as gold, the other half sunk in darkness. ‘Eusebius of Nicomedia. Asterius the Sophist. Any number of priests and hangers-on.’
‘Could a Christian have killed one of their own?’
It’s the first time I’ve heard Symmachus laugh. It’s not a pretty sound – like a quarry-saw cutting marble. When he’s finished, and hacked the phlegm from his throat, he says, ‘Can an owl catch mice? Porphyry the philosopher said it best: “The Christians are a confused and vicious sect.” Thirty years ago we were about to exterminate them. If I’d wanted to murder Alexander I could have done it then and been hailed a hero. Now the wheel has turned. They murdered their own god – what wouldn’t they do to keep their privileges?’
Another serrated burst of laughter. ‘They’re only Roman.’
VII
York – Present Day
THE CITY STOOD on a hill at the junction of two rivers, with the square towers of the Minster looming from its highest point. High walls hemmed it in – walls which had repelled Picts, Vikings, Norsemen and Scots in their time, but which couldn’t resist the columns of traffic that now queued through the gates. On the facing bank, executive flats and smart chain restaurants occupied what had once been thriving wharves and warehouses.
The moment she got off the train from King’s Cross, Abby could feel the difference. London had been close and warm, the friction of ten million people rubbing together. Here, the cold made her blush. A fine mist left dew on her cheek, while clouds overhead promised heavier rain to come.
She left the station and entered the city where a roundabout breached the wall. A few gravestones from a long-lost churchyard waited outside, marooned by time and the ring road. A bridge and a hill brought her up to the great medieval cathedral, the Minster. It had been built to be bigger than the mind of man and was now, if anything, stranger, looming over the city like a visitor from an alien civilisation.
It was late in the season, but a few sightseers still clustered in front of it. A busker played ragtime on an open-faced piano; a man dressed as a Roman legionary tried to get tourists to photograph themselves with him. Behind them, mostly unnoticed, a green-bronze emperor lazed on a throne and contemplated the pommel of his broken sword.
The rain was getting harder. She wiped a drop from her forehead, and was surprised to feel how wet her hair was. Her body seemed to be drinking up the damp in the air.
Behind the Minster, the open spaces gave way to a warren of cobbled lanes, blind passages and narrow houses bunched together. The buildings were brown brick and squat, probably built in the last forty years, but somehow the ancient pattern of the streets still asserted itself on them. Some of the houses had pointed door frames, with strange leaded hoods hanging over them. She squeezed under the porch of Number 36 and rang the bell.
The door opened a few inches – as far as the chain would allow. A petite woman in a pink sweatshirt and jeans peered out at her. Her face was lined, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled into a loose bun.
‘Are you Jenny Roche?’ A deep breath. ‘Are you Michael Lascaris’s sister?’
She didn’t need an answer. She could see it in the eyes: the same bright, inquisitive eyes as Michael, though dulled by age and pain.
‘My name’s Abby Cormac. I was Michael’s …’ What? ‘I knew him in Kosovo. I was with him, when … I’m sorry I came without calling, but I didn’t …’
The woman wasn’t listening – wasn’t even looking at Abby. She peered over Abby’s shoulder at the empty street and the rain.
‘Did you come alone?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘You’d better come in.’
It was hard to imagine Jenny as Michael’s sister. Everything about Michael had been bold, extrovert, light-hearted; by contrast, Jenny seemed frail and deadly serious. Where Michael had been incurably chaotic, Jenny kept her house immaculate. Abby perched
‘Could a Christian have killed one of their own?’
It’s the first time I’ve heard Symmachus laugh. It’s not a pretty sound – like a quarry-saw cutting marble. When he’s finished, and hacked the phlegm from his throat, he says, ‘Can an owl catch mice? Porphyry the philosopher said it best: “The Christians are a confused and vicious sect.” Thirty years ago we were about to exterminate them. If I’d wanted to murder Alexander I could have done it then and been hailed a hero. Now the wheel has turned. They murdered their own god – what wouldn’t they do to keep their privileges?’
Another serrated burst of laughter. ‘They’re only Roman.’
VII
York – Present Day
THE CITY STOOD on a hill at the junction of two rivers, with the square towers of the Minster looming from its highest point. High walls hemmed it in – walls which had repelled Picts, Vikings, Norsemen and Scots in their time, but which couldn’t resist the columns of traffic that now queued through the gates. On the facing bank, executive flats and smart chain restaurants occupied what had once been thriving wharves and warehouses.
The moment she got off the train from King’s Cross, Abby could feel the difference. London had been close and warm, the friction of ten million people rubbing together. Here, the cold made her blush. A fine mist left dew on her cheek, while clouds overhead promised heavier rain to come.
She left the station and entered the city where a roundabout breached the wall. A few gravestones from a long-lost churchyard waited outside, marooned by time and the ring road. A bridge and a hill brought her up to the great medieval cathedral, the Minster. It had been built to be bigger than the mind of man and was now, if anything, stranger, looming over the city like a visitor from an alien civilisation.
It was late in the season, but a few sightseers still clustered in front of it. A busker played ragtime on an open-faced piano; a man dressed as a Roman legionary tried to get tourists to photograph themselves with him. Behind them, mostly unnoticed, a green-bronze emperor lazed on a throne and contemplated the pommel of his broken sword.
The rain was getting harder. She wiped a drop from her forehead, and was surprised to feel how wet her hair was. Her body seemed to be drinking up the damp in the air.
Behind the Minster, the open spaces gave way to a warren of cobbled lanes, blind passages and narrow houses bunched together. The buildings were brown brick and squat, probably built in the last forty years, but somehow the ancient pattern of the streets still asserted itself on them. Some of the houses had pointed door frames, with strange leaded hoods hanging over them. She squeezed under the porch of Number 36 and rang the bell.
The door opened a few inches – as far as the chain would allow. A petite woman in a pink sweatshirt and jeans peered out at her. Her face was lined, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled into a loose bun.
‘Are you Jenny Roche?’ A deep breath. ‘Are you Michael Lascaris’s sister?’
She didn’t need an answer. She could see it in the eyes: the same bright, inquisitive eyes as Michael, though dulled by age and pain.
‘My name’s Abby Cormac. I was Michael’s …’ What? ‘I knew him in Kosovo. I was with him, when … I’m sorry I came without calling, but I didn’t …’
The woman wasn’t listening – wasn’t even looking at Abby. She peered over Abby’s shoulder at the empty street and the rain.
‘Did you come alone?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘You’d better come in.’
It was hard to imagine Jenny as Michael’s sister. Everything about Michael had been bold, extrovert, light-hearted; by contrast, Jenny seemed frail and deadly serious. Where Michael had been incurably chaotic, Jenny kept her house immaculate. Abby perched
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