Secrets of the Dead

shackles of dispute,’ he tells them, ‘and live in the freedom of the laws of peace. This is what pleases God – and me.’

His eyes sweep the room to make sure they understand. Two hundred and fifty heads humbly bow.

But two weeks later, they still haven’t bent. To Constantine’s surprise, it turns out that Christians are just as devious as anyone else. Bringing them together in the palace hasn’t concentrated their minds on divine unity: it’s concentrated their poison and their scheming. Nothing’s achieved.

We meet in Constantine’s bedchamber at sunset. Outside the window, lake waves lap against the foot of the wall. The bishops are at one of their interminable services – the only time we can be sure no one’s listening. Even the palace slaves have been dismissed. It’s just Crispus and me – the only two men he can trust.

Constantine bursts through the door. He always pushes too hard, I’ve noticed – he’s not used to having to open a door himself. A secretary scurries in behind him, carrying a pile of scrolls stacked up like firewood in his arms.

‘Put them there.’ Constantine points to a bed next to me. The secretary dumps them, bows and retreats. Constantine unrolls one, moving his lips as he tries to read it. I wonder if the Christians write in Greek deliberately, a delicate humiliation.

‘“From the church at Alexandria, to the Lord Constantine, Augustus, Caesar, etc., etc. Whereas it is alleged that Eustathius, Bishop of Antioch, consorts with prostitutes and immoral women, we earnestly implore you to nullify his election so that a righteous and godly man may be appointed …”’ He tosses the paper back on to the pile. ‘And somewhere in here, you can be sure there’ll be a petition from the Bishop of Antioch’s friends, urging me to disregard the lies being spread about him and punish his oppressors.’

He pushes them across the bed towards me. Some slide on to the floor.

‘Take them, Gaius.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘Burn the lot of them.’

I move to pick them up, but Constantine waves me back. ‘Not now. Wait until the bishops are out of church – and do it somewhere you’ll be seen. I want them to know they’re wasting their time.’

He throws himself down on the bed. ‘What do I have to do to get these bishops to agree?’

I keep quiet. None of my ideas are what Constantine would call constructive, and he’s in a foul mood. In a couple of weeks, it’ll be the launch of his vicennalia – the twentieth year of his reign. There’ll be feasts, parades, celebrations. Later in the year, we’ll go to Rome for the first time since we defeated Maxentius. He’s desperate to finish the council by then.

Crispus crosses to the window and peers out at the lake. Sunset’s amber light streams in, bathing his face like flame. He’s twenty-five now and at the height of his powers: a more measured, confident version of his father. At the same age, Constantine still lived at a despot’s whim, going to bed every night not knowing if he’d wake up. Like a man who’s survived a famine, in his heart he can’t let go of the fear he’ll go hungry again one day. By contrast, all Crispus has ever known is success.

‘It’s Eusebius,’ he says. ‘He won’t challenge you openly, but he’s totally opposed to any compromise. And he knows every way there is to string out the debate so that nothing gets decided.’

‘He’s always very supportive when I speak to him.’

‘He survived as Bishop of Nicomedia – Licinius’s capital – for seven years while Licinius reigned. He’s a snake who can worm his way into any hole to keep warm.’

It’s a dangerous throw for Crispus – dangerous to mention Licinius just now. After his defeat at Chrysopolis, Licinius went into exile at Thessalonica with his wife Constantiana and their nine-year-old son. Two months ago rumours reached us that Licinius was conspiring with certain senators to escape to Rome, declare himself Emperor and launch a general massacre of all Christians in the empire. Repeating it now, it sounds far-fetched – but even rumours can become self-fulfilling. And Licinius had exhausted his credit with Constantine.

I was sent to Thessalonica to take care of it. Breathless gossip says that I slit Licinius’s throat, then butchered the son while his mother watched. It’s only half-true – the garrison commander killed the son after I’d gone, and paid for his over-zealousness later – but half-truths have a knack of spreading that the truth would envy.

‘Eusebius is the one you need to win round,’ Crispus insists. ‘If he breaks, enough of his faction will follow that you can declare victory. Think of your battles,’ he urges his father. ‘Sometimes you can win the war by outmanoeuvring your opponent. But other times, like at Chrysopolis, a direct charge is the best tactic.’

‘You lose fewer casualties in a war of manoeuvre,’ I murmur.

‘But your enemy lives to fight another day.’

Constantine silences him. ‘I didn’t summon the bishops here for a war. I came to make peace. Peace.’ He springs off the bed, takes three strides across the room and turns. ‘Am I the only man in the world who wants that?’

‘We all want it.’

‘Then don’t talk as if we’re fighting a war. Manoeuvres, attacks, battles – they’re metaphors. No one’s dying. At the end of this all the combatants will get up and go about their business as they did before. That doesn’t happen on a battlefield.’

He slams his fist on an ivory side table. An oil lamp is laid too close to the edge: it shakes loose and smashes. Oil leaks across the floor.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asks Crispus. ‘Call out the cavalry to trample the bishops under their hooves? Put out the Christians’ eyes and burn them with hot irons until they agree to my way of thinking, like my predecessors did? Shall I march my army around the world and raze every village that believes differently to me?’

‘I didn’t mean –’

‘Because that would be so easy. Anyone can wield a sword.’