Secrets of the Dead

XXIV

Constantinople – April 337

SOMEWHERE IN THIS palace a man’s being tortured. It shouldn’t be happening. The law says you can’t torture someone, even a slave, except in cases of treason. Of course the law’s flexible: treason’s a subjective crime. You can redefine it, if you have the power, but it still takes time. Somebody had to find a lawyer in the middle of the night, draft an exemption, get the correct secretaries in the chancery to fix the correct seals – all before they can turn the first screw.

Somebody’s taking this seriously.

I ought to be there making notes. Instead, I’ve gathered up all the lamps I can find and shut myself in a storeroom with Alexander’s document case. I don’t understand what’s happened this evening, but I’ve seen rotten justice often enough to know the smell. I’ve also got a shrewd idea that a lot of the questions in the dungeon are going to be about the papers in my hand. Soon, someone’s going to remember that I brought the case to the palace.

And it’s slow work. The papers are pages of all different sizes, written in different inks and hands; mostly in Greek, though a few in Latin. I concentrate on those, though it’s hard to read when you don’t know what you’re looking for. Some are letters or memoranda from the imperial archives; others seem to be excerpts from books. I can’t find a theme.

One:

To the Emperor Constantine Augustus, from the Caesar Crispus. A heavy storm delayed our preparations and destroyed three ships, but the fleet is now ready and will sail tomorrow.

Another, a poem:

To reach the living, navigate the dead.

A third:

XII / Π I’m writing with deepest condolence for the death of your grandson.

I sneeze, and curse as papers fly off my makeshift table. The room’s full of dust. A dozen carved stone panels, each the weight of a horse, lean against the walls, waiting to be mounted in one of Constantine’s new monuments. Marble soldiers frozen in battle knock against my legs.

I pick up another fragment. The lamps gutter and flicker; my eyes are tired, unused to so much reading. My own name leaps out of the page at me.

Granted by order of the Augustus to Gaius Valerius Maximus: put all the resources of the imperial post at his disposal and give him whatever he requests to speed his journey to Pula.

There’s a date, but I don’t need to check it. The world’s gone dim; I think one of the lamps must have blown out. I put down the paper and lean my weight on the marble plaque.

What was Alexander doing with this?

The door flies open. The rush of air blows up the papers; one lands next to a lamp and catches fire. I flap at it, but my movements are numb and clumsy. Simeon runs in from the door, throws it on the floor and stamps it out before the whole pile goes up.

‘They want to see you.’

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 setting Symmachus up to take the blame. The only real question is who?

Constantine’s still watching me. So is Symmachus. Is this my chance to save an innocent man? I’ve spent the last five days investigating this murder, but now that it’s come to this sudden trial I can’t think of anything to say. I don’t have any lines in this play they’re acting out. I’m a prop, a blunt instrument to be wielded by others. In that respect, I’m not much different to Symmachus.

The imperial gaze moves on. Symmachus looks away, his last hope gone. The disgust on his face condemns me.

Constantine stares down and says a single word.

‘Deportatio.’

Exile. Symmachus will be stripped of his property, his citizenship, his family and his rights. Legally, he’ll cease to exist.

Symmachus closes his eyes. His whole body is trembling; the only thing keeping him upright must be pride. I remember what Porfyrius said about him. He’s a Stoic. Outward things cannot touch his soul. I don’t think his philosophy is much help now.

‘What about the bag, Augustus?’ Eusebius asks.

‘Burn it.’

The guards lead Symmachus away. Constantine steps down off his throne and disappears through a door. The play’s over; they’ve no more use for me. No one tries to stop me going. As soon as I’m out of the room, I run down the palace corridors, following the tramp of the guards’ boots. I catch up with them in an anteroom near the north gate.

‘Have you come to celebrate your success?’ Symmachus’s voice is dead.

‘I had nothing to do with it.’

‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he parrots back, falsetto. ‘I had nothing to do with Alexander’s murder, and yet here I am.’

‘I’m sorry.’

A grimace. He’s got so little left, even my sympathy counts for something.

‘Constantine’s a reasonable man,’ I persist. ‘In a few months, he’ll recall you.’

‘In a few months we’ll all be dead. Tell yourself anything else, it’s a lie. First they get rid of you; then they send the assassins.’

He wipes his forehead and gives me a look filled with hate.

‘You know how it goes.’