by Eric Mayer
“All of them live here, in the workers’ quarters.”
“You aren’t employing paid workers from the town or elsewhere?”
“We have lost some farm workers lately, because—”
“I shall now inspect their quarters.”
They crossed the courtyard and went through a doorway not far from the barn. The interconnected buildings and wings here were a warren rivaling the interior of the Great Palace in confusion if not extent. Rather than wandering inadvertently into a perfumed hall full of decorative court pages, however, visitors were more liable to end up amongst the cows.
“You see I insist on cleanliness and order,” Diocles said, gesturing around a large whitewashed room akin to a barracks, lined with mats.
“The door at the back?”
“More workers’ quarters.”
Diocles opened the door with obvious reluctance to reveal a flight of stairs. John followed the overseer down into darkness and a strong smell of unwashed humanity. As his eyes began to adjust to the meager light seeping in through two high, tiny windows in the stone walls, he saw the forms of men sitting or lying in heaps of straw. They were all shackled and chained to the walls. There was no sound save for the loud buzzing of flies.
“These are workers who are recalcitrant,” Diocles gave John a challenging look.
“This is a prison, Diocles. It isn’t legal to keep farm slaves under such conditions.”
“Technically speaking, I agree, but there is a difference between the laws in the making and the laws of practicality. Slaves are necessary. They are less expensive than hired workers and can be pawned off on unsuspecting buyers if they become ill.”
By the time the two men returned to the triclinium John had ordered the men to be freed. “It’s clear to me you’re an incompetent liar who was robbing Senator Vinius for years. Not only that, you have been disregarding Roman law.”
“If you would allow—”
“Count yourself fortunate that I am not having you arrested for maintaining an illegal farm prison. You are relieved of your duties immediately. Remove your possessions and be gone before dark.”
“But I have been here for—”
“Too long.”
Diocles stared at John, then as if realizing John’s decision was final, he forced words from between tightened lips. “You don’t understand Megara. You will be made to understand. You will be gone soon and I will still be here, of that you may be certain.”
Chapter Five
The rocky track from John’s estate to Megara could be covered in less than an hour on foot and John took half the time, striding along like a soldier on a forced march, working off his anger. Back in Constantinople, he would have shrugged at the overseer’s insolence, even though he could have had the man thrown into the imperial dungeons for it. The fact that he was no longer in a position to mete out punishment made him wish to do so. Recognizing this made John angrier still, both with Diocles and himself.
It was just as well he had an excuse to walk. He wished to inform Halmus the businessman that he would not be dealing with Diocles any longer. The overseer’s negligence had at least spared John the dilemma of what task to assign his son-in-law once John’s daughter, Europa, and her husband, Thomas, arrived to assist at the estate. Thomas had been managing an estate not far from the capital and John was anxious to hand over day-to-day operations to him.
The sun felt unusually hot, as if it were closer here than in the capital. There was a different quality to the light. It seemed to draw the color of everything up to the surface. Not that there was much to see, only vineyards and olive groves surrounded by decayed stone walls and beyond, rugged hills speckled with sheep and low thorny shrubs.
John hadn’t been this way before. This was the first time he’d ventured into the city. There had been no particular reason for him to visit and he’d been busy with the endless chores that always accompanied settling into a new place. He reflected that it was ironic that the great metropolis of Constantinople had ages ago, according to legend, been colonized by Megarians, led by Byzas, a son of Poseidon. Now John, a native of Megara and once a high official in the capital, was returning to Constantinople’s origins as well as his own.
Making his way through the grounds of the Great Palace in Constantinople and the crowded square of the Augustaion John had been perpetually alert, instinctively scanning faces, sensitive to any movement in his vicinity, instantly aware if there were eyes focused on him. Hadn’t John wished often enough that he could let down his guard? Why did he feel strangely enervated rather than relieved?
***
Halmus lived in a curiously nondescript two-story house dominating one corner of Megara’s main marketplace. The facade of his home was brick and a thick confusion of dusty branches visible above high walls behind it provided ample evidence of a garden.
Residents and farmers extolling their produce thronged the square, all talking at the tops of their voices as if to compete with the stentorian tones of the man in rags standing atop a column beside Halmus’ house.
“Demons! Yes, my friends, beware, I say, beware as you value your immortal souls! The filth of hell is among us! Don’t leave your homes after sunset! There are dangers hiding in the night! For certain persons we know of have been busy loosing demons who lurk in the darkness, waiting to possess the unwary.”
