Secrets of the Dead

He stares down Crispus with a father’s authority. ‘Valerius and I were knocking sticks together when we were five years old, and all that’s changed since then is that the blades have got sharper. But if we rely on that, the empire will never be at peace.’

He rubs his foot in the pool of oil, swirling patterns across the floor.

‘Why did Diocletian divide the empire? Because he needed more commanders to fight his wars. And do you know what? The more men he set to fighting, the more fighting there was. We’ve ended that. One man, one peace, one God. But unless we find new ways of settling our quarrels, of binding this empire together without swords, it’ll all fall apart. That’s what the Christian God offers.’

‘That’s what you offer,’ I say.

‘It’s the work of generations.’ He turns in front of the window and spreads his arms wide. ‘I am what I am – imperfect, hard to change. I haven’t touched my sword since the day we beat Licinius, almost nine months now, but by God it’s difficult. You know the Christian story of the prophet Moses?’

‘He led his people out of slavery in Egypt,’ says Crispus, for my benefit.

‘But he never reached the Promised Land. That was left to his successor …’ Constantine pinches his brow, trying to remember.

‘Joshua.’ Crispus supplies the name, but he’s not really thinking about it. He’s staring at his father. Something profound has just happened – a flash of truth, a shift in understanding. One day, historians will say that Crispus succeeded Constantine as sole Augustus of the empire: their words were written in this moment.

That was left to his successor.

Successor – not successors. Constantine’s never mentioned succession before. Fausta’s pestered him for years, desperate to find out what’s in store for her three sons, but even she’s learned not to raise the subject. From the shocked, delighted look on his face, it’s obvious Crispus was just as hungry to know. And now he does.

Constantine smiles at his son – a complicit smile full of promise. A burden’s lifted from both of them. I feel as if I’m intruding.

‘We’ll remake the empire in God’s image,’ Constantine says. ‘A new world of peace. But nothing will change if we don’t persuade men to change.’

Crispus nods, still dazed.

‘And if the Church can’t agree, what hope is there for anyone else?’

No hope at all, I think. My mind’s back in Thessalonica, watching blood flow across the red marble, while Constantiana’s screams shake the palace. That’s how you keep the peace. I wish they’d spared the boy.

Constantine sits down on the edge of the bed. Crispus perches next to him.

‘Now – how do we persuade the Arians to moderate their views?’

Crispus shakes his head. ‘You’ll never persuade Arius. If it were just him, maybe – but now his ideas have been endorsed by powerful patrons, he can’t back down. He’d humiliate Eusebius.’

‘These questions about the Trinity are so obscure, so trivial, they should never even be asked.’ Constantine looks genuinely vexed. ‘And if they were, everyone should have the good sense not to answer.’

‘You can’t unask the question. So you need to provide an answer.’ Crispus reaches in the folds of his tunic and pulls out a small, scrolled piece of paper. Constantine groans.

‘Another petition?’

‘Alexander of Cyrene – my old tutor – you remember him? He’s composed a creed.’

A creed is the sort of document that Christians love: an inventory of the attributes of their God. Finding one that all the bishops can put their names to has become the chief goal of the council.

Constantine reads it through. Even high in the etherea of Christian doctrine, he has an extraordinary ability to extract the crucial point.

‘This phrase – “Christ is begotten of God, not made” – that’s what Arius will object to?’

‘If God made Christ, then Christ would be something other than God. But if He’s begotten from his father, then they exist from the same substance, so Christ must have existed for as long as God has.’

‘So the father and the son are the same substance.’ I can see the idea taking root in Constantine’s mind. A certain amount of discussion follows, which I take no notice of. All that matters is the conclusion.

‘You have to give them a lead.’ Crispus points to the pile of forgotten petitions still scattered on the bed. ‘Why do you think they give you those?’

‘To frustrate me?’

‘Because they need a judge.’

Next morning Constantine summons a full session of the council in the great hall of the palace. The bishops line up in their long, white rows, standing until Constantine’s taken his golden seat. A dozen hands wave in the air to be noticed.

Constantine looks them over, then points to Crispus’s old tutor.

‘The council recognises Alexander of Cyrene.’

The old man – stout, stern-faced, his dark beard halfway to white – stands and begins to speak. The words mean nothing to me, but I still remember how it begins.

‘We believe in one God …’

Eusebius is on his feet the moment Alexander finishes, but Constantine doesn’t call on him. He surveys the