Secrets of the Dead

by Tom Harper

  I don’t like Rome either.

  Constantinople gave Constantine a blank canvas to start afresh (not literally – there had been a town here for a thousand years, Byzantium – but another aspect of greatness is the ability to see only what suits you). And so the new city, Constantine’s city, fits his vision of how the world should be. It stands on a promontory, not a marshy river basin. It progresses in orderly grades along the peninsula: plebeians out by the land walls; then the middling sort, merchants and curiales, as you head east towards the Philadelphion; then the grades of Senators, the spectabiles and the clarissimi, their grand houses queuing towards the hippodrome like fans on race day; and, finally, the imperial palace at the tip of the point. Beyond that, the only neighbour is the sea.

  Or that’s the theory. In practice, the city’s only five years old and already it’s beginning to deviate from Constantine’s plan. Weeds have sprouted in the tiered garden he laid out: a tenement block somehow growing in the space between two villas; a grand house sold and converted into apartments; jumped-up merchants muscling in on an upscale neighbourhood. I imagine it causes Constantine more grief than barbarians or usurpers ever have.

  I walk up the Via Mesi towards the palace. In my hand I clutch a paper scroll, a list of the men who were in the library that afternoon, as much as the porter could remember them. I’ve spent the last two hours interrogating the men who were still there and not learned a thing. Nothing seen, nothing heard. No one recognises the monogram necklace. A part of me whispers this might all be some elaborate hoax.

  But the blood on the desk was real enough, and there are names on my list I haven’t yet seen. Starting with that notorious hater of the Christians, Aurelius Symmachus.

  Aurelius Symmachus was here. He left not long before I found the body.

  Aurelius Symmachus lives suitably close to the palace, as befits his impeccable status. His doorman looks at me in disbelief when I announce myself: he can’t believe I’ve come alone. He cranes his head out so far looking for my retainers he almost falls into the street. Of course, he’s too well schooled to say anything. He admits me through to a peristyle garden surrounded by colonnades. White carp sit motionless in an oblong pool, watched over by a quartet of stone nymphs. In the shadows under the colonnades, I glimpse painted scenes of reclining gods. Dark heads watch me from the alcoves. Everything’s exquisite and strangely dead.

  Aurelius Symmachus emerges from a door, glancing over his shoulder as if midway through a conversation. He’s a short, stout man who walks with a stick. He’s almost bald, though white hair sticks out in tufts from behind his ears. He’s wearing a toga: he must be getting ready to go somewhere, though for the moment it just enhances the impression that he’s an anachronism. But his jaw is firm, and the eyes that watch me are as clear as diamonds.

  We exchange pleasantries and size each other up. I suspect he dismisses me as a jumped-up soldier who’s risen beyond all reason on a great man’s coat-tails. He probably thinks I see him as a fossil of an order that passed a hundred years ago. Neither of us is entirely wrong. But neither of us has lived as long as we have without keeping an open mind.

  ‘Were you at the Egyptian Library this afternoon?’ I ask.

  His stick scratches the ground, leaving a snake trail in the dust. ‘I was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To read.’ He cocks a bushy white eyebrow, as if to say I expected more of you.

  ‘Who were you reading? Hierocles, maybe?’

  ‘Not today. Seneca, I always go back to, and Marcus Aurelius. They speak to our age.’

  The mask on his face hasn’t moved. Neither has mine. His stick still draws patterns in the dust.

  ‘What do they say?’ I ask.

  ‘How ridiculous it is to be surprised at anything that happens.’ The stick pauses. ‘Imagine what I’ve seen in my life. Civil wars and peace. Sometimes one emperor, sometimes many, sometimes none. A bizarre cult condemned by one emperor, and that same cult now triumphant. Everything changes – even the gods.’

  Does he think I’m seventeen? I know all this. But I’m not going to let him distract me playing the rambling old man.

  ‘A man died in the library today.’

  His face doesn’t change. ‘Alexander of Cyrene.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘He was the Emperor’s friend. That alone made him worth knowing.’

  I admire the old philosopher’s ambiguous phrasing. That alone – or – that only? We both know he might be talking about me.

