‘We can agree they had a motive. But so did lots of other people. Even you. There are three questions here, and they don’t necessarily demand the same answer. Who killed Alexander? Who framed Symmachus? And now, who poisoned him?’
He’s starting to irritate me, quibbling with every word I say like a sophist in the forum. I’m not interested in his hair-splitting. ‘Who else has an interest in framing Symmachus other than the man who killed Alexander? With him gone, the last loose end is tied up.’
‘It was already tied up – he should have been on the boat by now. If they wanted to be sure, they could have done it at sea, or when he reached Greece. No one would have known. Or cared.’
‘You’re saying it was a coincidence?’
I pause, looking down at the slumped corpse on the gravel. Experience has taught me there are no coincidences in this city.
‘Whoever framed Symmachus, they didn’t choose him randomly. They wanted him out of the way. Exile wasn’t enough – they needed him dead.’
Porfyrius says nothing, reserving judgement.
‘You were his friend. Can you think of anything he knew, anyone he might have offended?’
‘A lot of Christians hated him.’
‘You think they waited thirty years for this?’ I shake my head. ‘This was urgent.’
I let the silence stretch. Even in his undoubted shock, there’s a reticence about him that makes me twitch.
‘We need to know who did this,’ I say. ‘No secrets.’
‘Do you think you’ll get justice?’
‘I’ll settle for avoiding a fate like Symmachus.’
Old habits are hard to shake. Even in this silent villa I’m talking as if someone’s watching. But it’s too late for caution.
A rage seizes hold of me. Suddenly, Porfyrius is a vessel for every lie and piece of treachery I’ve confronted in the past weeks. With a furious strength I thought I’d lost for ever, I grab Symmachus’s corpse under his armpits and drag him across the gravel. Porfyrius leaps up, horrified.
I drop the body at Porfyrius’s feet. ‘Symmachus was your friend?’
His whole body is shaking, his head trembling like meat on a knife. I take it as a yes.
‘Then for God’s sake – yours or mine – tell me what you know.’
I stare at him and he can’t meet it. His gaze drops to the ground. Aurelius Symmachus’s poisoned eyes look up at him. He whispers something I can’t quite catch. It sounds like ‘secret’.
‘What secret?’
‘It’s not mine to tell.’
‘Was it Symmachus’s?’
Porfyrius sinks back on to the stairs, wrapping his arms around his knees. ‘It was Alexander’s.’
He has my full attention.
‘Alexander had been rummaging through the archives for his history. Somewhere, buried in the records office, he found a report that Symmachus wrote thirty years ago. Alexander was going to use it for blackmail.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You know the Patriarch of Constantinople died a few months ago?’
I remember a conversation with Simeon in the courtyard outside the church of Holy Peace.
‘The Patriarch of Constantinople is the most powerful churchman in the empire. Eusebius wants that job with all his soul. Alexander was equally determined to stop him.’
A lot of things are falling into place. ‘He found a secret? A secret about Eusebius?’
‘Have you heard of a man called Asterius the Sophist?’
I remember the withered old man, his mutilated arms pulled back in his sleeves, staring into a church he was forbidden from entering. ‘He was in the library that day, too.’
Porfyrius looks around the peristyle garden. His only audience is a dead man, some dead fish, some long-dead philosophers – and me. Even so, it isn’t easy to voice a secret that’s been kept so long. His words are barely audible.
‘During the persecutions, Symmachus had Asterius and Eusebius in his dungeon. Both men were rising talents with reputations for integrity: a lot of Christians looked up to them. The Emperor Diocletian thought that if he could break those two, many others would follow.’
Simeon:
‘I’ve heard this story,’ I say. ‘Asterius broke. Eusebius didn’t.’
Porfyrius shakes his head. His chin rests on his collar, as if he’s peering into the depths of his soul.
‘Eusebius broke. Asterius didn’t.’
