‘He didn’t say.’
‘Was Alexander a candidate? A rival?’
‘He said he was too old.’
But there’s something defensive in the way he says it. I stare him down. ‘It’s your master’s murder we’re talking about,’ I remind him.
‘Alexander opposed Eusebius’s election.’
‘So with Alexander gone, Eusebius has a clear run at the top job in the church.’
Eusebius has finished speaking. The crowd start shuffling in to the sanctuary for the distribution of the sacrifice – those who are allowed. The rest begin to drift away. But a few linger on, staring into the dark church like dogs at a kitchen door. Most of them are young men, intoxicated by their own intensity; one stands out, an old man with straggling hair and a pointed chin. He squats on the steps of the colonnade, head cupped in his hands, contemplating the church with ravenous eyes.
There’s something so arresting about him that I point him out to Simeon. ‘Do you know who he is?’
Simeon’s so surprised he has to look twice. First at the man, then at me. He can’t believe I could be so ignorant.
‘Asterius the Sophist.’
He sees my reaction to the name and nods, pleased to think his world view has been vindicated. But it isn’t what he thinks.
‘Symmachus said that Asterius was at the library yesterday.’ He’s on my list.
‘I didn’t see him there.’
‘Symmachus said that Asterius was a Christian. Why doesn’t he go into the church?’
A solemn look comes over Simeon. ‘During the persecutions, Asterius was arrested. The persecutors gave him a choice: betray the church, or die and become a martyr for Christ.’
‘He’s still alive.’
Simeon spits in the dust. ‘There were a dozen Christians – families, with children – hiding in the cistern below his house. He betrayed them to the Emperor Diocletian, who crucified them all. That’s why they call him the Sophist – he’ll say he believes anything. He’s forbidden from ever setting foot in a church again.’
‘But he still comes here.’ I look at the face again. The eyes narrowed, the lips slightly parted. His body is tense with a longing that’s almost ecstatic.
‘Do you think he knew Symmachus during the persecutions? Or Alexander?’
‘Ask him. I wasn’t born then.’
I push across the square and step in front of the old man, cutting off his contemplation of the church. He waits for me to move by. When I don’t, he’s forced to look up.
Seen from above, hunched up like a dwarf, he’s a scrawny, diminished figure. His face is grey and mottled with liver spots; his hands are folded around his knees, hidden in his sleeves.
I sit down beside him on the step. ‘It must be hard for you. Like watching your first love at home with her husband and children.’
He keeps his gaze on the church and doesn’t respond.
‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m –’
‘Gaius Valerius Maximus.’ He spits out the words like a centurion summoning men to be flogged. ‘Your notoriety precedes you.’
‘So does yours.’
‘I repented my sins. Can you say the same?’
‘I sleep easily enough.’
He looks at me then, and though age clouds his eyes they seem to go right through me. ‘Have you come to ask me about the Bishop?’
‘Do you have anything to tell me?’
‘I was there in the library. I assume someone told you. I’m sure Aurelius Symmachus was eager to help.’
‘You know him?’
‘He and I are old friends.’ He crunches down on the last word as if biting a nut. ‘We were in prison together during the persecutions. Did you know that? Only one of us was in chains, mind, not a relationship of equals. He had the whip hand.’
‘Did you see Bishop Alexander at the library?’
He raises his eyebrows, stretching the skin around his eyes so that they widen alarmingly. ‘I struggle to see what’s a foot in front of me.’
I remember his nickname. The
‘No.’
I point to the church. ‘What about Bishop Eusebius?’
‘What about him?’
