Secrets of the Dead (30 page)

I drop the body at Porfyrius’s feet. ‘Symmachus was your friend?’

His whole body is shaking, his head trembling like meat on a knife. I take it as a yes.

‘Then for God’s sake – yours or mine – tell me what you know.’

I stare at him and he can’t meet it. His gaze drops to the ground. Aurelius Symmachus’s poisoned eyes look up at him. He whispers something I can’t quite catch. It sounds like ‘secret’.

‘What secret?’

‘It’s not mine to tell.’

‘Was it Symmachus’s?’

Porfyrius sinks back on to the stairs, wrapping his arms around his knees. ‘It was Alexander’s.’

He has my full attention.

‘Alexander had been rummaging through the archives for his history. Somewhere, buried in the records office, he found a report that Symmachus wrote thirty years ago. Alexander was going to use it for blackmail.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You know the Patriarch of Constantinople died a few months ago?’

I remember a conversation with Simeon in the courtyard outside the church of Holy Peace.
Eusebius is one of the obvious men to replace him
.
Alexander opposed his election
.

‘The Patriarch of Constantinople is the most powerful
churchman
in the empire. Eusebius wants that job with all his soul. Alexander was equally determined to stop him.’

A lot of things are falling into place. ‘He found a secret? A secret about Eusebius?’

‘Have you heard of a man called Asterius the Sophist?’

I remember the withered old man, his mutilated arms pulled back in his sleeves, staring into a church he was forbidden from entering. ‘He was in the library that day, too.’

Porfyrius looks around the peristyle garden. His only audience is a dead man, some dead fish, some long-dead philosophers – and me. Even so, it isn’t easy to voice a secret that’s been kept so long. His words are barely audible.

‘During the persecutions, Symmachus had Asterius and Eusebius in his dungeon. Both men were rising talents with reputations for integrity: a lot of Christians looked up to them. The Emperor Diocletian thought that if he could break those two, many others would follow.’

Simeon:
There were a dozen Christians – families, with children – hiding in the cistern below Asterius’s house. He betrayed them to the Emperor, who crucified them all
.

‘I’ve heard this story,’ I say. ‘Asterius broke. Eusebius didn’t.’

Porfyrius shakes his head. His chin rests on his collar, as if he’s peering into the depths of his soul.

‘Eusebius broke. Asterius didn’t.’

He mumbles it; at first I think he’s just repeated what I said. Then I realise.

‘
Eusebius
betrayed those Christians?’ He nods. ‘Then how –?’

‘How did Eusebius end up a bishop, and Asterius forbidden from even entering a church?’ He combs his fingers through his hair, leaving a smear of dust. ‘They made a bargain with Symmachus that Asterius would take the blame.’

I’m struggling to digest the implications. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Because Symmachus told me at the time. It amused him – the hypocrisy of it.

‘And why didn’t he say anything afterwards?’

‘Because he was honest, true to his word. And because he thought it didn’t matter. The persecution ended not long afterwards, so there was nothing to gain by bringing down Eusebius. And when Constantine took power, attacking Eusebius became a dangerous proposition.’

I think through the implications, trying to draw the thread that connects Porfyrius’s story to the corpse at my feet.

‘Why did Alexander hate Eusebius so much? You said he didn’t want to be Patriarch himself.’

Porfyrius gives me a pitying look. ‘You really don’t know anything about Christians, do you?’

‘I never claimed to.’

‘There are two factions. They have various names for each other, but the easiest way to describe them is as Arians and Orthodox. The Arians follow the doctrine of a priest called Arius, that Christ the Son of God was created out of nothing by the Father. The Orthodox maintain that to be fully God, Christ must be the same eternal substance as his Father.

My gaze drifts on to Symmachus’s outstretched corpse. Rigor mortis has begun to set in, the body arching back as if in untold agonies. I wonder what difference these impenetrable theological quibbles make where he is now.

‘I’ve heard all this before. I thought the argument was settled at Constantine’s conference in Nicaea twelve years ago.’

Eusebius:
You were at Nicaea. Standing in the shadows, listening to what we said with one hand on your sword. We used to call you Brutus. Did you know that?

