Secrets of the Dead

XL

Nicomedia – 22 May 337

THE WORLD CHANGED two hours ago. Flavius Ursus, Flavius the Bear, Flavius the son-of-a-barbarian who is now the commander of the armies, came out of Constantine’s room to confirm the news everyone expected. The Augustus is dead. The body has been sent to the cellars, the coolest place, while the undertakers do their work. There aren’t many men alive who can remember the last time an Augustus died a natural death. It’s like waking up one morning and discovering that the sun hasn’t risen. What do you do?

I know what I want to do: run to the stables, commandeer the fastest horse I can find and keep riding until I reach my villa in the Balkans. But that would be impossible – and unwise. The army have locked down the whole estate. Guards are watching every door and window. Anyone who moves too quickly; anyone who looks too happy, or too ostentatiously sad; anyone who tries to leave: all suspect.

In the febrile heat of the villa, rumours breed and swarm like flies. Constantine was sixty-five years old, but until ten days ago he seemed in good health. Perhaps, after all, his death wasn’t natural.

A door swings open. Flavius Ursus walks in. He’s a busy man today.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he says.

‘If there’s anything I can do –’

‘Wait there. We may need you to smooth things over with the old guard.’

He leaves me and goes into the great hall, where the army’s high command have gathered. Notwithstanding what Constantine wrote in his will, these are the men who’ll decide the inheritance. For generations, the empire’s practised a savage sort of meritocracy where any man who’s bold and ruthless enough can rise to the top of the army. From there, he’s within striking distance of the throne. Diocletian was commander of the imperial bodyguard until the man he was guarding unaccountably took a dagger in the back; far from harming his career, it put Diocletian on the throne. Constantine’s own father had risen from a humble legionary to become Diocletian’s chief of staff, when Diocletian picked him to be his successor.

I remember something Constantiana said, that night in the palace. Some people said Constantine would raise you to Caesar, before Fausta started popping out sons like a breeding sow. Would he have? Would it be me lying in the cellars having my entrails drawn out on a hook, while my generals and courtiers tried to comprehend a world without me?

A vision comes to me: the empire as a walled town built on the back of a ravenous beast. Constantine cut off so many of its heads and tamed it; he chained it down in pasture and made it eat grass. But now that he’s gone, other heads will grow back. Slowly at first, testing their teeth and claws, rediscovering their old power. It won’t take long. They’ll start with murders and end in war.

High clouds cover the sky, as if the sun itself is veiled in mourning. There aren’t words to describe how I feel. Not wretched, not angry, just – empty.

My thoughts turn back to another palace, and the aftermath of another death.

Milan – July 326 – Eleven years earlier …

By the time I get back from Pula, the court has left Aquileia and hurried on to Milan. I join them there – I have to make my report – though I’d rather be anywhere else. The weight of my guilt is like a millstone suffocating the life out of me. I don’t eat; I barely speak. It takes me hours to get to sleep at night, only to wake up screaming from my bloody dreams. And it’s about to get worse.

For the first time in my life, Constantine keeps me waiting. I pace in a mournful room, high above the main courtyard. A piece of plaster falls off the ceiling and lands in my hair. Half the rooms in the palace are unusable; most of the rest are covered in sheeting, hiding damage or pictures that might upset the imperial eye. The whole building is rotten with history. It was built by old Maximian, an overblown outgrowth of his twisted mind. This is where Constantine came to meet with Licinius – When I, Constantine Augustus, and I, Licinius Augustus, happily met in Milan, and considered all matters pertaining to the public good; where he made his famous pronouncement of religious support for the Christians, and where he married his sister Constantiana to the man he’d later execute.

So many people, so many memories – and not one that doesn’t end in blood.

‘The Augusta wants to see you.’ I almost jump with fright: the slave seems to have materialised out of the dust in the air. He keeps his eyes down – does he know what I’ve done? Has he heard? He leads me through endless connections of empty rooms, down a broad staircase with no windows, and into another wing of the palace. The air moistens: we must be near the bath complex.

They’re all waiting for me in a square room with blood-red walls: Constantine, a ghost of himself; Fausta, her proud face livid with anger; the Dowager Empress Helena, Constantine’s mother, her eyes hooded and her mouth set like concrete. Fausta’s three sons stand in a row near the back of the room and fidget.

Nobody asks what I’ve done. Nobody thanks me, commiserates, accuses. Helena hands me a scrolled piece of paper.

‘Read it.’

