Secrets of the Dead

I’m lost. ‘What then?’

‘I’m doing this for Constantine. Because he was right – that unity is the only way to save the empire from tearing itself apart. One God, one church, one emperor. The moment you divide it, the divisions multiply on themselves until they consume the world in chaos. Constantine knew that – but in the end, he wasn’t strong enough to defeat the forces of chaos. By this miracle, we have a second chance.’

I try to digest it. So much of what he’s saying makes such perfect sense, it’s easy to forget it’s built on the most ludicrous foundation.

In order to rule the world, we have to have the perfect virtue of one rather than the weakness of many.

Crispus – the new Crispus – is still obscured in the shadows. Out of sight, the shock receding, reason reasserts itself.

‘Do you really think the people will accept this imposter you’ve dug up?’

‘They’ll accept it because it’s the truth.’ A grunt. ‘And because they’re desperate to believe.’

A knock sounds from the door, the same intricate pattern that Porfyrius used. One of his men cracks it open.

‘It’s time.’

Rome – Present Day

There was nowhere to hide – not even a niche. The gravediggers hadn’t cut any cubicula here. With a flash of despair, she realised even the darkness didn’t hide her. The lamp on her helmet was still on, shining its futile light on the rock wall and drawing her pursuers like a beacon.

She thought of what Mark had said – almost his last words, it turned out. They can’t have brought us all this way to drop us now. It reminded her of a line from an old gospel record her parents used to play when she was a child.

Nobody told me that the road would be easy.

‘Abby?’

It was the last voice she expected to hear – warm and reassuring in the darkest place imaginable.

‘Michael?’

‘You can come out now.’

She didn’t ask why or how; she didn’t stop to think. She turned back and walked slowly around the bend in the tunnel. There was Michael, caught in the head torch like a deer in headlights. And there, behind him, two men with raised guns.

There was no fight left in her. All she could do was stare.

Michael gave a sad, tight smile. ‘I’m sorry, Abby. I had no choice.’

A fourth man appeared in the shadows beyond them, a dark silhouette against a light whose source she couldn’t see. He was smaller than the others, a slight man with close-cropped hair, maybe a small beard. He seemed to absorb light: the only part of him that reflected anything was the chrome-handled pistol tucked in his waistband.

‘Abigail Cormac. Again, I have to ask you: why are you not dead?’

Dragovic. Abby had no answer. He laughed, then shrugged.

‘It does not matter. Now that I have you, you will wish you were dead. Many times, before I let you die.’

One of his men came down the passage and pinned her arms. She didn’t resist. He dragged her back to the junction. Her feet kicked against something soft and recently human on the ground; she didn’t look down.

Dragovic’s men all had head torches, though no helmets. They trained their beams on the brick wall.

‘This is the place you came to,’ said Dragovic. ‘Left is nothing; right is nothing. I think we must go straight on.’

One of his men – Abby counted four, plus Dragovic and Michael – stepped forward and unslung the backpack he carried. From inside, he took out a nail gun and a coil of plastic tube that looked like a fat clothesline. He fired three nails into the brickwork, then wrapped the tube around them like wool, making a rough triangle against the bricks. Two metal plugs and a length of electrical cable came out of the bag. He stuck the plugs into the tube, then unspooled the cable. The hands that gripped Abby pulled her back down the tunnel; the others followed. Round a corner, they paused.

‘You’re going to be OK,’ Michael whispered in her ear.

They all crouched down. Her guard released her, though only so he could put his hands over his ears. Abby did the same. The man at the front connected the wires to a small, remote-control box.

Abby didn’t see him press the button. All she felt was the blast, pulsing through her hands and into her ears; and a punch of air against her chest. Fine grit rained down from the ceiling; Abby braced herself for worse, for the whole catacomb to shake itself apart and bury her. It didn’t happen.

The man with the detonator ran forward, shouted something. They all advanced down the tunnel. Now the wall was just a heap of bricks, wreathed in a cloud of dust that was still settling. The dust blocked the torch beams, but as it swirled small holes appeared in the cloud, letting the light through. Not on to brick or stone, but into dark space beyond.

One by one they ducked through the hole. For a moment, all Abby could feel was the dust, coating her tongue, choking her lungs. She gagged. Then she was through.

In the deepest part of the catacomb, seven torch beams played over a chamber that hadn’t been seen in seventeen centuries. It reminded Abby of the tomb in Kosovo: larger, though not much – perhaps three metres long and almost square, with a barrel ceiling just high enough for them all to stand upright. Every surface was painted: