‘You’re going to be OK,’ Michael whispered in her ear.
They all crouched down. Her guard released her, though only so he could put his hands over his ears. Abby did the same. The man at the front connected the wires to a small, remote-control box.
Abby didn’t see him press the button. All she felt was the blast, pulsing through her hands and into her ears; and a punch of air against her chest. Fine grit rained down from the ceiling; Abby braced herself for worse, for the whole catacomb to shake itself apart and bury her. It didn’t happen.
The man with the detonator ran forward, shouted something. They all advanced down the tunnel. Now the wall was just a heap of bricks, wreathed in a cloud of dust that was still settling. The dust blocked the torch beams, but as it swirled small holes appeared in the cloud, letting the light through. Not on to brick or stone, but into dark space beyond.
One by one they ducked through the hole. For a moment, all Abby could feel was the dust, coating her tongue, choking her lungs. She gagged. Then she was through.
In the deepest part of the catacomb, seven torch beams played over a chamber that hadn’t been seen in seventeen centuries. It reminded Abby of the tomb in Kosovo: larger, though not much – perhaps three metres long and almost square, with a barrel ceiling just high enough for them all to stand upright. Every surface was painted: an eclectic mix of doves and fish, ranked soldiers standing to attention, a clean-shaven Jesus peering out from behind a huge Bible, and bearded saints or prophets leaning on their staffs. A curved niche filled one end, flanked on the walls by two enormous painted symbols, the Christogram and the staurogram.
Between them, filling the niche, stood a coffin. Not a plain stone affair, as had served for Gaius Valerius Maximus: Abby could tell at once that this was different. It was made from a lustrous purple marble, intricately carved. Two rows of cavalry trotted towards each other on its face; on its pitched lid, a flotilla of boats seemed to be engaged in a naval battle. Even in the torchlight, the detail leapt out at Abby: every oar and rower, every link of armour and twist of rope.
‘How did they ever get that down here?’ Michael wondered aloud.
Dragović walked across the chamber. He bent over the sarcophagus, put his cheek against the surface and stretched out his arms to embrace it, communing with the cold stone.
‘Porphyry,’ he said. ‘The right and prerogative of emperors.’
‘Is that … Constantine’s?’ Abby asked.
‘Constantine was buried in Istanbul.’ Dragović straightened and turned to Michael. ‘This, I think, is for Constantine’s son Crispus.’
There was something in the way that he spoke to Michael that chilled Abby. Not cruelty or malice – familiarity.
She looked at Michael. ‘How did you get here?’
‘They caught me just outside Split. I didn’t have a chance.’
Dragović heard him and laughed.
‘Don’t lie to your little girlfriend. You still think she loves you? You came to me, just like in Kosovo. And for the same reason. Because you wanted money.’
Abby felt a pit opening inside her. ‘What about Irina?’
‘Irina?’ Dragović asked. ‘Who is Irina, please?’
Michael’s shoulders slumped. ‘There was no Irina.’
‘But – the photo? In your apartment.’
‘Her name’s Cathy. My ex-wife. She’s never been to the Balkans. So far as I know, she’s living with her second husband back in Donegal.’
Abby felt another part of her world collapsing in on her. Dragović sensed her pain and chuckled.
‘You thought he was one of the angels? The good sheriff in the white hat?’ He jerked his head dismissively. ‘He wanted money. Like everyone.’
Abby stared at Michael, willing it not to be true. ‘Why? What happened to doing the right thing? Fighting the barbarians?’
Michael tried to force a grin, a ghost of his old insouciance. He couldn’t quite make it. His face simply looked broken.
‘If you can’t beat them …’
Dragović had lost interest. He barked an order: his men surrounded the sarcophagus, one on each point. Stubby crowbars came out of a backpack. They levered them under the lid, cursing and sweating.
‘How did they get that down here?’ Michael said again. He’d turned so that he had his back to Abby.
Dragović pointed to a thin crack down the corner. ‘They bring it in as panels and cement it together. Like IKEA.’
The four men leaned on their crowbars. They were large men, built like weightlifters, but they struggled to make an impact on the purple stone.
‘Maybe we use some detcord?’ grunted one.
‘No.’ Dragović was watching them intently, his whole body tensed. In that moment, Abby almost thought she could have slipped away without being noticed. She didn’t dare try.
‘We do nothing to damage the labarum.’
The men heaved again. The bars strained, the stone resisted. Nothing gave. Abby felt the tension taut in the air, the quiver of something about to snap.
The bars moved – first one corner, then spreading to all four. A deep rumble rolled around the room.
The lid lifted and slid back. Dragović walked forward and peered into the open coffin.
Constantinople – June 337
The sun from the open door is a blinding, brilliant white. Porfyrius turns to me.
‘It’s time. Are you with us, or against us?’
I’m alone, I want to say.
‘We can tie you up, leave you here until it’s over. Or you can join us.’
There’s no choice. I have to see how this ends. ‘I’ll come.’
I follow them up the stairs. In daylight, I can see that there are about twenty of them, mostly with the close-cropped hair and straight shoulders of military men. They’re dressed in white Schola uniforms, though that doesn’t mean anything. The man – I still can’t bring myself to call him Crispus – is near the front; all I can see is his back. His hair is curly, almost touching his collar – longer than he wore it eleven years ago, but still jet black. Is there a hunch to his left shoulder, a stiffness when he moves? Does he remember what I said to him on that beach? If only I could have five minutes alone with him, I could be sure one way or the other.
The scaffolding’s still standing at the rear of the mausoleum, screened from the crowds who have gathered on the ground outside. I can hear their quiet roar as we climb the ladders, criss-crossing back and forth up the platforms. No one tries to stop us.
Just below the copper dome, there’s a walkway around the outside of the rotunda. A stone balustrade guards it, with latticed metalwork in between the pillars. The outside is painted gold, though from behind all you see is iron.
We crouch beneath the balustrade and wait. Peering through the lattice, I can see the audience settling. The senators and generals have taken their seats on the banked stands facing the pyre; the legions have drawn up in scarlet squares around them, with the great mass of people behind straining for a view.
How many of them will be alive at sunset if Porfyrius has his way? He says he wants to unite the empire – but even Constantine needed twenty years of fighting to achieve it. Not everyone will accept Porfyrius’s miraculous proposition on faith.
I try to get a glimpse of Crispus, but the walkway’s narrow and jammed with Porfyrius’s men. Crispus is out of sight, further around the curve of the building.
Down in the city below, the funeral bier is still making its slow progress up the hill. I turn to Porfyrius, crouched beside me.
‘Did Alexander discover him? Your secret? Is that why you killed him in the library?’
Porfyrius wipes sweat from his eyes. ‘He discovered it in the worst way possible. Crispus had come to meet me in the library that day – there were papers he needed to see. Alexander saw him and recognised him. Crispus panicked; he grabbed the first thing that came to hand and lashed out. He’s strong. One blow was all it took.’