The Ulsterwoman had her back to the street, hair bundled into a woolly hat. But one incendiary lock gave her away. Jenny slowed, jogging on the spot. Something was not right here. Her agent had been keeping tabs on Jake all night, she should be asleep – yet there she was, hunched before a screen and tapping away. Jenny slipped into the café and padded toward her agent through a soup of noise. Teenage gamers competed to be heard over Lebanese pop music, but even so Medcalf’s senses were too acute for Jenny. Maybe it was a reflection on the screen; perhaps she simply sensed Jenny’s presence. All the best agents possess a degree of instinct and intuition that is difficult to explain. But at the last moment Medcalf whipped around to face her superior.
“Oh, it’s you.”
Jenny smiled; steel was in her eyes. “Not asleep already?”
“I needed to send some emails to the family.” Medcalf maximized her Gmail account until it filled the screen.
“What were you looking at just now?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, you were. What was it?”
“Nothing important.”
Jenny wasn’t smiling any more. “Stand back from the computer, please.”
“It’s private.”
“Let me see what you were doing.”
Medcalf’s face pulsed scarlet. “You don’t have the authority.”
“Oh, I do.”
Still Medcalf would not budge.
“Let me have a look or I’ll have Edwin look up everything you’ve been doing remotely,” said Jenny. “And I’d need to notify Charlie Waits about such a step.”
As Medcalf’s resistance wilted Jenny took the chair, her back very straight as she viewed the browser history. But as she clicked from page to page she blenched.
“I think you and I need to have a little talk,” she said.
*
The first website was an Encyclopaedia Britannica article on Etruscan religion:
The calling of diviner-priest was seen by the ancient Etruscans as sacred; his concern was for the very destiny of his people.
Then a dictionary website, open at the word ‘haruspex’:
A priest who practised divination, esp. by examining the entrails of animals. From the Latin hira (gut) + specere (to look).
And the Wikipedia entry for ‘Disciplina Etrusca’:
There is evidence a significant portion of Etruscan literature was systematically burned by early Christians in the fourth century. Arnobius, a Christian convert, wrote in 300 AD that ‘Etruria is the originator and mother of all superstition’. Parts of Etruscan religion do indeed seem perverse to the modern mindset. Among the behaviours forbidden by the text was the consumption of blackberries, which were seen as a cursed fruit …
21
Jake and Florence stayed up all night, scouring Eusebius for a reference to landmarks from Constantine’s time. The Agya Sophia was built two hundred years too late – it could be discounted. The journalist’s leap of intuition came just before dawn.
“Are there any statues of Constantine in Istanbul?” he asked.
Florence looked up from the tourist maps splayed across the table. “Why?”
“This chapter’s entitled, ‘Of the statue of Constantine holding a cross – and its inscription’.”
“No statue still stands,” she said. “But there used to be one on Constantine’s Column and that exists – just about.”
Jake handed her Life of Constantine. “Read from here.”
Constantine set up this great trophy of victory over his enemies in the midst of the imperial city, ordering it to be engraved in indelible characters that the sign was the preservative of the Roman Empire.
“By this sign, conquer,” he said. “It’s the same theme. Eusebius couldn’t be more explicit – he says here ‘the sign’ saved the empire. If his account of the battlefield conversion was meant to be read two ways – with lightning as the true ‘sign’ – then here he’s directly telling us the real saviour of the Roman Empire was the Disciplina Etrusca. And he’s saying that it must be written with ‘indelible characters’, never to be forgotten.”
“If it’s written in indelible characters …”
“… then maybe they’re still to be found, where Constantine’s statue once stood. And read the next bit.”
Constantine ordered the following inscription to be engraved on the column in Latin. ‘By virtue of this sign, I have set at liberty the Roman people and restored them to their ancient greatness and splendour.’
“Eusebius is harking back to Rome’s former glory,” said Jake. “Remember, by Eusebius’s time the empire had lurched from disaster to catastrophe for generations. It had just come through the ‘Third Century Crisis’ – there had been nothing but plague and rebellion for fifty years. The time of Augustus or Hadrian was like a lost golden age in comparison.”
Florence’s nostrils flared. “So Eusebius is saying this cross of light in the sky can restore that splendour.”
Jake picked up the book. “‘And all the inhabitants of the city,’” he read, “‘seemed to enjoy the rays of a purer light.’”
*
“Seen better days, hasn’t it?” said Jake as they stood beneath the column later that morning.
A fire in the eighteenth century had left the monument resembling a condemned building. The blackened drums were pinned together with metal, and scaffolding ran from top to bottom. Jake was on a hangover and four hours’ sleep; his confidence had vanished and last night’s breakthrough was the imagining of a drunk. Was this hulk about to save his career? It looked doubtful.
Florence’s request for assistance had been granted instantly – Dr Gul brought a team of archaeologists with him this time, and expensive equipment was made available. Jake found it baffling. The Turkish authorities had a reputation for being awkward, but they were bending over backwards to help.
