Jake and Florence stayed up all night, scouring Eusebius for a reference to landmarks from Constantine’s time. The Agya Sophia was built two hundred years too late – it could be discounted. The journalist’s leap of intuition came just before dawn.
“Are there any statues of Constantine in Istanbul?” he asked.
Florence looked up from the tourist maps splayed across the table. “Why?”
“This chapter’s entitled, ‘Of the statue of Constantine holding a cross – and its inscription’.”
“No statue still stands,” she said. “But there used to be one on Constantine’s Column and that exists – just about.”
Jake handed her Life of Constantine. “Read from here.”
Constantine set up this great trophy of victory over his enemies in the midst of the imperial city, ordering it to be engraved in indelible characters that the sign was the preservative of the Roman Empire.
“By this sign, conquer,” he said. “It’s the same theme. Eusebius couldn’t be more explicit – he says here ‘the sign’ saved the empire. If his account of the battlefield conversion was meant to be read two ways – with lightning as the true ‘sign’ – then here he’s directly telling us the real saviour of the Roman Empire was the Disciplina Etrusca. And he’s saying that it must be written with ‘indelible characters’, never to be forgotten.”
“If it’s written in indelible characters …”
“… then maybe they’re still to be found, where Constantine’s statue once stood. And read the next bit.”
Constantine ordered the following inscription to be engraved on the column in Latin. ‘By virtue of this sign, I have set at liberty the Roman people and restored them to their ancient greatness and splendour.’
“Eusebius is harking back to Rome’s former glory,” said Jake. “Remember, by Eusebius’s time the empire had lurched from disaster to catastrophe for generations. It had just come through the ‘Third Century Crisis’ – there had been nothing but plague and rebellion for fifty years. The time of Augustus or Hadrian was like a lost golden age in comparison.”
Florence’s nostrils flared. “So Eusebius is saying this cross of light in the sky can restore that splendour.”
Jake picked up the book. “‘And all the inhabitants of the city,’” he read, “‘seemed to enjoy the rays of a purer light.’”
*
“Seen better days, hasn’t it?” said Jake as they stood beneath the column later that morning.
A fire in the eighteenth century had left the monument resembling a condemned building. The blackened drums were pinned together with metal, and scaffolding ran from top to bottom. Jake was on a hangover and four hours’ sleep; his confidence had vanished and last night’s breakthrough was the imagining of a drunk. Was this hulk about to save his career? It looked doubtful.
Florence’s request for assistance had been granted instantly – Dr Gul brought a team of archaeologists with him this time, and expensive equipment was made available. Jake found it baffling. The Turkish authorities had a reputation for being awkward, but they were bending over backwards to help.
The archaeologists used an RM-15 resistance meter to fire electricity through the column. Stone is a bad conductor, but a compartment inside would be damp – electricity would pass through easily and thus reveal it. When the scan was complete Dr Gul led them to his vehicle, a yellow Citroen 2CV van that seemed to complement his persona. He laid the RM-15 in the boot and connected it to a laptop, which clicked and whirred as the data came through. The top of the column materialized on the monitor, grey against an obsidian background. Then it juddered up the screen to reveal solid stone. The column jerked upward once more.
Stone again.
As the computer worked its way through thirty-five images of nothingness, Jake despaired. What would he do when his contract ended? He could always become a press officer. It wouldn’t be too hard finding work at a local council and the money was ok. But God, how depressing. What a crap job to confess to at dinner parties. Jake reckoned having a cool profession was worth at least £20,000 per annum. And when it came to women it was the only string to his bow.
Jake was considering the lot of a landscape gardener when it happened. There was a stir among the archaeologists, like the awakening of leaves before inclement weather. Dr Gul turned from the computer and clasped his hands together; his nose had abandoned its ashtray hue for the colour of stewed plum.
“A chamber,” he hissed. “There is a chamber underneath the column.”