Foretold by Thunder

by Edward M. Davey

  “It would help if I knew why we’re watching him,” she said. “I could concentrate our resources better. There would be less chance of us missing something important.”

  “It’s for your own good that you don’t know, my dear, it really is.” Waits inserted a pastry into his mouth. “You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

  “Your interest in the Chinese tourist suggests it’s to do with Chung’s project,” said Jenny mischievously. “With what they’re up to in the Agya Sophia.”

  Her handler’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

  Waits gobbled down the rest of his baklava, dabbing up the last traces of pistachio with his fingers. He was a most fastidious eater.

  17

  Jake felt nicely sozzled despite the modest intake. Only four beers that evening, yet there was a warmth inside him, a pleasant glow behind his eyes. For once he decided to halt the drinking there and turn in for the night. He paused at the landing, pleased with this little display of willpower. A storm was roiling over the Bosphorus – it was dry on the European side of the city, but curtains of rain swirled out to sea like the sides of some grand jellyfish. The mass of Asia was silhouetted by the regular crack of lightning, a black hump against the photo-flash white.

  Someone was on the balcony.

  A solitary figure, still and slow-breathing, as if meditating. Or preparing for action. Jake sought the amber cone of a smoker. But in Istanbul you could light up indoors.

  He was breaking in.

  The journalist’s pulse quickened as his thoughts turned to Britton. For days he’d barely contemplated the man – but now he was overwhelmed afresh by all the suspicions he’d had in London. Yet he also saw the idiocy of his strategy. For if people were really following Britton, what the blazes did he intend to do when he encountered them? He was as much of a fighter as he was a lover.

  Then a thunderbolt illuminated the balcony, and to his astonishment he saw it was Florence, staring up into the clouds.

  Jake stepped onto the balcony. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

  Florence jumped. “Jesus!” She relaxed, leaned against the wall. “You scared me, Jake. Anyway, what’s crazy?”

  “That people once believed you could read the future in random discharges of electricity.”

  Florence gave a half-laugh and looked up again. The sky was overcast, but forked lightning crackled across the underside of the cloud, like the boughs of some electrified oak tree. Or a brain, now Jake thought of it. The cloud-mass was exactly like a glowing brain, the lightning its network of blood vessels.

  “I thought you went to bed hours ago,” he said.

  “I did, but I couldn’t sleep. What have you been doing?”

  “I vanquished the barman on the pool table. And then I went through Britton’s notes again.”

  Lightning scored the atmosphere once more, almost violet this time.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “Britton underlines a lot about Rome’s expansion,” he said. “How one minor town suddenly starts beating up all its neighbours, and within three-quarters of a century it rules all Italy.”

  “Rome’s domination of the Mediterranean in microcosm.”

  The wind was despicable and Jake hugged his arms around his chest; he noticed Florence wasn’t wearing a coat. “You must be freezing. Want my jacket?”

  Yet there were no goose bumps on her neck.

  “Your chivalry’s impeccable, sir,” she said. “But I’m fine. Come on, let’s go inside. The best of the lightning’s over.”

  They sat on a sofa to watch the storm approach until raindrops rattled the windowpanes and the sky was lost behind rivulets of water.

  “What else caught your eye in Britton’s notes?” asked Florence.

  Jake retrieved the pages he’d been studying. “Britton emphasises how the Romans neglected religion in the last century of the Republic,” he said. “And how that was also a time of great turmoil for Rome.”

  Florence nodded. “Spartacus and the slave revolt for a start. And it didn’t end there – the entire century was marked by unrest. All these super-powerful senators were striving to be top dog, often by force. The old checks and balances on democracy were lost. I make it seven civil wars in a century, culminating in Antony and Cleopatra and all that.”

  “Ah, the star-crossed lovers,” said Jake. “Who end up getting clobbered by Julius Caesar’s nephew Octavian, if memory serves.”

  “So there is a reason you’re historical correspondent.” Florence smiled at him.

  “After he triumphed over Antony and Cleopatra, he did away with democracy, invented the post of emperor and consigned the Republic to the dustbin.” Jake was showing off now. “And the Romans actually welcomed it – a bit like Germany embracing Hitler in the 1930s. Anything for a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “Good analogy,” said Florence, moving closer. “Under both leaders the cult of personality flourished. And just as Hitler became ‘der Führer’, Octavian was renamed ‘Augustus’, as a mark of the Roman people’s respect. Augustus brought back all the old religious rites that had been neglected in the previous century, Etruscan augury chief among them. Even Augustus’s tomb was in the shape of an Etruscan burial mound. By the end of his life Augustus was considered a living God – he was the greatest emperor of them all. No wonder a month is still named after him.”

  “Odd you should mention the change of title,” said Jake. “Because Britton is constantly underlining stuff about the ‘Augustus’ thing. How it literally means –”

  “Augur,” she finished.

  Thunder echoed over Istanbul once more.

  18

  “Well, it’s easy to see what the poor guy was trying to imply,” said Jake. “In the dying days of the Republic, the religion which had turned Rome into a superpower was neglected. Chaos ensued. But under Augustus and the emperors who followed, augury was embraced once again. Rome was reborn.”

