the sea that’s strangely stifled by the windless day. Every man, woman and child in the city must be there. I walk a full mile, and the only living thing I see is a cat curled up on a doorstep. Windows are shuttered, shops barred. I might be the last man left alive in the world.
The illusion fades as I approach the mausoleum. I can see its copper dome flashing above the surrounding rooftops; the gold trelliswork in the arches underneath. Nervous soldiers guard the street corners in twos and threes. It’ll be some time before the funeral gets here, but the mourners have already gathered twelve deep behind the wooden barricades that line the route.
The road ends at a wall. Twenty guards from the Schola make a human gate, ready to admit their emperor one last time. I show them my commission from Constantine, the ivory diptych he gave me the day Alexander died. They don’t question the fact that the portrait on the lid is of a corpse. Even in death, Constantine hasn’t surrendered his grip on the throne. New laws are issued every day in his name; his coins still pour out of the mints. The bureaucracy’s given him eternal life.
‘Has Publilius Porfyrius arrived yet?’ I ask the guard.
‘Here since this morning.’ He nods towards the mausoleum. ‘It’s been a bit of a rush job. The clerk of works wanted him to inspect the foundations, just to be sure. Embarrassing if it fell with all the city watching.’
‘How about Flavius Ursus?’
‘He’ll be in the procession.’
‘I need you to get a message to him. As quickly as possible, even if it means running in front of the Emperor’s coffin.’ I repeat the five words of Porfyrius’s hidden message. ‘Tell him it comes from Gaius Valerius.’ I push my commission under his face. ‘
He looks surprised – doubly so when I step past him through the gate. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To find Porfyrius.’
The wall makes a compound, broad and square, covering the hilltop. One day this will all be gardens: at the moment, it’s a builders’ yard. Squares of earth show where the stacks of bricks and timber have hurriedly been moved around the back. Even now, Constantine’s legacy is a work in progress. Ahead, the mausoleum stands surrounded on three sides by arcades. Eventually, the fourth side will be closed off to make a courtyard. Today, it stands open, framing the immense rotunda rising in its centre. The gold facing ripples in the sun.
In front of the tomb stands a huge pyre, half as high as the building behind. It’s almost a building in its own right: stripped tree trunks make columns around its base, painted to look like fluted marble; planks form storeys inside. Gold banners hang over the sides, and at the very summit a live eagle preens itself in a gilded cage. Wooden stands have been erected on the open ground either side, so that the assembled senators and generals have box seats.
I skirt around the pyre and climb the steps to the courtyard. Huge crimson banners woven with portraits of Constantine’s three sons hang from the unconnected pillars; guards in gilded ceremonial armour stand at every column.
I find their centurion. ‘Has Publilius Porfyrius come this way?’
‘In the tomb.’
Again, Constantine’s pass lets me through – into the courtyard, into the presence of the mausoleum. The open side faces south, so that the golden wall catches the midday sun face on, bending its rays around the courtyard like a mirror. It dazzles me; from ten feet away I can feel the heat coming off it.
Suddenly, I need to sit down. I’m an old man who’s walked too far on a hot day. I’m parched. My mouth is dry, my limbs are like sand. I feel as if I’m drowning in a shimmering sea of heat and light.
‘Gaius Valerius?’
I spin around, unsure where the voice came from. The sun’s burned out my senses, I can’t locate anything. The dark figure stands in the glare like a spot in front of my eyes.
‘Porfyrius?’ I guess.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I read your poem.’
‘I wondered if you’d work it out.’ I can’t see his face, but he doesn’t sound angry. ‘I hoped the Emperor had destroyed it when he burned the papers from Alexander’s bag.’
‘There was another copy. In the Chamber of Records, the Scrinia Memoriae.’
‘Memory’s a funny thing.’
‘Did you kill Alexander?’
He laughs. ‘Poor Valerius. You’ve been stumbling around, chasing shadows and ghosts. You have no idea what this is really about.’
I’m sick of hearing that. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Come and see.’
He takes my hand and leads me around the rotunda. The tomb eclipses the sun; I can see again. Even the mausoleum isn’t what it seems. The gold panelling only comes halfway round, and a roofer’s scaffold is still erected against its north side, where no one will see it. Next to it, a small flight of steps descends to a little door in the tomb’s basement. Porfyrius knocks – a precise rhythm that sends a message.
The door swings open. To my aching eyes, the interior is perfect darkness. Porfyrius pushes me forward.
‘We won’t hurt you. You’ve waited ten years for this moment.’
The moment I step through the door, strong hands pin my arms to my side. I’d cry out, but another hand is clamped over my mouth.
The door closes and I’m plunged in darkness.
