‘
Four torch beams crisscrossed the grainy rock. All they illuminated was the scrapes and gouges of the hand tools that had cut the passage. And, ahead, a dirty brick wall filling a niche in the rock from floor to ceiling.
‘Is this recent?’ Mark asked. Lusetti shook his head.
‘This is Roman brickwork.’
‘Maybe we’re supposed to go straight on,’ Abby said. She edged past Mark and Barry and tapped the brickwork. Even after so many centuries, it felt solid.
‘I think maybe –’
The bullet caught Mark clean in the chest. The gunshot roared down the catacomb. Barry dropped to one knee, turned and squeezed off three shots of his own. Abby hurled herself to the floor of the passage and started to crawl.
More shots echoed behind her; lights flashed. In the tight space, it sounded like an artillery battle. She picked herself up and ran down the tunnel, looking for a side passage that might help lose her in the labyrinth.
The tunnel ended in a rough-finished wall. No bricks, no turnings – just a piece of rock where the diggers’ patience or will had run out, where they’d shouldered their tools and turned for the surface.
The sound of gunfire settled in the tunnel like dust. The silence was even more unnerving, though it didn’t last long. From behind – not far – Abby heard slow footsteps coming after her.
Metal snapped on metal as the slide of a gun slid back.
XLVI
SOMEONE MUST HAVE died. At this moment, I don’t know if it’s him or me. The man I’m looking at died on a beach eleven years ago. I put the knife in his back myself; I carried his corpse halfway across the empire and buried it in the deepest hole I could find.
And now he’s standing in front of me – living, breathing, dark eyes watching me.
I close my eyes, squeezing them until all I see is spots. When I reopen them, he’s still there.
It’s all I can do to stop my stomach emptying itself on the floor. My head feels as if it’s about to break open. This isn’t possible.
I concentrate on the eyes. Are they really his? They’ve lost their clarity, as though a veil’s been drawn over them. They don’t seem to focus. He looks bewildered, as though he doesn’t know what he’s doing here.
I don’t either.
‘Crispus?’ I stammer.
Something like terror creases his face. He steps away, sinking into the shadows. I’m glad. Having to look at him is like staring at the sun: too stark, too painful to endure.
I turn to Porfyrius.
‘How have you done this?’
‘I told you.’
‘It’s impossible.’
‘Nothing is impossible through God,’ he answers calmly. ‘Do you want to stick your fingers into the scar you made in his back?’
‘Impossible,’ I whisper again.
‘Once, I thought the same as you.’
‘And why …?’
From outside, rendered distant by the thick walls, I hear the blare of trumpets. Constantine’s funeral procession must be coming near. And with the sound, a resonance. At long last, too late, I know what Porfyrius is going to do.
‘You’re going to present …
‘When the flames go up and the eagle flies out of the fire, the people will see Constantine’s true heir. A miracle. What chance will Constantius and his brothers have against that?’ A chuckle. ‘Of course, we’ve bribed some of the guards as well. They’ll cut Constantius to pieces, and Crispus will rally the empire.’
‘With you behind the throne telling him what to do?’
‘This isn’t about me,’ he snaps. ‘This is for the empire, and for God.’
I’ve heard too many people telling me they’ve done things for God recently. ‘Is this all because of the Arians? Because of Eusebius and Alexander?’ Compared with the enormity of what I’ve just witnessed, their jealousies and hair-splitting seem irrelevant.
‘I couldn’t give two obols for Eusebius, or his enemies.’ There’s genuine frustration in Porfyrius’s voice. ‘Do you think Christ returned from the dead so that men would kill each other debating whether he was co-eternal or consubstantial with the Father? Eusebius and his kind are like men who inherit a book of wisdom and simply use it as kindling for a cooking fire.’
