by Tom Harper
A cold wind blew across the Sava, carrying their conversation to Abby.
‘It’s all there,’ Michael said.
‘I would like to be sure.’
‘And I’d like to be sure you’ve brought what you promised.’ Michael kept his hand on the bag.
Gruber unbuttoned his coat and reached inside. Abby turned and leaned against the parapet, her back to the river, as if studying the citadel walls. By the gate, the child in the pushchair had unbuckled herself and run across to the ice-cream seller. Her mother hurried after her. In the distance, Abby heard shouts and the blast of air-horns. The race must have started.
Gruber pulled out a plastic wallet with a few sheets of paper inside. ‘I would not have come if I did not have it. A reconstruction of the text, and my own transcription.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘I would say so.’ He put a hand on the bag. ‘If everything is in order.’
Michael stepped back. ‘Be my guest.’
He glanced along the wall and met Abby’s gaze. He gave a small nod.
They hadn’t planned for this. Was he expecting her to mug Gruber in broad daylight? She began moving towards them. Concentrating on trying to peel apart the wad of euros in the bag without being noticed, Gruber didn’t see her. The folder had disappeared back inside his coat.
Gruber’s head snapped up. ‘You said a hundred thousand euros. This is not enough.’
‘You’ll get the rest when we’ve verified the document.’ Michael was speaking quickly, improvising. ‘We have to know that what’s in there is worth it.’ His eyes darted over Gruber’s shoulder and motioned Abby forward. Come on. She took another step.
A child’s scream cut the chilly air. Abby, Gruber and Michael all whipped around. The ice-cream seller had stopped halfway across the terrace, the steel lid of his cart raised as if to serve the girl from the pushchair. A long-nosed black pistol had appeared in his hand.
Instinct took over; Abby threw herself to the ground, just before the shot rang out. The terrace became a cauldron of frantic screams and chaotic footsteps. She peered up, and saw the ice-cream man running towards the bag on the parapet.
Michael and Gruber had vanished.
The gunman ran to the wall and ripped open the bag. He glanced inside, then threw it on the ground and peered down over the edge. He raised his pistol, aiming for something at the foot of the wall.
That’s where Michael went. There was nowhere else. Without thinking, Abby lifted herself up and launched herself at the gunman. He had one eye closed and the other trained on his target: he didn’t see her. Not knowing what else to do, she put out her arms and barged into him.
Agony exploded through the wound in her shoulder, worse than being shot because this time she felt every shred of pain. The man buckled under the impact, but didn’t go down. Abby wrapped her arms around his legs and clung on, rolling and writhing as he tried to shake her off. Then something struck her hard on the head. Pain flashed through her skull and she let go.
The ice-cream man kicked her away and looked back over the wall. He raised his gun again – but didn’t fire. From down below, she could hear shouts and motion.
Trying to keep low, crying with the pain in her side, she hauled herself just high enough to peer over the parapet. Thirty-odd men in singlets and shorts were running along the path at the foot of the wall, egged on by a handful of spectators. One or two glanced up at the commotion on the terrace above; most kept their eyes on the ground.
The wall was too high for Michael to have jumped – but there was scaffolding against it where masons had been repairing the ancient brickwork. Plastic sheeting flapped from the poles, sheltering anyone working inside.
The leading racers had just passed the bottom of the scaffolding. As the rest came level, a flap of plastic billowed out. Michael and Gruber ran out from the scaffold tower and plunged in among the athletes. There were shouts, a couple of angry shoves, but Michael and Gruber sprinted along, staying within the pack. The gunman followed them with his pistol, but two moving targets in a sea of people, jostling and overtaking all the time, were too difficult. He didn’t risk it.
The terrace had emptied – Abby and the gunman were the only ones left. He glanced down at her; she rolled herself in a ball and prayed he didn’t know who she was.
He hesitated. More shouts echoed across the terrace, and these were different: not panicked or confused, but threatening and authoritative. Abby peered through her fingers.
A soldier in combat fatigues was standing on the wall of the citadel, aiming a rifle at the ice-cream seller. A second soldier had come out of the gate and was advancing, rifle at his shoulder. For a confused second, Abby wondered if another war had begun; or if the ancient legionaries who’d guarded this spot had been reincarnated in modern dress. Then she remembered the military museum inside the citadel. The guards must have heard the shots.
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
Constanti
nople – 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.
‘I’ve been meaning to find you,’ he says.
‘I could say the same.’
‘I’d like to get Alexander’s books back. Someone should finish his history.’
The Chronicon – the true compendium of all the history of the world, illuminating the pattern of God’s purpose. Except it was a myth, a benevolent past that never existed.
‘I went to the docks this morning to see Aurelius Symmachus on to his ship,’ I say. ‘He didn’t come.’
Simeon’s surprise seems entirely natural. ‘Did something happen?’
I’m still waiting for him to betray himself. But there’s nothing – only a mirror reflecting my curiosity back at me.
‘Don’t you know?’
Exasperation hardens his face. If he does know, he won’t give it away.
‘Aurelius Symmachus died last night.’
His reaction is exactly what you’d expect. Eyes wide, mouth open – a picture of surprise. Maybe a hint of satisfaction – but perhaps I’m looking for it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘I thought you’d want him dead.’
‘I prayed for him. Christ came into the world to save sinners.’
It’s a strange thing to say. I’d dismiss it completely, if I didn’t remember Porfyrius saying something similar about Alexander – how he never bore a grudge for Porfyrius’s role in the persecutions.
But I don’t have time for his pieties. If he’s saying prayers for Symmachus, he’s more likely giving thanks that the old man took the blame for Alexander’s murder. I look up at the high church behind him. Scaffolding sticks out of the roof like birds’ nests; workmen crawl over the dome, applying gold leaf. I remember the crowds who gathered here when Eusebius came to preach the day after Alexander’s murder.
