Secrets of the Dead

My sight’s so blurred from the thousands of words I’ve read, I almost don’t notice it. I’ve already started to turn the page. But something registers. I turn back.

It’s a letter to the empress. It must be a duplicate, copied into the correspondence book by a secretary. There’s a tear in the corner of the page, as if Alexander began to rip it out and then thought better of it. Instead, he contented himself with excising the first paragraph. It means the sender and the date have gone. The text picks up halfway down the page.

To reach the living, navigate the dead,

Beyond the shadow burns the sun,

The saving sign that lights the path ahead,

Unconquered brilliance of a life begun.

From the garden to the cave,

The grieving father gave his son,

And buried in the hollow grave,

The trophy of his victory won.

I stare at the page, trying to tease out some meaning. I wonder why Alexander removed the version that he had in his case, but not this one. Perhaps I understand his ambivalence. Everything in the poem screams Crispus, but there’s nothing explicit that mentions him. Is it a riddle? Who wrote it?

I’ve stayed too long. The lamp flickers, spits – and goes out. A shudder passes through me. I cry out like a child. My old hands aren’t so firm as they used to be. The lamp drops and shatters on the floor. I’m trapped in total darkness.

Far away in the labyrinth, I hear a voice calling my name.

XXXVII

Near Belgrade, Serbia – Present Day

‘GOOD EVENING, THE Foreign Office. How may I direct your call?’

‘I need to speak to the Office of Balkan Liaison.’

‘One moment, please.’

The telephone played Bach – an ethereal sound among the diesel engines and squeaking brakes of the service station. Standing outside the cafe, Abby pressed the phone tighter to her ear.

‘Duty Officer.’ A woman’s voice, young and weary.

‘I need to speak to Mark Wilson.’

‘I’m afraid he’s out of the office at the moment. Can I –?’

‘Get hold of him.’ The ferocity in her voice surprised her. ‘Tell him Abby Cormac wants to speak to him.’

‘Do you have a number he can reach you on?’

Was it her paranoia, or had the voice changed? Do I know you? Abby wondered. Did we exchange e-mails, or sit opposite each other in the canteen? She tried to put a face to the voice, but found she lacked the imagination.

‘I’ll call back in an hour. Make sure he’s there.’

She rung off and went back inside. Michael and Nikolic were still at the table, staring at their coffee cups.

‘Well?’ Michael asked.

‘He wasn’t there. I said I’d call back in an hour.’

Michael pushed back his chair. ‘We need to keep moving.’ He turned to Nikolic. ‘Can you get us to the Croatian border? We’ll make it worth your time.’

Nikolic checked his watch. ‘I have two sons with no mother. My sister fetches them from school, but they already must be wondering where I am. I can drive you to Sremska Mitrovica. From there, you get a bus.’

They carried on down the dark highway.

‘What else do you know about Porfyrius?’ Abby asked.

‘A little. He was exiled for some time – nobody knows why or how long. We think he wrote most of his poems in exile, to persuade Constantine to let him come home.’

‘Did it work?’

Nikolic nodded. ‘Around 326 he was pardoned and came home. He must have done something so that the Emperor liked him: he was made Prefect of the City of Rome. Like the mayor. This is all we know.’

He lapsed into silence. ‘It is strange …’

He broke off as he changed lanes to overtake a petrol tanker lumbering towards the border.

‘What’s strange?’ Abby asked, when they were past.

‘The poem – this line: The grieving father gave his son.’

‘Isn’t that just some Christian stuff?’ Michael put in from the back seat.