Murder in Megara

by Eric Mayer

  Carved into the wood under the wax was a short message. Evidently written in great haste, as witnessed by the uneven depth of its lines, one of which ended with a deep scratch stretching to the gouge which had alerted him to investigate further.

  The secret message was as cryptic as the original in that it appeared to be too innocent to require concealment:

  “Per July agreement. Delivered to Nisaea iron in agreed quantity.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Like all the ports John had ever passed through, Nisaea was a scene of controlled chaos. By the time he arrived, the evening sun cast long ropes of shadow across the crowded docks where lines of workers moved unceasingly between moored ships, piles of merchandise, warehouses, and waiting wagons. The last time John had seen this raucous ant heap was when he and his family landed after their journey into exile. It was with mixed feelings he paused and watched several men running around and between some large crates stacked at the edge of the nearest dock, leaving a lurid trail of loud oaths hovering in the humid air that smelled of spices, fish, and the droppings of cart animals.

  Now and then one of the men would leap upward and grab at something hidden from John’s view by the crates and then there would be another outburst of inventive swearing echoing across the water.

  It might have been some arcane ritual performed when landing cargo.

  However, he had not walked from his estate to the port to ponder local customs. What he sought was information on who had shipped a consignment of iron. Certainly it was an unremarkable, everyday kind of arrangement, but what raised his suspicions was why such a transaction should be recorded in a secret fashion when inscribing it on the wax surface of the tablet would have served as well.

  It did not seem normal business practice and was therefore worth investigating.

  He skirted a large fish tank sunk into the dock into which a pair of fishermen were transferring their catch from a boat that had seen better days, while a third man haggled about the price for a small octopus with a party who engaged in emphatic denigration of its value. Making his way to the harbormaster’s hut, John found a visitor arguing with the official in residence.

  “It wasn’t my fault they got away,” the visitor shouted at the furious harbormaster as John entered the cramped untidy space buzzing with flies. “It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

  “You mean one of your men let them loose deliberately to cause trouble, so your crew better catch them. The well-fed fool in Megara expecting them is not going to be very happy to hear his three monkeys have escaped and will probably never be seen again. Go and help the search and hurry up. His servant will be here in an hour or so to pick the demons up.”

  “I’ll borrow a fishing net, that should help trap ’em. If not, you could always say they died during the voyage.”

  “Possibly. I should have to levy a small charge to pay for that service. Now get on with it.”

  As the other left, the official turned to John. “What do you want?”

  His tone of voice made it plain his temper was short and his sunburnt face wore an angry expression emphasized by a deeply creased frown bridging dark eyebrows.

  “I wish to inquire about a shipment of iron for my estate.”

  “Your estate?” The harbormaster looked him up and down and sniffed, as if to say servants are all the same, talking about their estate as if they owned it. “You wish to know about an iron shipment? I know nothing about such a cargo and—”

  A hoarse burst of swearing entered by the open door as a man in a ragged tunic raced past waving his arms and screaming abuse at an unseen colleague who, it seemed, had allowed the hairy little bastards to escape.

  “It seems rather lively this evening,” John observed with a thin smile.

  The harbormaster glared at him. “As I was saying, I don’t know anything about a shipment of iron. Have you any proof it even belongs to your estate? Valuable goods, iron. I can’t authorize its release to any vagabond who arrives claiming ownership.”

  John, silently noting the harbormaster had just tacitly admitted he did in fact know of the shipment despite his initial denial, produced the tablet with the message burnt into it.

  “Ah,” the harbormaster said after a brief glance. “Yes. Yes, this proves you are entitled to information. I am instructed to release it only to a person carrying this message. We do have your shipment, sir, and I shall see it arrives at the estate as soon as possible. It will involve a small charge for delivery, the usual arrangement to release goods landed here if they are transported on to their destination.” He paused. “You are not the usual courier.”

  “I have not been in the area very long. Do you recall when the last shipment occurred?”

  The harbormaster shrugged. “No. And the businessman involved does not send documentation. I admit it is somewhat unusual but shipping iron isn’t illegal and, after all, we must be flexible in dealing with the contingencies of marine business. I don’t have time to ask questions, considering the volume of goods landed here daily.”

  John handed him a couple of coins. “The charge you mentioned and a little extra for the information.”

  The harbormaster grinned. “I see you are an honest businessman, sir.”

  “Then you will understand that, being honest, I need to know who the usual courier is, in case there is some irregularity.”

  “You are most conscientious, sir. I really don’t know anything further I can tell you other than the man has a scar on his face and not many teeth and the ones he has are all on one side of his mouth.” He rubbed his chin and screwed up his face as if thinking hard. “I wish I could remember where the shipment originated. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Sometimes it helps to think of something else. Like this.” John dropped another coin into the man’s hand.

  “You’re right, sir. Why, it just occurred to me when I was admiring Justinian’s profile. The vessels carrying these shipments sail from Corinth. As you are new to the area, I should warn you about Corinth. A notoriously sinful city since ancient times, where honest men are cheated and murdered and public women flaunt themselves.”

