an eclectic mix of doves and fish, ranked soldiers standing to attention, a clean-shaven Jesus peering out from behind a huge Bible, and bearded saints or prophets leaning on their staffs. A curved niche filled one end, flanked on the walls by two enormous painted symbols, the Christogram and the staurogram.
Between them, filling the niche, stood a coffin. Not a plain stone affair, as had served for Gaius Valerius Maximus: Abby could tell at once that this was different. It was made from a lustrous purple marble, intricately carved. Two rows of cavalry trotted towards each other on its face; on its pitched lid, a flotilla of boats seemed to be engaged in a naval battle. Even in the torchlight, the detail leapt out at Abby: every oar and rower, every link of armour and twist of rope.
‘How did they ever get that down here?’ Michael wondered aloud.
Dragovic walked across the chamber. He bent over the sarcophagus, put his cheek against the surface and stretched out his arms to embrace it, communing with the cold stone.
‘Porphyry,’ he said. ‘The right and prerogative of emperors.’
‘Is that … Constantine’s?’ Abby asked.
‘Constantine was buried in Istanbul.’ Dragovic straightened and turned to Michael. ‘This, I think, is for Constantine’s son Crispus.’
There was something in the way that he spoke to Michael that chilled Abby. Not cruelty or malice – familiarity.
She looked at Michael. ‘How did you get here?’
‘They caught me just outside Split. I didn’t have a chance.’
Dragovic heard him and laughed.
‘Don’t lie to your little girlfriend. You still think she loves you? You came to
Abby felt a pit opening inside her. ‘What about Irina?’
‘Irina?’ Dragovic asked. ‘Who is Irina, please?’
Michael’s shoulders slumped. ‘There was no Irina.’
‘But – the photo? In your apartment.’
‘Her name’s Cathy. My ex-wife. She’s never been to the Balkans. So far as I know, she’s living with her second husband back in Donegal.’
Abby felt another part of her world collapsing in on her. Dragovic sensed her pain and chuckled.
‘You thought he was one of the angels? The good sheriff in the white hat?’ He jerked his head dismissively. ‘He wanted money. Like everyone.’
Abby stared at Michael, willing it not to be true. ‘
Michael tried to force a grin, a ghost of his old insouciance. He couldn’t quite make it. His face simply looked broken.
‘If you can’t beat them …’
Dragovic had lost interest. He barked an order: his men surrounded the sarcophagus, one on each point. Stubby crowbars came out of a backpack. They levered them under the lid, cursing and sweating.
‘How did they get that down here?’ Michael said again. He’d turned so that he had his back to Abby.
Dragovic pointed to a thin crack down the corner. ‘They bring it in as panels and cement it together. Like IKEA.’
The four men leaned on their crowbars. They were large men, built like weightlifters, but they struggled to make an impact on the purple stone.
‘Maybe we use some detcord?’ grunted one.
‘No.’ Dragovic was watching them intently, his whole body tensed. In that moment, Abby almost thought she could have slipped away without being noticed. She didn’t dare try.
‘We do nothing to damage the
The men heaved again. The bars strained, the stone resisted. Nothing gave. Abby felt the tension taut in the air, the quiver of something about to snap.
The bars moved – first one corner, then spreading to all four. A deep rumble rolled around the room.
The lid lifted and slid back. Dragovic walked forward and peered into the open coffin.
The sun from the open door is a blinding, brilliant white. Porfyrius turns to me.
‘It’s time. Are you with us, or against us?’
‘We can tie you up, leave you here until it’s over. Or you can join us.’
There’s no choice. I have to see how this ends. ‘I’ll come.’
I follow them up the stairs. In daylight, I can see that there are about twenty of them, mostly with the close- cropped hair and straight shoulders of military men. They’re dressed in white Schola uniforms, though that doesn’t
