All my life I’ve contended with gods – a god who became a man, and a man who became a god. Now, at the end of it, peering into the steaming abyss, I have no more idea what the gods intend for me than I did when I first peered over the edge of my cradle all those years ago. Or even four months ago, on a dusty April afternoon in Constantinople, hearing about a dead man who would change my life. As much as remains of it.
Memories cloud about me and bead on my skin. The mind is a strange land with many walls but no distance. I’m no longer in the bathhouse, but another place and time, and my oldest friend is saying …
‘… I need you.’
We’re in an audience hall at the palace, though there’s no audience. None except me. We’re both old men with the years scored into us, but it’s been this way since I can remember. He performs, I applaud.
Except now I’m not applauding. I’m listening to him tell me about a death and wondering if I look right. After so many years at court, I can pull out my emotions like masks from a well-oiled drawer, but I’m not sure what the occasion demands. I want to seem respectful to the dead man. But not too much – I won’t invest in his death, as I’m being invited to do. Does that make me callous?
‘They found him two hours ago in the library by the Academy. As soon as they realised who he was, they sent straight to the palace.’
He’s trying to draw me in to the story, pique my curiosity. I stay silent. There aren’t many men alive who can stay silent when he wants them to speak – I might be the only one left. We grew up like brothers, inseparable sons of officers in the same legion. His mother was an innkeeper, mine a laundress. Now titles adorn him like the gems sewn into his heavy robe. Flavius Valerius Constantine – Emperor, Caesar and Augustus, Consul and Proconsul, High Priest. Constantine the Pious, the Faithful, the Blessed and Benevolent. Constantine the Victorious, Triumphant and Unconquered. Constantine – succinctly – the Great.
And even now, a grandfather in his declining years, the greatness radiates from him. I still feel it. His round face, puppyish and seductive when he was young, may have fattened out and sagged; the muscles that wrestled together an empire may have gone soft. But the greatness remains. The artists who paint him with a golden nimbus are only colouring in what every man knows. Power inhabits his body – the unconquerable confidence that only the gods can give.
‘The dead man’s name was Alexander. He was a bishop – important in the Christian community. He also tutored one of my sons, apparently.’
One of my sons, apparently. Something wraps around me like a cold current in the sea, though I don’t flinch. My face betrays nothing. Neither does his.
Without warning, he tosses me something. My body’s grown slow and cumbersome, but I still have my reflexes. I catch it one-handed, then open my fist.
‘They found this near the body.’
It’s a necklace, about the size of my palm. An intricate web surrounding Constantine’s X-P monogram, the bright new gold studded with red glass beads. A broken chain shows where it was ripped off someone’s neck.
‘Did it belong to the Bishop?’
‘His servant says not.’
‘The man who killed him, then?’
‘Or it was left there deliberately.’ He breathes an impatient sigh. ‘These are the questions I need you to answer, Gaius.’
The necklace is cold in my hand, an unwanted token of the dead man I’m being forced to carry. But I still resist. ‘I don’t know anything about the Christians.’
‘Not true.’ Constantine reaches out and touches my shoulder. Once, it would have been a natural and intimate gesture. Now his arm is rigid, holding me back. ‘You know enough to know that they feud like cats in a sack. If I send in one of their own, half his colleagues will immediately come to me condemning him as a schismatic and a heretic. Then the second half will arrive and denounce the first half for the same crimes.’
He shakes his head. God though he is, even he can’t fathom the mysteries of the church.
‘Do you think a Christian killed him?’
His shock is so natural I almost believe it’s real. ‘God forbid. They spit and scratch, but they don’t bite.’
I don’t disagree. I don’t know anything about the Christians.
‘But people will speculate. Others will say the murder of Alexander was an attack on all Christians by those who hate them. These wounds are raw, Gaius. We fought fifteen years of civil war to unite the empire and restore peace. It can’t fall apart now.’
He’s right to worry. He built his city in a hurry. The cement is hardly dry, and already cracks are appearing.
‘In two weeks, I’ll leave on campaign. In two months, I’ll be a thousand miles away in Persia. I can’t leave this problem behind. I need someone I can trust to do it quickly. Please, Gaius. For our friendship.’
Does he really think that’s something to sway me? There are things I’ve done for our friendship that even the god Christ, notoriously lenient, wouldn’t forgive me.
‘I was going to go home to Moesia next week. Everything’s arranged.’
Something like nostalgia enters his expression. His eyes take on a far-off look.
‘Do you remember those days, Gaius? Playing in the fields outside Niš? Climbing into the hen coops to steal eggs? They never caught us, did they?’
They never caught us because your father was the Tribune. I don’t say it. You meddle with an old man’s memories at your peril.
‘I should go back there – feel native soil under my feet again. When I come back from Persia.’
‘You’ll always be welcome at my house.’
‘I’ll be there. And you’ll be there sooner. As soon as you’ve solved this problem for me.’
And there it is. A god doesn’t have time for protracted wrangling. We could have debated it for hours, days, but he’s condensed all his arguments into a single sentence. And all my resistance and evasions, my determination not to get involved, collapse to an instant decision.
‘Do you want a culprit? Or do you want me to find out who actually did it?’
It’s a crucial question. In this city, not all murders are crimes. And not all criminals are guilty. Constantine, more than anyone, understands that.
‘I need you to find out who did it. Discreetly.’
He wants the truth. Then he’ll decide what to do with it.
‘If I go knocking on the Christians’ doors, will they open for me?’
‘They’ll know you’re there for me.’
I’m there for you. All my life, I’ve been there for you. Your counsellor and friend; your right arm, when action was required and you had to sit still. Your audience. You perform, I applaud. And obey.
He claps his hands and a slave appears out of air and shadow. I’d forgotten: in this city, there’s always another audience. The slave carries an ivory diptych, two panels hinged together with leather bands. The front is carved with a cameo of the Emperor, his eyes turned skyward and a solar crown on his head. Next to it, the familiar X-P monogram, the same as on the necklace. A few lines of text inside derogate Constantine’s authority on me.
‘Thank you for doing this, Gaius.’ He embraces me, and this time something like warmth passes between our two old bodies. He whispers in my ear: ‘I need someone I trust. Someone who knows where the bodies are buried.’
I laugh; it’s the only thing to do. Of course I know where the bodies are buried. I dug most of the graves myself.
III
Present Day
THE WALL WAS grey and pocked. The roof was white. The door was wood, with a smudged glass window and a crucifix above it. A static hum filled the air, and also an irregular beeping sound, like the random firings of an antique video game. She hurt like hell.