Secrets of the Dead (20 page)

The most powerful men in the empire, and they’re rigid
with
fear. The Emperor’s a colossus: if he falls, the carnage will be bloody and indiscriminate.

The crowd’s thinning. People are slipping away, making excuses. It never used to be like this. I carry on towards the front of the room, but Constantine seems to have left already, unheralded and alone.

I think I’ll do the same. I don’t know why Constantine invited me here, but it’s been a wasted evening. I turn to go and find my way blocked by a palace eunuch. He doesn’t say anything, but beckons me towards a side door artfully hidden behind a pillar. Two dozen jealous pairs of eyes watch me go, and note it.

After the smoke, scent and heat of the hall, the night air cleanses me. The eunuch leads me across an empty courtyard, through an arch and along an arcade to a door. Lamps burn in brackets on the walls; guards from the Schola stand erect, wraithlike in their white uniforms. The eunuch knocks, hears something inaudible to me, and gestures me to go in.

Of course, I’m expecting Constantine. Instead, sitting in a wicker chair with a blanket around her shoulders like an old woman, is his sister Constantiana. It must be some sort of dressing room: there are clothes strewn over the furniture, a pair of red shoes kicked into the corner. Two slave girls kneel beside her, stripping back the layers of paste and powder on her face like workmen restoring a statue.

‘I hear you have a new commission from the Augustus,’ she says without preamble. Always ‘the Augustus’, never ‘Constantine’ or ‘my brother’. ‘I didn’t think he had any use for you any more.’

She stares into a silver mirror on her dressing table without looking at me. Technically, she’s Constantine’s half-sister, though there’s less than half a resemblance. Her face is a long
oval
and flat; she used to be considered beautiful, in the featureless way some men like. She wears her hair in intricate braids, piled up on her head and wrapped around an ivory headband. The style’s too youthful for a woman her age.

I don’t think her comment wants an answer, so I don’t offer one.

‘I’m told the Augustus has you investigating murders now,’ she continues. ‘It must make a change from committing them.’

I bow and focus my eyes on a painting on the wall behind her. Three Graces: Splendour, Happiness and Good Cheer. A forlorn hope, in this room.

‘I obey the Augustus in all things. Always.’

Scraping off the cosmetics, one of the slave girls presses too hard. Constantiana winces; a spot of red appears on her bleached cheek. Without turning, she reaches across and plants an expert slap on the girl’s face.

‘I saw you at church with Eusebius of Nicomedia yesterday,’ I say.

No reaction. Why should she justify herself to me?

‘He had a lot to gain from Bishop Alexander’s death,’ I add.

‘He has a lot to gain whatever happens. He’s an exceptional man and he has a bright future.’

‘Unless he’s accused of murder.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

I think of the guards on the door. If I learned something she didn’t like, would I leave alive?

‘Constantine asked me to find the truth – however unlikely.’

I examine the three Graces again. The artist who painted them made some curious choices. Splendour is an elderly woman with long, silver hair and a face that looks as if a smile would break it. Happiness looks remarkably like the woman
in
front of me, a younger incarnation, whose proud eyes say that her greatest happiness is herself. Good Cheer is the only grace who resembles her eponym – but her face has been altered, inexpertly, so that her head’s out of line with her body. As if her neck’s been broken.

Constantiana catches my attention wandering. ‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Forgive me,’ I apologise. ‘I was remembering your wedding.’

Milan – February 313 – Twenty-five years ago …

The declaration they issue begins like this:

When I, Constantine Augustus, and I, Licinius Augustus, happily met in Milan, and considered all matters pertaining to the public good …

Constantine and Licinius – the last two emperors. Licinius, a peasant-soldier with a homely face and a depraved imagination, has succeeded Galerius in the East, while Constantine now rules the West unopposed. They come to Milan, six months after Constantine’s victory at the Milvian Bridge, to divide the world between them. To cement the partnership, Licinius is marrying Constantine’s sister Constantiana. No one mentions that the last person to make a marriage alliance with Constantine’s family is now a headless corpse at the bottom of the Tiber. It’s a happy occasion.