The archaeologists used an RM-15 resistance meter to fire electricity through the column. Stone is a bad conductor, but a compartment inside would be damp – electricity would pass through easily and thus reveal it. When the scan was complete Dr Gul led them to his vehicle, a yellow Citroen 2CV van that seemed to complement his persona. He laid the RM-15 in the boot and connected it to a laptop, which clicked and whirred as the data came through. The top of the column materialized on the monitor, grey against an obsidian background. Then it juddered up the screen to reveal solid stone. The column jerked upward once more.
Stone again.
As the computer worked its way through thirty-five images of nothingness, Jake despaired. What would he do when his contract ended? He could always become a press officer. It wouldn’t be too hard finding work at a local council and the money was ok. But God, how depressing. What a crap job to confess to at dinner parties. Jake reckoned having a cool profession was worth at least £20,000 per annum. And when it came to women it was the only string to his bow.
Jake was considering the lot of a landscape gardener when it happened. There was a stir among the archaeologists, like the awakening of leaves before inclement weather. Dr Gul turned from the computer and clasped his hands together; his nose had abandoned its ashtray hue for the colour of stewed plum.
“A chamber,” he hissed. “There is a chamber underneath the column.”
22
Jenny had it out with her agent by the Blue Mosque. The cascade of domes was reflected misty-grey in the surface of a pond as children chased a spinning top around the water.
“Do I need to replace you, then?” she began.
Medcalf flushed with worry. “What the hell? No, of course you don’t need to replace me. Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m not sure I trust you anymore. What were you playing at back there?”
“Look, I was curious, ok? Aren’t you? I mean, this is the weirdest job I’ve ever been on. Why would MI6 give a toss about the ancient Etruscans?”
Oh, Jenny was curious all right – the intrigue was hot in her throat. A commotion interrup
ted her thoughts. Two tourists were attempting to purchase the spinning top and the children had become little businessmen, faces earnest as they haggled up the price.
“I don’t like it when members of my team hide things from me,” said Jenny. “Alarm bells start ringing.”
Medcalf’s head shrank into her shoulders. “I was embarrassed, ok? Because this operation is clearly fecking mental, right? I thought you’d laugh if you knew I was actually reading up on the history. It would be like …” she sought an analogy. “It would be like us investigating a spate of crop circles and me spending my time off logging on to UFO fansites.”
“Nevertheless, this cock-and-bull story about emailing your family – I just can’t have it. Lies are our stock in trade. If we aren’t able to trust each other then we’re lost.”
A deal had been struck with the urchins and a fistful of lira was produced; the leader of the pack wound the string around his toy like a curator handling a Fabergé egg.
“I don’t think you can continue on this job,” said Jenny quietly. “Yes, I’m intrigued, and off the record I agree this whole project is totally whacko and Charlie must be mad wasting our time on it. But my opinions are irrelevant. You can see how worked up he is about the whole thing. My handling must be above reproach.”
“Please.” Tears were in Medcalf’s eyes. “It was a moment of madness. If you send me home it’ll go on my file forever.”
“I need total integrity from my agents. I’m sorry.”
Medcalf began sobbing. “I’m such a messed-up bitch. Like to think I’m the hard case, huh? Well, look at me now. I didn’t cry at my own dad’s funeral, but screw up my career and I’m blubbing like a schoolgirl.”
Jenny could make out every detail of the mosque in the pond; a fish broached the surface and the reflection shimmered away like a lost belief.
“I know how you feel,” she said at last. “It does it to you, this job. You forget what’s important. Friends, family.”
“At least you’ve still got a job. I might as well ask for my P45 with fibs on my record. They’ll bump me right down to the post-room.” Medcalf laughed. “Massive black mark against my name and it happens on the most ridiculous operation ever.”
Jenny knew she should do what needed to be done. Get rid, get someone else in and move on. If she wanted to be in Charlie Waits’s shoes one day she had to be ruthless in these situations. But something Medcalf said had got to her – that bit about not shedding a tear at her father’s funeral, yet weeping for her job. It had opened a window onto a life of ambition.
As Jenny watched the mosque reform itself she thought of her mum, trapped in that ward and staring at oblivion. She thought of her friends, giving up on her one by one. And she thought of her engagement.
“I never even see you,” Marc had shouted in that final row. “All you care about is your wretched job.”
More damning still: “You’re just no fun.”
The pond had regained its mirror surface.
“I’m not going to send you back,” she said.
An important decision.
“Thank you so much,” Medcalf gushed. “You’re a friend, a real friend.”
“I hope so. I could probably do with one too, you know.”
Medcalf was beaming. “I tell you what, when this job’s over let’s go on the lash in London, just me and you. Come on, you’ll enjoy pretending you’ve got a life. Ministry of Sound perhaps, somewhere with decent house music.”
It was hardly Jenny’s scene, but it had been years since she’d had such an offer. And Medcalf’s enthusiasm was infectious.
“Sure,” she said, grinning too. “Why the hell not?”
Before the Ulsterwoman could reply Jenny’s phone began ringing.
“I think you’ll want to see this,” Guilherme began.
“See what?”
“They’ve found something.”
23
Being kissed by Florence was like getting punched in the face.
