Murder in Megara

by Eric Mayer

  “But he isn’t as vindictive as Theodora, and she’s dead now and can’t influence him,” Cornelia argued.

  “You said I shouldn’t bow to threats. Do you think I should consider leaving?”

  Cornelia frowned and kicked irritably at a hen pecking near her sandals. “No, it’s just the situation. It’s maddening being…well…”

  “Being in prison, essentially. Which is what exile amounts to, though it is a very large prison to be sure, unlike the one where Diocles had those men chained up.”

  “They’re gone?”

  “Peter said they took to their heels as soon as the blacksmith struck off their shackles. They were free to stay on as hired men and continue working here but they must have feared the overseer would return or I would change my mind. I can’t blame them.”

  “That’s what enrages me, John. We’re don’t have as much freedom as slaves.”

  “They were freed slaves.”

  “Yes. I know you refuse to employ slaves.”

  “As were Hypatia and Peter once. And I was one myself, remember. After the Persians captured—”

  She placed her hand on his where it pressed lightly against the warm stone. “Let’s not talk about that.”

  “It’s hard to avoid the past when you’re forced to look at its landscapes every day.”

  “You’ve managed to avoid much of it, John. We haven’t visited the farmhouse where you grew up yet and you’ve told me nothing about your stepfather. You’ve been no more forthcoming than you were during our years in Constantinople.”

  John lifted his gaze to the sky above the distant hills, not staring into the past but looking away from the farmyard that reminded him too much of the past. “He treated our slaves cruelly.”

  “Boys always hate their stepfathers, John.”

  “It was more than that.”

  “Theophilus came back looking for you while you were in Megara.”

  John jerked his gaze away from the sky to look with unconcealed concern at Cornelia. “What did he want? I clearly ordered him to stay away! Did me make any threats?”

  “No. He just said he wished to see you.”

  “About what? Did he say why?”

  Cornelia’s expression clouded. “Well, he did mention he’s fallen on hard times. He wondered if he could borrow some money to—”

  John offered her a bitter smile. “You see? I have the measure of the man, don’t I? He dared come around here begging, from me of all people!”

  “You are his son by marriage, John, and I suppose he was hoping to trade on that.”

  John squeezed her hand. “Doubtless you noticed that scar on his cheek? I put it there, during a fight—our last fight—before I went to Plato’s Academy. I was sent to Athens largely to get me away from Theophilus.”

  “But surely your mother wanted you to have an education?”

  “She did, but Theophilus wouldn’t have paid for it if he hadn’t been afraid of me. I should never have gone. I don’t know how my mother managed to deal with him on her own afterward.”

  “He mistreated her?”

  John released her hand and stood abruptly. “Enjoyable as it is sitting here with you, I’ve lingered too long. I must continue going over the estate records.”

  Cornelia got up slowly, smoothing her tunic. A couple of wispy chicken feathers wafted into the air. “You’ve always been mysterious about your family. Perhaps it would be helpful to talk about it.”

  “So people say. It isn’t. Talking about one’s problems just creates a new burden for the listener. Besides, I would have to remember things I would far rather forget.”

  “Young men become angry, leave home, and vow never to see their families again, but then they grow up and often change their minds.”

  “The man I am now was never young. The youngster who ran off to become a mercenary was another person altogether, living a different life. The man who arrived in Constantinople as a slave and rose to hold the post of Lord Chamberlain was not the youth who left Plato’s Academy.”

  “But, John, that’s not true. I knew the young mercenary and I know the former slave. They are one and the same.” She kissed his cheek lightly. “And both of them are maddeningly obstinate.”

  Chapter Seven

  So the City Defender was of the opinion they should leave Megara before they became the target of something worse than a few thrown stones?

  Cornelia stamped into the bedroom she shared with John. Her gaze fell on the mummified cat they had brought back to Constantinople after a visit to Egypt years earlier.

  “Well, Cheops,” she said to it, “you must be the most well-traveled cat in the empire. I wish we could take you back to your home and stay there. But we can’t leave, whatever the City Defender thinks.”

  And now, she thought, here I am talking to an inanimate object, as John used to talk to the girl in the mosaic on his study wall.

  “How will he manage,” she asked Cheops, “now that he has no one but me to confide in?” The polished glass eyes in the shriveled feline head protruding from the bandage wrappings regarded his inquisitor with disapproval.

  “No,” Cornelia agreed, “it wasn’t fair to ask that.”

  She sat down at a table made of citron wood inlaid with silver. The late senator’s wife might have kept pots of cosmetics on it, if she could have been persuaded to leave Constantinople temporarily for what would doubtless have seemed very poor quarters in Greece.

  “I blame myself for bringing John to this place,” she informed Cheops. She took up a kalamos from a silver tray that also held an ink pot, and began to compose a letter to Anatolius, John’s younger friend, the lawyer who had arranged for the purchase of the estate several years before, at a time no one could have foreseen John being exiled.

