Murder in Megara

by Eric Mayer

  The City Defender seemed to consider this. “I see. I will allow it to pass. I have noted that your watchmen have been equipped quite legally.”

  “Thank you.” John’s tone was acerbic. “Before I leave, Georgios, I wish to consult you on the matter of my property.”

  The City Defender frowned. “There will be no compensation, if that is what you wish to argue about. A seller of fish has fewer financial resources than a man who owns an estate, and in this instance he was obviously not responsible for his behavior.”

  “The man who owns an estate, in this instance, is twice injured. Once by those who sought to burn his house down and then again by the man who purports to administer justice. But in fact the matter on which I wished to talk to you relates to records applying to my property. I wish to consult them.”

  Georgios shrugged. “It is not possible, I am afraid. Many of our land records were destroyed some years back in a fire. Ironic, is it not? However, in that particular case the fire followed an earthquake.”

  “An earthquake, as I recall, not long after Justinian ordered more thorough audits of such records, not to mention the resulting fire offered a convenient way to dispose of incriminating documentation,” John pointed out.

  “But why wait for a fire or earthquake? It would be simple enough to extract documents from the archives or replace them with forgeries. We have had some difficulties over land holdings since that fire, but, after all, earthquakes respect nobody, not even emperors. Who knows what evidence of malfeasance might have been destroyed?”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Helen’s face clouded briefly as she opened the door to John. Then she smiled and welcomed him. “You may have a difficult time getting Leonidas’ attention. When he’s engrossed in one of his models well…”

  Her husband sat hunched over the table. A miniature tower, a cylindrical construction circled by a rising stairway, stood partly finished, surrounded by thin curls of wood. “Can you guess what this is meant to be?” He pointed a small, thin-bladed knife at the model.

  John examined the construction briefly. “A very fair rendering of the Tower of Babel?”

  Leonidas smiled broadly, obviously pleased. “That’s right. I’ve begun working on a series of important buildings from the scriptures. Many interesting structures, to say the least. Solomon’s palace will present a real challenge. It’ll take a vast amount of gilding for a start. And here is the wine.”

  Helen set cups and a wine jug on the table. “Other men boast of their large houses and vast estates. But none have anything like the vast holdings of my husband here, even if they are just small re-creations. Still, so long as he is happy why complain?” She gave Leonidas a fond smile, patted him on his shoulder, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Of course you will stay for a meal?” Leonidas said, putting down his knife and pouring wine. “I heard about the fire. Helen tells me the wag-tongues in the marketplace have it only one of the culprits was caught.”

  John confirmed the truth of the rumor, adding he had just come from seeing the seller of fish released and that no compensation had been ordered by the City Defender.

  Leonidas swore and gulped down a mouthful of wine. “May those demons bite his backside and that of the seller of fish also! I wish I could do more than just offer sympathy, John. If there is anything I could do…?”

  “I think you can assist me. I spoke to the City Defender concerning the land records for my estate and learned they had been lost in a fire sometime since. You work in the tax office and so would know, is it true records were destroyed by fire after an earthquake?”

  “You must think Megara is a city swarming with arsonists, but in fact it is true many records did vanish at that time. I suspect officials, who better remain nameless, used the disaster as a pretext to destroy documents they would prefer not to exist, although I have also heard others claim citizens actually set the records office on fire to escape unpaid taxes.”

  John pointed out that the administration in Constantinople kept records for tax collection, but he could hardly travel there to consult them personally, and as for any remaining in Megara, it seemed to him if he requested from the City Defender particular records he did not wish John to have, they would doubtless be among those said to have been destroyed. “But what if someone else, someone whose work involved taxes, so had every right to scrutinize the records, were to quietly consult them?”

  “You are asking me to copy anything I can find relating to your estate? But why, John? Is there some question of ownership?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. However, I am beginning to fear the authorities will use any excuse to get rid of me, and what easier way than administratively, by confiscating the estate for non payment of taxes?”

  “Yes, you’re right. There are endless ways tax assessments and payments can be found to be in error. Occasionally the mistakes are actually honest ones. Certainly, I’ll look into this.”

  John could see his old friend’s gaze return to the tower and left shortly thereafter with a plea of business needing attention.

  Leonidas picked up his knife and gently poked at his creation. “The problem with this is that I can’t be certain where to stop,” he told himself. “It never reached heaven, but how close did it come, and how high is heaven? I’m assuming for this little tower heaven is the ceiling. Still, one prefers to see a clear end to a thing.”

  It was a sentiment with which John would have agreed.

  ***

  After John left, Helen came to the table where Leonidas was working. Instead of taking away the cups and jug she sat down next to him and put a hand on his wrist, stopping the motion of the knife with which he was paring a section of stairway.

  “Is it wise, do you think, to be searching through tax records?”

  “Why wouldn’t I do John a favor? He’s an old friend.”

  “Which is bad enough as it is.”

  Leonidas set the knife down. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Leonidas. It isn’t good to have a friend everyone hates.”

