The terrace had emptied – Abby and the gunman were the only ones left. He glanced down at her; she rolled herself in a ball and prayed he didn’t know who she was.
He hesitated. More shouts echoed across the terrace, and these were different: not panicked or confused, but threatening and authoritative. Abby peered through her fingers.
A soldier in combat fatigues was standing on the wall of the citadel, aiming a rifle at the ice-cream seller. A second soldier had come out of the gate and was advancing, rifle at his shoulder. For a confused second, Abby wondered if another war had begun; or if the ancient legionaries who’d guarded this spot had been reincarnated in modern dress. Then she remembered the military museum inside the citadel. The guards must have heard the shots.
The gunman threw his pistol over the wall and raised his arms. He looked calm, almost resigned – a man for whom this had happened before, would probably happen again. He stood still. But his mouth was moving, rapid-fire muttering apparently to himself. Looking closer, Abby saw a silver earpiece with a small microphone clipped on his ear.
He’s on the phone. He could have been talking to anyone around the world, but Abby guessed it was a whole lot closer than that. She began to crawl away. She had to find Michael and warn him.
The soldiers saw her moving and paused. ‘Stay down!’ they shouted, first in Serbian and then, in English, ‘Down!’ She didn’t listen to them. She didn’t think they’d shoot a civilian, particularly one who might be a tourist. She scrambled to her feet and started to move. Every step sent more jolts of pain into her shoulder; she wanted to run, but could only stagger like a drunk. Shouts rang after her, but nothing more. The guards were too preoccupied with the gunman.
She came around the corner of a brick defile and left the terrace behind. Police sirens wailed in the distance. She limped along a paved road through the trees, searching for Michael and Gruber. The shots had sparked chaos. Dozens of people were running through the woods, strung out like peasants fleeing an advancing army.
She’d barely gone a hundred yards when she heard fresh shouts behind her. Two more soldiers had appeared. Were they looking for her? They must have opened the bag, seen the money inside and decided maybe she wasn’t as much a victim as she’d seemed. She pulled off her coat and stuffed it in a bin by a tree, hoping the colour change would be enough. Where was Michael?
The shouts suddenly changed, became more urgent: not looking for someone, but finding them. She risked a glance back. One of the soldiers was standing up against a tree, gun held against his body like something out of a war movie. The other had dropped to one knee and was squinting down the rifle sight.
Abby followed the line of the gun. Fifty yards away a dark-haired woman in a red windcheater was facing the soldier, arms raised, face white with terror. She looked about Abby’s age.
They’ve got the wrong girl.
She felt sorry for her double – but the soldiers would find out their mistake soon enough. She turned her back and walked away, passing through the old Ottoman gate, jostling with the panicked crowds. Ahead, she thought she saw two men – one in a green anorak, the other in a long black coat. She forced herself to lengthen her stride, swallowing the pain that twisted like a knife in her shoulder.
‘Michael!’ she called.
Michael and Gruber stopped and turned. Michael gave an unobtrusive nod; Gruber looked as if he was going to be sick.
Ten paces ahead of her, a man in a New York Mets baseball cap stopped as well. He had a fat camera bag around his neck, unzipped as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of taking a photograph.
Too late, Abby noticed the silver Bluetooth headset clipped on his ear.
The man pulled a small pistol from the camera bag. He raised it, aimed towards Michael and fired.
XXXIV
Constantinople – May 337
I’VE ARRIVED AT the Church of Holy Peace. Constantine’s words at Nicaea are still echoing in my ears.
Am I the only man in the world who wants peace?
You were, I think, and the world didn’t want it. Last week a thousand soldiers marched past this church on their way to the Persian war. There hasn’t been a year in the last decade when Constantine hasn’t led his army on campaign, accumulating victory titles faster than the masons can recut the inscriptions on his monuments. If I were a younger man, with clearer views, I’d despise him for the hypocrisy. But all I feel is pity.
Even early in the morning, the church is busy. Paupers queue at a side door, where two women are doling out bread and milk. Serious young men with new-grown beards walk in twos and threes across the courtyard, clutching sheaves of paper. A group of children sit under a plane tree with writing tablets, taking instruction from a stern priest. It’s like its own village.
A priest is standing by the church door, greeting people as they enter. He sees me approach and offers a warm smile.
‘Peace be with you.’
All I can think of is Symmachus, slumped by his fishpond. ‘I want to see Eusebius.’
The smile doesn’t falter. ‘The Bishop left this morning for his home in Nicomedia. His work here was finished.’
‘Of course.’
‘You look tired, brother. Will you come and break bread with us?’
He’s still smiling, still solicitous.
‘Is it true,’ I ask him, ‘that part of your ritual is drinking blood?’
‘We share in the blood of Christ.’
‘I hope you drown in it.’
I wait just long enough to enjoy the look on his face, then spin on my heel and walk away. I’m halfway across the courtyard when I hear a voice calling my name.
‘Gaius Valerius?’
It’s Simeon the deacon, hurrying across the square. He looks well rested, pleased to see me. Not as if he murdered someone last night.
‘I’ve been meaning to find you,’ he says.
‘I could say the same.’
‘I’d like to get Alexander’s books back. Someone should finish his history.’
The Chronicon – the true compendium of all the history of the world, illuminating the pattern of God’s purpose. Except it was a myth, a benevolent past that never existed.
‘I went to the docks this morning to see Aurelius Symmachus on to his ship,’ I say. ‘He didn’t come.’
Simeon’s surprise seems entirely natural. ‘Did something happen?’
I’m still waiting for him to betray himself. But there’s nothing – only a mirror reflecting my curiosity back at me.
‘Don’t you know?’
Exasperation hardens his face. If he does know, he won’t give it away.
‘Aurelius Symmachus died last night.’
His reaction is exactly what you’d expect. Eyes wide, mouth open – a picture of surprise. Maybe a hint of satisfaction – but perhaps I’m looking for it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘I thought you’d want him dead.’
‘I prayed for him. Christ came into the world to save sinners.’
It’s a strange thing to say. I’d dismiss it completely, if I didn’t remember Porfyrius saying something similar about Alexander – how he never bore a grudge for Porfyrius’s role in the persecutions.
But I don’t have time for his pieties. If he’s saying prayers for Symmachus, he’s more likely giving thanks that the old man took the blame for Alexander’s murder. I look up at the high church behind him. Scaffolding sticks out of the roof like birds’ nests; workmen crawl over the dome, applying gold leaf. I remember the crowds who gathered here when Eusebius came to preach the day after Alexander’s murder.
‘Are you working here now?’
A nod. ‘Bishop Eusebius found me a position here before he left for Nicomedia.’