Secrets of the Dead

‘How ridiculous it is to be surprised at anything that happens.’ The stick pauses. ‘Imagine what I’ve seen in my life. Civil wars and peace. Sometimes one emperor, sometimes many, sometimes none. A bizarre cult condemned by one emperor, and that same cult now triumphant. Everything changes – even the gods.’

Does he think I’m seventeen? I know all this. But I’m not going to let him distract me playing the rambling old man.

‘A man died in the library today.’

His face doesn’t change. ‘Alexander of Cyrene.’

‘You knew him?’

‘He was the Emperor’s friend. That alone made him worth knowing.’

I admire the old philosopher’s ambiguous phrasing. That alone – or – that only? We both know he might be talking about me.

‘Did you see him there?’

‘It’s not a bathhouse. I don’t go there for company.’

‘When did you leave the library?’

‘When the sun had moved round off my desk.’ He brushes his hand over his eyes. ‘My sight’s not as strong as it was.’

‘Did you know Alexander was dead when you left?’

‘Of course not. Otherwise, I’d have stayed.’

‘To see what happened?’

‘So as not to look guilty.’

A pause. I look at the fish in the pool, as still as the reflections on the water. The house is close to the Via Mesi, Constantinople’s great thoroughfare, but the walls do a good job keeping out the sound. I can hear servants in the rooms inside, filling lamps and fetching crockery. It’s late in the day. The sun’s come so low it’s prised its way under the lip of the portico, washing the paintings and the statues in gold. My gaze wanders over them – and stops.

‘Who’s that?’

I take two steps towards the bust that’s caught my eye, but Symmachus’s voice outpaces me.

‘Hierocles.’

Does he sound surprised? Was he expecting me to notice?

‘Do you read him?’ he asks. ‘You should. He was no friend of new religions. Nor are you, I hear.’

I murmur Constantine’s old platitude, ‘Every man should be free to worship in the way that seems best to him.’

‘Perhaps that’s why you fell out with the Emperor,’ he taunts me. I don’t rise to the provocation. He must know it’s not true, but he carries on regardless. ‘They say you’re not seen at the palace as often as you were.’

I turn politely. ‘There was a bust of Hierocles in the library. Someone used it to smash Bishop Alexander’s skull.’

Another pause. Our eyes lock.

‘Has Constantine made you his stationarius now? A thief-taker dragging good men into the gutter?’ His tone is even, but his craggy face is alight with rage. ‘The penalty for bringing unsubstantiated charges is steep, Gaius Valerius. Even with the Emperor behind you, I doubt you could afford it.’

‘Everyone knows your attitude to the Christians.’ At the far end of the garden, beside the door, I can see the small shrine of the lararium, where he venerates his household gods. They’re not so fashionable these days, I hear. Lots of families have moved them out of sight, into a back room where they can be safely ignored.

‘Every man should be free to worship in the way that seems best.’ He spits the words back at me, bobbing up and down. I watch him carefully. The anger’s too real to be manufactured – at my age, I can tell the difference – but that doesn’t mean he can’t control it.

‘Free to worship – as long as it’s for the public good.’

He bangs his stick on the ground. ‘If you want to accuse me of murder, say so. Say it, or get out of my house.’

But at that moment, a new actor enters our drama through the door by the lararium. He must be even older than me, but he has an air – a boyish grace, a carelessness – which makes him seem younger. His face is still handsome, his hair still dark, his smile still easy. He’s munching on a fig, and he throws the peel into the fishpond as he passes. It’s the first time I’ve seen the fish move.

Symmachus forces himself to swallow his anger.

‘Gaius Valerius,’ he introduces me. ‘This is my friend Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius.’

The name catches me by surprise: it’s not the first time I’ve heard it today. It’s on my scroll of paper.

‘Were you in the Egyptian Library today?’

I try to phrase it blandly, but he’s attuned enough to catch the undertone of suspicion. He gives me a curious look. ‘Is it a crime?’

‘A man was murdered there,’ says Symmachus. Is there weight in the glance that accompanies the words, a warning? Porfyrius doesn’t seem to notice. He laughs, as if the old man’s made a joke.