‘You united the empire. That will be your legacy.’
And? He waits for more, giving me every chance. When he sees there’s nothing, he gives a bitter laugh. ‘Didn’t you know? I’ve divided it between my sons. Claudius, Constantius and Constans will each inherit a third. Mundus est omnis divisus in partes tres.’ He laughs again, so desperate it sounds like he’s sobbing. ‘If only things had been different.’
If only things had been different. He can rewrite the past as much as he likes, but some facts are indelible.
‘Good luck against the Persians.’
His finger draws a line in the dust on the altar, then bisects it with another. ‘I’ll be glad to get away. Sometimes I feel this city’s killing me.’
I leave him alone in his mausoleum, dwarfed by the scaffolding of his unfinished dreams. Caught in the light, dust falls but never makes a sound.
XXVII
Kosovo – Present Day
HER THUMB SLIPPED off the flint. The flame went out and the tomb went black. She flicked the lighter again, rubbing her finger raw before it relit.
Michael was still there.
What do you say to a dead man? She’d been talking to him for weeks – interrogating, begging, cursing. And now he was here, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
‘I got one of the bad guys outside the cave, but there might be more. And the Americans.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ she whispered.
‘Greatly exaggerated, like the man said.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Still time, of course.’
All she could do was stare at him. ‘How –?’
‘How did I find you? Or how did I end up not dead?’
‘How are we going to get out of here?’
‘Always practical. That’s what I loved about you.’ He took her hand in his and crouched in front of her. ‘God, I missed you, Abby. I’m so sorry about … everything.’
His hand was cold, but his breath was warm on her cheek. Through the dirt and smoke that clung to him, she caught the faintest sniff of his real scent – strong and mellow, like whisky on a winter’s night. That, more than anything, convinced her he might be real.
‘There’s a hut in the next valley. Dragović doesn’t know about it. I’ve been living there the last few days.’
She stared at him blankly. Joy, relief, gladness – those might all come later. For the moment, she felt hurt beyond all healing.
Michael put both hands on her cheeks and looked her in the eye.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
They left the tomb and hiked through the forest as fast as they could – Michael leading the way, Abby struggling to keep pace. The throb of the helicopter still shook the air, though the trees made it invisible. Every so often, short bursts of automatic weapon fire echoed up the valley.
‘That’s the Kosovo Police,’ said Michael. ‘Probably shooting at shadows. If they haven’t got Dragović by now, he’ll be safe into Serbia.’
They crested the ridge, still in the trees, and started descending the far slope. She couldn’t hear the gunfire any more, though the helicopter hadn’t gone away. In fact, it seemed to be getting louder. It flew right over them, shaking water drops off the wet trees, then slowly faded away.
‘At last vee are alone,’ Michael said, in a mock French accent. It was a line he’d often used in Pristina, when friends had left the flat after a long evening’s drinking. Hearing it here made her stomach lurch.
They didn’t stop, but carried on down the valley. The sun set behind the clouds; the air grew cold. Just when Abby thought she couldn’t go another step, they came out in a clearing where a small stone hut stood between two large trees. Not much to look at, but it had a chimney and a solid roof, and that was enough for Abby.
Michael didn’t dare light a fire – the wood in the forest was soaked anyway. Abby huddled under a mouse-eaten blanket on a camp bed, while Michael heated a can of beans on a gas stove.
‘So tell me again why you aren’t dead.’
‘Had you fooled, did I?’ He saw the anger rising and backtracked. ‘Sorry – joke. I know it isn’t funny.’
If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she’d have hit him. ‘It’s not a game.’
‘No, it is not.’ He pulled a cork out of a wine bottle and poured liquid into a steel cup. It came out clear as poison, with a kick she could smell from across the room.
‘Šlijvovica. Local moonshine. It’ll warm you up.’
She sipped it and wished she had a cigarette. The rough heat made her anger feel good.
‘Tell me everything,’ she ordered him. ‘Why were we at the villa? You knew it belonged to Dragović.’
He hesitated. The only light in the room was the small blue flame on the stove, silhouetting him in the corner.
‘Tell me the truth,’ she warned. The šlijvovica burned her throat, but it couldn’t touch her frozen core.
He turned towards her. ‘I knew it was his villa. I’d arranged to go there to hand over some things he wanted.’
‘From the tomb?’
‘Yes.’ He thought a moment. ‘I don’t know how much you found out, or figured out, but here’s the background. A patrol of American KFOR troops found that cave and wrote it up. The report came up to Pristina and landed on my desk. One of life’s happy coincidences.’
‘You made the connection with Dragović?’
‘I knew he was doolally for the Romans. I’d been trying to get close to his organisation for a while.’
‘Close?’
‘A sting. Infiltrate his circles and bring him down.’ He held his head still. She thought he was staring at her, though his eyes were invisible in the darkness.
‘You weren’t working for him?’
‘Is that what they told you?’ He reached forward and put his hand on her arm, but she jerked it away. She wasn’t ready for that. ‘Christ, Abby. Is that what you thought I was?’
‘I thought you were dead.’
On the stove the pan bubbled and spat.
‘You know all about Dragović, I suppose. He’s the most evil man in the Balkans, and that takes some doing.’
He fiddled with the knob of the stove, adjusting the heat.
‘You remember Irina?’
Abby nodded. To her, Irina had been a black-and-white photograph on a bookshelf in Michael’s flat – glossy hair, pale skin, dark eyes watching the room, like the missing person pictures taped to the railings of the government building in Pristina. She’d only asked Michael about the picture once, thinking she must be family. She died in the war, he’d said, and changed the conversation.
‘Irina was one of Dragović’s victims during the ’99 war. I’m not going to tell you what he had done to her, but I’ve read the reports. You can probably use your imagination.’
And that did stall her anger. She knew all the stories. Whatever vile, cruel or inhuman torture men could devise, it had probably happened in Kosovo during the war. There’d even been rumours of prisoners herded across the border to Albania to have their organs harvested for sale to rich buyers in the West.
‘Dragović is the reason I came back to the Balkans. When this find of Roman artefacts turned up, I thought I could use it to get to him. I baited the hook – and he bit.’
‘The Foreign Office thought you were corrupt.’
‘I had to go vigilante. You know how it is with MMA.’
MMA was Monitor, Mentor and Advise – the EULEX mission’s official role in post-independence Kosovo. It meant working alongside the local authorities, trying to prod and cajole them into some semblance of honest functioning. It was an uphill battle.