‘“To the great god Nemesis, I curse my enemy and give him into your power. Drive him to his death …”’

I don’t need to go on. ‘This is the curse I found under Crispus’s bed in Aquileia.’

Helena fixes her pitiless gaze on me. ‘But?’

‘Without the names.’

‘And do you know –?’ She’s addressing me, but I’m just the sounding board. The words are aimed elsewhere in the room. ‘Do you know where I found this?’

No one dares to answer.

‘In Fausta’s room.’

I’m seized by a violent, uncontrollable shaking; so hard I think I might faint. No one notices – or, if they do, they don’t care. My mouth’s dry and my head hurts; I’m desperate for a drink.

Fausta tries to shrug it off. ‘I copied it off the tablet. I wanted a record of Crispus’s treachery.’

‘I took this paper to the temple of Nemesis in Aquileia.’ Helena continues as if Fausta hadn’t spoken. ‘I showed it to the priestess. She told me that she wrote it out for a woman who wanted to know the correct form of words. A noblewoman, too well bred to know how soldiers and fishwives curse.’

‘I suppose you would know,’ Fausta snaps, ‘being a brothel-keeper’s daughter.’

Helena ignores the insult and looks at Constantine. ‘The noblewoman was your wife. She wrote out the curse on the lead tablet, stole your pin and hid it under Crispus’s bed.’

Colour rises in Fausta’s cheeks. ‘You’d believe this priestess? She’s probably just a prostitute. And what about the guard captains who said Crispus bribed them to turn against my husband?’

‘I’ve spoken to them, too.’ Helena’s tone is sharp, like hooks in a dungeon. ‘They retracted their claim.’

Her eyes shoot daggers at Fausta, who stares back in furious defiance. If they had armies to command, these two women, the whole world would tremble.

They both turn to Constantine, who’s listened to the exchange in silence. The only sign he’s heard anything is the way he flinches each time they say Crispus’s name.

The whole room holds its breath.

‘What about Claudius?’ I ask. I’m as surprised as anyone to hear my own voice. Through the pain and dizziness burning in my skull, I’ve lost all sense of what’s appropriate. ‘Fausta said Crispus tried to murder him.’

All eyes turn to the three boys. They’re still children: even Claudius, the eldest, isn’t yet ten years old. They carry themselves proudly – their mother’s made them aware of their rank since the day they were born – but they’re out of their depth here. Constans, the youngest, is trying to blink back tears; Claudius looks at his mother, silently begging her to speak for him. He won’t look at Constantine.

‘She made us do it.’

It isn’t Claudius who says it; it’s the middle brother, Constantius. He steps forward, head held high. ‘Our mother cut Claudius’s ear and then told us to blame Crispus when he came.’ He glances at his father, falters. ‘We didn’t want to.’

A sickened silence grips the room. Fausta’s face has crumpled in like a pillow; Constantine is so still I wonder if his heart has stopped. Only Helena takes it in her stride. She expected it.

‘How old are you?’ she asks Constantius. He’s Helena’s grandson, but you wouldn’t know it from the contempt in her voice.

‘Nearly nine.’

‘Old enough to know it was a murderous lie.’

He wilts. ‘Our mother told us.’

‘And if she’d told you to stab your father while he slept, would you have done that too?’

‘No.’ It’s the first word Constantine’s spoken, and even that’s been wrenched out of him. ‘Not the children.’

‘They were accomplices.’

‘They’re your children,’ Fausta pleads to Constantine.

So was Crispus, I think.

‘Crispus was worth the three of them put together.’ Helena’s hated that family since Constantine’s father jilted her for one of old Maximian’s daughters. Now, at the end of her life, they’ve robbed her again. She’d like them obliterated from the face of the earth.

‘Show mercy,’ Fausta begs. She must know her life is over, but she’s fighting like a lioness for her cubs. She throws herself to the floor, grabs Constantine’s purple shoes and starts kissing them wildly, which turns into a scream as Helena steps forward and kicks her in the face. She was born a stable girl, and even at eighty she still has that strength. Fausta reels away, blood trickling from her lip. And Constantine still can’t move. For a long moment they look between each other, chained to each other like slaves on a sinking ship. Fausta, whimpering on the floor; Helena, breathing hard; Constantine like a statue.

Unexpectedly, it’s Constans – the youngest son – who breaks the moment. He’s only six, with a head of blond curls and soft pale skin like a barbarian. He runs forward and wraps his arms around Constantine’s legs.

‘When is Uncle Crispus coming home, Father?’

A tear runs down Constantine’s face. He crouches and hugs his son, closing his eyes in agony.