“You did it!” she shrieked, kissing him again. “You did it, Jake!”
“I did it,” he repeated, touching his cheek in stupefaction.
The world was alive with possibility. Fleet Street, the Disciplina Etrusca, this stunning girl – all were his for the taking.
The chamber beneath the column gained definition as the computer did its work, a vault just big enough for a man to stoop in. The Turkish archaeologists were embracing and giving each other high fives.
“Don’t you realize what we may have found?” Dr Gul said between drags on his cigarette. “Don’t you know why they’re so excited?”
“Well, we do have an inkling,” said Jake.
“And do you think they will be down there? Will we really find them?”
“Find ‘them’? Wait a minute, find what?”
“The relics, of course.”
Jake looked blank.
“The relics St Helena brought back from the Holy Land.”
“I haven’t got the foggiest what you’re on about, mate.”
The academic finished his cigarette and lit another with the butt. “St Helena was the Emperor Constantine’s mother,” he said. “During a pilgrimage to Bethlehem she claimed to have discovered the true cross and various other, how you say, religious ‘bits and bobs’. Received wisdom is that they were kept in a shrine beneath the column. But maybe not, maybe they were foundation deposits. Buried under the column, to bless it.”
“What sort of ‘bits and bobs’?” asked Florence, who seemed less than thrilled with the revelation.
“The crosses used to crucify the thieves who died alongside Christ. An ointment jar used by Mary Magdalene to wash Christ’s feet. And the baskets that carried the bread and fish he fed to the five thousand.”
“Blimey,” said Jake, thinking about headlines and bylines.
“If only we could excavate right away!” Dr Gul wrung his hands. “It’ll be months before we get the paperwork approved. I can’t bear it.”
But as it happened the dig began the very next morning.
*
Journalists swarmed, Heston had dispatched a photographer at short notice and a helicopter hovered overhead. Girders had been thrown up around the column to prevent subsidence as workmen excavated a tunnel towards the chamber at a forty-five degree incline. Amid the furore nobody noticed the interest of a distant blonde picking at a ball of candy floss.
“But how did you get permission so fast?” Jake asked.
“Let’s just say King’s College has close ties with the Turkish authorities,” Florence snapped. She had been livid after Jake filed copy, accusing him of creating a media circus which had imperilled the hunt. That it was his job to do so had not occurred to her.
“You must’ve bribed them, right?” tried Jake. “Off the record.”
Florence’s voice softened. “Off the record?”
“I promise.”
“Ok. Off the record then, no, we didn’t bribe them.” She shot him a smile and stalked off.
*
At noon the diggers hit granite. They filed the mortar from around one of the blocks and jemmied it halfway from the wall. The moment was on hand.
“The honour of being first inside should be yours,” Dr Gul told Florence, shepherding her to the tunnel.
All three donned masks and crawled in. In the first few feet of the tunnel the detritus of modernity protruded from the mud – pipes, cable, lumps of concrete. But soon this vanished, leaving only the odd twist of porcelain or rusted iron.
“We have reached the chamber,” said the old academic.
Jake heard stone grind on stone as the boulder was removed. Blood throbbed in his eardrums as he contemplated what a discovery would mean for him. His knuckles were white against the mud. There was a hiss of escaping gas, a grunt as the block was heaved aside, the click of a torch.
Florence spoke at last.
“Empty,” she said. “The chamber is completely empty.”
24
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Niall Heston’s wrath was biblical. “Do you have any idea how stupid we look right now?” he shouted. “All up and down Fleet Street they must be pissing themselves laughing.”
“I wasn’t to know,” pleaded Jake, glancing around the café they’d taken refuge in.
“Wasn’t to know? Wasn’t to fucking know? You wouldn’t have thought that reading your copy yesterday. The way you were going on you’d have thought Noah’s bloody Ark was hidden down there. Have you ever heard of something called ‘tone’? You’re the man on the ground, Jake, you’re supposed to come to a level-headed judgement and appraise our readers accordingly. Not get carried away playing Indiana Jones and get us all wound up about an empty bloody room.”
Jake held his head in his hands as the rant crashed about him, telephone vibrating under the assault. He could picture Heston’s forehead at that moment: puce, veins pulsing.
“You know where your story went? Front page.”
Jake was agog. “What, you led on the dig?”
“Of course we didn’t lead on it. My Christ, you really do have the news sense of an anchovy. The column was our front-page picture. With the caption, ‘Could the lost relics of the crucifixion be buried here?’ Exclusive stamped all over it. God, we look like tits today.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jake in a small voice.
Heston sighed. “Right. When were you due back?”
“Next Monday.”
“Next Monday my arse. I’m pulling the plug. Day after tomorrow you’re here in London, understood? And then we’ll see whether you can atone for your sins, my lord.”
With that he was gone.
“That went well,” muttered Jake, his head bowed.
“In hindsight, there was never going to be anything there,” said Florence.
“So good of you to let me know.”
“The column was erected in Constantine’s own lifetime,” she went on. “But Life of Constantine was written after the emperor’s death.”
Foretold by Thunder Page 7