  ‘Did you see him there?’

  ‘It’s not a bathhouse. I don’t go there for company.’

  ‘When did you leave the library?’

  ‘When the sun had moved round off my desk.’ He brushes his hand over his eyes. ‘My sight’s not as strong as it was.’

  ‘Did you know Alexander was dead when you left?’

  ‘Of course not. Otherwise, I’d have stayed.’

  ‘To see what happened?’

  ‘So as not to look guilty.’

  A pause. I look at the fish in the pool, as still as the reflections on the water. The house is close to the Via Mesi, Constantinople’s great thoroughfare, but the walls do a good job keeping out the sound. I can hear servants in the rooms inside, filling lamps and fetching crockery. It’s late in the day. The sun’s come so low it’s prised its way under the lip of the portico, washing the paintings and the statues in gold. My gaze wanders over them – and stops.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  I take two steps towards the bust that’s caught my eye, but Symmachus’s voice outpaces me.

  ‘Hierocles.’

  Does he sound surprised? Was he expecting me to notice?

  ‘Do you read him?’ he asks. ‘You should. He was no friend of new religions. Nor are you, I hear.’

  I murmur Constantine’s old platitude, ‘Every man should be free to worship in the way that seems best to him.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why you fell out with the Emperor,’ he taunts me. I don’t rise to the provocation. He must know it’s not true, but he carries on regardless. ‘They say you’re not seen at the palace as often as you were.’

  I turn politely. ‘There was a bust of Hierocles in the library. Someone used it to smash Bishop Alexander’s skull.’

  Another pause. Our eyes lock.

  ‘Has Constantine made you his stationarius now? A thief-taker dragging good men into the gutter?’ His tone is even, but his craggy face is alight with rage. ‘The penalty for bringing unsubstantiated charges is steep, Gaius Valerius. Even with the Emperor behind you, I doubt you could afford it.’

  ‘Everyone knows your attitude to the Christians.’ At the far end of the garden, beside the door, I can see the small shrine of the lararium, where he venerates his household gods. They’re not so fashionable these days, I hear. Lots of families have moved them out of sight, into a back room where they can be safely ignored.

  ‘Every man should be free to worship in the way that seems best.’ He spits the words back at me, bobbing up and down. I watch him carefully. The anger’s too real to be manufactured – at my age, I can tell the difference – but that doesn’t mean he can’t control it.

  ‘Free to worship – as long as it’s for the public good.’

  He bangs his stick on the ground. ‘If you want to accuse me of murder, say so. Say it, or get out of my house.’

  But at that moment, a new actor enters our drama through the door by the lararium. He must be even older than me, but he has an air – a boyish grace, a carelessness – which makes him seem younger. His face is still handsome, his hair still dark, his smile still easy. He’s munching on a fig, and he throws the peel into the fishpond as he passes. It’s the first time I’ve seen the fish move.

  Symmachus forces himself to swallow his anger.

  ‘Gaius Valerius,’ he introduces me. ‘This is my friend Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius.’

  The name catches me by surprise: it’s not the first time I’ve
heard it today. It’s on my scroll of paper.

  ‘Were you in the Egyptian Library today?’

  I try to phrase it blandly, but he’s attuned enough to catch the undertone of suspicion. He gives me a curious look. ‘Is it a crime?’

  ‘A man was murdered there,’ says Symmachus. Is there weight in the glance that accompanies the words, a warning? Porfyrius doesn’t seem to notice. He laughs, as if the old man’s made a joke.

  He sees that neither of us has joined in and his laugh trails off. He looks between us.

  ‘But I was there myself,’ he exclaims, redundantly. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I’d gone to meet Alexander of Cyrene.’

  I wait for him to notice the look I’m giving him. I wait for the penny to drop. It doesn’t take long.

  ‘No.’

  Porfyrius looks stunned. He recoils, as if he’s felt the blow himself; he throws up his hands. Every movement’s overdone, like an actor on the stage. Though, like an actor, it seems natural when he does it.

  ‘Clubbed over the head,’ Symmachus adds.

