XII
I WAKE WITH the dawn, my hand clenched on the knife under my pillow. Somewhere in the night someone’s removed the oil lamp. Panic strikes me – what else did he take? – but when I paw the bed around me, I feel Alexander’s book and the necklace, still there. It must have been one of my slaves, keeping watch while I slept. He didn’t risk covering me with a blanket. They know never to touch me when I’m sleeping.
I wash and dress and make my obeisances to my ancestral gods. The house was a gift from Constantine and typically extravagant: far too big for a lonely old man. Most of the rooms are kept shut up, like old memories.
My steward brings me bread and honey and news of the morning’s visitors. It seems the ghost of my reputation still wanders the streets of this city, tempting a few misguided souls into thinking I can secure the Emperor’s favour. Mostly, I send them away without a hearing. At this stage of my life, I don’t have time to waste on them.
The steward runs down his list. ‘And there’s a priest. A Christian.’
I groan. Until yesterday, I thought I’d never have anything to do with Christians again. Now, they’re interrupting my breakfast.
‘He says his name is Simeon.’
I chew my bread and reveal nothing. It’s good practice for being at court. Slaves know you better than courtiers; they’re much harder to fool.
‘I’ll start with the priest.’
The steward nods, as if it’s exactly what he expected. He’s mastered the game better than I have.
‘Show him to the reception room.’
I find Simeon waiting there quarter of an hour later. It’s a shabby room: plain plaster on the walls that I never had painted, monochrome floor tiles. On the rare occasions I receive my petitioners, I bring them here to impress on them how humble my fortunes are. I enjoy watching their faces fall.
But it doesn’t faze Simeon. He’s standing in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, staring at a damp spot on the ceiling with a smile on his face. Christians are devious that way: ostentatious in their humility.
‘I haven’t learned who killed Alexander, if that’s what you came for,’ I tell him.
That breaks his composure. His cheeks flush; a look of anger crosses his face. I watch and judge. I’ve met him twice, now: once with Alexander’s body, once in his ransacked apartment. Either Simeon’s got an unfortunate knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or he’s as guilty as Romulus.
‘I thought you might go and visit Bishop Eusebius today.’
‘I might.’ Why is he saying this? To deflect suspicion on to someone else? ‘You said a bishop couldn’t possibly have done this.’
‘I can help you with him.’
‘Do I need help?’
‘Do you know where to look for him?’
I have to laugh, though it makes Simeon squirm with anger. He’s so blunt: Constantinople hasn’t yet honed his manners into the polite, sharp-edged weapons we wield. It’ll be a shame if I have to accuse him of murder.
In fact, the hardest thing about finding Bishop Eusebius is glimpsing him through the crowds that surround him. He’s at the church that Constantine’s built adjoining his palace, at the far tip of the peninsula. In a fit of optimism, or perhaps wishful thinking, Constantine dedicated it to Holy Peace.
It isn’t far from my house, but the heat’s already building. I’m sweating by the time I get there, my face grimy from the dust. Banners draped from buildings flutter as a desultory breeze stirs off the water. Constantinople exists as two cities: the city that is, and the city yet to come. The city of the living is filled with shopkeepers and bath attendants touting for business, lawyers and their clients filing into the courts, women and children queuing for their grain ration. The city yet to come is silhouettes on the horizon and pounding tools, portents of an army coming over the hill. Even as we live in the city that
It’s early, but the crowds at the church are so thick they’ve spilled outside on to the square. The high doors have been thrown open. Inside, a figure in golden robes stands on a marble pulpit and addresses them. I won’t cross the threshold, but I nudge my way through the crowd close enough to hear what he’s saying. The sun pours through a glazed round window, bathing him in yellow light and branding the monogram straight onto his forehead. Behind him, an ornate wall screens off the sanctuary within the church. The Christians will give anyone a taste of their mysteries, but only true initiates get to watch them unfold.
Eusebius is talking about the god Christ. I struggle to understand: something about his nature and his substance, the difference between the eternal and the infinite. ‘Christ is the head of the church and the saviour of its body, just as a husband is the head of the wife. So it must be an affront to God that our church here in Constantinople still lacks a head. I urge you, brothers and sisters, to resolve this situation with speed and justice.’
I glance at Simeon, who’s listening intently. ‘What’s he talking about?’
‘You know the Patriarch of Constantinople died three months ago?’
I do now. ‘Was there anything suspicious about it?’
‘He was an old man who’d lived a hard life. Nothing unusual. Eusebius is one of the obvious men to replace him.’
‘Is that why Alexander wanted to talk to Eusebius in the library yesterday?’