And Constantiana looks radiant. At twenty-four, she must have worried that she’d be left on the shelf, a chip for a bargain never to be struck. At one stage there were rumours that Constantine might have offered her to me. Now she’s sister to one Augustus and wife to the other – the most powerful woman in the world, you might think.

In fact, she’s not even the most powerful woman in the room. Constantine’s silver-haired mother Helena supervises
the
slave girls, who are combing and pinning Constantiana’s hair, while Fausta, Constantine’s wife, lounges on a couch and offers pointed compliments. How much improved Constantiana looks with her hair up; how well her dress disguises her flat chest; how lovely it is to see a mature bride. It doesn’t seem to inhibit them that Crispus and I are in the room, waiting to escort Constantiana to the wedding. They’re used to talking over children and servants.

The door bangs open. There’s only one man who could barge in to this gathering like that and, sure enough, it’s Constantine. He takes in the three women, spies me and Crispus in the corner and fixes his gaze on us for safety.

‘Gaius. I need you.’

Constantiana turns in her chair. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Licinius is making trouble. He’s still willing to concede toleration of Christians, but he’s demanding that I offer to send Crispus back to Nicomedia as a hostage.’

‘Surely it’s not too much to ask,’ says Constantiana.

‘No.’ Helena’s tone allows no argument.

Constantine, who defers to no man on earth, struggles to defy his mother.

‘You weren’t so squeamish with me when you sent me to Galerius’s court,’ he complains.

‘That was a necessary gamble – now you have everything. You don’t need to take this risk.’

‘You’re speaking as if my future husband is some sort of murderer,’ Constantiana complains. ‘Why shouldn’t my nephew come to stay with us in the east?’

She might as well not have spoken. Helena crosses to Crispus and puts a protective arm around him. He’s thirteen now and growing fast, with an easy manner and a ready smile that make him the palace favourite.

‘Your only son,’ Helena reminds Constantine.

‘Your only son
so far
.’ Fausta rolls back on the couch and pats her belly, which has finally begun to swell under her dress. In my experience, there’s nothing so smug and anxious as a pregnant empress.

Helena isn’t interested. In her mind, her divorce was never legitimate. Constantius’s children by his second wife were no children of hers: ergo, Constantine’s children by his second wife will be no grandchildren of hers, whatever blood goes into them.

‘I can go to Nicomedia,’ says Crispus. ‘If it has to be done.’

Constantine dismisses it. ‘Licinius is just trying to drive a better bargain.’ He thinks a moment. ‘What if I offer him an extra province? Moesia, maybe.’

‘If you offer him land, he’ll think you’re intending to take it back,’ I point out. Constantine and I share a look behind Constantiana’s back.

‘Are the Christians so important that you want them to ruin my wedding?’ says Constantiana. The slaves carry on, oblivious to our argument, pinning up her orange veil and tightening the belt on her dress.

‘Do you have to name the Christians?’ I suggest. ‘Why not make the declaration vaguer – religious freedom to all, none specified.’

‘No,’ says Helena again. ‘Who gave you your victories? Whose sign did you paint on your army when you defeated Maxentius?’

I cross the room and stare out of the window. ‘Licinius doesn’t care about the Christians. He wants reassurance.’

‘So how do I reassure him?’

‘Offer him nothing.’

An outraged squeal from Constantiana.

‘Nothing more than you’ve already given,’ I continue. ‘Tell him it’s a fair offer and that to ask more suggests bad faith.’

Constantine considers it. ‘And if he says no?’

‘He’s staying in your palace, in your territory, guarded by your army. If he pulls out of the marriage now, he’ll embarrass you badly.’

I leave the implication unspoken. I don’t want to offend Constantiana so close to her wedding. But she’s not obtuse. Denied armies, provinces or money to throw into this contest, she uses the only weapon she has and bursts into tears.

‘For once in your life, can’t you arrange a marriage without thinking what you’re going to get out of it? It’s almost as if you want your Christians to be there in the marriage bed with us.’

‘Not at all.’ Constantine rushes across and embraces her in a fraternal hug. ‘It’s Licinius who’s complicating things. But Valerius is right. It’s a fair offer and your husband’s sure to see it.’ Another hug. ‘He won’t want to let you get away from him.’

