Secrets of the Dead

I’ve scored a hit. Pain flashes across his face.

‘Alexander knew,’ I continue. ‘Symmachus knew. But they weren’t the only ones. Someone else knows, is willing to testify.’

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Haven’t I?’

He hesitates, then decides. A cruel light comes on in his eyes.

‘Walk with me.’

The procession of mourners is as long as ever. We force our way past them, down the street, and slip into the gardens beside the hippodrome. Above us, the last sunlight gleams on the four-horsed chariot that crowns the north end.

Asterius gives me a sly glance. ‘I was never worried about the persecutions. Eusebius was, but Eusebius is prone to fits of panic. That was how they got to him in the first place.’

‘Got to him?’

‘In prison.’

His honesty takes me aback. ‘So it’s true?’

‘That Eusebius betrayed a family of Christians and I took the blame to protect him?’ He shrugs, careless of the impact of his words. ‘Alexander could never have proved it. A doddering bishop relying on the evidence of a notorious persecutor? He’d only have sacrificed what little credibility he had left. Can you imagine if he’d turned up to the episcopal election with Symmachus in tow? Eusebius would have won without a vote.’

For the last month, I’ve been living in a coffin. Asterius’s casual honesty is like a storm wind blowing the lid off my carefully constrained existence. A dangerous elation rushes through me.

‘But Eusebius still killed Alexander. And then Symmachus, who could have corroborated the story.’

Asterius gives me a scornful look. ‘Do you want to know why we killed Symmachus? I can tell you. The week before he died, Symmachus went to the palace twice. He wanted to speak to the Augustus, and when he was refused, he got agitated. He said some things that he’d have been safer keeping to himself.’

‘About Eusebius?’ But I know that’s not true. ‘That he knew the truth about Crispus’s death.’

‘I’d be careful saying that name aloud.’ Asterius glances around the gardens. Families wander among the trees, speaking in hushed voices. ‘Constantine may be a waxwork now, but his sons don’t care to be reminded of it any more than he did.’

Asterius stops at the base of a statue, the great Olympic charioteer Scorpus standing with his legs apart, a whip dangling from his shoulder. He turns. His eyes glow with malicious pleasure.

‘In Alexander’s box of secrets, Symmachus uncovered something that had been kept hidden for ten years. Something even the Augustus didn’t know.’

He’s baiting me. And I don’t have the strength to fight. ‘What?’

‘You know what happened to Crispus?’ He puts an arm on my shoulder in mock sympathy. The touch makes me shudder. ‘Of course you do. And afterwards, poor Fausta in her bath. But did you ever wonder, while you were overseeing the decimation of the Emperor’s household, why she did it?’

I can feel a tightness in my chest, as though a strap’s being buckled around it. ‘She wanted her sons to inherit the throne,’ I say.

‘Of course she did. But who put the idea into Fausta’s head? Who helped her forge the documents? Who found Christians in the bodyguard who were willing to pretend they’d been enlisted in Crispus’s alleged plot, and be martyred for it?’

‘Who?’ I can’t breathe; it comes out a whisper.

Perhaps it’s because of his abbreviated reach, but Asterius has a habit of standing closer than is comfortable. I can almost feel the anger boiling off him. His head’s tipped back like a bird, staring up at me, waiting for me to realise –

‘You?’

A ghastly smile spreads across his face. ‘Crispus couldn’t stand Eusebius. Three months after Nicaea, Crispus arranged to have Eusebius exiled to Trier. We knew Eusebius would never be allowed back while Crispus was alive – and that if Constantine went ahead and elevated Crispus as Augustus, that might be for ever.’

‘We?’

‘Eusebius and I. Well, mostly me. Eusebius was a thousand miles away. But I had an ally at the palace.’

Fausta? I don’t think so – from what he’s said, there was someone else. I wrestle with the question; I don’t want to let Asterius dictate the terms of the conversation. And it comes to me. I remember the litter I saw leaving Eusebius’s church service, the proud peacocks embroidered on the purple curtains. He’s an exceptional man and he has a bright future. I remember the powder streaked across her lined face, silver hairs on a golden brush late at night. Did you know, the Augustus once considered marrying me to you?

‘Constantine’s sister. Constantiana.’

The smile gets wider. He’s patronising me.

‘She was always a better Christian than her brother. She struggled so hard to love Constantine. She might have forgiven him for executing her husband Licinius, but killing her little boy was too much. She needed revenge: a spouse for a spouse, a child for a child.’

‘And you encouraged her?’