Porfyrius plucks a rose and starts pulling the petals off it. ‘The argument was never settled. Constantine brokered a compromise, but almost before they’d left Nicaea they were at each other’s throats again. Eusebius was exiled, for a time.’ He sighs. ‘It’s not about theology any more. I doubt half the people who claim to be Arian or Orthodox could explain the intricacies of the godhead. People took sides, and what matters now is whether they’re winning.’

‘Eusebius is an Arian?’ I think I know this, but it’s been twelve years. Porfyrius confirms it.

‘
The
Arian. He adopted it as his cause, and Asterius the Sophist became his key lieutenant. Poor Arius the priest had to play second fiddle in his own heresy. Alexander, meanwhile, was one of the leading thinkers of the Orthodox party. The contest to fill the Patriarchy of Constantinople was the latest battle in their war.’

I think back to that night in the palace. Eusebius, the chief prosecutor – and his rage when Symmachus mentioned Asterius. No wonder, if he thought Symmachus might reveal the truth.

I try to form a narrative.

‘Alexander found the evidence that Eusebius betrayed the Church in the persecutions. He summoned Eusebius to the library to confront him, to force him to withdraw from the election to the Patriarchate. He brought Symmachus to the library, too, to confirm the story. Eusebius had every reason for wanting them both dead – the two men who could prove he betrayed the Church.’

They murdered their own god – what wouldn’t they do to keep their privileges?

‘Eusebius wasn’t in the library that day,’ Porfyrius points out. ‘He didn’t make it.’

‘Asterius did.’

But even saying it, I know that can’t be right. Asterius didn’t crush Alexander’s skull with no hands.

A hammering on the gate erupts into the silent garden; impatient voices shout from the street. I think I recognise the sergeant’s voice from the docks. It’s long past the end of his shift now. Porfyrius leaps up in panic.

‘Stay,’ I tell him. ‘Let them in.’

‘And Symmachus? What shall I tell them about him?’

‘Tell them it was suicide.’ I hurry across to the side door. ‘It’s all they’re going to want to hear anyway.’

Belgrade, Serbia – Present Day

THE HOTEL WAS
on the top floor of an apartment block in the old town, south of the main boulevard Knez Mihailova. The streets were tangled and characterful, the apartment block – imposed on it by Tito’s planners – square and concrete. Drop cloths shrouded the front hall like cobwebs, though there was no evidence in the peeling paint that the workmen had done anything.

A clanking lift took them up to a brown corridor on the sixth floor. Reception was a small cubbyhole in the wall halfway along, where a mustachioed man sat behind an iron grille watching TV. He gave them a key and pointed further down the corridor.

‘Last room.’

The best that could be said was that it had a view – across the river, through the rain, where the high-rise towers of Novi Belgrad made dappled pillars of light. It looked like another world. Michael locked the door and put a chair against it; Abby threw herself down on the bed and burrowed her head into the pillow.

Michael sat down on the bed beside her. He moved to stroke her shoulder, then thought better of it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘What can we do?’

‘I don’t trust Giacomo.’

‘I don’t trust him either. But – he’s the best we’ve got.’ He rolled on to his back and lit a cigarette. ‘This world we’re in, we have to deal with people like him. You’re not in the Hague any more.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ She lifted herself on her elbows so he could see her anger. ‘I’ve dealt with some of the worst murderers on the planet – men who make Giacomo and even Dragovi
ć
look like wallflowers.’

‘I know –’

‘You
don’t
know.’ All the anger, all the terror of the last few days, was rushing out of her in a torrent. ‘You know why it was possible? Why a nobody like me could stand face to face with these monsters – no gun, no guards – and walk away alive?’

‘Because you’ve got guts.’

‘Because we have rules and institutions and laws to deal with these people. Now we’re no better than they are.’

Michael jerked his hand out the window. ‘Look where we are –
and this also has been one of the dark places of the Earth
. You think rules and institutions and laws made any difference here, when Milo
š
evic
ć
was waging war against all and sundry?

‘Milo
š
evi
ć
ended up in a jail cell in the Hague.’

