Here was Vespasian, a soldier-emperor, grizzled and thick-set. And here was Marcus Aurelius; the philosopher’s eyes were pools of reflection and a sadness played about his mouth. Then came Trajan, the great conqueror who had expanded the empire to its fullest extent. Once these eyes had stared in dismay at Asia itself, taking in a landmass that funnelled only outwards. Jake submitted to Trajan’s glare and moved on. The heads fanned across the Palatine gallery like a wing of ghosts as he confronted each emperor in turn. Here was Commodus, who had shocked the world by fighting as a gladiator. Hercules reincarnated, or so he had claimed. He wore a lion-skin and his face pulsed with testosterone. And then Augustus, best of them all. A baleful gaze, that tilt of the head; he bordered on godliness.
Were you holding a secret?
Jake stared into eyes of stone, challenging them for answers.
The procession ended with Constantine, a macho figure with his proud nose. The features were rendered in the brutalist style of Soviet propaganda.
Did you change history more than we ever knew?
“Hello? Earth to Jake?” Jenny smiled at him.
“Sorry – off in my own little world.”
After the museum they sat at a café overlooking the Pantheon, getting to know each other, trying to work out how the hell they could snatch Dr Nesta from the jaws of MI6.
“You drive a moped in London,” said Jenny. “A sky-blue Vespa.”
“Do you have any idea how unnerving it is for someone you’ve only just met to know everything about you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But it could be useful. Two wheels is the only way to get anywhere fast in this city.”
“Yes, then,” he sighed. “I do have a sky-blue Vespa.”
“Are you an experienced rider?”
“Fairly.”
“What about motorbikes – ever driven them?”
“Only on holiday,” said Jake. “In Thailand and places. But I think I could handle one if it wasn’t too much of a beast.”
Jenny allowed herself an inner smile. He was a likeable guy. But he lacked confidence. He seemed afraid of eye contact, for a start. And he was definitely a drinker, Jake’s colleague was spot on about that. Already he had polished off most of his beer, and only on noticing her coke was barely touched had he reigned back: a coachman in charge of untameable horses.
“You’ve met Frank,” she said. “Not a nice bloke. But if we do try and get Dr Nesta out …”
“What?”
She looked him up and down. “You need to be even more careful of this Charlie Waits chap, Jake. He might not look like much. But he’s a scary, scary man.”
“Tell me about him.”
“The key to understanding Charlie is that at heart he’s a patriot. He really does love Britain – he loves the Queen, the countryside, he loves the institutions. The National Trust, the BBC. God, he bloody idolizes Churchill. Nothing wrong with all that per se. But somewhere along the line he became completely obsessive in defence of what he sees as the national interest. To the point that the way he acts is frankly un-British …”
A Coke and a beer came to thirteen euros. When Jake grumbled at the price the waitress’s nostrils flared. “But this is Roma!” she cried. “This is the Pantheon!”
“All right, all right, point made.”
After the waitress had gone, he showed Jenny the photographs of Debre Damo.
“Look at this,” he said. “Etruscan characters are written all across the ceiling. And at the far side are two more Roman numerals. It’s just like in the cistern. Eusebius is telling us which verse to look at next.”
“Amazing,” admitted Jenny with a shake of her head. “Just amazing.”
“I’ve already looked up the chapter. It’s from the end of the book – Eusebius’s reflections on the Emperor Constantine after his death.”
Jake passed her the battered volume.
Chapter LXVIII: An Allusion to the Phoenix.
We cannot compare Constantine with that bird of Egypt which dies, and rising from its own ashes soars aloft with new life. Rather he did resemble his saviour, who, as sown corn multiplied from a single grain, yielded abundant increase through the blessing of God. A coin was struck. On one side appeared the figure of our blessed prince, with the head veiled. The reverse exhibited him as a charioteer drawn by four horses, a hand stretched downward from above to receive him up to heaven.
Jenny handed him the book. “I’m not a historian. But it sounds like a pointer to Egypt to me. Would that make sense?”
“Egypt was part of the Roman Empire in Constantine’s day,” said Jake. “But whereabouts? Eusebius could be talking about anywhere from Alexandria to Aswan.”
“What does it matter?” said Jenny. “We don’t even need to find any more of the Disciplina, do we? It’s now an academic exercise. You’ve already proved Eusebius stashed it all over the world. And you can show he wrote Life of Constantine to guide people to the inscriptions. All we’d achieve by looking for more passages is unnecessary danger. The only thing we should be concerned with is proving my old boss is psychotic enough to believe lightning prophecy actually works.”
Once again Jake was unwilling to meet her eye.