Secrets of the Dead

The gunman threw his pistol over the wall and raised his arms. He looked calm, almost resigned – a man for whom this had happened before, would probably happen again. He stood still. But his mouth was moving, rapid-fire muttering apparently to himself. Looking closer, Abby saw a silver earpiece with a small microphone clipped on his ear.

He’s on the phone. He could have been talking to anyone around the world, but Abby guessed it was a whole lot closer than that. She began to crawl away. She had to find Michael and warn him.

The soldiers saw her moving and paused. ‘Stay down!’ they shouted, first in Serbian and then, in English, ‘Down!’ She didn’t listen to them. She didn’t think they’d shoot a civilian, particularly one who might be a tourist. She scrambled to her feet and started to move. Every step sent more jolts of pain into her shoulder; she wanted to run, but could only stagger like a drunk. Shouts rang after her, but nothing more. The guards were too preoccupied with the gunman.

She came around the corner of a brick defile and left the terrace behind. Police sirens wailed in the distance. She limped along a paved road through the trees, searching for Michael and Gruber. The shots had sparked chaos. Dozens of people were running through the woods, strung out like peasants fleeing an advancing army.

She’d barely gone a hundred yards when she heard fresh shouts behind her. Two more soldiers had appeared. Were they looking for her? They must have opened the bag, seen the money inside and decided maybe she wasn’t as much a victim as she’d seemed. She pulled off her coat and stuffed it in a bin by a tree, hoping the colour change would be enough. Where was Michael?

The shouts suddenly changed, became more urgent: not looking for someone, but finding them. She risked a glance back. One of the soldiers was standing up against a tree, gun held against his body like something out of a war movie. The other had dropped to one knee and was squinting down the rifle sight.

Abby followed the line of the gun. Fifty yards away a dark-haired woman in a red windcheater was facing the soldier, arms raised, face white with terror. She looked about Abby’s age.

They’ve got the wrong girl.

She felt sorry for her double – but the soldiers would find out their mistake soon enough. She turned her back and walked away, passing through the old Ottoman gate, jostling with the panicked crowds. Ahead, she thought she saw two men – one in a green anorak, the other in a long black coat. She forced herself to lengthen her stride, swallowing the pain that twisted like a knife in her shoulder.

‘Michael!’ she called.

Michael and Gruber stopped and turned. Michael gave an unobtrusive nod; Gruber looked as if he was going to be sick.

Ten paces ahead of her, a man in a New York Mets baseball cap stopped as well. He had a fat camera bag around his neck, unzipped as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of taking a photograph.

Too late, Abby noticed the silver Bluetooth headset clipped on his ear.

The man pulled a small pistol from the camera bag. He raised it, aimed towards Michael and fired.

XXXIV

Constantinople – May 337

I’VE ARRIVED AT the Church of Holy Peace. Constantine’s words at Nicaea are still echoing in my ears.

Am I the only man in the world who wants peace?

You were, I think, and the world didn’t want it. Last week a thousand soldiers marched past this church on their way to the Persian war. There hasn’t been a year in the last decade when Constantine hasn’t led his army on campaign, accumulating victory titles faster than the masons can recut the inscriptions on his monuments. If I were a younger man, with clearer views, I’d despise him for the hypocrisy. But all I feel is pity.

Even early in the morning, the church is busy. Paupers queue at a side door, where two women are doling out bread and milk. Serious young men with new-grown beards walk in twos and threes across the courtyard, clutching sheaves of paper. A group of children sit under a plane tree with writing tablets, taking instruction from a stern priest. It’s like its own village.

A priest is standing by the church door, greeting people as they enter. He sees me approach and offers a warm smile.

‘Peace be with you.’

All I can think of is Symmachus, slumped by his fishpond. ‘I want to see Eusebius.’

The smile doesn’t falter. ‘The Bishop left this morning for his home in Nicomedia. His work here was finished.’

‘Of course.’

‘You look tired, brother. Will you come and break bread with us?’

He’s still smiling, still solicitous.

‘Is it true,’ I ask him, ‘that part of your ritual is drinking blood?’

‘We share in the blood of Christ.’

‘I hope you drown in it.’

I wait just long enough to enjoy the look on his face, then spin on my heel and walk away. I’m halfway across the courtyard when I hear a voice calling my name.

‘Gaius Valerius?’

It’s Simeon the deacon, hurrying across the square. He looks well rested, pleased to see me. Not as if he murdered someone last night.