  “He’s not hated by me. Or you. Is he?”

  “Oh, Leonidas. You’re a good man. Too good. What if it’s discovered you’ve been snooping through city records on John’s behalf? People may think you’re involved.”

  “Involved with what?”

  Helen gave him a cross look. “With whatever they’re involved with out on that estate.”

  “But they aren’t involved with anything.”

  “Does it matter whether they are or not? It’s what people will think, what the City Defender thinks. We have a nice life here. A little home that suits us. Our son has taken up an admirable calling. We’re comfortable. We’re happy. Why risk ruining everything?”

  Leonidas shut his eyes as if that might make the discussion go away. “If I supposed there was any real risk—”

  “Of course there’s a risk.” Helen’s voice grew sharp. “John isn’t the boy you knew. He’s a former Lord Chamberlain to the emperor. Men of his sort are like the wind from the north, they bring storms with them.”

  “It seems to me trouble was already waiting here in Megara for him.”

  “He chose to be ambitious. He wanted wealth and power. He decided to take the risks. We didn’t travel that path, Leonidas. We’ve been content with our quiet life.”

  Leonidas squeezed her hand, bent, and kissed her forehead lightly. “Please don’t worry. I won’t do anything to draw attention to myself. No harm will come to us, I promise.”

  ***

  Peter completed chopping vegetables for the evening meal and left Hypatia in the kitchen hanging up bundles of herbs to dry. She was safe for the time being. Safe from arsonists and kidnappers and stone-throwing mobs. And safe from temptation. Perhaps.

  He had thought the two of them could be happy with a simp
le life. But he had served the master long enough to have learned that the master’s life, and the lives of those around him, would never be simple.

  As Peter entered the rooms he and Hypatia shared with two felines he would prefer to be elsewhere, he saw the large black cat sitting on a stool watching disdainfully as its smaller, mottled brown companion, batted something around the floor.

  “No! No!” Peter shouted. “Wretched creatures!” First they brought fleas in, now it was larger vermin. He looked around for the broom to sweep it out.

  The small cat knocked its prey against a table leg, leapt back, hissing, then crouched and crawled forward warily.

  Not seeing the broom he sought, Peter used his foot to move the cat aside, gently for Hypatia’s sake, and leaned over, putting a hand on the table to steady himself. “What did you drag in, you nasty beast?”

  It was the size and color of a large rat. Peter had to crouch down almost to the floor before he brought the thing into focus.

  There were too many legs for a rat. And rats didn’t have long tails with stingers at the end.

  It was the biggest scorpion he’d ever seen.

  He tried to jump up and out of the way, but lost his balance. Twisting, grabbing at the table, he realized he was about to come right down on the poisonous horror.

  His knee hit the curled tail.

  It disintegrated under his weight, bits of mud skittering across the floor, sending both cats to flight.

  It was only one of Hypatia’s protective charms. It had been some time since she’d made any. Peter had nearly forgotten about them.

  He hobbled into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, noting another clay scorpion on the chest against the wall, directly below the simple wooden cross he had hung there.

  The monk Stephen had suggested he and Hypatia pray together. That would be difficult. Long ago, Peter had tried to convince Hypatia she should convert to Christianity, to give up worshiping her Egyptian deities. He knew it was better not to attempt it again.

  And what difference did it make what a person chose to call the God of All? Or whether, like the master and mistress and Hypatia, they called Him by different names? It was simply what a person was born into, like the language they spoke, and who would condemn anyone for having been born speaking Coptic rather than Greek?

  Peter did not pride himself on being a theologian, but it struck him as simple enough. He read the scriptures and he could think and ponder such matters. He didn’t need anyone to explain such matters to him.

  So whatever their problems, they would not pray together. Hypatia prayed to the gods of Egypt and constructed charms of clay. Peter prayed to the Lord and read verses from the psalms.

  Peter’s prayers had one advantage. The cats couldn’t stalk them and frighten him half to death by doing so.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  John shrugged as he listened to the oaths Cornelia lavished on the heads of the City Defender and seller of fish.

  They were an unwelcome contrast to the peaceful olive grove he had purposely sought out after his frustrating trip into Megara. He had never quite become used to the remarkable repertoire of curses Cornelia had learned during her years on the road.

  “So it was all our own fault,” she concluded. “We forced those poor souls to attempt to burn down our home. I’m surprised Georgios didn’t fine us for releasing demons. And I thought Constantinople was corrupt.”

  “Nowhere is free from corruption, no matter how small. In the meanest village you’ll find men every bit as corrupt as any at the emperor’s court, only fewer of them, with less wealth and power within their greedy reach.”

  “And not dressed in silks,” Cornelia said.

  John gave her a questioning look, then recalled he had said something similar to her before and probably more than once. “A sign of age. I’m repeating myself.”

  “Perhaps it bears repeating. What kind of place have we come to?”

  John had recounted his experiences at Corinth’s port during their walk to the grove. They took a long, circuitous stroll, purposefully avoiding the ruined temple. Their destination grew on the part of the estate that had once been his family’s farm.