‘Are you working here now?’
A nod. ‘Bishop Eusebius found me a position here before he left for Nicomedia.’
‘A promotion?’
Another guess – and right again. Simeon can see the drift of my questions and is starting to look uncomfortable.
‘You’ve done well out of Alexander’s death.’
‘If you want to be malicious.’
‘Didn’t it feel wrong?’ I push him. ‘Taking the patronage of your dead master’s enemy?’
‘Alexander and Eusebius had a quarrel that went back to Nicaea. It was none of my business.’
‘Alexander was going to stop Eusebius becoming Patriarch of Constantinople.’
‘It’s a free vote among the clergy, and he was one voice.’ Simeon shakes his head in frustration, wanting me to understand. ‘It’s not like your world. We argue and debate, but with humility. We don’t have to obliterate our opponents to win. God is the only judge we recognise.’
We don’t have to obliterate our opponents. Was that aimed at me? He’s so young, so earnest, I could almost believe he doesn’t know my past.
I stick to my line. ‘Alexander did get obliterated,’ I point out. ‘It could hardly have been more convenient for Eusebius – the last obstacle removed from his path. He won.’
‘You’re seeing patterns where they don’t exist.’
‘Am I? Researching his history, Alexander dug deep. There was plenty of scandalous material in that document case. Some of it concerned Eusebius.’
‘He never let me see what was in it.’
I step closer. ‘You were at the library with Alexander – probably the last man to see him alive. Then I found you at his ransacked apartment, looking through his papers. You brought the message from Symmachus’s slave that set up the meeting where he handed over the case, and you were there to make sure he was caught.’
He isn’t afraid – I’ll give him that. He’s looking at me as if I’m mad: as if the only person I’m condemning by carrying on is myself.
‘Symmachus had the documents,’ he reminds me.
‘You were spying for Eusebius all along. When he realised what Alexander knew, he had you kill the old man in the library. You used the bust of Hierocles to make it look as if Symmachus had done it, and when that wasn’t enough, you gave his slave the document case and arranged the meeting to set him up. And when even that wouldn’t do, you broke into his house and faked his suicide.’
There’s a strange look on his face, but it isn’t guilt or fear or even anger. He’s preternaturally calm. I think he’s pitying me.
‘I had the key to Alexander’s apartment,’ he points out. ‘If – as you say – Eusebius wanted me to get rid of Alexander, why would I do it so violently in a public place? Why would I go to such elaborate lengths to provide a scapegoat? Why not just go into his room one night and kill him there? Especially if I’m so adept at faking a suicide?’
Give the Christians credit: they know how to argue. Was he always like this? He seems different from before – stronger, more confident. I remember the first time I saw him, glowing with anger, dripping sparks at every prod. Now the steel’s been quenched cold.
His answers are so ready it’s easy to believe he’s prepared them in advance. Or maybe the story I’m trying to weave is so threadbare it’s easy to poke holes.
And then there’s Porfyrius’s question. Why draw attention to Symmachus by killing him? Why not just let the old man go into exile?
A great weariness overwhelms me. I feel faint; I start to sway. Simeon grabs my arm and tries to guide me to a bench, but I shake him off. He stands back, eyes shining.
‘The Augustus knew that a Christian couldn’t have done it.
That’s why he asked you to investigate. He knew it was an adept of the old religion who had done this.’
Sharp anger cuts through the daze. ‘I’m sick of being told a Christian couldn’t have done it. All you ever do is fight each other.’
‘You don’t know anything about Christians.’
‘Do you remember the Council of Nicaea?’
He shrugs. ‘I was twelve years old.’
‘I was there. Two hundred and fifty bi
shops brought together, and all they could do was quarrel.’
‘Of course they argued. We argue all the time; we can’t help ourselves. But only because it matters so much to us.’ He starts two sentences, breaks off, recomposes himself and tries again.
‘Have you ever loved someone?’
It’s the last thing I expect him to say. But he wasn’t trying to be cruel. His face is open: he meant it honestly, trying to tap a common root we must both share. At his age, he can’t imagine it’s possible to live without passion.
What do I say? Do I tell him about the women I’ve had? That I married late, badly and briefly, when it became clear I’d never marry into the imperial family? That’s not what he’s asking about. The true answer is: yes, I’ve loved. And look what it’s done to me.
‘I’ve loved.’
He nods, pleased. ‘And when you love someone, you want to find out every detail of their existence. You want to know every thought, every feeling, because the more you know them the more you love them.’
I don’t understand. ‘Are you talking about your God?’
‘We argue because we want to know Him. Because we love Him.’
‘How can you love a god?’ Gods are terrible and dangerous, capricious as fire. Constantine’s enjoyed their favour more than any man, but even he’s never shaken off the terror of losing it.
Simeon leans forward. ‘All your life you’ve been walking in darkness – and in the dark, the world is a frightening place. But Christ came to bring light. He tore down the curtain and let us see the light of God’s love. Do you know what Saint John says? “God so loved the world that he gave us his only son, so that we could believe and have eternal life.” Not your gods, who break men like playthings. Our God sacrificed his only son out of love for His creation. Can you imagine it?’
I can’t stand it any more. I turn and start walking away, as fast as I can.
‘I’ll pray for you!’ he calls after me.
I look back over my shoulder, but don’t break stride. ‘You can pray I find out who really killed Alexander.’
I need a bath. I’ve been up since before dawn and I feel filthy. Dust’s got in my hair, on my cheeks, even on my tongue. Every time I look at my forearm I shudder at the thought of Symmachus’s poisoned pool.