  All the life’s gone out of Porfyrius. He sits on the edge of the pond, his head in his hands. ‘He was alive and well when I left him.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘The Augustus had commissioned him to write some sort of history. I served twice as Prefect of Rome – perhaps you remember? – and he wanted to check some facts about my tenure.’

  ‘What sort of facts?’

  ‘The monuments Constantine erected. The arch the Senate dedicated to him. Small details.’

  ‘Did he seem frightened? Any hint of something worrying him?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Alexander’s secretary said he had a document case. Do you remember it?’

  ‘Yes … no …’ Porfyrius drops his head. ‘I don’t remember.’

  I pull out the necklace Constantine gave me.

  ‘Do either of you recognise this?’

  That forces them to look towards me, though they give nothing away. Both these men are so well schooled in the ways of court I could pull out their own mothers’ heads and neither one would flinch.

  Porfyrius stands, and moves closer to examine it.

  ‘It reminds me of the Emperor’s monogram. But not quite.’

  He’s right. Constantine’s monogram is an X superimposed on a P, thus: . The version in the necklace is subtly different, the two characters melded into one: . I ought to have noticed straight away.

  ‘You didn’t see anyone at the library wearing this?’

  Porfyrius shakes his head. Symmachus just scowls.

  ‘There were no women at the library,’ Porfyrius says.

  ‘But plenty of Christians.’ Symmachus is standing on the line where sun gives way to shadow. Half his face is bright as gold, the other half sunk in darkness. ‘Eusebius of Nicomedia. Asterius the Sophist. Any number of priests and hangers-on.’

  ‘Could a Christian have killed one of their own?’

  It’s the first time I’ve heard Symmachus laugh. It’s not a pretty sound – like a quarry-saw cutting marble. When he’s finished, and hacked the phlegm from his throat, he says, ‘Can an owl catch mice? Porphyry the philosopher said it best: “The Christians are a confused and vicious sect.” Thirty years ago we were about to exterminate them. If I’d wanted to murder Alexander I could have done it then and been hailed a hero. Now the wheel has turned. They murdered their own god – what wouldn’t they do to keep their privileges?’

  Another serrated burst of laughter. ‘They’re only Roman.’

  VII

  York – Present Day

  THE CITY STOOD on a hill at the junction of two rivers, with the square towers of the Minster looming from its highest point. High walls hemmed it in – walls which had repelled Picts, Vikings, Norsemen and Scots in their time, but which couldn’t resist the columns of traffic that now queued through the gates. On the facing bank, executive flats and smart chain restaurants occupied what had once been thriving wharves and warehouses.

  The moment she got off the train from King’s Cross, Abby could feel the difference. London had been close and warm, the friction of ten million people rubbing together. Here, the cold made her blush. A fine mist left dew on her cheek, while clouds overhead promised heavier rain to come.

  She left the station and entered the city where a roundabout breached the wall. A few gravestones from a long-lost churchyard waited outside, marooned by time and the ring road. A bridge and a hill brought her up to the great medieval cathedral, the Minster. It had been built to be bigger than the mind of man and was now, if anything, stranger, looming over the city like a visitor from an alien civilisation.

  It was late in the season, but a few sightseers still clustered in front of it. A busker played ragtime on an open-faced piano; a man dressed as a Roman legionary tried to get tourists to photograph themselves with him. Behind them, mostly unnoticed, a green-bronze emperor lazed on a throne and contemplated the pommel of his broken sword.

  The rain was getting harder. She wiped a drop from her forehead, and was surprised to feel how wet her hair was. Her body seemed to be drinking up the damp in the air.

  Behind the Minster, the open spaces gave way to a warren of cobbled lanes, blind passages and narrow houses bunched together. The buildings were brown brick and squat, probably built in the last forty years, but somehow the ancient pattern of the streets still asserted itself on them. Some of the houses had pointed door frames, with strange leaded hoods hanging over them. She squeezed under the porch of Number 36 and rang the bell.

  The door opened a few inches – as far as the chain would allow. A petite woman in a pink sweatshirt and jeans peered out at her. Her face was lined, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled into a loose bun.

