Secrets of the Dead (12 page)

She looked at the photograph staring out of the screen. There weren’t many pictures of Dragovi
ć
on file: this one was small and out of focus, as if it had been cropped from the background of something else. All she could see was a narrow face, an angular jaw and two jet-black eyes staring at the camera, as if he’d just noticed the photographer.

And what did Michael have to do with you?
she wondered. Dragovi
ć
ran one of the biggest smuggling rings in Europe, and Kosovo was its crossroads. Michael must have come up against him in the course of his work.

So why did you take me to stay at his house?

She pressed the mouse button so hard she thought she’d break it. The window closed, the face vanished.

The reading room was stifling. She needed air. She pushed through the doors, past the stacks of ancient books entombed in glass that made the core of the building, and down the steps to the piazza. She was craving a pill, but settled for a cigarette.

As she rummaged in her bag, she saw her phone glowing in its depths. She’d kept it on silent for the reading room, but someone must have sent a message. Her heart sank. The only person who’d ever called her on that phone was Mark.

What do they want from me now?

Trembling in the cool evening air, she took out the phone and opened the text message. Strangely, the sender’s number wasn’t displayed.

ARCUMTRIUMPHISINSIGNEMDICAVIT
. Friday 17h. I can help
.

Constantinople – April 337

I WAKE WITH
the dawn, my hand clenched on the knife under my pillow. Somewhere in the night someone’s removed the oil lamp. Panic strikes me – what else did he take? – but when I paw the bed around me, I feel Alexander’s book and the necklace, still there. It must have been one of my slaves, keeping watch while I slept. He didn’t risk covering me with a blanket. They know never to touch me when I’m sleeping.

I wash and dress and make my obeisances to my ancestral gods. The house was a gift from Constantine and typically extravagant: far too big for a lonely old man. Most of the rooms are kept shut up, like old memories.

My steward brings me bread and honey and news of the morning’s visitors. It seems the ghost of my reputation still wanders the streets of this city, tempting a few misguided souls into thinking I can secure the Emperor’s favour. Mostly, I send them away without a hearing. At this stage of my life, I don’t have time to waste on them.

The steward runs down his list. ‘And there’s a priest. A Christian.’

I groan. Until yesterday, I thought I’d never have anything to do with Christians again. Now, they’re interrupting my breakfast.

‘He says his name is Simeon.’

I chew my bread and reveal nothing. It’s good practice for being at court. Slaves know you better than courtiers; they’re much harder to fool.

‘I’ll start with the priest.’

The steward nods, as if it’s exactly what he expected. He’s mastered the game better than I have.

‘Show him to the reception room.’

I find Simeon waiting there quarter of an hour later. It’s a shabby room: plain plaster on the walls that I never had painted, monochrome floor tiles. On the rare occasions I receive my petitioners, I bring them here to impress on them how humble my fortunes are. I enjoy watching their faces fall.

But it doesn’t faze Simeon. He’s standing in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, staring at a damp spot on the ceiling with a smile on his face. Christians are devious that way: ostentatious in their humility.

‘I haven’t learned who killed Alexander, if that’s what you came for,’ I tell him.

That breaks his composure. His cheeks flush; a look of anger crosses his face. I watch and judge. I’ve met him twice, now: once with Alexander’s body, once in his ransacked apartment. Either Simeon’s got an unfortunate knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or he’s as guilty as Romulus.

‘I thought you might go and visit Bishop Eusebius today.’

‘I might.’ Why is he saying this? To deflect suspicion on to
someone
else? ‘You said a bishop couldn’t possibly have done this.’

‘I can help you with him.’

‘Do I need help?’

‘Do you know where to look for him?’

I have to laugh, though it makes Simeon squirm with anger. He’s so blunt: Constantinople hasn’t yet honed his manners into the polite, sharp-edged weapons we wield. It’ll be a shame if I have to accuse him of murder.

