Secrets of the Dead

He gathers the papers and folds them into the bag. When we met, I could have charged him with murder. Now, all I can do is follow him. Two guards from the Schola are in the corridor to escort us: along dark and empty halls, where painted figures make shadows against the gold; past tree-filled courtyards where slaves are sweeping up the blossom that’s fallen that day; back to the audience hall where four days ago Constantine ordered me to find Alexander’s killer.

This time there’s a proper audience. Eusebius, immaculate even at this late hour in a heavily embroidered robe. Flavius Ursus in full, burnished uniform. Ablabius, the Praetorian Prefect, and the two consuls Felicianus and Titianus. And Constantine himself on an ivory throne, dressed in so many jewels and gold you can barely glimpse the man underneath. Strands of sea pearls hang from his crown, running over his cheeks like tears.

Yet for all the raw power in the room, there’s something furtive about this gathering. The great chandelier hanging over the throne makes a bright circle underneath, but the light doesn’t stretch far. Beyond it, the empty hall is a dark and vast rebuke.

‘Gaius Valerius Maximus.’ For once, Eusebius greets me without a sneer. ‘You’ve done excellent work. The Augustus was right to put his faith in you.’

Before I can react to this unwanted compliment, the door opens again. Four guards march Symmachus in. Since I saw him a few hours ago he’s put on his toga trimmed with purple. He’s dressed in a hurry: one end of the toga’s come untucked and is threatening to unravel completely. His hair is a mess, like a mangy dog in the last stages of a disease.

Eusebius steps forward as prosecutor.

‘Aurelius Symmachus is accused of the murder of the most holy and godly Bishop Alexander of Cyrene.’

No one’s told Symmachus anything, though he must have suspected. He clings to his stick like a drowning man in a storm.

‘You were in the library that day.’

Symmachus nods.

‘You knew Alexander was there.’

He looks as if he might deny it, then thinks better of it. He doesn’t want to make it easy for Eusebius.

‘This evening you went for a walk near the statue of Venus. Gaius Valerius saw you there.’

No one asks me to confirm it, but Symmachus has something to say.

‘I walk there every evening. Anyone who knows me would have known to find me there.’

Simeon’s still holding the document case. Eusebius takes it from him and holds it up. Something changes on Symmachus’s face, though I can’t tell if he recognises it. Perhaps I’m being too generous. I want to believe his innocence.

‘Have you seen this before?’

Symmachus tugs on his toga, which is in danger of slipping off his bony shoulder. ‘No.’

‘It belonged to Bishop Alexander. This evening, after you had met Valerius, your slave tried to dispose of it and was caught in the act.’

‘He’s lying.’

‘He’s testified under torture that you ordered him to do it.’

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have tortured him.’

It’s a rare flash of anger, but it does him no good.

‘You were less scrupulous when you had Christians in your power.’ Spit flecks from Eusebius’s mouth. His face is alight with revenge. ‘You were a notorious persecutor and hater of Christians, though when the Augustus Constantine destroyed the arch-persecutors Galerius and Licinius he showed you every forgiveness. But when you saw Alexander of Cyrene in the library that day, the violence in your nature took over. You beat the life out of him, using a bust of your false ideologue Hierocles as the weapon.’

Symmachus hears out the charge in silence. No theatrical denials, no falling to his knees and clutching the Emperor’s feet. He hasn’t come to a secret court in the dead of night expecting to prove his innocence. When Eusebius has finished, he simply shakes his head and says a firm, ‘No.’

‘Perhaps it was simply because he was a Christian. Perhaps you never forgave the fact that he defied you in your own dungeon, that he defeated you. You hated him for it.’

‘I respected his courage. It was the men who broke that I despised. Men like …’ He pauses, searching for the name. ‘Asterius.’

‘Enough!’ Even Eusebius seems surprised by the force of his reaction. Perhaps he’s thinking of his friend’s mutilated arms, the life sentence he received for betraying his faith. He draws a deep breath and turns to Constantine.

‘Lord, there were no other witnesses to Alexander’s tragic death. The only man who saw it was the killer.’ An arm shoots out towards Symmachus. ‘That man. And having killed him in the most barbaric way conceivable, he stole his papers. Who knows why? Perhaps he thought he could use Alexander’s knowledge against the Church. But as the Augustus’s net closed around him, as the diligent Gaius Valerius tracked down the murderer, he panicked. He worried that the bag would be found. So he ordered his slave to get rid of it.’

‘All lies.’

My head’s spinning as I listen to my own story being rewritten in front of me. I look at Constantine. His face is as blank as glass, but he catches my glance and turns ever so fractionally to meet it.

Do you want a culprit? Or do you want me to find out who actually did it?

I don’t believe any of it. If Symmachus wanted to get rid of the document case why not just throw it in the harbour or burn it? Why send a slave to hand it over exactly where he’d be taking his evening stroll? Someone is