by Tom Harper
The next day, Constantine’s body is laid out in the great hall of the palace. The line of mourners stretches a full mile down the main avenue, under the shadow of Constantine’s column. Senators queue with tavern-keepers, actresses with priests – every face a fragment in a mosaic of united grief. It’s moving: they genuinely loved their Augustus, I think. He built their city. He kept the granaries full, the markets stocked and the barbarians back beyond the frontiers. He let them worship in temples or churches as they chose, whichever gods spoke to them. And now the world trembles.
The queue passes not far from my house: I can hear them through my windows, sitting in my garden or lying on my bed through the hot nights. For two days, I lock myself in and wait for the crowds to subside. On the third day, I can’t resist any longer. I put on my toga, brush my hair and join the mourners. It takes hours to inch my way up the avenue, through the Augusteum, where the statues of deified emperors wait to greet their new companion. Long before I get there, my legs ache and my back feels as though hot coals have been poured inside it. My body’s drenched with sweat. More than once I’m within an inch of breaking away and running back home. Even when I reach the palace gate, it’s still another two hours’ wait.
At last I’m there. There must be two thousand people in the hall, but they hardly make a sound. They shuffle slowly in a long loop. At the side of the hall, there’s a space where people have left offerings: amulets and pieces of jewellery, coins and medallions, pieces of tile or stone with prayers scratched on to them. A lot show the X-P monogram. Are they funeral offerings – or offerings to a god?
The last few yards are the slowest of all. The heat in the hall, all those bodies on a hot summer evening, numbs me: I have to fight against it. This is the last time I’ll see him. I want to hold the moment.
The line inches forward. And suddenly, there he is, lying in state on a golden bier atop a three-stepped plinth. Cypress boughs deck the floor around him; braziers smoke with incense and candles flicker on golden stands. The white robes he had on for his baptism are gone, banished by the full imperial regalia. The purple robe trimmed with jewels and gold, that used to rattle like armour when he walked; the gold diadem set with pearls; the red boots with toecaps buffed smooth where men have knelt to kiss them. The shroud underneath him is emblazoned with his monogram, but woven all around it are scenes from legend. And above it all, the golden labarum on its pole, the all-conquering standard.
I stare into his face. The embalmed skin is grey and artificial; somehow the undertakers seem to have subtly altered his face, so that he doesn’t quite resemble the man he was. The man I loved to destruction; the man whose dying wish I couldn’t grant.
A fly buzzes down and lands on Constantine’s nose. A slave sitting on a stool beside the bier flaps an ostrich feather to shoo it away. It draws my eye, changes my focus. Suddenly, I see the corpse for what it really is.
It’s a waxwork.
The tears that were beading in my eye are gone. I feel a fool. Of course, they wouldn’t lay out the real corpse. He died a month ago: even the best undertaker would struggle to keep him looking fresh. And in this heat … Now that I see, I’m embarrassed I was ever taken in. The sun’s softened one of the cheeks, making it subside as if he had a stroke. The wig they’ve used for the hair is slightly crooked.
This is how he is now. The man who lived and breathed – the man I knew – is gone. All people will remember now is a statue.
The crowd swells behind me, nudging me on. I whisper a prayer for Constantine – my friend, not this bloodless effigy – and let others take my place. I’m desperate to be outside. I hurry to the door, towards the long arcade that leads out of the city. Mourners mill around, talking quietly; the palace officials are distributing hot food to those who’ve been waiting.
But through the crowd, there’s something else. A flash, an intuition, the weight of a gaze. Someone’s watching me.
Our eyes meet. He turns away, pretending he hasn’t seen me. But I’m not going to let him escape. I push through the crowd. They squeeze tighter as I approach the gate – I almost lose sight of him – but then I’m through and there’s space to move. He’s hobbling without a stick, a hunched figure in a blue cloak, the hood pulled up despite the heat. It takes me twenty paces to catch him. He knows he can’t beat me. He hears me coming, stops and turns.
