling in his sleeves. For the briefest instant, I have a glimpse – not even a thought, more a feeling – of how he might deserve sympathy for what he’s suffered.

But not for what he’s done.

‘You killed Crispus to bring back Eusebius?’

‘You killed Crispus,’ he retorts. ‘You and Constantine. I just’ – he lifts up his arms, baring the scarred stumps – ‘pulled some strings.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I want you to know. It’s your own story, and you never knew it.’

I can see why he’s brought me to this public place. If we were alone, I’d have killed him by now.

‘And if I expose you?’

‘It won’t matter. Fausta’s sons have just inherited the empire. If you go to them, do you think they’ll punish the people who lifted them on to the throne?’ He cocks his head, as if an idea’s just come to him. ‘If they want justice, they can always execute the man who murdered Crispus.’

‘Why? Because of what happened at Nicaea? Because Crispus made you prefer one form of words over another?’

‘One form of words?’ he echoes. ‘We were describing God. Do you think we could afford to get it wrong?’ He starts walking again, past the dark gates of the hippodrome. ‘It was Constantine’s fault. Ten or twenty years ago, Arius would have been one voice among many. He could have written whatever he liked, and all his enemies could have done is write against it. But Constantine wanted something definite, something as absolute as his rule. To pin down God. He forced us to choose.’

He pauses, looks at me. For once, there’s no craft in his face: he wants me to understand him.

‘What else could we do?’

I’m desperate to be away, to slink into my cave and lick the wounds that Asterius has opened on every inch of my being. But I have to see this through.

‘You said Symmachus died because he learned the truth about Crispus. Who killed Symmachus?’

‘Constantiana sent one of her men. She told him to make it look like suicide.’

No evasion, not even a blush of guilt. This is the problem with men who spend too long thinking about God. In the end, they forget what a mortal life is worth. Perhaps that’s what happened to Constantine.

‘And Alexander? That must have been twice as sweet. Revenge on your enemy from Nicaea, as well as hiding the evidence of your murder.’

He actually laughs. ‘You know the funniest thing?’ He leans so close to me that his tunic rubs against mine. ‘I have no idea who killed Alexander.’

He relishes my surprise.

‘Eusebius didn’t do it – though he might have, if he’d been given the chance. I didn’t. At first I thought Constantine might have ordered it, to bury what Alexander had found, but I don’t think that’s likely.’ He shrugs. ‘It must have been Aurelius Symmachus – he had the document case, after all. Ironic, don’t you think? At least you can console yourself that justice was done.’

I stare at him with dead eyes – his withered body stuffed so full of bitterness and hate. How could he ever preach a religion of love and peace?

‘Why did you do it?’ I ask. ‘In the persecutions – taking the blame for Eusebius’s betrayal of those Christian families?’

He puts the two stumps of his arms together, caressing them against each other. ‘This is what Symmachus did to me. Then he was going to kill me. Eusebius betrayed the Christians to save my life.’ A desperate edge comes into his voice, a man on the brink of losing control. ‘He sacrificed himself to save me.’

‘And you sacrificed me.’

XLIII

Istanbul, Turkey – Present Day

‘YOU GO IN alone. Look around, take some photos, then come back.’

Abby sat in the back seat of the taxi in a busy shopping street in a north-western district of Istanbul. The taxi was genuine; the driver was Barry, still in his dark glasses, but now with a leather jacket and a gold chain around his neck. Mark sat in the passenger seat opposite and pointed down the road, where the myriad domes of the Fatih Mosque bubbled down on each other until they vanished behind a large stone gate.

‘Don’t try anything like escaping,’ Barry said from the front seat. ‘You’re not really alone.’

They’d touched down in Istanbul twelve hours ago. She was done with buses, borrowed cars and stolen passports: with Mark in charge, an unmarked plane had flown them out of Split and straight to Ataturk Airport. A delegation of hard-faced men in rigid suits had met them and escorted them through a private channel past customs and immigration.

‘The government here can’t wait to get their hands on Dragovic,’ Mark had explained during the drive from the airport. ‘They had him in prison three years ago and he escaped – that was a big embarrassment. They don’t