Secrets of the Dead

‘He was there too.’

‘Then I’m sure he avoided me. He doesn’t like to be seen with me. Churchmen don’t – like your little friend here.’ A nod to Simeon, who’s fidgeting as if he has ants crawling up his legs. ‘They worry I’ll drag them to Hell with me.’

Simeon tugs my arm and murmurs that the ritual in the church is ending. I stand and look down on the withered old man.

‘Do you know who killed Bishop Alexander?’

His face is clear and innocent as rain. ‘Only God knows.’

‘Did you kill him?’

Asterius lifts up his arms like a beggar, so that the sleeves of his robe fall back to the elbow. Simeon gasps and turns away. I have fewer qualms; I study them with professional interest.

He has no hands. All that protrude are withered stumps.

‘A half-blind man with no hands probably didn’t smash Alexander’s head in.’

We’re walking across the square, against the crowds streaming out of the church. Simeon’s angry.

‘Why do you always ask these people who killed Alexander? Do you expect them to tell you?’

I slow down, so that Simeon comes level. ‘When I was a young army officer, one of my men was stabbed in a tavern brawl. Three men had been with him. I asked them who was guilty and two gave the same answer. The third named one of the others.’

‘He was lying?’

‘He was telling the truth. The other two had agreed to frame him.’

As Simeon digests my homily, the crowd’s momentum changes. They stop, drawing apart to open a channel in their midst. Simeon and I are pushed back. A golden litter seems to float past in the air – you can barely see the eight Sarmatian slaves sweating under its weight. The purple curtains are embroidered with the imperial monogram, and beside it the peacock emblem of Princess Constantiana, Constantine’s sister.

‘Eusebius attracts quite a congregation,’ I observe.

The litter passes and disappears through the palace gate. The crowd starts to move again. Simeon and I make our way around the side of the church and let ourselves in a small door in an octagonal annexe. Simeon looks anxious: I can’t tell if it’s Eusebius he’s worried about, or my presence in the church. But, in fact, barely anyone notices us. The room’s filled with men undressing themselves and gossiping freely: for a moment, I think we’ve stepped into a bathhouse. This must be where the priests disrobe after the service.

Eusebius is a heavy-set man with drooping cheeks, a thin scraping of hair and fat lips that are a strange purple colour, as if he’s eaten too many berries. He’s standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by attendants who are unwinding a long golden cloth from around his shoulders. I can see he recognises me; I wait and watch, while he tries to place me. We’ve crossed paths before, though I doubt either of us cares to remember it.

‘Gaius Valerius,’ I remind him.

‘Gaius Valerius Maximus,’ he reproves me, as if I’d forgotten my own name. He rolls the Maximus around his mouth like a punchline. ‘You were at Nicaea. Standing in the shadows, listening to what we said with one hand on your sword. We used to call you Brutus. Did you know that? We worried there’d be a knife in our backs if we said something you disliked.’

I didn’t know that.

‘Perhaps we can go somewhere more private to talk.’

A stern look. ‘I have no secrets from my flock.’

Very well. ‘Alexander of Cyrene died yesterday at the Egyptian Library. The Emperor…’ I weight the word, arrogating its power. ‘The Emperor asked me to investigate.’

‘And?’

The reaction shocks me. First, for its utter lack of sympathy; second, for the fact he doesn’t care who sees it. Every man in the room is watching our conversation, like gladiators sparring. And not one of them – Christians all – seems troubled by the death of their bishop.

‘One of the last things Alexander did was ask to see you. Soon afterwards, he was dead. They found a necklace with a Christian monogram near his body.’

I show him the gold necklace Constantine gave me. ‘Do you recognise this?’

Eusebius turns like a plump scarecrow, arms aloft so that his acolyte can remove his robe. ‘No. And I never went to the library yesterday.’

‘Aurelius Symmachus saw you there.’

‘Aurelius Symmachus.’ He says it with a lisp, distorting the name into nonsense. ‘You know his history? In Diocletian’s time he was one of the chief architects of the persecutions. He made so many martyrs that heaven could hardly hold them. He almost killed Alexander thirty years ago. He probably decided to finish the job.’

If I’d wanted to murder Alexander, I could have done it then and been hailed a hero.

‘Symmachus said he saw you at the library,’ I persist. ‘Is he lying?’

Eusebius turns back to face me. With his surplice gone, there’s less to smooth the rolls of fat bulging under his tunic.

‘By the time I got to the library, Alexander was already dead.’