The hood slides back. It’s Asterius the Sophist.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Paying my respects to the Augustus.’ It’s getting dark; the crevices of his face are black as ink, etching each bitter line. ‘He was the greatest Christian since Christ.’
‘It must be hard for you, now that it’s over.’
‘For you, it’s over. For us, this is just the beginning.’
Urgency overwhelms me. ‘Tell me about Symmachus. Tell me about Alexander.’
‘They’re all dead.’
‘Then tell me about Eusebius. What happened in that dungeon, during the persecutions? Did it hurt, taking the blame for his betrayal? Watching him rise through the ranks of your religion, the Emperor’s favourite, while you were forbidden from setting foot in a church?’
I’ve scored a hit. Pain flashes across his face.
‘Alexander knew,’ I continue. ‘Symmachus knew. But they weren’t the only ones. Someone else knows, is willing to testify.’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Haven’t I?’
He hesitates, then decides. A cruel light comes on in his eyes.
‘Walk with me.’
The procession of mourners is as long as ever. We force our way past them, down the street, and slip into the gardens beside the hippodrome. Above us, the last sunlight gleams on the four-horsed chariot that crowns the north end.
Asterius gives me a sly glance. ‘I was never worried about the persecutions. Eusebius was, but Eusebius is prone to fits of panic. That was how they got to him in the first place.’
‘Got to him?’
‘In prison.’
His honesty takes me aback. ‘So it’s true?’
‘That Eusebius betrayed a family of Christians and I took the blame to protect him?’ He shrugs, careless of the impact of his words. ‘Alexander could never have proved it. A doddering bishop relying on the evidence of a notorious persecutor? He’d only have sacrificed what little credibility he had left. Can you imagine if he’d turned up to the episcopal election with Symmachus in tow? Eusebius would have won without a vote.’
For the last month, I’ve been living in a coffin. Asterius’s casual honesty is like a storm wind blowing the lid off my carefully constrained existence. A dangerous elation rushes through me.
‘But Eusebius still killed Alexander. And then Symmachus, who could have corroborated the story.’
Asterius gives me a scornful look. ‘Do you want to know why we killed Symmachus? I can tell you. The week before he died, Symmachus went to the palace twice. He wanted to speak to the Augustus, and when he was refused, he got agitated. He said some things that he’d have been safer keeping to himself.’
‘About Eusebius?’ But I know that’s not true. ‘That he knew the truth about Crispus’s death.’
‘I’d be careful saying that name aloud.’ Asterius glances around the gardens. Families wander among the trees, speaking in hushed voices. ‘Constantine may be a waxwork now, but his sons don’t care to be reminded of it any more than he did.’
Asterius stops at the base of a statue, the great Olympic charioteer Scorpus standing with his legs apart, a whip dangling from his shoulder. He turns. His eyes glow with malicious pleasure.
‘In Alexander’s box of secrets, Symmachus uncovered something that had been kept hidden for ten years. Something even the Augustus didn’t know.’
He’s baiting me. And I don’t have the strength to fight. ‘What?’
‘You know what happened to Crispus?’ He puts an arm on my shoulder in mock sympathy. The touch makes me shudder. ‘Of cou
rse you do. And afterwards, poor Fausta in her bath. But did you ever wonder, while you were overseeing the decimation of the Emperor’s household, why she did it?’
I can feel a tightness in my chest, as though a strap’s being buckled around it. ‘She wanted her sons to inherit the throne,’ I say.
‘Of course she did. But who put the idea into Fausta’s head? Who helped her forge the documents? Who found Christians in the bodyguard who were willing to pretend they’d been enlisted in Crispus’s alleged plot, and be martyred for it?’
‘Who?’ I can’t breathe; it comes out a whisper.
Perhaps it’s because of his abbreviated reach, but Asterius has a habit of standing closer than is comfortable. I can almost feel the anger boiling off him. His head’s tipped back like a bird, staring up at me, waiting for me to realise –
‘You?’
