Secrets of the Dead

It takes me a moment to place him – not because I don’t recognise him, but because to see him here is almost the last thing I expect. It’s Flavius Ursus, Marshal of the Army, the most powerful soldier in the empire after Constantine. I knew him when he was Tribune of the Eighth. Flavius the Bear, we called him. In the field he wore a bearskin cape and a necklace of claws and teeth. He’s short, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a full beard that hides most of the scars on his face. His father was a barbarian who crossed the Danube in the chaos before Diocletian’s reign, and then joined the Roman army to stop his countrymen from following him. The son, I think, is similarly flexible.

He shows me up to the terrace.

‘My men coming to get you – I hope you didn’t mind. I’m sure you understand.’ We climb the final step and come out on a broad terrace. ‘And here’s another face from the old days.’

The man waiting there is younger than both of us, probably half my age, with short dark hair cut straight across the forehead, and a smug patrician face. He looks pleased to see me, though I can’t think why.

‘Sir.’

He clasps my hand, but doesn’t introduce himself. He’s waiting, hoping I remember him.

‘Marcus Severus?’ It’s half-guesswork, but his smile says I’ve got it right. ‘I haven’t seen you since …’

‘The Chrysopolis campaign.’ Now I’ve recognised him, he’s happy to remind me. ‘I was on your staff.’

‘And now the Gemini?’ I guess. ‘You must be a tribune by now, at least.’

His face flushes. ‘I’m Chief of Staff to the Caesar Claudius Constantinus.’

‘Of course.’ It’s been fully twelve years since our last campaign, when he was a hot-headed young officer buzzing around my staff, angling for any command that might give a whiff of glory. I flap my hand, an apology for my age. ‘An old man’s memory … I knew and I forgot. Congratulations, richly deserved.’

An awkward silence descends between the three of us. Why is Severus here? He should be a thousand miles away in Trier. And why is Ursus harbouring him?

A slave brings us cups of spiced wine on a silver tray. I sip mine, and stare across the water. A brown haze of dust and smoke smears the sky over the city.

‘Is this your house?’ I ask Ursus.

‘It belongs to a merchant, a contractor for the army. He lets me use it from time to time, when I need somewhere private.’

Obviously, the merchant’s done well out of supplying the army. ‘And did you row an old man across the water just to reminisce about the old days?’

‘In the old days, General, you always had your finger on the pulse,’ says Severus.

‘I retired. I have a villa in the mountains of Moesia, and in a month I’ll be there for good. As soon as the Emperor lets me go.’

Ursus gives a short, barking laugh. ‘Nothing changes. Every campaign I fought with you, you said it would be your last. And I hear the Emperor has you doing yet another last job for him. Still his trusted right hand.’

Of all the things I expected when the soldiers arrived at my door, this must be the least likely. What did this bishop have that makes everyone from an old pagan to Constantine’s field marshal so sensitive to his fate?

‘It’s trivial,’ I assure him. ‘I don’t know why the Augustus bothered himself with it.’

A fringe benefit of my reputation is that people always assume I know something when I plead ignorance. Severus gives me a conniving smile. ‘There are rumours, General. You must have heard them.’

‘Imagine I haven’t.’

‘They say that when your dead bishop was found, a document case was missing.’

When did he become my dead bishop? ‘Bishop Alexander was writing a book for Constantine – a compendium of the events of his reign. Whatever papers he had were just for that.’

Severus leans in closer. ‘We’re not interested in the past.’

I believe him. Constantine’s raised a new generation in his image, and the past is simply embarrassing. The ancestral gods get lodged in the attic, and old books make good kindling.

I glance at Ursus, looking for a hint.

‘You know there are factions at court.’

‘That’s why they call it a court. People choose sides and play games.’

Neither of them smiles. ‘They say that Constantine’s sister, Constantiana, has a secret will he’s written,’ says Severus.

‘Benefitting whom?’

‘No one knows.’

‘Then who’s spreading the rumours?’

Ursus grunts. ‘You know how it goes. Whispers and glances and shadows in the smoke.’

I know how it goes. ‘There is no secret will,’ I say flatly. ‘Even if there were, why would Alexander have it? When was the succession ever decided by a priest? The army’s loyal.’ I fix on Ursus’s brown eyes. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘To Constantine.’

‘But after Constantine …’ The red wine has stained Severus’s lips purple. ‘It’s important that all the sons inherit