Secrets of the Dead

by Tom Harper

  She turned right, then immediately right again down a narrow alley barely wider than she was. Footsteps followed – the snare-drum tap of a woman’s boots.

  That’s why they let you go. They think you’ll lead them to Michael.

  She came out into a small square. Ahead loomed the stark front of a grey Roman temple, squeezed tight between the red-roofed houses. She skirted around its monumental base, past a shuttered café and along an even narrower alley. The tight walls echoed the footsteps back at her like the chatter of crows.

  The alley intersected with a wider street, the old Roman Cardo, running through the heart of the palace. East was the mausoleum and the peristyle; west, the double arches of Diocletian’s Iron Gate, leading out to the rest of the city. She looked both ways. To her right, the man in the black fleece was ambling along the street from the peristyle. On her left, a man was reading a tourist plaque mounted next to the gate. He looked like the green-anoraked man from the café, though he’d changed into a long fawn-coloured trenchcoat, a newspaper tucked under his arm.

  She went left. The man half-turned, as if studying some detail of the architecture, but didn’t try to block her way. The gate was actually two gateways with a tower connecting them: it would be easy to hide someone inside, invisible until you’d stepped through.

  Two sets of feet joined step behind her as Red Skirt and Black Fleece met. Ahead, she could see Trenchcoat looking past her. He moved the folded newspaper from his left arm to his right. Was that some sort of signal?

  At the last moment, she veered right up another narrow lane. Stone arches soared overhead, connecting the buildings on both sides; all the houses had squat doors and shuttered windows cut into the dressed stone. Some were homes, but a few were shops. She quickened her pace.

  Halfway down, one of the buildings housed a fashion boutique. Abby had been there when they’d visited in June. Michael had bought her a dress with bright orange flowers: she’d fussed about the cost, but worn it all through the summer. She reached the door and turned suddenly in. A bell chimed. There were no other customers. Behind the counter, a well-dressed woman was folding and smoothing a pile of cashmere sweaters. She smiled at Abby.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Abby smiled and shook her head. She flicked through the rails, one eye on the sizes and one on the door. No one came in; no one came past. Mark’s people had her trapped: they didn’t need to barge in and make a scene.

  She picked off a pair of black trousers and a black V-neck sweater.

  ‘Could I try these on?’

  ‘Of course.’ The shopkeeper indicated a doorway next to the counter, where a dim stone staircase curved upwards. ‘The dressing room is at the top.’

  Abby went upstairs. The walls on each side seemed so massive she had to presume she was climbing through the original fortifications. At the top of the stairs a wooden door led into a small white cubicle with a mirror on the wall, a stool, and an old-fashioned hatstand in the corner. A curtained window overlooked the house behind.

  Abby went in and bolted the door. She pulled back the curtain and looked down on a red-tiled rooftop. The shop was built right into the wall: the roof she could see was on the outside of the old town. It led down to a courtyard between two buildings and there, dressed in motorcycle leathers and looking up expectantly, was Michael. He saw her face in the window and beckoned urgently.

  A bell chimed downstairs. Someone had come into the shop. They must be getting impatient. How long would they give her – maybe two minutes? She put her hands against the wooden sash and lifted.

  It rose three inches – and stopped. Adrenaline kicked in; she heaved and cursed, but it still wouldn’t move. Looking up, she saw two silver cylinders screwed into the window frame. Window locks.

  The window wouldn’t open any further. From outside the door, she heard footsteps mounting the stairs.

  ‘Come on!’ she heard Michael shout. She tried harder, rattling the window in its casing, thumping it against the locks. They didn’t give.

  The person outside stopped at the door and knocked.

  ‘Is everything OK? You need another size?’

  It sounded like the saleswoman, though she couldn’t be sure through the door. ‘I’m fine,’ she called. ‘Just trying to make up my mind.’

  ‘You say if you need something.’

  The footsteps didn’t go away.

  Down in the courtyard, Michael had realised what had happened. ‘Did you get the pictures? Throw me the card.’

