‘A promotion?’
Another guess – and right again. Simeon can see the drift of my questions and is starting to look uncomfortable.
‘You’ve done well out of Alexander’s death.’
‘If you want to be malicious.’
‘Didn’t it feel wrong?’ I push him. ‘Taking the patronage of your dead master’s enemy?’
‘Alexander and Eusebius had a quarrel that went back to Nicaea. It was none of my business.’
‘Alexander was going to stop Eusebius becoming Patriarch of Constantinople.’
‘It’s a free vote among the clergy, and he was one voice.’ Simeon shakes his head in frustration, wanting me to understand. ‘It’s not like your world. We argue and debate, but with humility. We don’t have to obliterate our opponents to win. God is the only judge we recognise.’
We don’t have to obliterate our opponents. Was that aimed at me? He’s so young, so earnest, I could almost believe he doesn’t know my past.
I stick to my line. ‘Alexander did get obliterated,’ I point out. ‘It could hardly have been more convenient for Eusebius – the last obstacle removed from his path. He won.’
‘You’re seeing patterns where they don’t exist.’
‘Am I? Researching his history, Alexander dug deep. There was plenty of scandalous material in that document case. Some of it concerned Eusebius.’
‘He never let me see what was in it.’
I step closer. ‘You were at the library with Alexander – probably the last man to see him alive. Then I found you at his ransacked apartment, looking through his papers. You brought the message from Symmachus’s slave that set up the meeting where he handed over the case, and you were there to make sure he was caught.’
He isn’t afraid – I’ll give him that. He’s looking at me as if I’m mad: as if the only person I’m condemning by carrying on is myself.
‘Symmachus had the documents,’ he reminds me.
‘You were spying for Eusebius all along. When he realised what Alexander knew, he had you kill the old man in the library. You used the bust of Hierocles to make it look as if Symmachus had done it, and when that wasn’t enough, you gave his slave the document case and arranged the meeting to set him up. And when even that wouldn’t do, you broke into his house and faked his suicide.’
There’s a strange look on his face, but it isn’t guilt or fear or even anger. He’s preternaturally calm. I think he’s pitying me.
‘I had the key to Alexander’s apartment,’ he points out. ‘If – as you say – Eusebius wanted me to get rid of Alexander, why would I do it so violently in a public place? Why would I go to such elaborate lengths to provide a scapegoat? Why not just go into his room one night and kill him there? Especially if I’m so adept at faking a suicide?’
Give the Christians credit: they know how to argue. Was he always like this? He seems different from before – stronger, more confident. I remember the first time I saw him, glowing with anger, dripping sparks at every prod. Now the steel’s been quenched cold.
His answers are so ready it’s easy to believe he’s prepared them in advance. Or maybe the story I’m trying to weave is so threadbare it’s easy to poke holes.
And then there’s Porfyrius’s question. Why draw attention to Symmachus by killing him? Why not just let the old man go into exile?
A great weariness overwhelms me. I feel faint; I start to sway. Simeon grabs my arm and tries to guide me to a bench, but I shake him off. He stands back, eyes shining.
‘The Augustus knew that a Christian couldn’t have done it.
That’s why he asked you to investigate. He knew it was an adept of the old religion who had done this.’
Sharp anger cuts through the daze. ‘I’m sick of being told a Christian couldn’t have done it. All you ever do is fight each other.’
‘You don’t know anything about Christians.’
‘Do you remember the Council of Nicaea?’
He shrugs. ‘I was twelve years old.’
‘I was there. Two hundred and fifty bishops brought together, and all they could do was quarrel.’
‘Of course they argued. We argue all the time; we can’t help ourselves. But only because it matters so much to us.’ He starts two sentences, breaks off, recomposes himself and tries again.
‘Have you ever loved someone?’
It’s the last thing I expect him to say. But he wasn’t trying to be cruel. His face is open: he meant it honestly, trying to tap a common root we must both share. At his age, he can’t imagine it’s possible to live without passion.
What do I say? Do I tell him about the women I’ve had? That I married late, badly and briefly, when it became clear I’d never marry into the imperial family? That’s not what he’s asking about. The true answer is: yes, I’ve loved. And look what it’s done to me.
‘I’ve loved.’
He nods, pleased. ‘And when you love someone, you want to find out every detail of their existence. You want to know every thought, every feeling, because the more you know them the more you love them.’
I don’t understand. ‘Are you talking about your God?’
‘We argue because we want to know Him. Because we love Him.’
‘How can you love a god?’ Gods are terrible and dangerous, capricious as fire. Constantine’s enjoyed their favour more than any man, but even he’s never shaken off the terror of losing it.
Simeon leans forward. ‘All your life you’ve been walking in darkness – and in the dark, the world is a frightening place. But Christ came to bring light. He tore down the curtain and let us see the light of God’s love. Do you know what Saint John says? “God so loved the world that he gave us his only son, so that we could believe and have eternal life.” Not your gods, who break men like playthings. Our God sacrificed his only son out of love for His creation. Can you imagine it?’
I can’t stand it any more. I turn and start walking away, as fast as I can.
‘I’ll pray for you!’ he calls after me.
I look back over my shoulder, but don’t break stride. ‘You can pray I find out who really killed Alexander.’
I need a bath. I’ve been up since before dawn and I feel filthy. Dust’s got in my hair, on my cheeks, even on my tongue. Every time I look at my forearm I shudder at the thought of Symmachus’s poisoned pool.
It’s a private bathhouse, quite large, but I’m well known there. Most of the men who frequent it work in the government. In the main courtyard, young men box and wrestle and strut, as young men do, while their friends look on in knots. In the shadows of the arcade, hawkers drift around with their boxes of oils, combs and foreign potions that will make us stronger or more handsome.
I undress in the changing rooms, and make my way to the tepidarium. Some days I find the shock of the cold pool invigorates my old body; today, I need warmth. I tip the attendant to make sure the pedlars and masseurs don’t bother me, and slide into the warm water. I close my eyes.
My thoughts drift in the water. Is Simeon guilty – of Alexander’s murder, or Symmachus’s, or both? I still can’t decide. Simeon was so sincere, he’s almost persuaded me to believe him.
But then, I know it’s possible for a murderer to live with his crime as if it never happened.
In my mind, I see poor Symmachus slumped in his garden. Maybe it was a suicide. Other Stoics have chosen that route. Cato, whose marble head is now sunk in Symmachus’s fishpond; Seneca, the great philosopher and statesman who plotted to assassinate Nero. He died in a bath, opening his veins so that the heat would draw the blood out of him. Though I’ve heard another version: that he didn’t die of his wounds, but actually suffocated from the steam.
I think I’ll avoid the hot room today. Seneca wasn’t the last person to die in a hot bath.