  She had no one to speak to here about subjects John did not want to discuss. Her inclination was to confide in Hypatia, but that was improper. Not that Cornelia intended to share confidences with Anatolius. Rather, she thought he should be apprised of the situation. After all, he had paid them a visit just after their arrival and related the news from the capital. She also held on to the hope that as a former secretary to Justinian he might still have the emperor’s ear and speak on John’s behalf.

  Philip, the farmer’s son who had been pestering Hypatia, reminded her of Anatolius. He was a rustic version of the classically handsome patrician lawyer. She supposed every time she saw Philip now she would be reminded of Constantinople, and all that she and John had left behind.

  “I don’t want to return to the city,” she murmured, “but if John is going to be unhappy here, and if we are going to be in danger…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Cheops knew what she meant.

  She dipped her kalamos in the inkpot and then scratched out the usual salutations.

  She paused, deciding what to say. She stared at Cheops, who offered no suggestions. She turned the kalamos around, examining it, as if there might be some words hanging to its point. Finally she got up, opened the chest at the bottom of the bed, and dug through clothing and ornamental boxes until she found the note Anatolius had sent her some years before. Returning to the table she sat and read part of it again:

  “I made inquiries after you mentioned wanting to buy an estate near Megara and discovered the heirs of the recently deceased Senator Vinius are eager to rid themselves of his holdings in that area of Greece. I only mention this because by chance the land includes the farm where John grew up, according to the information you gave me. It may therefore be of sentimental value to you with your hopes of retiring to Greece, although I would not count on John to share such sentiments. The report I obtained from the agent I sent indicates the estate includes the usual rocky fields and meadows, mainly suitable for raising sheep although there is a vineyard and several olive groves. The main buildings are not particularly large. There is no v
illa, only a few rooms set aside for temporary visits by the owner. As an investment the land is useless. It includes a few tenants. The place has been allowed to go to ruin since the senator rarely visited. I believe the heirs are selling it for a pittance because they want to shed its taxes. Although I feel duty-bound to mention the estate to you because of its location, I strongly advise against purchasing it.”

  Good advice as it turned out. Cornelia bit her lip, angry with herself.

  Why had she insisted on looking for an estate where they could eventually retire, away from the intrigues of the court? John had often voiced that desire to her privately, at least at times of frustration or when he felt she might be endangered. Then again, he had consented to her search and to the purchase. He had—or used to have—estates scattered around the empire, thanks to his high position, but he never paid much attention to them or even to the income they produced. He preferred to live in austerity, so difficult for a man of his wealth. Now the task was easier.

  She resumed writing:

  “You were correct about the estate being in disrepair. You were also correct about John’s lack of sentimentality. Thus far he has not visited his family’s farmhouse, but as it turns out, one of his family has unexpectedly visited him.”

  She scribbled an account of Theophilus’ appearances, then went on to describe the dangers of going into the city.

  “It is remarkable how much they hate us and are willing to view everything in the worst possible light. Yet when we first arrived here I thought the Goddess had smiled upon us. Who could have predicted that when John’s other holdings were confiscated this estate would be our only refuge? Realizing this, I made an offering of fruit and wine to Her the night we arrived. Need I tell you news of these so-called hellish rites has already reached Megara?”

  The corner where she sat was beginning to grow dark. Writing rapidly and almost blindly, she related events up to and including the veiled threat from the City Defender.

  “John again finds himself enmeshed in a dangerous situation, and in addition to the menace posed by the townspeople I am afraid there is the real risk that an imperial assassin might appear at our door. Of course, I am hoping that the emperor’s whim will suddenly jump in the opposite direction and John will be recalled. Please let us know what you hear. If you have a chance to speak in John’s favor, discreetly of course, I know you will do so. How ironic it is. You told us that Senator Vinius was an avid hunter. Yet now that John owns his estate it is we who are being hunted.”

  Cornelia sat back and looked at her letter. After a while she lifted it, shook it gently, making sure the ink was dry.

  “There, Cheops. Now I’ve got that off my mind I should feel much better. Only I don’t.” She looked crossly at the silent cat. “Is that all you have to say?”

  She crumpled the letter and threw it at Cheops. It hit him on his withered snout and bounced away.

  He remained adamantly silent.

  Chapter Eight

  Peter lit the lamp and its flame cast an unsteady orange illumination around the ground floor quarters he shared with Hypatia. The foreman of the laborers had lived here, during the time when the overseer required a foreman. The only furniture was a couple of stools, the round wooden table on which the clay lamp sat, and an enormous dining couch covered in blue silk, with silver fittings and elaborately turned legs, banished from the owner’s quarters by John, who found them uncomfortably crowded with luxurious furnishings.

  Seeing their cramped space, Peter sighed. The room had not been designed to accommodate a couch fit for a banquet hall but he could scarcely refuse the master’s generous gift, and Hypatia had been delighted with it.

  “I fear the master’s plans to repair one of the abandoned houses on the estate for us will come to nothing,” Peter said. “It may be impossible to persuade anyone to come from town to do the job, and there are not so many workers on the farm that they could be spared for the task. Not that I should complain. The master needs to have a proper villa built. He and the mistress can’t be expected to keep on living in rooms that were only meant for short stays.” His expression showed outrage.