  Abby took a deep breath. Time to decide. She’d seen some bad situations in her old line of work, in some of the worst places in the world. She knew the temptation of waiting just a little longer, maybe only a few seconds, to see if things turned out better than she feared. She knew you could stretch those seconds for minutes, maybe even hours if you got the chance. Hope could always justify doing nothing – right up until the moment it killed you.

  She picked up the stool, held it by the legs and swung it against the window. Almost at once, an alarm went off – she hadn’t thought of that. The door rattled as someone tried the handle, then shuddered as they started banging.

  The window was still intact. And her shoulder hurt like hell from the impact.

  She stared at the stool impotently. It felt like a toothpick in her hand. The banging on the door had turned into an all-out onslaught. More than one person, it sounded like. The dinky bolt wouldn’t hold more than a few seconds.

  Even Michael must have been able to hear. ‘Throw me the card!’ he said again.

  She fished out the memory card from inside her bra, snaked her wrist through the opening in the window and threw. For a heartstopping moment she thought she hadn’t thrown hard enough, that it would skip down the roof and lodge in the guttering. It just dropped clear. Michael stretched and caught it one-handed. He raised his arm – half a salute, half a farewell.

  The bolt snapped; the door crashed open. The man in the black fleece strode in and grabbed her arms, while Mark watched from the corridor and the shopowner screamed complaints from the stairwell.

  Abby took a last glance out the window, but the courtyard was empty.

  XL

  Nicomedia – 22 May 337

  THE WORLD CHANGED two hours ago. Flavius Ursus, Flavius the Bear, Flavius the son-of-a-barbarian who is now the commander of the armies, came out of Constantine’s room to confirm the news everyone expected. The Augustus is dead. The body has been sent to the cellars, the coolest place, while the undertakers do their work. There aren’t many men alive who can remember the last time an Augustus died a natural death. It’s like waking up one morning and discovering that the sun hasn’t risen. What do you do?

  I know what I want to do: run to the stables, commandeer the fastest horse I can find and keep riding until I reach my villa in the Balkans. But that would be impossible – and unwise. The army have locked down the whole estate. Guards are watching every door and window. Anyone who moves too quickly; anyone who looks too happy, or too ostentatiously sad; anyone who tries to leave: all suspect.

  In the febrile heat of the villa, rumours breed and swarm like flies. Constantine was sixty-five years old, but until ten days ago he seemed in good health. Perhaps, after all, his death wasn’t natural.

  A door swings open. Flavius Ursus walks in. He’s a busy man today.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he says.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do –’

  ‘Wait there. We may need you to smooth things over with the old guard.’

  He leaves me and goes into the great hall, where the army’s high command have gathered. Notwithstanding what Constantine wrote in his will, these are the men who’ll decide the inheritance. For generations, the empire’s practised a savage sort of meritocracy where any man who’s bold and ruthless enough can rise to the top of the army. From there, he’s within striking distance of the throne. Diocletian was commander of the imperial bodyguard until the man he was guarding unaccount
ably took a dagger in the back; far from harming his career, it put Diocletian on the throne. Constantine’s own father had risen from a humble legionary to become Diocletian’s chief of staff, when Diocletian picked him to be his successor.

  I remember something Constantiana said, that night in the palace. Some people said Constantine would raise you to Caesar, before Fausta started popping out sons like a breeding sow. Would he have? Would it be me lying in the cellars having my entrails drawn out on a hook, while my generals and courtiers tried to comprehend a world without me?

  A vision comes to me: the empire as a walled town built on the back of a ravenous beast. Constantine cut off so many of its heads and tamed it; he chained it down in pasture and made it eat grass. But now that he’s gone, other heads will grow back. Slowly at first, testing their teeth and claws, rediscovering their old power. It won’t take long. They’ll start with murders and end in war.

  High clouds cover the sky, as if the sun itself is veiled in mourning. There aren’t words to describe how I feel. Not wretched, not angry, just – empty.

  My thoughts turn back to another palace, and the aftermath of another death.

  Milan – July 326 – Eleven years earlier …

  By the time I get back from Pula, the court has left Aquileia and hurried on to Milan. I join them there – I have to make my report – though I’d rather be anywhere else. The weight of my guilt is like a millstone suffocating the life out of me. I don’t eat; I barely speak. It takes me hours to get to sleep at night, only to wake up screaming from my bloody dreams. And it’s about to get worse.

