Secrets of the Dead

He mumbles it; at first I think he’s just repeated what I said. Then I realise.

‘Eusebius betrayed those Christians?’ He nods. ‘Then how –?’

‘How did Eusebius end up a bishop, and Asterius forbidden from even entering a church?’ He combs his fingers through his hair, leaving a smear of dust. ‘They made a bargain with Symmachus that Asterius would take the blame.’

I’m struggling to digest the implications. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Because Symmachus told me at the time. It amused him – the hypocrisy of it.

‘And why didn’t he say anything afterwards?’

‘Because he was honest, true to his word. And because he thought it didn’t matter. The persecution ended not long afterwards, so there was nothing to gain by bringing down Eusebius. And when Constantine took power, attacking Eusebius became a dangerous proposition.’

I think through the implications, trying to draw the thread that connects Porfyrius’s story to the corpse at my feet.

‘Why did Alexander hate Eusebius so much? You said he didn’t want to be Patriarch himself.’

Porfyrius gives me a pitying look. ‘You really don’t know anything about Christians, do you?’

‘I never claimed to.’

‘There are two factions. They have various names for each other, but the easiest way to describe them is as Arians and Orthodox. The Arians follow the doctrine of a priest called Arius, that Christ the Son of God was created out of nothing by the Father. The Orthodox maintain that to be fully God, Christ must be the same eternal substance as his Father.

My gaze drifts on to Symmachus’s outstretched corpse. Rigor mortis has begun to set in, the body arching back as if in untold agonies. I wonder what difference these impenetrable theological quibbles make where he is now.

‘I’ve heard all this before. I thought the argument was settled at Constantine’s conference in Nicaea twelve years ago.’

Eusebius: 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?

Porfyrius plucks a rose and starts pulling the petals off it. ‘The argument was never settled. Constantine brokered a compromise, but almost before they’d left Nicaea they were at each other’s throats again. Eusebius was exiled, for a time.’ He sighs. ‘It’s not about theology any more. I doubt half the people who claim to be Arian or Orthodox could explain the intricacies of the godhead. People took sides, and what matters now is whether they’re winning.’

‘Eusebius is an Arian?’ I think I know this, but it’s been twelve years. Porfyrius confirms it.

‘The Arian. He adopted it as his cause, and Asterius the Sophist became his key lieutenant. Poor Arius the priest had to play second fiddle in his own heresy. Alexander, meanwhile, was one of the leading thinkers of the Orthodox party. The contest to fill the Patriarchy of Constantinople was the latest battle in their war.’

I think back to that night in the palace. Eusebius, the chief prosecutor – and his rage when Symmachus mentioned Asterius. No wonder, if he thought Symmachus might reveal the truth.

I try to form a narrative.

‘Alexander found the evidence that Eusebius betrayed the Church in the persecutions. He summoned Eusebius to the library to confront him, to force him to withdraw from the election to the Patriarchate. He brought Symmachus to the library, too, to confirm the story. Eusebius had every reason for wanting them both dead – the two men who could prove he betrayed the Church.’

They murdered their own god – what wouldn’t they do to keep their privileges?

‘Eusebius wasn’t in the library that day,’ Porfyrius points out. ‘He didn’t make it.’

‘Asterius did.’

But even saying it, I know that can’t be right. Asterius didn’t crush Alexander’s skull with no hands.

A hammering on the gate erupts into the silent garden; impatient voices shout from the street. I think I recognise the sergeant’s voice from the docks. It’s long past the end of his shift now. Porfyrius leaps up in panic.

‘Stay,’ I tell him. ‘Let them in.’

‘And Symmachus? What shall I tell them about him?’

‘Tell them it was suicide.’ I hurry across to the side door. ‘It’s all they’re going to want to hear anyway.’

XXXI

Belgrade, Serbia – Present Day

THE HOTEL WAS on the top floor of an apartment block in the old town, south of the main boulevard Knez Mihailova. The streets were tangled and characterful, the apartment block – imposed on it by Tito’s planners – square and concrete. Drop cloths shrouded the front hall like cobwebs, though there was no evidence in the peeling paint that the workmen had done anything.

A clanking lift took them up to a brown corridor on the sixth floor. Reception was a small cubbyhole in the wall halfway along, where a mustachioed man sat behind an iron grille watching TV. He gave them a key and pointed further down the corridor.

‘Last room.’