Secrets of the Dead by Tom Harper Read Free Book Online Page B

out in tufts from behind his ears. He’s wearing a toga: he must be getting ready to go somewhere, though for the moment it just enhances the impression that he’s an anachronism. But his jaw is firm, and the eyes that watch me are as clear as diamonds.
    We exchange pleasantries and size each other up. I suspect he dismisses me as a jumped-up soldier who’s risen beyond all reason on a great man’s coat-tails. He probably thinks I see him as a fossil of an order that passed a hundred years ago. Neither of us is entirely wrong. But neither of us has lived as long as we have without keeping an open mind.
    ‘Were you at the Egyptian Library this afternoon?’ I ask.
    His stick scratches the ground, leaving a snake trail in the dust. ‘I was.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘To read.’ He cocks a bushy white eyebrow, as if to say I expected more of you .
    ‘Who were you reading? Hierocles, maybe?’
    ‘Not today. Seneca, I always go back to, and Marcus Aurelius. They speak to our age.’
    The mask on his face hasn’t moved. Neither has mine. His stick still draws patterns in the dust.
    ‘What do they say?’ I ask.
    ‘How ridiculous it is to be surprised at anything that happens.’ The stick pauses. ‘Imagine what I’ve seen in my life. Civil wars and peace. Sometimes one emperor, sometimes many, sometimes none. A bizarre cult condemned by one emperor, and that same cult now triumphant. Everything changes – even the gods.’
    Does he think I’m seventeen? I know all this. But I’m not going to let him distract me playing the rambling old man.
    ‘A man died in the library today.’
    His face doesn’t change. ‘Alexander of Cyrene.’
    ‘You knew him?’
    ‘He was the Emperor’s friend. That alone made him worth knowing.’
    I admire the old philosopher’s ambiguous phrasing. That alone – or – that only ? We both know he might be talking about me.
    ‘Did you see him there?’
    ‘It’s not a bathhouse. I don’t go there for company.’
    ‘When did you leave the library?’
    ‘When the sun had moved round off my desk.’ He brushes his hand over his eyes. ‘My sight’s not as strong as it was.’
    ‘Did you know Alexander was dead when you left?’
    ‘Of course not. Otherwise, I’d have stayed.’
    ‘To see what happened?’
    ‘So as not to look guilty.’
    A pause. I look at the fish in the pool, as still as the reflections on the water. The house is close to the Via Mesi, Constantinople’s great thoroughfare, but the walls do a good job keeping out the sound. I can hear servants in the rooms inside, filling lamps and fetching crockery. It’s late in the day. The sun’s come so low it’s prised its way under the lip of the portico, washing the paintings and the statues in gold. My gaze wanders over them – and stops.
    ‘Who’s that?’
    I take two steps towards the bust that’s caught my eye, but Symmachus’s voice outpaces me.
    ‘Hierocles.’
    Does he sound surprised? Was he expecting me to notice?
    ‘Do you read him?’ he asks. ‘You should. He was no friend of new religions. Nor are you, I hear.’
    I murmur Constantine’s old platitude, ‘Every man should be free to worship in the way that seems best to him.’
    ‘Perhaps that’s why you fell out with the Emperor,’ he taunts me. I don’t rise to the provocation. He must know it’s not true, but he carries on regardless. ‘They say you’re not seen at the palace as often as you were.’
    I turn politely. ‘There was a bust of Hierocles in the library. Someone used it to smash Bishop Alexander’s skull.’
    Another pause. Our eyes lock.
    ‘Has Constantine made you his stationarius now? A thief-taker dragging good men into the gutter?’ His tone is even, but his craggy face is alight with rage. ‘The penalty for bringing unsubstantiated charges is steep, Gaius Valerius. Even with the Emperor behind you, I doubt you could afford it.’
    ‘Everyone knows your attitude to the Christians.’ At the far end of the garden, beside