the door, I can see the small shrine of the lararium , where he venerates his household gods. They’re not so fashionable these days, I hear. Lots of families have moved them out of sight, into a back room where they can be safely ignored.
‘ Every man should be free to worship in the way that seems best .’ He spits the words back at me, bobbing up and down. I watch him carefully. The anger’s too real to be manufactured – at my age, I can tell the difference – but that doesn’t mean he can’t control it.
‘Free to worship – as long as it’s for the public good.’
He bangs his stick on the ground. ‘If you want to accuse me of murder, say so. Say it, or get out of my house.’
But at that moment, a new actor enters our drama through the door by the lararium . He must be even older than me, but he has an air – a boyish grace, a carelessness – which makes him seem younger. His face is still handsome, his hair still dark, his smile still easy. He’s munching on a fig, and he throws the peel into the fishpond as he passes. It’s the first time I’ve seen the fish move.
Symmachus forces himself to swallow his anger.
‘Gaius Valerius,’ he introduces me. ‘This is my friend Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius.’
The name catches me by surprise: it’s not the first time I’ve heard it today. It’s on my scroll of paper.
‘Were you in the Egyptian Library today?’
I try to phrase it blandly, but he’s attuned enough to catch the undertone of suspicion. He gives me a curious look. ‘Is it a crime?’
‘A man was murdered there,’ says Symmachus. Is there weight in the glance that accompanies the words, a warning? Porfyrius doesn’t seem to notice. He laughs, as if the old man’s made a joke.
He sees that neither of us has joined in and his laugh trails off. He looks between us.
‘But I was there myself,’ he exclaims, redundantly. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘I’d gone to meet Alexander of Cyrene.’
I wait for him to notice the look I’m giving him. I wait for the penny to drop. It doesn’t take long.
‘No.’
Porfyrius looks stunned. He recoils, as if he’s felt the blow himself; he throws up his hands. Every movement’s overdone, like an actor on the stage. Though, like an actor, it seems natural when he does it.
‘Clubbed over the head,’ Symmachus adds.
All the life’s gone out of Porfyrius. He sits on the edge of the pond, his head in his hands. ‘He was alive and well when I left him.’
‘Why were you there?’
‘The Augustus had commissioned him to write some sort of history. I served twice as Prefect of Rome – perhaps you remember? – and he wanted to check some facts about my tenure.’
‘What sort of facts?’
‘The monuments Constantine erected. The arch the Senate dedicated to him. Small details.’
‘Did he seem frightened? Any hint of something worrying him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Alexander’s secretary said he had a document case. Do you remember it?’
‘Yes … no …’ Porfyrius drops his head. ‘I don’t remember.’
I pull out the necklace Constantine gave me.
‘Do either of you recognise this?’
That forces them to look towards me, though they give nothing away. Both these men are so well schooled in the ways of court I could pull out their own mothers’ heads and neither one would flinch.
Porfyrius stands, and moves closer to examine it.
‘It reminds me of the Emperor’s monogram. But not quite.’
He’s right. Constantine’s monogram is an X superimposed on a P, thus:. The version in the necklace is subtly different, the two characters melded into one:. I ought to have noticed straight away.
‘You didn’t see anyone at the library wearing this?’
Porfyrius shakes his head. Symmachus just scowls.
‘There were no women at the library,’ Porfyrius says.
‘But plenty of Christians.’ Symmachus is standing on the line where sun gives way to shadow. Half his face is bright
‘ Every man should be free to worship in the way that seems best .’ He spits the words back at me, bobbing up and down. I watch him carefully. The anger’s too real to be manufactured – at my age, I can tell the difference – but that doesn’t mean he can’t control it.
‘Free to worship – as long as it’s for the public good.’
He bangs his stick on the ground. ‘If you want to accuse me of murder, say so. Say it, or get out of my house.’
But at that moment, a new actor enters our drama through the door by the lararium . He must be even older than me, but he has an air – a boyish grace, a carelessness – which makes him seem younger. His face is still handsome, his hair still dark, his smile still easy. He’s munching on a fig, and he throws the peel into the fishpond as he passes. It’s the first time I’ve seen the fish move.
Symmachus forces himself to swallow his anger.
‘Gaius Valerius,’ he introduces me. ‘This is my friend Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius.’
The name catches me by surprise: it’s not the first time I’ve heard it today. It’s on my scroll of paper.
‘Were you in the Egyptian Library today?’
I try to phrase it blandly, but he’s attuned enough to catch the undertone of suspicion. He gives me a curious look. ‘Is it a crime?’
‘A man was murdered there,’ says Symmachus. Is there weight in the glance that accompanies the words, a warning? Porfyrius doesn’t seem to notice. He laughs, as if the old man’s made a joke.
He sees that neither of us has joined in and his laugh trails off. He looks between us.
‘But I was there myself,’ he exclaims, redundantly. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘I’d gone to meet Alexander of Cyrene.’
I wait for him to notice the look I’m giving him. I wait for the penny to drop. It doesn’t take long.
‘No.’
Porfyrius looks stunned. He recoils, as if he’s felt the blow himself; he throws up his hands. Every movement’s overdone, like an actor on the stage. Though, like an actor, it seems natural when he does it.
‘Clubbed over the head,’ Symmachus adds.
All the life’s gone out of Porfyrius. He sits on the edge of the pond, his head in his hands. ‘He was alive and well when I left him.’
‘Why were you there?’
‘The Augustus had commissioned him to write some sort of history. I served twice as Prefect of Rome – perhaps you remember? – and he wanted to check some facts about my tenure.’
‘What sort of facts?’
‘The monuments Constantine erected. The arch the Senate dedicated to him. Small details.’
‘Did he seem frightened? Any hint of something worrying him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Alexander’s secretary said he had a document case. Do you remember it?’
‘Yes … no …’ Porfyrius drops his head. ‘I don’t remember.’
I pull out the necklace Constantine gave me.
‘Do either of you recognise this?’
That forces them to look towards me, though they give nothing away. Both these men are so well schooled in the ways of court I could pull out their own mothers’ heads and neither one would flinch.
Porfyrius stands, and moves closer to examine it.
‘It reminds me of the Emperor’s monogram. But not quite.’
He’s right. Constantine’s monogram is an X superimposed on a P, thus:. The version in the necklace is subtly different, the two characters melded into one:. I ought to have noticed straight away.
‘You didn’t see anyone at the library wearing this?’
Porfyrius shakes his head. Symmachus just scowls.
‘There were no women at the library,’ Porfyrius says.
‘But plenty of Christians.’ Symmachus is standing on the line where sun gives way to shadow. Half his face is bright
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