by Tom Harper
She broke the surface and kicked to the side. From the floor of the pool, soft-lit sea nymphs beckoned her to join them. She put her bare arms on the side and hauled herself out.
Sprawled on the poolside, she saw it all from ground level. The scattered briefcase and overturned table; the marble gods looking down on her. And at the far end of the terrace, two men locked in a struggle over the abyss. Michael threw a punch that didn’t connect; his opponent grabbed his arm and jerked it back, spinning him around to face the cliff. They stood there for a second like two lovers staring at a sunset. Then, with a brusque motion, the man kicked out Michael’s feet and pushed him forward. Michael flailed and stumbled. He tried to regain his balance and almost succeeded, teetering on the edge like a broken-winged bird. His impatient assailant moved in for the kill, but it wasn’t necessary. Without a sound, as if the life had already left him, Michael flopped over the edge and vanished.
Abby screamed; she couldn’t help it. The man heard her and turned. All his movements were precise, unhurried. He’d dropped the gun in his struggle with Michael – now he picked it up. He checked the slide and the magazine. He ejected the cartridge in the chamber and reloaded.
Abby pulled herself off the ground The wet dress clung to her body, dragging her down. She had to escape – but where? To the car? She didn’t know where Michael had left the keys. She didn’t even have time to get back to the house. The intruder was walking along the side of the pool, gun raised. She hurled herself into the colonnade as the next shot went off. Stone cracked; something shattered.
She crouched low and ran down the back of the colonnade, ducking between the columns and the statue plinths. It was like being in a shooting gallery – except the man wasn’t shooting. Had he run out of bullets?
She reached the end of the colonnade and paused. A marble Jupiter towered over her, a lightning bolt clenched in his fist. Measured footsteps approached.
With a sickening shock, she realised why he hadn’t bothered shooting. She was trapped in a corner with nowhere to go. She cowered behind the base of the statue. The footsteps stopped.
The silence was worst of all.
‘What do you want?’ she called.
No answer. Water dripped off her sodden dress and pooled around her feet. What was he waiting for?
She had thought she knew what it was like to face death. She’d heard the stories a thousand times and recorded them diligently. But the people who’d lived to bear witness had been survivors. Some had run when the killers came; others lay rigid in the killing fields and played dead, sometimes for hours, while their families and neighbours died around them. They never gave up.
She had one chance. She pushed off on the plinth, jack-knifed up and spun around, throwing her entire weight against the statue. It wobbled, tottered and fell. The god crashed down and smashed into pieces. The gunman leapt back, losing his balance.
Abby was already running. She crossed the last few yards of the terrace and dived back inside the house. On the wall, the giant TV screen played its rote images of war and revenge, oblivious to the real horror in front of it.
Where now?
But the gunman had recovered too fast. The first bullet shattered the window behind her. The second tore into her shoulder, spinning her around. She saw him stepping through the broken window, gun raised.
‘Please,’ she begged. She wanted to run, but her body had failed her. ‘Why are you doing this?’
The man shrugged. He had a black moustache and a mole on his right cheek, sprouting hairs. His eyes were dark and hard.
Her last thought was of a witness she’d interviewed years ago, a grey-haired Hutu woman grinding meal in a jungle camp somewhere between Congo and Rwanda. ‘You never gave up,’ Abby had told her in admiration, and the woman had shaken her head.
‘I was lucky. The others were not. That was the only difference.’
The man raised the gun and fired.
II
Roman Province of Moesia – August 337
IT’S STILL AUGUST, but autumn has already arrived. Like every old man, I fear this season. Shadows fall, nights lengthen and the knives come out. On evenings like these, when the chill in the air makes my old wounds squirm, I retire to the bathhouse and order my slaves to stoke the fire. The pool’s empty, but I sit on the rim and tip water over the scalding stones. The steam goes up my nose and softens my flesh. Perhaps that will make it easier for my murderers, when they come.
I’m ready to die – it holds no terrors for me. I’ve lived longer than I deserved. I’ve been a soldier, a courtier and a politician: none of them professions noted for their longevity. When my murderers come – and they are coming – I know they won’t linger. They’re busy men these days. I’m not the last person they have to kill. They won’t torture me: they don’t know the questions to ask.
They’ve no idea what I could tell them.
A shiver goes down my back. I haven’t undressed – I’m not going to die naked – and my clothes are sodden. I throw more water into the pool and lean forward into the steam, peering through the mist at the black-and-white sea gods picked out in the floor tiles. They stare back and reproach me. Dying gods from a dying world. Do they know the part I’ve played in their oblivion?
Another shiver. I’m ready to die: it’s death that terrifies me. The afterwards. Gods who die in springtime occasionally come back to life; old men murdered in autumn never do. But where they go …
The steam thickens.
All my life I’ve contended with gods – a god who became a man, and a man who became a god. Now, at the end of it, peering into the steaming abyss, I have no more idea what the gods intend for me than I did when I first peered over the edge of my cradle all those years ago. Or even four months ago, on a dusty April afternoon in Constantinople, hearing about a dead man who would change my life. As much as remains of it.