  “In some ways, then, it resembles Constantinople,” John observed as he turned to leave, stepping to one side to avoid a stout, perspiring man who rushed in as an agitated monkey leapt through the open window and scuttled into a corner.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Another evening, another port, this time Lechaion, the western port of Corinth. John had spent much of the day traveling. Who could the courier with the scar and singular arrangement of teeth have been except his stepfather? So John had come here, to the city where the mysterious shipment of iron had originated, to look for Theophilus’ past.

  Rows of masts pointed accusing fingers at the darkening sky, and intoxicated men were already staggering in and out of the taverns lining squalid alleys radiating away from the water. The dying sun gave its blush to white marble-faced civic buildings. A large basilica stood within sight of the inner harbor, a mass of busy streets stretching away around it. Herds of cows voiced loud bovine complaints as they were driven into pens in a nearby market.

  It was to an alley off a wide thoroughfare leading from the marketplace that John went in search of lodgings. By the time dusk had settled in and torches flared he had moved into a small room at the top of a house that leaned wearily on its two neighbors, inclining precipitously with them toward the rubbish-strewn ground to such a degree that going up the stairs meant a giddy, near crawling ascent to avoid tumbling down backward.

  The stairway was greasy, dimly lit, and malodorous, but had the advantage of creaking loudly when pressure was placed on its steps, giving tenants ample warning of visitors who, by the appearance of the area, might not be welcome.

  John took the room on a daily basis, being careful to pay in coins of the smallest value, and with one hand on th
e blade tucked in his belt as the landlord’s agent counted them.

  “What’s the best tavern in these parts?” he asked the agent, a wizened little man with a distinct stoop and gray hair.

  “Depends what you seek.” The reply was accompanied by a leer. “If it’s a woman looking for a friend, you can do no better than sample the delights of the tavern run by my son. Step outside and I’ll point it out to you.”

  The tavern to which the old man referred was a large establishment across the street and appeared well patronized. John noticed a huddled shape lying against the wall.

  Following his glance, his informant chuckled. “That’s Maritza. A harpy with red hair and a scorpion’s tongue,” he said. “She must have had good fortune and met a generous stranger tonight. Since her man went away she’s had to fend for herself. Easy enough if you’re a woman, but her ways are so well known in this quarter she hasn’t been able to find anyone to take his place yet.”

  The old man grew confidential. “Let me put it this way. I would not want to have her walking behind me in daylight, let alone in the middle of the night. She slashed the face of a girl who made a too-loud comment about aging whores in that very tavern. She keeps returning and my son is anxious about more outbursts from her in case the authorities get involved. Fortunately no one saw or knew anything about the first incident, if you follow me. Now, it happens my son has a couple of girls in residence who are as gentle as lambs and most willing to please. And when I say willing to please…”

  John endured a lurid description of the delights available for a few coins in the upper room of the tavern in hopes of gleaning useful information. With none forthcoming, he finally escaped from the garrulous agent and made his way across the street. As he approached the tavern, two men were thrown out. Struggling futilely, shouting oaths and insults, they resembled a couple of seagulls with broken wings doing their best to take flight but not quite succeeding. By the time the revelers had picked themselves up from the dirt and reeled away together singing loudly, the woman had gone.

  The tavern stank worse than the street. John went to the counter where the smell of fresher wine in vats sunk into its marble top and partially obscured the stench of stale wine, spilled or expelled onto the floor in various ways.

  John clicked a coin loudly on the counter until the owner appeared, glowered at him, and ladled out a drink. He wasn’t a big man, but he looked as tough as a charioteer, with a face resembling stained leather.

  “The next time you see Theophilus tell him a friend of his is looking for him.”

  The owner handed John a brimming cup. His face had suddenly become expressionless.

  “I was certain the bastard said this is where he came to sell our takings,” John said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “He told me the owner’s father had it all arranged with the authorities, to make it safe for business.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course I do. Out the window, across the roof, through the alley, straight in here, open your sack, and by the time the night watch arrives you’ll be strolling out with coins in hand and your merchandise off to good homes. Those were Theophilus’ words, and if he doesn’t know thievery, who does?”

  “I don’t want trouble,” the owner said.

  Two huge men whom John had taken for patrons had suddenly got up from the table where they were sitting. No doubt they had been the means by which the two revelers had been put, almost literally, to flight.

  “I’m certain your father doesn’t want trouble, either.”

  “My father knows it is wise to be silent. He didn’t tell you anything. Keep him out of this.”

  “Perhaps he knows what I need to know. Perhaps he’s easier to talk to.”

  The owner’s expression changed just enough to betray anxiety “Look, I never heard of this Theophilus. What does he look like?”

  John described his stepfather, again loudly, stressing the scar on his cheek and lack of teeth. He half turned to face the room and saw he had everyone’s attention. “It’s worth a lot to me to find him,” he concluded.