A ghastly smile spreads across his face. ‘Crispus couldn’t stand Eusebius. Three months after Nicaea, Crispus arranged to have Eusebius exiled to Trier. We knew Eusebius would never be allowed back while Crispus was alive – and that if Constantine went ahead and elevated Crispus as Augustus, that might be for ever.’
‘We?’
‘Eusebius and I. Well, mostly me. Eusebius was a thousand miles away. But I had an ally at the palace.’
Fausta? I don’t think so – from what he’s said, there was someone else. I wrestle with the question; I don’t want to let Asterius dictate the terms of the conversation. And it comes to me. I remember the litter I saw leaving Eusebius’s church service, the proud peacocks embroidered on the purple curtains. He’s an exceptional man and he has a bright future. I remember the powder streaked across her lined face, silver hairs on a golden brush late at night. Did you know, the Augustus once considered marrying me to you?
‘Constantine’s sister. Constantiana.’
The smile gets wider. He’s patronising me.
‘She was always a better Christian than her brother. She struggled so hard to love Constantine. She might have forgiven him for executing her husband Licinius, but killing her little boy was too much. She needed revenge: a spouse for a spouse, a child for a child.’
‘And you encouraged her?’
‘Eusebius was her chaplain. Her spiritual guide. When Crispus exiled him, Constantiana turned to me. I saw how we could all achieve our aims.’
‘I thought your God preached peace and mercy.’
‘Sometimes, we have to do terrible things to achieve God’s will.’
It sounds glib, a throwaway justification. But the pain behind those words is immense, a deep wound that’s scarred to the bone. His arms are trembling in his sleeves. For the briefest instant, I have a glimpse – not even a thought, more a feeling – of how he might deserve sympathy for what he’s suffered.
But not for what he’s done.
‘You killed Crispus to bring back Eusebius?’
‘You killed Crispus,’ he retorts. ‘You and Constantine. I just’ – he lifts up his arms, baring the scarred stumps – ‘pulled some strings.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I want you to know. It’s your own story, and you never knew it.’
I can see why he’s brought me to this public place. If we were alone, I’d have killed him by now.
‘And if I expose you?’
‘It won’t matter. Fausta’s sons have just inherited the empire. If you go to them, do you think they’ll punish the people who lifted them on to the throne?’ He cocks his head, as if an idea’s just come to him. ‘If they want justice, they can always execute the man who murdered Crispus.’
‘Why? Because of what happened at Nicaea? Because Crispus made you prefer one form of words over another?’
‘One form of words?’ he echoes. ‘We were describing God. Do you think we could afford to get it wrong?’ He starts walking again, past the dark gates of the hippodrome. ‘It was Constantine’s fault. Ten or twenty years ago, Arius would have been one voice among many. He could have written whatever he liked, and all his enemies could have done is write against it. But Constantine wanted something definite, something as absolute as his rule. To pin down God. He forced us to choose.’
He pauses, looks at me. For once, there’s no craft in his face: he wants me to understand him.
‘What else could we do?’
I’m desperate to be away, to slink into my cave and lick the wounds that Asterius has opened on every inch of my being. But I have to see this through.
‘You said Symmachus died because he learned the truth about Crispus. Who killed Symmachus?’
‘Constantiana sent one of her men. She told him to make it look like suicide.’
No evasion, not even a blush of guilt. This is the problem with men who spend too long thinking about God. In the end, they forget what a mortal life is worth. Perhaps that’s what happened to Constantine.
‘And Alexander? That must have been twice as sweet. Revenge on your enemy from Nicaea, as well as hiding the evidence of your murder.’
He actually laughs. ‘You know the funniest thing?’ He leans so close to me that his tunic rubs against mine. ‘I have no idea who killed Alexander.’
He relishes my surprise.
‘Eusebius didn’t do it – though he might have, if he’d been given the chance. I didn’t. At first I thought Constantine might have ordered it, to bury what Alexander had found, but I don’t think that’s likely.’ He shrugs. ‘It must have been Aurelius Symmachus – he had the document case, after all. Ironic, don’t you think? At least you can console yourself that justice was done.’
