the pools used to be; the Triton on the wall has been defaced, and the sea nymphs painted over, though they’ve kept a few of the fish. Whoever decided that Alexander should be laid out here didn’t want to encourage his mourners.
On a Monday morning, the church is almost deserted. I’m glad there’s no one to see me: I feel awkward enough trespassing in their sanctuary. Alexander’s body lies on an ivory litter at the front of the church. Candles burn at the four corners; incense smokes from a brazier at his feet. He’s dressed in a plain white robe, feet towards the door and a white cloth covering his face. I remember the weapon that killed him, the blood and hair matted on the bust, and hesitate. I never used to be this squeamish.
I pull back the cloth and wince. The undertaker’s tried his best, but only made it worse. Bloodstains mottle the beard and the skin’s floury where a cosmetic’s been applied. Worst of all is the forehead. It’s been smashed in, a single overwhelming blow that shattered the skull and tore a bloody gash in the skin. There are small perforations where the undertaker tried to sew it shut before abandoning the effort.
I reach out two fingers and pull back the eyelids. A clear liquid oozes out like tears – a salve that the undertaker’s used to hold the eyes shut. A pair of deep brown eyes gaze up at me with what looks like surprise.
And suddenly the surprise is mine. I’ve known him more than half my life. The tutor at the wedding chasing after the boy who’d climbed up on the bridal bed; and again, in the tent on campaign in Italy, bent over a table teaching the boy Greek, while Constantine pondered his god’s intentions. I would have seen him dozens of times around Constantine’s household, and never paid him the least attention. Did I know his name? I must have done.
Strange that I should have forgotten him. Like turning the house inside out for a lost coin, only to find it in your purse all along.
The smells of incense and embalming fluid have seeped into my stomach. Dark spots blot my vision; I need air. Leaving Alexander’s face uncovered, I run to the door. There’s a square at the end of the road with a plane tree. If I can just sit down in the shade a few minutes I’ll be fine. I’ll –
‘Gaius Valerius?’
I can’t ignore him – I’ve almost run into him. I step back and see a man in a formal gown, sparkling eyes and a smile too wide for the horrors inside. The man I met in Symmachus’s garden.
‘Porfyrius?’
‘I came to pay my respects to Bishop Alexander.’ He sees my ashen face and breaks off. ‘Are you …?’
‘I need to sit down.’
He steers me to his litter. I don’t lie down – I’d feel I was lying on my own funeral bier. I sit awkwardly on the edge of the platform, in the shade of the canopy, while one of the slaves fetches water from a fountain.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘Paying my respects to Alexander.’
‘You went to see him in the library.’ My voice is shaky, still grappling with the memories. ‘Did you know him well?’
‘He helped me understand the truth of the Christian religion.’
I don’t hide my surprise. ‘I thought … as a friend of Symmachus …’
‘Aurelius Symmachus is a Stoic.’ A wry smile. ‘Outward things cannot touch his soul.’
‘He was less accommodating thirty years ago.’
‘We all were.’ His eyes lose focus for a moment, then return. ‘Do you want to know the truth, Valerius? Thirty years ago I persecuted the Christians just as furiously as Symmachus. That was my first encounter with Alexander, and it wasn’t pleasant.’
The web I drew around the dead bishop takes on another strand. ‘What made you change your mind?’
‘I saw the sign of God’s truth.’
It’s impossible to know if he’s serious. He never stops smiling; every word he says has a subjective quality, as if he’s merely testing how it sounds. I try to imagine that smiling face standing over a brazier, digging his iron into the coals.
He shrugs. ‘I was a former proconsul who’d slipped off the path of honour, and I was ambitious.’ A quick look to see if I understand. ‘There was a scandal – perhaps you heard?
‘Why was he there?’
‘A religious dispute.’
He kicks at a loose stone in the road. ‘You can imagine how awful it was – the persecutor and his victim, thrown together again after all those years. And yet, we became friends. Unlikely, I know, but Alexander was extraordinary. I’d tried to make a martyr of him and now he became a saint. He never mentioned what had happened. I waited and I waited – it drove me mad. I analysed every gesture, every word he said, convinced it was part of some trap. One day, I couldn’t bear it any more. I asked him straight out if he remembered me.’
His voice drops. ‘He forgave me everything. Not the grudging forgiveness you might get from a friend you’d done wrong, lording his generosity over you. No rebuke, no lecture. He said, “I forgive you,” and that was all. He never mentioned it again.’