‘After he’d killed 140,000 people. And after NATO finally grew some balls and bombed him to hell. And what happened back in that valley in Kosovo? The Americans had Dragovi
ć
right in their sights, and all they could do was watch him drive
over
the border, because that’s what the rules say. Is that good enough?’

‘It has to be,’ Abby insisted. ‘Remember what you said about barbarians? About patrolling the frontiers of civilisation so that good people can sleep safely? Following the rules is what lets us draw the line.’

Michael reached out to touch her, but she jerked away. Tears threatened; she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Michael swung himself off the bed. He stared into the mirror, as if looking for someone.

‘So what are we going to do?’ she asked again. Her voice sounded dead.

‘Knowledge lies within you,’ Michael murmured. ‘The only clue we’ve got is the poem. Dragovi
ć
thinks so, too – otherwise he wouldn’t have stolen the copy from the Forum Museum.’

Abby thought about it. It didn’t make her wounds go away, but at least it took her mind off the pain.

‘The version on the gravestone in Rome only had two lines. The one Gruber deciphered from the scroll had four.’

She took out the paper Gruber had given her, wrinkled and creased from too long in a damp pocket. Michael studied it. ‘Still not much to go on.’

Behind the flimsy curtains, rain drummed on the windows. Abby thought back to another wet day in another city on the fringe of the old Roman empire.
I have analysed the first few lines
.

‘What if there’s more?’ she said. ‘Gruber hadn’t finished analysing the scroll – he’d barely begun. There might be more of the poem.’

A light went on in Michael’s eyes. He spun around.

‘Wait here.’

He pulled on his coat and headed to the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To make a phone call.’ He wagged his finger at her. ‘Don’t open the door to strangers.’

She was alone for twelve minutes, and each one felt like a year. The room was heated by a cast-iron radiator that banged and popped as if it were haunted. Every noise it made shocked her like a gunshot. She found herself staring at the door, her heart racing, breath held in anticipation. She waited for a knock, for the handle to turn. When Michael came back, she almost fainted in relief.

His face was triumphant.

‘Dr Gruber will be flying to Belgrade first thing tomorrow. He’ll bring us his copy of the scroll, and the words he’s managed to decipher so far.’

‘Did he say there was more? Of the poem?’

‘He hinted.’

‘Couldn’t he just have read it over the phone?’

Michael gave a wolfish grin. ‘He could. But then he wouldn’t have been sure to collect the hundred thousand euros he thinks are coming his way.’

It felt like the longest night of Abby’s life. She lay under the covers, too frightened even to undress. The whole city seemed to be made of endlessly colliding parts: the heating pipes and radiator, the lift mechanism, the cars and trams on the street below. Once, she heard what sounded like shots in the distance, though it might have been an engine backfiring. She wasted half an hour waiting to hear it again – in her career, she’d got pretty good at knowing the sound of gunfire – but it didn’t come back.

It didn’t seem to bother Michael. He slept through, snoring quietly. In the end, she unplugged the clock radio from the
bedside
table and took it into the bathroom, trying to drown out the night with soft rock. Red numbers flashed the time at her, taunting her efforts to get to sleep. Eventually, slumped in the bathtub with a pillow behind her head and a rough blanket thrown over her, she slept.

She woke with a cricked neck and a headache. Michael stood in the bathroom door wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

‘I thought you’d gone.’ Perhaps he hadn’t slept as well as she’d thought. His eyes were bloodshot, the hair on his cheeks too long to be stubble and too thin for a beard. The lines around his eyes didn’t look wise, but tired.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Sign of a guilty conscience.’ He forced a smile, so she’d know it was a joke. ‘I’m starving.’

Giacomo’s room rate didn’t include breakfast. They went to a café across the road and ordered omelettes and coffee. The legacy of the Ottoman Empire meant that at least they brewed it strong.

‘Do you actually have a hundred thousand euros?’

Michael sliced apart his omelette. ‘We’ll cross that bridge.’

‘What time is Gruber due in?’

‘Lunchtime. I said we’d meet him at the castle.’

‘How Kafkaesque.’

She chewed her food in silence. Michael signalled the waiter for more coffee.

‘There might be something more,’ she tried at last. ‘When Giacomo said the answer was within us, he didn’t know there was any more of the poem. What if there’s a clue in the text we have?’