‘What about the coffin?’
‘Leave it. It’s empty.’
More of the plastic tubing came out. Working briskly, the men began punching nails into the roof of the chamber and attaching the explosives. Dragovic turned to Michael.
‘You know the good thing about catacombs?’
‘What?’
‘It’s no problem to dispose of the body.’
Abby saw what he was going to do a split second before it happened. She launched herself at Dragovic, but his finger was already on the trigger. The gun fired; the bullet tore open Michael’s chest. He slammed back against the wall.
Abby screamed. Her momentum carried her on towards Dragovic, but his men were faster. An outstretched arm blocked her progress; two hands wrapped around her waist and almost lifted her off the ground. Dragovic spun around. His face glowed with savage delight as he raised the gun and put it against her forehead. The heat of the barrel scalded her. She struggled, but couldn’t move.
By the wall, Michael slumped to the ground and lay still.
‘Are you going to kill me too?’ The words sounded sluggish, drowned in noise. Her ears were still ringing from the gunshot. Dragovic couldn’t have been much better, but he understood the sense. He thumbed back the hammer. Anticipation lit up his eyes.
Across the room, one of his men tapped his watch, muttering something about carabinieri. Dragovic nodded and lowered the gun.
‘Later. Maybe for now we need a hostage to get out of here.’
The men gathered their packs. The last of the explosives were rigged to the ceiling – heavy bricks, as well as the thin tube connecting them. It looked like enough to bring down the whole catacomb.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Abby asked. A bleak numbness had settled over her, a fatalism that knew no fear because it knew no hope. She didn’t look at Michael’s body in the corner.
‘Sometimes it is useful for people to believe you are dead. Michael Lascaris should have obeyed that rule.’
One by one, they crossed the brick rubble back into the main catacomb. On the threshold, Abby turned back. For a second, she saw the two symbols on the wall, the purple sarcophagus cracked open, and Michael’s corpse curled on the floor. Then it vanished.
This is the war Constantine wanted to avoid, played out in miniature sixty feet above his tomb. Roman against Roman, soldiers in identical uniforms, except the badges on their shields. It’s a small battle, more of a wrestling match – the narrow walkway makes it hard for the soldiers to wield their swords – but no less savage for that. That close, you can smell every drop of blood or oil on the blade that stabs you.
Most extraordinary, the crowds on the ground have no idea it’s happening. We’re hidden behind the lattice; they can’t see through its dazzling mesh from the outside. Down below, Constantius is still giving his oration to his father; the senators and generals are listening in their seats; the captain of the guard is holding a burning brand, ready to light the pyre. They don’t know that the corpses are already piling up in Constantine’s mausoleum.
Blood spatters the white stone. The battle slows as bodies choke the walkway. We’re being attacked from both sides, but we’re still moving. Flavius Ursus’s men – I assume they’re Ursus’s men – are edging us round to the back of the building where they can finish us off. Some of the guards have blocked the door; others are keeping us back from the scaffolding so we can’t escape.
Porfyrius’s men make a human bulwark either side of us, but they’re slowly being whittled back. It occurs to me, quite calmly, that I’ll die here: a blood sacrifice at Constantine’s tomb. I can’t see Crispus. Is he dead already?
Porfyrius is shouting something in my ear, pointing up. A roofer’s ladder leans against the rotunda, leading up to the dome. Ursus’s guards are hemming us ever closer. I start to climb. The ladder wobbles and sways under the press of men at its base. A sword flashes so close it almost severs my ankle. Hands try to pull me down, but I kick them off. From the corner of my eye, I see Porfyrius go down.
I come over the lip of the roof and cry out in agony. The copper tiles are blinding, and when I touch them I feel my skin shrivel. I swallow the pain and haul myself up. Ahead, through the glare, I can see a crouched figure staggering up the pitched copper tiles to the top of the dome. I crawl after him, using the folds of my toga to try and stop the metal burning me. I think it might catch fire, but I don’t care. All I want with what’s left of my life is to ask him one question.
Below, the spectators have begun to realise something is happening. A murmur sweeps the crowd, loud enough that I can hear it on the rooftop. Senators crane around in their seats to look up. Constantius, on the dais, seems to falter and look back.
At the top of the dome, the roof flattens around an open circular hole: the
On the dais, next to Constantius, Flavius Ursus grabs the burning torch from a guard’s hand and hurls it on to the pyre. It’s well primed with oil and pitch: the flames catch straight away, racing up the columns of the wooden tower. Inexorably, the fire draws the crowd’s attention away from the action on the roof.
Crouched on my hands and knees, I stare up at Crispus. He looms over me like a god; like a god, I doubt he even sees me.
‘Are you him?’ My throat’s parched, my voice a burned-out whisper. But somehow, above the crackle of the pyre and the roar of the crowd, he seems to hear me. He looks down; he smiles at me, warm with