In fact, the hardest thing about finding Bishop Eusebius is glimpsing him through the crowds that surround him. He’s at the church that Constantine’s built adjoining his palace, at the far tip of the peninsula. In a fit of optimism, or perhaps wishful thinking, Constantine dedicated it to Holy Peace.

It isn’t far from my house, but the heat’s already building. I’m sweating by the time I get there, my face grimy from the dust. Banners draped from buildings flutter as a desultory breeze stirs off the water. Constantinople exists as two cities: the city that is, and the city yet to come. The city of the living is filled with shopkeepers and bath attendants touting for business, lawyers and their clients filing into the courts, women and children queuing for their grain ration. The city yet to come is silhouettes on the horizon and pounding tools, portents of an army coming over the hill. Even as we live in the city that
is
, the city to come takes shape around us.

It’s early, but the crowds at the church are so thick they’ve spilled outside on to the square. The high doors have been thrown open. Inside, a figure in golden robes stands on a marble pulpit and addresses them. I won’t cross the threshold, but I nudge my way through the crowd close enough to hear
what
he’s saying. The sun pours through a glazed round window, bathing him in yellow light and branding the
monogram straight onto his forehead. Behind him, an ornate wall screens off the sanctuary within the church. The Christians will give anyone a taste of their mysteries, but only true initiates get to watch them unfold.

Eusebius is talking about the god Christ. I struggle to understand: something about his nature and his substance, the difference between the eternal and the infinite. ‘Christ is the head of the church and the saviour of its body, just as a husband is the head of the wife. So it must be an affront to God that our church here in Constantinople still lacks a head. I urge you, brothers and sisters, to resolve this situation with speed and justice.’

I glance at Simeon, who’s listening intently. ‘What’s he talking about?’

‘You know the Patriarch of Constantinople died three months ago?’

I do now. ‘Was there anything suspicious about it?’

‘He was an old man who’d lived a hard life. Nothing unusual. Eusebius is one of the obvious men to replace him.’

‘Is that why Alexander wanted to talk to Eusebius in the library yesterday?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Was Alexander a candidate? A rival?’

‘He said he was too old.’

But there’s something defensive in the way he says it. I stare him down. ‘It’s your master’s murder we’re talking about,’ I remind him.
And you’re the most obvious suspect
.

‘Alexander opposed Eusebius’s election.’

‘So with Alexander gone, Eusebius has a clear run at the top job in the church.’

Eusebius has finished speaking. The crowd start shuffling in to the sanctuary for the distribution of the sacrifice – those who are allowed. The rest begin to drift away. But a few linger on, staring into the dark church like dogs at a kitchen door. Most of them are young men, intoxicated by their own intensity; one stands out, an old man with straggling hair and a pointed chin. He squats on the steps of the colonnade, head cupped in his hands, contemplating the church with ravenous eyes.

There’s something so arresting about him that I point him out to Simeon. ‘Do you know who he is?’

Simeon’s so surprised he has to look twice. First at the man, then at me. He can’t believe I could be so ignorant.

‘Asterius the Sophist.’

He sees my reaction to the name and nods, pleased to think his world view has been vindicated. But it isn’t what he thinks.

‘Symmachus said that Asterius was at the library yesterday.’ He’s on my list.

‘I didn’t see him there.’

‘Symmachus said that Asterius was a Christian. Why doesn’t he go into the church?’

A solemn look comes over Simeon. ‘During the persecutions, Asterius was arrested. The persecutors gave him a choice: betray the church, or die and become a martyr for Christ.’

‘He’s still alive.’

Simeon spits in the dust. ‘There were a dozen Christians – families, with children – hiding in the cistern below his house. He betrayed them to the Emperor Diocletian, who crucified them all. That’s why they call him the Sophist – he’ll say he believes anything. He’s forbidden from ever setting foot in a church again.’

‘But he still comes here.’ I look at the face again. The eyes
narrowed
, the lips slightly parted. His body is tense with a longing that’s almost ecstatic.

