Secrets of the Dead

grave.

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘The language fits with a date somewhere around the fourth century. The imagery is Neoplatonic, and this word “unconquered” – invictus – is a standard epithet for Roman emperors of this period.’

‘But do you know who wrote it?’

Gruber scratched his throat, where his collar had chafed it.

‘The first two lines match an inscription on a gravestone which was once in the Imperial Forum Museum in Rome. The other two lines do not appear anywhere in the classical corpus. So far as I can establish, it is an entirely new discovery.’

No wonder you wanted to keep your hands on it. She folded the paper and put it in her bag, then cast about for something to say, but couldn’t think of anything.

‘Did you do the translation yourself?’

‘Herr Lascaris wanted his money’s worth from me.’ He saw her confusion and laughed. ‘Perhaps I should have said. For this work, he promised he would pay me one hundred thousand euros.’

A hopeful look.

‘Perhaps you will honour his agreement?’

X

Constantinople – April 337

I’M DISTRACTED. I should be thinking about the task at hand, but every time I try to concentrate my mind slips the leash and is back in the past. I’m lying on a couch in the triclinium of my house, poring over Alexander’s papers by the light of a bronze lamp. Even the slaves have gone to bed.

Alexander’s Chronicon lies open, walking me through my own history. What strikes me most, in the years after Constantine’s acclamation, is the great profusion of names. Maxentius named Augustus … Severus Caesar killed … Licinius named emperor by Galerius. Names which once carried so much power. Now their statues have been pulled down and their names are never spoken. Not unless someone whispers them off a page in the deep darkness of the night.

Trier – March 307 – Thirty years ago …

When the army acclaimed Constantine emperor, Galerius responded as he always did: with bad grace and a play for time. He accepted Constantine’s accession – he didn’t have the strength to oppose him – but gave him the junior rank of Caesar, rather than the senior rank of Augustus, which Constantine should have inherited from his father. If Galerius hoped to provoke Constantine into an act of treachery, he was disappointed. Constantine accepted the slight without demur, and sent his credentials to Galerius to show he would willingly serve under him.

But emperors aren’t what they used to be. For more than two hundred years after the first Caesar Augustus, one man ruled the empire as sole proprietor. In the last thirty years, it’s become a joint enterprise. I still wonder why. Did the empire become so bloated that no one man could manage it? Or did men somehow shrink in stature, unable to fill the purple shoes of the giants who made Rome? Whichever it is, the ramifications are obvious. Emperors are like rabbits: either there is one, or there are many. Diocletian split his empire into two, then expanded it to four. Some of those four had sons who needed an inheritance; others abdicated, then thought better of it. At last count, there were six men claiming the title of Imperator Invictus – unconquered emperor.

Six men, each jealous of the others, can’t all stay unconquered for long.

Two of those men are a father and son called Maximian and Maxentius. Old Maximian was persuaded to abdicate five years ago, but retirement didn’t agree with him. Young Maxentius was overlooked for promotion, like Constantine, but found an obliging corps of praetorian guards in Rome who, for a consideration, were willing to drape him in purple. They’re an impossible family, each as bad as the other. Both have dainty flushes on their cheeks that make them look permanently embarrassed, and wide, feminine eyes that have seen every wickedness imaginable.

But today they’re on their best behaviour. They’ve come to Constantine’s capital at Trier to celebrate the marriage of Maxentius’s sister Fausta to Constantine. It’s actually Constantine’s second marriage, but his first needn’t detain us. It certainly didn’t detain him, when a quick divorce offered the opportunity for a more advantageous match.

Everyone’s pretending it’s a completely normal occasion. No one’s so crass as to mention the fact that this happy day is also a calculated act of treachery. By allying himself with the pair of father-and-son usurpers, Constantine is leaving Galerius no choice but to move against him.

‘Maximian and Maxentius could have made peace with Galerius and combined to crush me,’ Constantine explained, when I warned him against the match. ‘If Galerius wants to come after me now, he’ll have to attack my new brother- and father-in-law first.’

‘You’ll be obliged to defend them,’ I pointed out.

Constantine smiled. ‘Perhaps.’

For now, harmony reigns. We’re gathered in the throne room of Constantine’s palace, which is decked with garlands and the light of a hundred torches. The marital bed stands in the centre of the room draped with a purple cloth, embroidered in gold with scenes of hunts and battles. It’s only symbolic. The real action will happen elsewhere, later.

I hear singing as the bride approaches, the glow of torches from the chamber beyond. Slaves throw open the doors and there she stands. A veil spun from russet silk covers her face, and her dress is belted under her breasts with a cord tied in the intricate knot of Hercules. The bridegroom’s supposed to unpick it, though knowing Constantine, he’ll probably just cut it.

Her attendants lift her over the threshold – carefully. You don’t want to drop an emperor’s bride in front of him. Everyone’s watching. I’ve seen brides shrink under the attention, but Fausta seems to be enjoying it. She’s only fifteen, but there’s nothing of the virgin in her pose. Under her dress, one leg’s cocked slightly forward, thrusting out