Memories cloud about me and bead on my skin. The mind is a strange land with many walls but no distance. I’m no longer in the bathhouse, but another place and time, and my oldest friend is saying …
‘… I need you.’
We’re in an audience hall at the palace, though there’s no audience. None except me. We’re both old men with the years scored into us, but it’s been this way since I can remember. He performs, I applaud.
Except now I’m not applauding. I’m listening to him tell me about a death and wondering if I look right. After so many years at court, I can pull out my emotions like masks from a well-oiled drawer, but I’m not sure what the occasion demands. I want to seem respectful to the dead man. But not too much – I won’t invest in his death, as I’m being invited to do. Does that make me callous?
‘They found him two hours ago in the library by the Academy. As soon as they realised who he was, they sent straight to the palace.’
He’s trying to draw me in to the story, pique my curiosity. I stay silent. There aren’t many men alive who can stay silent when he wants them to speak – I might be the only one left. We grew up like brothers, inseparable sons of officers in the same legion. His mother was an innkeeper, mine a laundress. Now titles adorn him like the gems sewn into his heavy robe. Flavius Valerius Constantine – Emperor, Caesar and Augustus, Consul and Proconsul, High Priest. Constantine the Pious, the Faithful, the Blessed and Benevolent. Constantine the Victorious, Triumphant and Unconquered. Constantine – succinctly – the Great.
And even now, a grandfather in his declining years, the greatness radiates from him. I still feel it. His round face, puppyish and seductive when he was young, may have fattened out and sagged; the muscles that wrestled together an empire may have gone soft. But the greatness remains. The artists who paint him with a golden nimbus are only colouring in what every man knows. Power inhabits his body – the unconquerable confidence that only the gods can give.
‘The dead man’s name was Alexander. He was a bishop – important in the Christian community. He also tutored one of my sons, apparently.’
One of my sons, apparently. Something wraps around me like a cold current in the sea, though I don’t flinch. My face betrays nothing. Neither does his.
Without warning, he tosses me something. My body’s grown slow and cumbersome, but I still have my reflexes. I catch it one-handed, then open my fist.
‘They found this near the body.’
It’s a necklace, about the size of my palm. An intricate web surrounding Constantine’s X-P monogram, the bright new gold studded with red glass beads. A broken chain shows where it was ripped off someone’s neck.
‘Did it belong to the Bishop?’
‘His servant says not.’
‘The man who killed him, then?’
‘Or it was left there deliberately.’ He breathes an impatient sigh. ‘These are the questions I need you to answer, Gaius.’
The necklace is cold in my hand, an unwanted token of the dead man I’m being forced to carry. But I still resist. ‘I don’t know anything about the Christians.’
‘Not true.’ Constantine reaches out and touches my shoulder. Once, it would have been a natural and intimate gesture. Now his arm is rigid, holding me back. ‘You know enough to know that they feud like cats in a sack. If I send in one of their own, half his colleagues will immediately come to me condemning him as a schismatic and a heretic. Then the second half will arrive and denounce the first half for the same crimes.’
He shakes his head. God though he is, even he can’t fathom the mysteries of the church.
‘Do you think a Christian killed him?’
His shock is so natural I almost believe it’s real. ‘God forbid. They spit and scratch, but they don’t bite.’
I don’t disagree. I don’t know anything about the Christians.
‘But people will speculate. Others will say the murder of Alexander was an attack on all Christians by those who hate them. These wounds are raw, Gaius. We fought fifteen years of civil war to unite the empire and restore peace. It can’t fall apart now.’
He’s right to worry. He built his city in a hurry. The cement is hardly dry, and already cracks are appearing.
‘In two weeks, I’ll leave on campaign. In two months, I’ll be a thousand miles away in Persia. I can’t leave this problem behind. I need someone I can trust to do it quickly. Please, Gaius. For our friendship.’
Does he really think that’s something to sway me? There are things I’ve done for our friendship that even the god Christ, notoriously lenient, wouldn’t forgive me.
‘I was going to go home to Moesia next week. Everything’s arranged.’
Something like nostalgia enters his expression. His eyes take on a far-off look.
‘Do you remember those days, Gaius? Playing in the fields outside Niš? Climbing into the hen coops to steal eggs? They never caught us, did they?’
They never caught us because your father was the Tribune. I don’t say it. You meddle with an old man’s memories at your peril.
‘I should go back there – feel native soil under my feet again. When I come back from Persia.’
‘You’ll always be welcome at my house.’
‘I’ll be there. And you’ll be there sooner. As soon as you’ve solved this problem for me.’
And there it is. A god doesn’t have time for protracted wrangling. We could have debated it for hours, days, but he’s condensed all his arguments into a single sentence. And all my resistance and evasions, my determination not to get involved, collapse to an instant decision.
‘Do you want a culprit? Or do you want me to find out who actually did it?’
It’s a crucial question. In this city, not all murders are crimes. And not all criminals are guilty. Constantine, more than anyone, understands that.
‘I need you to find out who did it. Discreetly.’
He wants the truth. Then he’ll decide what to do with it.