  “He hasn’t been in here. Perhaps he drinks in another tavern nearby. More likely he was lying to you.”

  John laughed. “You think I hadn’t considered that? The man’s a better liar than he is a thief. Has anyone else been in here, talking about iron shipments?”

  “Iron shipments? No.” The man’s obvious bemusement satisfied John that he was telling the truth. John took his cup and sat at a table as far away from the looming thugs as he could get. He sipped his drink slowly, hoping for someone to sidle up to him and whisper he had information on Theophilus, or a man with a scar, or some questionable dealings in iron, but no one did. After a time he surreptitiously emptied most of his wine onto the floor and left. He had a number of other taverns yet to visit.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Hypatia was talking with Philip yet again.

  From her bedroom window Cornelia could see them standing where the dirt track behind the house passed through a sagging gate in a ruined fence. Hypatia’s basket was full of the herbs she had gathered. Perhaps she was talking to Philip about the herb bed she intended to start, a larger version of the one she had cultivated in the inner garden of John’s house in Constantinople, rather than meeting Philip by arrangement.

  At least that was what Cornelia hoped.

  Philip was supposed to be patrolling the boundaries of the estate and yet he invariably appeared to meet Hypatia whenever she went out.

  Hypatia turned away and continued down the path. Philip followed, gesturing, saying something Cornelia couldn’t hear.

  Cornelia pulled herself away from the window, feeling guilty and chagrined at feeling guilty. She certainly had the right to know how her servants were behaving, particularly when it might lead to disruptions in the household. Nevertheless, what she could only admit was spying made her uncomfortable.

  She caught the mummified cat staring at her.

  “No, Cheops,” she muttered. “No matter how isolated we are here I refuse to start talking to you.”

  She went downstairs to the kitchen still contemplating the problem. She could, and probably should, order Hypatia not to spend time with Philip, or ask John to change the young man’s duties. It wouldn’t do to have their only two servants quarreling.

  Traveling around the empire as a performer in a troupe had not prepared Cornelia to serve as mistress of a wealthy household, and neither had her years sharing John’s spartan life in the capital where his only servants had been, just as here, Peter and Hypatia.

  They were more like family than servants.

  Hypatia came in and set her basket down. It looked heavy. She’d dug up herbs by the roots for planting. Her cheeks were red from the exertion of carrying the basket, or from anger or some other strong emotion.

  “Are you and Peter…?” Cornelia paused, groping for words that would not seem offensive.

  “He’s only a little bruised and scratched and my bump is getting smaller.” Hypatia gingerly touched her head.

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant are you…well, it’s been hard for all of us coming here. A big change. And you and Peter have already had a big change in your lives.”

  Hypatia bent and settled some plants threatening to fall out of the basket more securely. The mixed scents of the herbs and fresh earth filled the air. “We’re happy, mistress.”

  “Sit down, Hypatia. I want to talk with you.”

  ***

  “Certainly I have time to talk to you, Peter. I hope our conversation the other night was helpful.” Abbot Alexis pushed a stack of codices out of the way and regarded Peter, seated on the opposite side of the table in the monastery study. “You remain fretful about this marriage of yours to a younger woman. Is that so?”

  Peter nodded

  “
Are you familiar with the teachings of the apostle Paul?”

  “Yes. In fact I have a special fondness for him.” Peter reached into the neck of his tunic and fished out a small, crude coin attached to a string. “I have taken to wearing this lucky coin around my neck. We need protection here. The coin is from Derbe. I found it along the way when I was serving in the military. I know that it sounds blasphemous to say it is a good luck charm, but Paul preached in Derbe and sometimes I think perhaps it fell from Paul’s own purse, or he may have sat to rest near where it was dropped, and that something of his spirit remains in it. But that isn’t what I came to talk about.”

  Peter chided himself silently, exasperated. Why had he babbled about his coin? Was he too nervous and upset to control his tongue? Or was that another ability one gradually lost with old age?

  Thankfully the abbot did not appear offended. In fact he smiled. “An portable icon one might say. There is nothing blasphemous about icons. We know that although the saints are everywhere they are most strongly where their icons are displayed.”

  Peter turned the worn coin over thoughtfully before tucking it back into place. “My belief is not wrong then?”

  “Not at all. Who knows what, exactly, the truth is? So long as we are making an honest effort to find it, where is the harm? The pagans I studied had their own icons, which they called idols. Yes, they were wrong. But they were trying to find the truth. Just as you are.”

  Peter wasn’t certain it was necessarily a good thing to be compared to ancient pagans.

  “You must be aware that Paul recommended marriage to those with less fortitude than himself,” the abbot said. “Better to marry than to burn.”

  Peter felt his face getting hot. “Yes, but, that wasn’t…well…” What could he say? At his age he didn’t burn. There might still be a warm coal buried under the ashes in the brazier.

  “You don’t need to be embarrassed, Peter.” The abbot went on to talk at length, citing scripture and the teachings of the church fathers.