Turks for good in 1453. They would have taken whatever was left.’
‘So it could be in Venice … or Istanbul … or hidden somewhere else completely?’
‘Venice was looted by Napoleon, Paris by the Nazis, Berlin by the Soviets, and Moscow by anyone with money.’ Nikolic gave a sad smile. ‘
A bell-tree chime sounded from his computer. ‘It is time for my class. I am sorry I cannot help you more.’
They let themselves out on to the street. Trolley buses sat by the kerb, their drivers clustered round the doors smoking. Michael checked his watch.
‘Perhaps Gruber can tell us more.’
XXXII
I HURRY DOWN the alley, then up an avenue lined with plane trees. They’re only saplings now, but one day they’ll shade the whole street. If the city lasts that long. The empire is littered with half-finished cities built to flatter different emperors’ vanity. I’ve seen them all: Thessalonica, Nicomedia, Milan, Aquileia, Sirmium – even Rome is ringed with hippodromes that never staged a race, mausoleums whose occupants were waylaid elsewhere. Will another emperor stand to live in a city named after his predecessor?
My footsteps quicken, driven by the pace of my thoughts. I remember what Constantine told me, the day he dragged me to the palace.
Was Constantine playing me for a fool? Did Eusebius put him up to it? Even if I was going to find out anything, they must have been sure I’d bury it. I’ve been burying Constantine’s problems all my life.
I’ve heard all this before.
I never understood the arguments. So far as I know, no one ever asked if Apollo was co-eternal with Diana, or whether Hercules was of the same substance as Jupiter. My brothers and I never sat in our cave enquiring into the nature and persons of Mithra. We made the sacrifices, we performed the rituals the way we were taught. We trusted the gods to know their own business.
But the Christians are different: a nitpicking, hair-splitting, prying bunch who spend endless hours asking unanswerable questions – purely, I think, for those moments of joyous insight when they discover they have something else to argue about. It drives Constantine to distraction. He needs the Christians praying for his continued success, not squabbling over technicalities like lawyers.
‘A united empire needs a united religion,’ he complains to me one day. ‘A divided church is an affront to the One God.’
And an affronted God might decide to look for a new champion.
The Christians can agree that their God has three parts – a father, who is like Jupiter; the son, Christ, he fathered by a mortal woman to do his work on Earth, like Hercules; and a spirit messenger, who I think must be like Mercury. Why these have to be one God, and not three, no one ever explains. But they spend endless hours debating the relationship between them, in the same way that senators speculate about the changing fortunes of the court favourites.
One of these intellectual busybodies is a priest called Arius, from Alexandria. Trying to describe his god, he’s said something so outrageous that half the Christians will have no truck with him; the other half have leapt to his defence, and suddenly the Church is at war.
‘I’ve spent twenty years uniting the empire so the Christians can live in peace,’ Constantine laments. ‘And within a year of my victory, they’re trying to tear it apart again.’
In war, Constantine always looks for the decisive battle. So he applies the same logic to the Church: he summons all the contestants to his palace at Nicaea to do battle and declare a winner that everyone will recognise.
‘The question is so trivial, it doesn’t merit this controversy,’ he says hopefully. ‘I’m sure we can settle it without fuss.’
The palace stands on the shore of a lake, looking west. Nicaea’s a modest town among fertile hills: the great profusion of Christians who’ve descended from across the empire can barely squeeze inside its walls. There are two hundred and fifty bishops, twice as many priests and presbyters, plus all the servants, attendants, hangers-on and baggage they bring. The only room big enough to hold the council session is the great hall of the palace, where carpenters have erected twin banks of tiered seating. On the opening morning of the council, the bishops take their seats, ranked on either side of the hall like spectators in the hippodrome.
For most of them – especially the eastern bishops who’ve just come under his rule – it’s the first time they’ve set eyes on Constantine. He dazzles them. When they’re all standing, he enters alone wearing a bright purple robe. The silk shimmers like water in the sunlight, while the precious stones sewn into the fabric paint the floor with colour. He walks solemnly down the aisle, head bowed, hands clasped. He mounts the dais at the end, where a gold curule chair, like judges use, is waiting. He turns to face the bishops and motions to the stool.
‘With your permission?’
They’re so shocked, they almost forget to murmur their assent. An emperor’s never asked them for anything. Constantine sits. The bishops sit. Eusebius, who’s seated closest to Constantine’s right hand, makes a speech thanking God for Constantine’s benevolent wisdom. Constantine makes a speech in reply. ‘Free yourselves from the