Undeniably, it’s a tender moment – and after what’s just happened, everyone in the room is susceptible. We’re desperate to believe in reconciliation. But I can’t help wondering. This family gobble each other like primordial gods. Fausta betrayed old Maximian when he plotted against Constantine; now Constantius and Constans have condemned their mother and probably saved themselves.

Constantine rises, keeping his hand on his son’s shoulder.

‘You destroyed Crispus,’ he says to Fausta.

Blood’s still running from her cut lip. She rubs it with the back of her hand, smearing a ghastly rictus across her cheek. Her eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal, and finally come to rest on Constantine.

‘I did,’ she whispers.

‘Why?’ He turns away. ‘No, don’t tell me.’ He glances at Helena. ‘You can take care of this? Discreetly?’

‘And the children?’ Helena presses.

‘Find them a tutor.’

She wants to argue, but Constantine isn’t listening. He turns his back and walks to the door, his shoulders slumped in defeat. I want to run to him, to put my arm around him and console him. With a great pang of loss, I realise that I can never comfort him again. Not after what I’ve done.

Helena grips Fausta’s arm so hard she gasps. ‘I think it’s time that you and I visited the baths.’

Memories collapse; my own voice comes back to me out of the recent past.

Cato the Stoic died in a bath, opening his veins so that the heat would draw the blood out of him. Though I’ve heard another version, that he didn’t die of his wounds but actually suffocated from the steam.

It doesn’t matter which version you hear. They all end the same way.

Villa Achyron – 22 May 337

Whatever happened today, Constantine effectively died over those four weeks during his vicennalia. For eleven years the empire’s been living in that shadow. We have an emperor with three sons, but no wife; history books full of victories, but no victor. We’ve kept our eyes down, our voices low, and never dared to contradict the lie. Some days I think the effort of the charade has driven the whole empire to the brink of madness.

Did it cost Alexander his life? A week ago, I was convinced he must have been killed because of what he knew about Eusebius. Symmachus, too. Now, I’m not so sure.

Constantine: Symmachus said he knew the truth about my son.

But Bassus, sweating in the baths: He said he’d found out something about a Christian bishop. A scandal.

Which was it?

Alexander burrowed deep in the Chamber of Records, stripping out every last reference to Crispus. I know he was looking at the papers from Aquileia, and from Helena’s household. Did he find something that got him killed – and that Symmachus saw when he took the document case?

Does it matter? What are one or two deaths against the death of an emperor? I remember something Eusebius said: Leave the dead to bury the dead. It sounds like good advice.

But if there is a truth behind Crispus’s death – a truth that’s worth killing for – then …

Heavy boots echo down the corridor. The generals have emerged from their meeting. They knot around the courtyard in twos and threes, grim-faced and urgent. Flavius Ursus comes across to me, flanked by four guards. His position is the most powerful – but also the most precarious.

‘Is everything decided?’

‘The Emperor’s sons will divide the empire between them.’ He’s holding a piece of paper; I imagine a map on it, the fates of millions described in a room in this villa.

‘Does everyone accept that?’

‘The army’s content.’ No doubt Claudius, Constantius and Constans will reward them handsomely for their support – and there’s the war with Persia, which promises rich pickings for the army and its sycophants. ‘This is a time for unity.’

I think of old Constantius, left on his deathbed for two days after he died until Constantine got there. It’s lucky York’s so cold.

‘When will you announce the death?’

‘Constantius is coming from Antioch. We’ll wait for him.’

That’ll be two weeks – maybe three or four depending on the roads and the mountain passes. ‘Can you keep the secret that long?’

‘It’s safest. The army is united, but there are other factions that might try to take advantage. Already, there are rumours …’

‘There are always rumours.’

‘And they need to be investigated. So we have a job for you.’

He hands me the piece of paper – not a map, but a list. I scan down it: eminent senators, retired officials. The old guard, men who might object to the new settlement. Among them, I notice Porfyrius’s name.

‘Find these men. Tell them that if or when the Augustus’s sons take power, they’ve got nothing to fear.’

‘Have they got anything to fear?’

He gives me a crooked look. ‘Just tell them.’ He sees my reluctance and growls. ‘I’m doing you a favour, Gaius – for old times’ sake. I’m giving you a chance to prove your loyalty.’

He jerks his head over his shoulder, at the generals and tribunes congregated in the courtyard. ‘Not everyone would give you that. There are rumours, and with your history …’

He pats me on the shoulder.

‘Now get out, while you have the chance.’