‘Do you think he knew Symmachus during the persecutions? Or Alexander?’

‘Ask him. I wasn’t born then.’

I push across the square and step in front of the old man, cutting off his contemplation of the church. He waits for me to move by. When I don’t, he’s forced to look up.

Seen from above, hunched up like a dwarf, he’s a scrawny, diminished figure. His face is grey and mottled with liver spots; his hands are folded around his knees, hidden in his sleeves.

I sit down beside him on the step. ‘It must be hard for you. Like watching your first love at home with her husband and children.’

He keeps his gaze on the church and doesn’t respond.

‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m –’

‘Gaius Valerius Maximus.’ He spits out the words like a centurion summoning men to be flogged. ‘Your notoriety precedes you.’

‘So does yours.’

‘I repented my sins. Can you say the same?’

‘I sleep easily enough.’

He looks at me then, and though age clouds his eyes they seem to go right through me. ‘Have you come to ask me about the Bishop?’

‘Do you have anything to tell me?’

‘I was there in the library. I assume someone told you. I’m sure Aurelius Symmachus was eager to help.’

‘You know him?’

‘He and I are old friends.’ He crunches down on the last word as if biting a nut. ‘We were in prison together during the persecutions. Did you know that? Only one of us was in
chains
, mind, not a relationship of equals. He had the whip hand.’

‘Did you see Bishop Alexander at the library?’

He raises his eyebrows, stretching the skin around his eyes so that they widen alarmingly. ‘I struggle to see what’s a foot in front of me.’

I remember his nickname. The
Sophist
– the man who can twist any argument. ‘Did you encounter him?’

‘No.’

I point to the church. ‘What about Bishop Eusebius?’

‘What about him?’

‘He was there too.’

‘Then I’m sure he avoided me. He doesn’t like to be seen with me. Churchmen don’t – like your little friend here.’ A nod to Simeon, who’s fidgeting as if he has ants crawling up his legs. ‘They worry I’ll drag them to Hell with me.’

Simeon tugs my arm and murmurs that the ritual in the church is ending. I stand and look down on the withered old man.

‘Do you know who killed Bishop Alexander?’

His face is clear and innocent as rain. ‘Only God knows.’

‘Did you kill him?’

Asterius lifts up his arms like a beggar, so that the sleeves of his robe fall back to the elbow. Simeon gasps and turns away. I have fewer qualms; I study them with professional interest.

He has no hands. All that protrude are withered stumps.

‘A half-blind man with no hands probably didn’t smash Alexander’s head in.’

We’re walking across the square, against the crowds streaming out of the church. Simeon’s angry.

‘Why do you always ask these people who killed Alexander? Do you expect them to tell you?’

I slow down, so that Simeon comes level. ‘When I was a young army officer, one of my men was stabbed in a tavern brawl. Three men had been with him. I asked them who was guilty and two gave the same answer. The third named one of the others.’

‘He was lying?’

‘He was telling the truth. The other two had agreed to frame him.’

As Simeon digests my homily, the crowd’s momentum changes. They stop, drawing apart to open a channel in their midst. Simeon and I are pushed back. A golden litter seems to float past in the air – you can barely see the eight Sarmatian slaves sweating under its weight. The purple curtains are embroidered with the imperial monogram, and beside it the peacock emblem of Princess Constantiana, Constantine’s sister.

‘Eusebius attracts quite a congregation,’ I observe.

The litter passes and disappears through the palace gate. The crowd starts to move again. Simeon and I make our way around the side of the church and let ourselves in a small door in an octagonal annexe. Simeon looks anxious: I can’t tell if it’s Eusebius he’s worried about, or my presence in the church. But, in fact, barely anyone notices us. The room’s filled with men undressing themselves and gossiping freely: for a moment, I think we’ve stepped into a bathhouse. This must be where the priests disrobe after the service.