  The grove looked much as he remembered it, scattered clusters of gnarled trees. It was obvious they had not received much care.

  John scowled in disapproval. “Harvest time is fast approaching and look at them! My father—my real father—kept these trees well pruned,”

  He made his way across the small grove. There were larger olive groves elsewhere on the land he now owned, planted on a scale to serve an estate rather than a farming family. He stopped at an enormously wide-boled tree, a gnarled patriarch with branches twisting out above chest level.

  “You see how there’s a natural nest up there? My father used to lift me up and I’d sit and watch during the harvest. It was a memorable day when I was able to climb up myself.”

  Cornelia ran a hand along the bark. “Going by its size, it must be very old.”

  “My friends and I convinced each other it was thousands of years old. There were broken branches at the top and Alexis claimed they’d been clipped off by Noah’s ark sailing over it.”

  “But a grain of truth perhaps? After all, olive trees can live for centuries.”

  “Several in the grove at Plato’s Academy were ancient too. Plato taught in their shade.”

  Cornelia was silent but John could read her puzzled expression.

  In truth he had been drawn here by the memory of the grove, which had surfaced suddenly for no apparent reason on his way back from the city. Had his unaccustomed feeling of helplessness during the City Defender’s ridiculous hearing reminded him of being a toddler, lifted up into the tree by strong hands? Later in his childhood, when he could reach the nest himself, it had been a secret place where he came to think and observe the world. He had not thought of the secret places of his boyhood for many years.

  He had an urge to climb back into his old perch. He resisted. What a sight that would make!

  “You were telling me you asked Leonidas to look into the tax records,” Cornelia prompted.

  “Yes. I’m going to visit him tomorrow evening to see what he discovers, if anything.”

  “Surely Anatolius investigated very carefully? I would have thought we could be certain there are no outstanding amounts to be paid.”

  “I agree, but in addition I was hoping there might be something to assist me in finding my way out of the labyrinth we have been thrust into.”

  “When you arrived back from Lechaion you told me you thought you’d located a thread there, before I persuaded you it wasn’t the time to discuss murder.”

  “That’s right. And you were right. It was much too late to speak of murder.”

  John felt he had lost an entire day. His further inquiries following his interview with Maritza and the informer with the knife had yielded no new possibilities for investigation. He had not reached home until well after dark, only to be greeted with the story of the attack on the house and the news that the City Defender had delayed the arsonist’s arraignment until that morning, to give John the chance to attend as the owner of the damaged property.

  John pointed out that Georgios had made certain the travesty of a hearing was technically fair. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “the thread I found in Lechaion involved my stepfather’s doings, so I disliked touching it. I haven’t had an opportunity to examine the mysterious scrap of parchment yet. It’s going to take some care and good light.”

  “It’s that difficult to make out?”

  “Not the writing on top, but what’s underneath. Theophilus or someone associated with him hid that message about the iron shipment under the writing on the wax. The same general method may have been used.”

  “What are the words you can read about?”

  “That l
egend I related to you. The usual nonsense. Alexis, who studies that sort of thing, told me he had never seen any reliable accounts.”

  Cornelia looked thoughtful. “Are you sure it’s nonsense? Julius, one of the slaves you freed, told me that Diocles had the slaves digging around the temple.”

  “Preparing to repair the foundation.”

  “Julius claimed that was a pretext. The slaves knew very well Diocles was hoping they would find valuables.”

  “This fantasy is spreading through Megara like a plague. Everyone’s infected.” John let his gaze climb up through the branches of the olive tree. “And yet…the priests passed what they rescued into the care of she who wails her daughter, the unwilling bride.”

  Cornelia gave him a questioning look.

  “It’s part of what is visible on Theophilus’ document,” John explained. “‘She who wails her daughter’ would be Demeter, whose daughter Persephone was kidnapped by Hades.”

  “So Theophilus must have thought the treasure was buried at the temple of Demeter on the estate?”

  “He might have, but Demeter was popular in this area. There must be hundreds of ancient shrines and places associated with her around here. I believe it explains how he happened to be at the temple when he was killed.”

  “Do you suppose Theophilus told Diocles about the possibility of the cache being buried at our temple?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Theophilus was involved in all manner of activities.”

  “You think it likely Theophilus was killed in connection with the illicit business dealings you learned about while you were away?”

  “It’s a risk criminals always take.” He saw the doubt in her face. “I’m certain I wasn’t the target, Cornelia. I know you’re worried about that.”

  “He was killed at the temple on your estate. Why here? Why not in Lechaion?”

  “His murderer may well live locally. It seems likely Theophilus had dealings in Megara. Until we arrived, the ruined temple would have made a good meeting place, isolated as it is, and considering how little attention Diocles paid to what was happening on the estate. A meeting might have been scheduled weeks ago, with no time to notify anyone else concerned of our suddenly taking up residence. Fellow criminals don’t necessarily want to tell each other where they live.”