  For the first time in my life, Constantine keeps me waiting. I pace in a mournful room, high above the main courtyard. A piece of plaster falls off the ceiling and lands in my hair. Half the rooms in the palace are unusable; most of the rest are covered in sheeting, hiding damage or pictures that might upset the imperial eye. The whole building is rotten with history. It was built by old Maximian, an overblown outgrowth of his twisted mind. This is where Constantine came to meet with Licinius – When I, Constantine Augustus, and I, Licinius Augustus, happily met in Milan, and considered all matters pertaining to the public good; where he made his famous pronouncement of religious support for the Christians, and where he married his sister Constantiana to the man he’d later execute.

  So many people, so many memories – and not one that doesn’t end in blood.

  ‘The Augusta wants to see you.’ I almost jump with fright: the slave seems to have materialised out of the dust in the air. He keeps his eyes down – does he know what I’ve done? Has he heard? He leads me through endless connections of empty rooms, down a broad staircase with no windows, and into another wing of the palace. The air moistens: we must be near the bath complex.

  They’re all waiting for me in a square room with blood-red walls: Constantine, a ghost of himself; Fausta, her proud face livid with anger; the Dowager Empress Helena, Constantine’s mother, her eyes hooded and her mouth set like concrete. Fausta’s three sons stand in a row near the back of the room and fidget.

  Nobody asks what I’ve done. Nobody thanks me, commiserates, accuses. Helena hands me a scrolled piece of paper.

  ‘Read it.’

  ‘“To the great god Nemesis, I curse my enemy and give him into your power. Drive him to his death …”’

  I don’t need to go on. ‘This is the curse I found under Crispus’s bed in Aquileia.’

  Helena fixes her pitiless gaze on me. ‘But?’

  ‘Without the names.’

  ‘And do you know –?’ She’s addressing me, but I’m just the sounding board. The words are aimed elsewhere in the room. ‘Do you know where I found this?’

  No one dares to answer.

  ‘In Fausta’s room.’

  I’m seized by a violent, uncontrollable shaking; so hard I think I might faint. No one notices – or, if they do, they don’t care. My mouth’s dry and my head hurts; I’m desperate for a drink.

  Fausta tries to shrug it off. ‘I copied it off the tablet. I wanted a record of Crispus’s treachery.’

  ‘I took this paper to the temple of Nemesis in Aquileia.’ Helena continues as if Fausta hadn’t spoken. ‘I showed it to the priestess. She told me that she wrote it out for a woman who wanted to know the correct form of words. A noblewoman, too well bred to know how soldiers and fishwives curse.’

  ‘I suppose you would know,’ Fausta snaps, ‘being a brothel-keeper’s daughter.’

  Helena ignores the insult and looks at Constantine. ‘The noblewoman was your wife. She wrote out the curse on the lead tablet, stole your pin and hid it under Crispus’s bed.’

  Colour rises in Fausta’s cheeks. ‘You’d believe this priestess? She’s probably just a prostitute. And what about the guard captains who said Crispus bribed them to turn against my husband?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to them, too.’ Helena’s tone is sharp, like hooks in a dungeon. ‘They retracted their claim.’

  Her eyes shoot daggers at Fausta, who stares back in furious defiance. If they had armies to command, these two women, the whole world would tremble.

  They both turn to Constantine, who’s listened to the exchange in silence. The only sign he’s heard anything is the way he flinches each time they say Crispus’s name.

  The whole room holds its breath.

  ‘What about Claudius?’ I ask. I’m as surprised as anyone to hear my own voice. Through the pain and dizziness burning in my skull, I’ve lost all sense of what’s appropriate. ‘Fausta said Crispus tried to murder him.’

  All eyes turn to the three boys. They’re still children: even Claudius, the eldest, isn’t yet ten years old. They carry themselves proudly – their mother’s made them aware of their rank since the day they were born – but they’re out of their depth here. Constans, the youngest, is trying to blink back tears; Claudius looks at his mother, silently begging her to speak for him. He won’t look at Constantine.