  ‘Are you Jenny Roche?’ A deep breath. ‘Are you Michael Lascaris’s sister?’

  She didn’t need an answer. She could see it in the eyes: the same bright, inquisitive eyes as Michael, though dulled by age and pain.

  ‘My name’s Abby Cormac. I was Michael’s …’ What? ‘I knew him in Kosovo. I was with him, when … I’m sorry I came without calling, but I didn’t …’

  The woman wasn’t listening – wasn’t even looking at Abby. She peered over Abby’s shoulder at the empty street and the rain.

  ‘Did you come alone?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  It was hard to imagine Jenny as Michael’s sister. Everything about Michael had been bold, extrovert, light-hearted; by contrast, Jenny seemed frail and deadly serious. Where Michael had been incurably chaotic, Jenny kept her house immaculate. Abby perched on a rose-patterned sofa covered in plastic and sipped tea from a fine-bone cup. Framed photographs covered every surface, a silent congregation watching them. Faded children on summer holidays in short shorts and floral dresses; teenagers with big hair and awkward smiles; proud adults cuddling babies. Abby wondered who they all were. There was no evidence of children in this pristine house, and Michael had never talked much about his family. He’d always given the impression they might be rather grand, though it was hard to square with this small, compressed house.

  Several of the frames were empty, blank windows where photographs had recently been removed. History unwritten.

  ‘The police told me you were there,’ Jenny said. ‘I wanted to get in touch, but I didn’t know how. They wouldn’t let me in to the hospital.’ She saw Abby’s confusion. ‘In Montenegro. I was there for the body.’

  ‘Of course. They said.’

  ‘They made me identify him.’ Jenny shuddered. Tea slopped in her cup, but didn’t escape over the rim. ‘Don’t ever let them make you do that. He’d been in the water three days when they pulled him out. Horrible. I felt like if I didn’t look properly, they wouldn’t think I’d done it right. I almost sicked up my lunch on him.’

  ‘Did they say anything? Any clue
who might have done it?’

  Jenny put a hand to her throat. Slim fingers fiddled with a golden heart on a chain. ‘Nothing. I thought you might know.’

  ‘Not really.’ Abby bit into her biscuit and tried not to spill crumbs. ‘I’ve heard a rumour – not even that, just an idea – that organised crime might have been involved. I don’t know how much you know about Kosovo – the Balkans generally – but it’s like the Wild West. Weak governments that are no match for the organised criminals they’re up against, if they’re not completely owned by them. Michael worked in the customs service. It’s possible he made some enemies, maybe without even realising it.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything to you? Before …’

  ‘You know what Michael was like. Nothing was ever a problem.’

  That drew a rueful smile that threatened to spill into tears. ‘Always up to something. I was the big sister getting talked into his adventures – and then Mum blaming me for not stopping him when it went wrong.’ A grimace. ‘It usually went wrong.’

  Jenny poured a fresh cup of tea from the pot. The spout rattled against the cup.

  ‘I wasn’t surprised he ended up out there. He was never one of those save-the-world people, but he loved adventure.’

  ‘It’s not that adventurous,’ said Abby. ‘And we’re not saving the world. Michael used to say we were just trying to make Kosovo as dull as everywhere else. He said we were leading by example.’

  ‘He couldn’t have been dull if he tried.’

  ‘No.’

  A silence. A look passed between them: two strangers finding common ground in their grief. To Abby, it felt like nothing more than shared helplessness, but it seemed to decide something in Jenny. She stood abruptly and crossed to a mahogany cabinet in the corner.

  ‘He did know something might happen.’

  She unlocked a drawer. From inside, she pulled out a thick yellow envelope and passed it to Abby. Abby’s heart quickened. It was postmarked Germany and addressed in Michael’s handwriting. A neat scissor-cut had already opened it.

  ‘Go on,’ said Jenny.

  Abby fished inside. Out came a postcard folded within a sheet of official-looking paper. There was a crest with a cross and a lion, and the heading Rheinisches Landesmuseum Trier – Institut für Papyrologie. Below it, a brief letter written in German, signed at the bottom by a Dr Theodor Gruber.