  “I can’t speak for the master or mistress, but we’re perfectly cozy here,” Hypatia replied. She was sitting on the couch with her legs drawn up.

  “The place smells like the Mese on a damp day or the stables under the Hippodrome.”

  “That may be so, but it’s a good honest smell.”

  Peter looked out the door across the darkening courtyard. A dim light showed through a window in the second story opposite. “I observed the master go out not long ago. He was annoyed. I could tell by the way he carried himself.”

  “You understand him better than I do. His expression never seems to change.”

  “An excellent talent to have in Justinian’s court.” Peter closed the door. “We don’t want chickens getting in again.”

  Hypatia laughed. “You never thought you’d be awakened by a chicken clucking away on your chest when we lived in Constantinople!”

  Peter sat down beside her. He had to shoo away two cats, one large and black, the other small and mottled brown. They retreated with ill grace. “You are supposed to be in the barn working,” he scolded them. “Useless, idle things.”

  The cats glared malevolently at the human who had usurped their privileged position.

  “If you’re unhappy with our rooms, Peter, perhaps the master could direct the estate watchmen to help rebuild a house?” Hypatia suggested. “Do you think I should ask Cornelia about it?”

  “You mean the mistress,” Peter corrected her firmly.

  “Yes, the mistress.”

  “Craftsmen are needed for that sort of work. The watchmen are most likely not qualified to do it. I don’t even think they’re qualified to watch.”

  “The young man in charge of them strikes me as competent.”

  “Competent? Perhaps, when the biggest threat is a sheep disappearing now and then and showing up again disguised with a fine sauce on a table in Megara. But for protecting us against those set on forcing us to leave?”

  The black cat suddenly leapt onto the table, drawn by a moth fluttering around the lamp. Hypatia leaned over, picked the animal up, and sat it in her lap.

  Peter’s wrinkled face wrinkled even further with displeasure. “We shall be overrun with vermin. Those cats shouldn’t be in here.”

  “The cat is sacred and I would never harm one, as you know well enough. I hope I have not offended the gods by ducking this pair in a bucket of water to get rid of their fleas.” Hypatia stroked the cat. “Don’t listen to that man,” she told it and turned her attention back to Peter. “It would make me feel safer if the watchmen were properly armed with spears and swords rather than sharpened wooden staves.”

  Peter shook his head. “You would be surprised, Hypatia. Even as a humble cook in the military I learned how much damage such apparently puny weapons can inflict if wielded correctly. Consider the giant Cyclops Odysseus and his men escaped. And how? By plunging just such a sharpened stave into its one eye.”

  “At least a Cyclops is something we don’t need to worry about here.”

  “We don’t have to worry about well-armed and armored legions either. A sharp stave is perfectly sufficient to deal with the sort of villains who might seek to do us harm.”

  “Still—”

  “Besides, the master could not obtain weapons legally. Those who are authorized to manufacture weapons are not allowed to sell them to private citizens. The master’s situation is precarious enough as it is. He must be careful not to run afoul of the law. His enemies would pounce on anything like that.”

  “Do you suppose they are intent on having him eliminated entirely?”

  “Exile is never sufficient for one’s enemies. You know Justinian’s whims. The exiled can return. The dead, of course, cannot.”

&nbs
p; Peter had become animated in his exasperation. The black cat squirmed, lifting its head, its attention attracted now by the shadows moving on the wall behind the couch. Hypatia scratched its scarred and tattered ears. “How would the master’s enemies know what he’s doing? You don’t think they’ve sent spies here?”

  “It would be a minor matter for a wealthy man to hire spies, and the emperor has almost certainly sent his own agent to keep an eye on his former Lord Chamberlain. For all Justinian knows, the master might be plotting revenge, and I am certain the master could exact revenge in some form if he were not the honorable man he is.”

  “Illegal it may be but I would feel more comfortable if there were a few well-sharpened swords and spears close at hand. Philip told me—”

  “Philip? You mean the young lout who’s been hanging around the kitchen?”

  “He’s a pleasant enough young man.”

  “He’s a chickpea!”

  Hypatia giggled. “Oh, Peter, calling someone a chickpea!”

  Peter bit back a sharp retort. He found himself not only staring at her but also seeing her. She was Hypatia, his long-time colleague, companion, wife, a collection of qualities he loved. With a sudden shock, he saw the dark eyes sparkling in the lamplight, the raven wing of hair falling across the smooth brow. He saw a woman. A young woman. Much younger than he was and moreover of a similar age as the wretched watchman.

  “That rustic boy has been paying far too much attention to you, Hypatia. His task is to guard the estate, not to loiter in the kitchen gazing at you as if you were a honey cake on a platter.”

  “Peter! I never noticed him looking at me like that.” She straightened her legs and sat bolt upright, alarming the cat, which jumped to the floor.

  “Of course you didn’t notice. He made sure you didn’t.”

  She reached toward him and he felt her fingers run softly down his bristly cheek. “And even if he had designs, you don’t think I would care, do you? We’re married, remember.”