An empress isn’t supposed to cry. Constantiana’s tears have ruined her face. Half a dozen slave girls rush to mend the damage, dabbing and painting until the repair’s invisible. By the time they lower her veil, her stormy face shows nothing but bright spring sunshine.

The marriage goes ahead and is as lavish as the bride and groom deserve. And two weeks later I head east, spying out the best ground where an invading army might forage, camp and fight.

Constantinople – April 337

‘My wedding …’ A tremor disturbs the remaining powder on Constantiana’s face. ‘I’d almost managed to forget it.’

‘A happy day.’

‘It bought my brother time to prepare for his next war. We both know that – now.’ She gives me a pitying look. ‘Did you know, the Augustus once considered marrying me to you?’

I start to make a pro-forma protest, but she talks me down. ‘Some people said he’d raise you to Caesar, before Fausta started popping out sons like a breeding sow. You were handsome, then – and dangerous. More than one woman in the palace cried herself to sleep at night wondering why you didn’t look at her.’

‘I had no idea,’ I say, truthfully.

The mask reassembles itself. The door to the past closes.

‘You know the Augustus leaves on campaign next week. When he’s gone, you’ll report to me. Whatever you find out.’

I walk home, unescorted. Perhaps I should be more careful. As I approach my house, something moves by the door. Too much time in the palace has made me anxious – I pull away, pause, scan the shadows.

There’s someone there.

‘Are you going to rob an old man?’ I call. I wish I hadn’t been too proud to walk without a stick.

A figure steps into the light cast by the lamp over my door. Relief floods my body. It’s Simeon.

‘You could have waited inside.’

He looks surprised at the thought. Is my reputation so terrifying?

‘A man walked into my church today – I didn’t see him – and left a wrapped bundle on the step. There was a message inside.’

He hands over a flat wax tablet. I hold it up to the light.

Gaius Valerius Maximus
–

Be at the statue of Venus at dusk tomorrow. I can give you something you want
.

No name or signature. The wax is brittle and dry.

‘When did this come?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘Did anyone see the man who left it?’

‘Nothing they remembered.’

Of course they didn’t. I send Simeon away and tell him to come back tomorrow. The day’s gone on too long. My last thought before I go to sleep is of Constantiana, a slumped woman old before her time, with not even memories to comfort her.

My wedding. I’d almost managed to forget it
.

How will I ever solve a murder in Constantinople? The city is filled with broken statues and broken people; lives smashed by everyday violence like stones under a chisel. Yet ask, and no one remembers a thing.

Pristina, Kosovo – Present Day

ABBY STOOD IN
the alley across the street from her apartment building and watched. She’d been there for the last half-hour, looking for danger and screwing up her courage. All the parked cars were empty; none of the overlooking curtains twitched. Twenty minutes ago she’d seen Annukka walk out the door with her gym bag over her shoulder. That should give her an hour.

Heart in mouth, she walked briskly across the road and let herself in to the building. No sirens wailed; no cars screeched to a halt; no one shouted her name. She ran up the stairs to her flat. Just as her hand touched the handle, she noticed the corner of a sheet of paper slid under the door.

For a moment, she thought she might run down the stairs, all the way to the airport and straight back to London.
Don’t be stupid
, she told herself. If someone was waiting inside, he wouldn’t have left a note to announce himself. She unlocked the door and stepped in.

The flat was empty. She picked up the note and unfolded it.

Heard you’re back in town. Let’s meet for a drink. Jessop
. A phone number with a Kosovo prefix followed.

She remembered Michael’s diary, just before he died:
Jessop, 91
. She remembered an airless room in the Foreign Office, Mark fussing about while a stern man with a hard face recorded everything she said.
Jessop’s from Vauxhall
. She remembered his parting words to her, as she stumbled out of the room minus one gold necklace.
Be careful
.

Abby folded up the note and stuck it in her pocket. It begged fifty questions, but she wasn’t going to think about them now
. She went to the bedroom and found her car keys in the drawer where she’d left them a month earlier. The car was where she’d left it, too, parked around the corner outside a minimart. She went inside the shop and pretended to leaf through a rack of magazines, watching the street for the eyes that were surely looking for her, until she could almost convince herself that they weren’t there.