  “Then came the period known as the High Empire,” Florence interrupted. “The peak of power and achievement.”

  Jake weighed the papers in his hands and sighed. “Do you get the feeling that, rather than a clue to the location of the brontoscopic calendar, I am in fact holding the prima facie evidence of one man’s descent into insanity?”

  A moment passed. “I guess that’s about the size of it.”

  Jake was suddenly aware of her physical proximity, how alone they were in the lobby. She inched towards him again until their upper arms were touching. Then without warning her head flopped onto his shoulder. Jake’s upper body went rigid. There was a tingling in his stomach. Was she upset about Britton? Or making a move?

  They sat like that for a full minute as the rain pummelled down. Jake did nothing. He was aware of his own breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, raising and lowering Florence’s lovely head. All you have to do is kiss her. The realization pounded through Jake’s brain, yet he dared not move. Her breathing was getting lighter – he could barely hear it now, his neck was getting stiff.

  Florence stirred. “You’re sure you’ve shown me all Roger’s notes? Absolutely everything?”

  “Of course. I gave you the lot at the airport.”

  Her eyes were wide open. “Really? If you forgot to show me something before, just tell me, Jake. I won’t be annoyed with you. I promise.”

  She nuzzled his neck.

  “Florence, I wouldn’t hold anything back from you.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  She closed her eyes again, but the sleep seemed to have gone out of her. She wasn’t leaning into him as much. Her core was tensing, supporting itself.

  “I have to go to bed,” she said.

  And with that she was gone.

  Jake stormed into his room. The alcohol high had turned sour and full of anger and he leaned on clenched fists, staring into the mirror.

  All you had to do was kiss her.

  All you had to do was kiss her and she was yours.
r />   Jake retrieved the Laphroaig. He had barely touched it since arriving, but now he poured himself a treble, grimacing as he swallowed it in a gulp.

  Why, why, why was he like this? What an affliction it was – the cruellest of all, or so it felt then. It meant more than lack of sex: it spelled lifelong loneliness. Jake poured another treble, necking it again. That was better. At least he could rely on the booze, a true friend in need. He was going to get roaring drunk. Again came the clink of glass, the gurgle of whisky. Jake raised his tumbler for the third time, the liquid shimmering invitingly in the glass. But he didn’t drink. His gaze had fallen on the small corner of white that protruded from his suitcase.

  Eusebius.

  Jake put down the glass and picked up the book. Florence had only warmed when his passion for history had revealed itself. And oh, how she had cooled earlier when he’d failed to provide her with anything new. He had to make the breakthrough.

  Jake sat up straight – for once in his life he wasn’t going to respond to a setback by getting hammered. He poured the dram back inside the bottle and stared at Life of Constantine, willing the text to yield its secrets. This was the only complete book Britton had given them – it had to hold the key.

  As Jake read something clicked in his brain.

  The human mind amazed him. Where did a thought come from? How could the consciousness produce something tangible from thin air, like energy created from nothing? But the idea was in his head now, it wouldn’t go away. And each new chapter only reinforced his theory. A fierce joy surged through his veins as he put the whisky back in his suitcase and went to wake Florence.

  19

  “Not now,” said Florence. “I’m tired and trying to go to sleep, leave me alone.”

  Jake’s jaw clenched. You had your chance and you blew it, matey. Then again, did he ever really have a chance? Florence’s voice said it all – it was full of assumption he would comply. But still the thrill of discovery was in him and he would not be fobbed off.

  “I think I’ve cracked it,” he said. “I think I know why Britton left us a book by Eusebius!”

  There was a pause. “All right, I’m coming,” she said.

  “Well then?” Florence began once they had returned to the lobby. “What have you got me out of bed for?”

  “Tell me what you know about Constantine’s conversion to Christianity,” said Jake.

  She decided to humour him. “It was a battlefield conversion. Supposedly Constantine saw a crucifix in the sky and ordered his men to paint it on their shields. He defeated his pagan rival and Roman Christianity was born.”

  “Correct. Now read Eusebius’s account.”

  Jake skimmed through Life of Constantine and handed her the book.

  About the time of the midday sun, Constantine saw with his own eyes a cross-shape formed from light and a text attached which said, ‘By This Conquer’. Amazement at the spectacle seized him.

  “Uh-huh,” said Florence. “‘By This Conquer’ is one of the most famous lines of antiquity. What’s your point?”

  “It occurred to me Eusebius could also have been talking about the Book of Thunder.”

  Florence narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Eusebius doesn’t write that Constantine saw a ‘Christian cross’ in the sky, or a ‘crucifix’ – that would be the obvious thing to say. Instead he calls it ‘a cross-shape formed from light’. Odd way to put it, don’t you think?”

  “Your point is?”

  “He could just as easily be describing forked lightning.”

  Florence had one hand on her hip.

  “Then Eusebius adds, ‘with a text attached’,” Jake continued. “A text attached to a cross of light in the sky that gave prowess in battle. What does that sound like to you?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I think Eusebius was writing about the Disciplina Etrusca – but disguising it as a Christian treatise.”