  ‘She made us do it.’

  It isn’t Claudius who says it; it’s the middle brother, Constantius. He steps forward, head held high. ‘Our mother cut Claudius’s ear and then told us to blame Crispus when he came.’ He glances at his father, falters. ‘We didn’t want to.’

  A sickened silence grips the room. Fausta’s face has crumpled in like a pillow; Constantine is so still I wonder if his heart has stopped. Only Helena takes it in her stride. She expected it.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asks Constantius. He’s Helena’s grandson, but you wouldn’t know it from the contempt in her voice.

  ‘Nearly nine.’

  ‘Old enough to know it was a murderous lie.’

  He wilts. ‘Our mother told us.’

  ‘And if she’d told you to stab your father while he slept, would you have done that too?’

  ‘No.’ It’s the first word Constantine’s spoken, and even that’s been wrenched out of him. ‘Not the children.’

  ‘They were accomplices.’

  ‘They’re your children,’ Fausta pleads to Constantine.

  So was Crispus, I think.

  ‘Crispus was worth the three of them put together.’ Helena’s hated that family since Constantine’s father jilted her for one of old Maximian’s daughters. Now, at the end of her life, they’ve robbed her again. She’d like them obliterated from the face of the earth.

  ‘Show mercy,’ Fausta begs. She must know her life is over, but she’s fighting like a lioness for her cubs. She throws herself to the floor, grabs Constantine’s purple shoes and starts kissing them wildly, which turns into a scream as Helena steps forward and kicks her in the face. She was born a stable girl, and even at eighty she still has that strength. Fausta reels away, blood trickling from her lip. And Constantine still can’t move. For a long moment they look between each other, chained to each other like slaves on a sinking ship. Fausta, whimpering on the floor; Helena, breathing hard; Constantine like a statue.

  Unexpectedly, it’s Constans – the youngest son – who breaks the moment. H
e’s only six, with a head of blond curls and soft pale skin like a barbarian. He runs forward and wraps his arms around Constantine’s legs.

  ‘When is Uncle Crispus coming home, Father?’

  A tear runs down Constantine’s face. He crouches and hugs his son, closing his eyes in agony.

  Undeniably, it’s a tender moment – and after what’s just happened, everyone in the room is susceptible. We’re desperate to believe in reconciliation. But I can’t help wondering. This family gobble each other like primordial gods. Fausta betrayed old Maximian when he plotted against Constantine; now Constantius and Constans have condemned their mother and probably saved themselves.

  Constantine rises, keeping his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  ‘You destroyed Crispus,’ he says to Fausta.

  Blood’s still running from her cut lip. She rubs it with the back of her hand, smearing a ghastly rictus across her cheek. Her eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal, and finally come to rest on Constantine.

  ‘I did,’ she whispers.

  ‘Why?’ He turns away. ‘No, don’t tell me.’ He glances at Helena. ‘You can take care of this? Discreetly?’

  ‘And the children?’ Helena presses.

  ‘Find them a tutor.’

  She wants to argue, but Constantine isn’t listening. He turns his back and walks to the door, his shoulders slumped in defeat. I want to run to him, to put my arm around him and console him. With a great pang of loss, I realise that I can never comfort him again. Not after what I’ve done.

  Helena grips Fausta’s arm so hard she gasps. ‘I think it’s time that you and I visited the baths.’

  Memories collapse; my own voice comes back to me out of the recent past.

  Cato the Stoic died in a bath, opening his veins so that the heat would draw the blood out of him. Though I’ve heard another version, that he didn’t die of his wounds but actually suffocated from the steam.

  It doesn’t matter which version you hear. They all end the same way.

  Villa Achyron – 22 May 337

  Whatever happened today, Constantine effectively died over those four weeks during his vicennalia. For eleven years the empire’s been living in that shadow. We have an emperor with three sons, but no wife; history books full of victories, but no victor. We’ve kept our eyes down, our voices low, and never dared to contradict the lie. Some days I think the effort of the charade has driven the whole empire to the brink of madness.