I stare at him with dead eyes – his withered body stuffed so full of bitterness and hate. How could he ever preach a religion of love and peace?
‘Why did you do it?’ I ask. ‘In the persecutions – taking the blame for Eusebius’s betrayal of those Christian families?’
He puts the two stumps of his arms together, caressing them against each other. ‘This is what Symmachus did to me. Then he was going to kill me. Eusebius betrayed the Christians to save my life.’ A desperate edge comes into his voice, a man on the brink of losing control. ‘He sacrificed himself to save me.’
‘And you sacrificed me.’
XLIII
Istanbul, Turkey – Present Day
‘YOU GO IN alone. Look around, take some photos, then come back.’
Abby sat in the back seat of the taxi in a busy shopping street in a north-western district of Istanbul. The taxi was genuine; the driver was Barry, still in his dark glasses, but now with a leather jacket and a gold chain around his neck. Mark sat in the passenger seat opposite and pointed down the road, where the myriad domes of the Fatih Mosque bubbled down on each other until they vanished behind a large stone gate.
‘Don’t try anything like escaping,’ Barry said from the front seat. ‘You’re not really alone.’
They’d touched down in Istanbul twelve hours ago. She was done with buses, borrowed cars and stolen passports: with Mark in charge, an unmarked plane had flown them out of Split and straight to Ataturk Airport. A delegation of hard-faced men in rigid suits had met them and escorted them through a private channel past customs and immigration.
‘The government here can’t wait to get their hands on Dragović,’ Mark had explained during the drive from the airport. ‘They had him in prison three years ago and he escaped – that was a big embarrassment. They don’t appreciate what he did to Muslims in Bosnia either, for that matter. They giving us everything they can.’
‘How do they know Dragović will come? If he was in prison here once before, won’t he be shy of risking it again?’
‘He’ll come,’ Mark had said confidently. ‘All our networks are telling us he’s absolutely obsessed with this thing. Won’t trust it to anyone else.’
Abby got out of the car, made a show of sticking a ten-lira note through the window to Barry, and walked down to the mosque. She’d been to Istanbul once before, for an ICC conference, but that had be
en high summer when the city groaned with tourists and dust clogged the hot air. Now, in late autumn, the city seemed to have shrunk as it cooled. There was more air; the spaces between the buildings felt wider. The noise of the ships in the Bosphorus sounded unnaturally loud.
The tourists had gone home, but the street was still busy with locals shopping or visiting the mosque for their devotions. A white police van sat on the corner; two more policemen with automatic weapons wandered down the street, chatting to each other. Abby wondered if that was normal.
Mark had given her a guidebook as part of her cover. She opened it to the right page, and read the brief entry on the Fatih Mosque. Fatih meant conqueror, she learned. On the highest point of the highest hill in the city, the Ottomon sultan Mehmet the Conquerer had razed the old Church of the Twelve Holy Apostles and built his mausoleum on its foundations, when he captured Constantinople in 1453. Three hundred years later, an earthquake had destroyed his mosque; his successors had rebuilt it in what the guidebook called Ottoman Baroque style.
She went through the gate, into a wide open park of square lawns and leafless trees. The mosque stood in the centre, as if in a state of siege. Steel hoardings surrounded its base; scaffolding climbed its outer walls. Abby looked for any sign of the Roman building that had once stood there, but couldn’t see anything. She wondered, not for the first time, how a treasure like the labarum could have remained hidden through all the centuries of renovations, excavations, demolitions and rebuildings. Surely someone would have noticed something. Or perhaps it lay buried under a thousand years of rubble.
Mark had given her a camera. She took some pictures – a few general tourist views, some of less obvious features like doors, culverts and drainpipes. Make it look as if you’re scoping it out, Mark had told her. Look furtive. That part was easy enough.
She didn’t go into the mosque, but skirted around the outside to the back. This part was a cemetery: flat graves surrounded by wrought-iron fences; pillars that had once supported canopies now chopped off at the knees. And beyond them, far grander than the others though still dwarfed by the mosque, an octagonal mausoleum topped by a dome.