  “I don’t buy it,” said Florence. “At all.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to from that passage alone,” said Jake. “But it’s a theme running through all three books of the biography.” He passed her the volume. “Read from Book One.”

  Florence sighed again, but did as he asked.

  Today our thought stands helpless, longing to express some of the conventional things.

  “Eusebius is writing just after paganism was abandoned,” said Jake. “It’s like he’s pining for the old religion.”

  Our thought reaches to the vault of heaven. It pictures God, stripped of all mortal and earthly attire and brilliant in a flashing cloak of light.

  “Not exactly the stereotypical image of God,” said Jake. “No flowing beard, no long white robes. And the reader’s left with something that sounds pretty close to sheet lightning.”

  “Eusebius’s idea of the Christian God would’ve been totally different to the stereotype you or I have,” Florence retorted. “He lived one thousand seven hundred years ago.”

  Jake took the paperback. “Just look at Book Two then – the part where Eusebius is describing the fate of a pretender to the throne named Licinius.”

  But he did not elude the Great All-Seeing Eye. Just when he hoped his life was safe he was struck down by a fiery shaft, his whole body consumed with the fire of divine vengeance so his appearance became unrecognizable. Dry, skeletonized bones were all that was left of him.

  “But that could’ve been written about –”

  “I know. Roger Britton.”

  “You’re making the same mistake as before, though,” said Florence. “You’re assuming that because lightning’s mentioned it must have some special significance. But I keep telling you, lightning imagery is shot through all ancient religion, like, I don’t know, like letters in a stick of rock. They were fascinated by it.”

  “Just look at Book One then,” Jake pressed.

  Bright beams of the light of the true religion brought shining days to those who before had sat in darkness and the shadow of death.

  “Bright beams?” he said. “The true religion? Come on!” Florence shook her head. “Still not convinced.” “And there’s this bit, also from Book Two.”

  About this time a supernatural appearance was observed. This appearance was seen through the agency of a divine and superior power, and it was a vision which foreshadowed what was shortly coming to pass.

  “That does sound like Etruscan religion,” Florence admitted. “But Eusebius created the entire discipline of church history – you’re asking me to believe the classical historian most associated with Christianity was a secret pagan. It’s too much.”

  “Eusebius spent a lifetime working on religious scripts,” said Jake. “He of anyone would’ve known how scripture could be encoded with hidden meanings.”

  “Great classicists have studied this text,” said Florence shot back. “Scholars have pulled apart every line. You expect me to believe a journalist could spot something the entire discipline has missed?”

  “Why else would Roger have left us this book?”

  “He was going mad. I’m starting to wonder if you are too.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Oh is there? Let’s get it over with then, so I can go back to bed.”

  “Eusebius was suspected of being a secret pagan in his own lifetime.”

  That threw her. “He was?”

  “It’s in the introduction,” he replied, handing her the book.

  Suspicions were raised after Eusebius survived persecution of the Christians carried out by Diocletian, one of the last pagan emperors. And how had Eusebius borne himself during this season of peril? A quarter of a century later a grave charge was brought against him affecting his conduct during the persecution. The bishop of Heraclea addressed him: ‘Tell me then, wast thou not with me in prison during the persecution? And I lost an eye for the truth, but thou, as we see, hast received no injury in any part of thy body. Neither hast thou suffered martyrdom, but remained ali
ve with no mutilation. How wast thou released from prison, unless it be that thou didst promise to those who put upon us the pressure of persecution to do that which is unlawful?’

  Florence read the passage, read it again. Jake noticed that spots of red had formed high up on each of her cheeks.

  Many scholars are highly sceptical of the content of Life of Constantine. Eusebius’s integrity has often attacked by academics. J. Burckhardt wrote, ‘Eusebius utterly falsified Constantine’s likeness’.

  “The Emperor Diocletian’s retinue passed through Eusebius’s home town when he was younger,” Jake said. “They might have met. Perhaps Diocletian saw in Eusebius a man on the inside of Christianity, an ally against a dangerous and growing sect. Then along comes Constantine, who does away with the old order completely.”

  “Eusebius waited until Constantine’s death to write Life of Constantine,” Florence whispered. “And Constantine’s successors were committed to the new faith of Christianity – it was a time of religious dogma, the burning of books.”

  “If Eusebius was a closet pagan, if he was bent on preserving the Etruscan texts … he’d have needed to be crafty.”

  Florence was deep in thought. “Could it be?” she said at last. “Could it be that Eusebius hid the Book of Thunder for future generations? That he crafted Life of Constantine as a map?”

  “To safeguard it until the fad of Christianity passed.”

  “Only it didn’t pass.” Florence’s eyes glinted at the machinations of the ancient scholar. “By This Conquer,” she repeated.

  20

  Jenny was taking her morning jog when she saw the woman who should not have been there. To her left sprawled the Topkapi Palace, where the Ottoman sultans had kept their harem. To her right was a vignette of modern Istanbul: kebab houses, massage parlours, internet café. In the last was Medcalf.