‘If I go knocking on the Christians’ doors, will they open for me?’
‘They’ll know you’re there for me.’
I’m there for you. All my life, I’ve been there for you. Your counsellor and friend; your right arm, when action was required and you had to sit still. Your audience. You perform, I applaud. And obey.
He claps his hands and a slave appears out of air and shadow. I’d forgotten: in this city, there’s always another audience. The slave carries an ivory diptych, two panels hinged together with leather bands. The front is carved with a cameo of the Emperor, his eyes turned skyward and a solar crown on his head. Next to it, the familiar X-P monogram, the same as on the necklace. A few lines of text inside derogate Constantine’s authority on me.
‘Thank you for doing this, Gaius.’ He embraces me, and this time something like warmth passes between our two old bodies. He whispers in my ear: ‘I need someone I trust. Someone who knows where the bodies are buried.’
I laugh; it’s the only thing to do. Of course I know where the bodies are buried. I dug most of the graves myself.
III
Present Day
THE WALL WAS grey and pocked. The roof was white. The door was wood, with a smudged glass window and a crucifix above it. A static hum filled the air, and also an irregular beeping sound, like the random firings of an antique video game. She hurt like hell.
She lay on her back, concentrating on the details to fight off the pain. The wall wasn’t pocked: that was an illusion caused by paint peeling off the concrete. Grey paint. She wondered who on earth bothered to paint concrete grey. The beeping wasn’t irregular: it came from two sources, subtly out of rhythm with each other. One started behind the other, closed in on it until – for a few merciful seconds – they ran almost in synchrony, then overtook it and pulled away.
The roof wasn’t all white. Dark patches stained the tiles like spilled wine.
The smudge on the window moved. It wasn’t on the window: it was outside, someone standing with his back to the door. She waited for him to go away, but he didn’t.
Where am I? she thought. And then, a second later and infinitely more terrifying, Who am I?
Panic seized her. She tried to get up and found she couldn’t move. The panic redoubled; she couldn’t breathe. Her heart raced out of control so fast she thought it would explode. The room began to go dark. She writhed and fought; she screamed.
The door flew open. A man in a tight-fitting suit burst through, shouting words she couldn’t understand. His jacket flapped open. A gun bulged from a brown leather holster under his arm.
She passed out.
‘Abigail? Can you hear me?’
The panic was still there, but now it was dormant, a slow fuse burning a hole in her gut. Her breaths came shallow and unfulfilling. She tried to move her arm and couldn’t. The breaths came faster. Keep calm.
She located the beeping noise and listened, forcing herself to fix on one rhythm among the syncopation. She tried to breathe in time with it. She felt herself relax a fraction – enough that she dared to open her eyes.
A face stared down at her. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown beard. Was he real? Or had her imagination formed him from the brown stains on the roof?
The face moved. The roof didn’t.
‘Abigail Cormac?’ he said again.
‘I don’t know …’
‘Don’t you remember …?’
The panic quickened. Should I remember? What should I remember? Is it important? Her mind felt as helpless as her body, pushing against bonds it couldn’t see.
‘I don’t.’
‘Nothing?’ Incredulous. That only made the desperation worse.
The face drew away. She heard the scrape of a chair. When the face reappeared, it was lower and further back, a sun on the horizon of her flat world.
‘Your name is Abigail Cormac. You work for the Foreign Office on secondment to the EULEX mission in Kosovo. You were on holiday here and things went wrong.’
That sounded mostly right. Like seeing the film of a book you’d read. Some things skipped or not quite right, others changed f
or no apparent reason. She peered at him.
‘Who are you?’
‘Norris, from the embassy here. Podgorica. It’s …’
‘… the capital of Montenegro.’ It came out of nowhere, surprising her as much as him. How did I know that?
The brown eyes narrowed. ‘So you do remember.’
‘Yes. No. I don’t …’ She struggled, trying to articulate it. ‘I know some things. When you say words like “British Embassy” or “Kosovo” or “holiday”, it makes sense. I understand you. But if you ask me a question, there’s nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
She struggled to think. The effort exhausted her.
‘There was a man with a gun,’ she said carefully. Trying on the words like a dress she didn’t think would fit.
‘Do you remember him?’
She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze the image back into them. ‘A blue suit. He came through the door.’
‘At the villa?’
‘Here. In this room.’
Norris sat back with a sigh. ‘That was this morning. They’ve put a police guard on your door. He heard you screaming and came to make sure you were OK.’
A police guard? ‘Am I in trouble?’
‘You really don’t remember?’
She wished he’d stop saying that. She let her head slump back on the stiff pillow. ‘Just tell me.’
He glanced towards the door, as if looking for confirmation of something. Abby felt a new stab of panic. Is there someone else here? She tried to lift her head, but couldn’t see.
‘You were shot. All we know is that when the police turned up, you were lying there half-dead. Blood everywhere, a bullet inside you. They found your passport and called us. As for your husband …’
Something tightened inside her. ‘What about him?’
‘Do you remember?’
She shook her head. Norris shot another sidling glance into the corner.
‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m sorry to inform you that your husband is dead.’