John looked up once more at the voice of doom, then rapped on the iron-studded house door sporting a brass knocker in the shape of an angel. The stylite’s flow of impassioned words reminded him of addresses from similar holy men in Constantinople. He had not expected to find one of their fellow ranters in residence in Greece, but there he stood in full cry outlined against the sky.
A passerby had pointed out Halmus’ house, pausing long enough to inform John that the stylite was referring to the hellish newcomers at an estate overlooking the sea who were conducting unspeakable rites in a ruined temple to Demeter.
John waited impatiently for his knock to be answered, trying to shut out the stylite’s ravings, staring at the angel who stared back at him, looking angry at being put to such demeaning work.
“Beware unholy shapes that haunt the darkness!” the stylite advised everyone within earshot. Sunlight flashed from a length of chain draped over one shoulder.
John wondered how a wealthy man like Halmus felt about a noisy pillar-sitter for a neighbor. Halmus’ rooms must ring with religious diatribes.
Despite the angel’s frown, he knocked again. Recalling the enmity encountered in the marketplace by Peter and Hypatia, he half expected a rock to fly at him. John had carefully dressed in a plain tunic, which would not call attention to its wearer, but no doubt many of the townspeople had heard about the tall, unnatural, ascetic-looking exile who had recently taken over the estate. Perhaps his appearance was not as grotesque as that of the devil they expected to see.
The angel flew backward suddenly as the door opened. Halmus’ servant, a severe-looking man, stared at him silently.
“I wish to speak to your master,” John said, adding, “if he is available” after a pause. He recalled he no longer held a post whereby he could demand entrance and be granted it without protest.
“The master is not available at this time, sir.” He pointed to the stylite. “As you can see, he is attending to his penance. The whole city knows that he was, and I say it as his devoted servant, sir, saved by the good words of the saintly Paul to our neighbors the Corinthians. The admonitions of the apostle diverted my master from following the path leading to the fiery pits of hell.”
He looked John up and down with suspicion as if he expected to see scorch marks on his clothing. His master was now addressing passersby with advice on avoiding certain colorfully detailed sins of the flesh.
“The body is the temple of the Holy Spirit,” John replied, remembering a phrase he’d heard from Peter, or had it been Justinian? It
appeared to allay the servant’s fears.
“Ah, I see you understand, sir. So you will appreciate that my master is atoning for the awful deeds of his youth.” He did not enlarge on what these transgressions had been. “Why, men come from miles around to hear him!”
“It must be difficult for your master to stand up there and still run his business concerns.”
“With the Lord all things are possible, sir. The penance you observe isn’t the half of it.” The servant grew confidential. “At times he becomes a hermit and retreats to a cave. Not in the mountains. He had one constructed in the garden. There he will sit alone for days taking bread and water, and little at that, meditating on his sins and praying for all in Megara.”
John observed Halmus was certainly a very pious man.
“His fame is far-flung!” The servant, becoming enthused, stepped out into the sunshine and peered up reverently at Halmus. “He does not boast, but everyone knows he’s friends with the bishop. Imagine that, sir, to count a bishop among your closest friends! Of course, he does conduct a great deal of business with the church and turns an excellent profit.”
“With the Lord all things are indeed possible,” John observed, thinking the servant rash in revealing details of his master’s affairs to a stranger. He asked when Halmus was expected to return to the house and was told it would be an hour or so, depending on how much penance he intended to do that day.
“Very well. I will visit again.”
“At times he speaks in tongues, sir, and it is a wondrous thing. Do you not wish to linger and benefit from my master’s teaching?”
“I shall not be far off, so I will be able to hear your master and mark his words.”
The servant offered a respectful bow.
The wealthy and well-fed stylite continued to loudly explore sins of the flesh with the relish of a patron describing the wall paintings in a brothel. “We must all struggle against the temptations offered by our devilish members,” he declared. “And some must struggle harder than others.”
“True enough,” John muttered, turning away and starting back across the square.
As he passed the column he looked up and for an instant Halmus’ gaze seemed to focus on him. Perhaps it had been an illusion or an accident, but as John crossed the marketplace the stylite’s diatribe turned once more to the evil that had come to dwell nearby.
***
How to pass time in a place like Megara? John considered the question as he ate the grilled fish he’d bought in the marketplace.
The emperors had done an excellent job of constructing baths, administrative buildings, a theater, a colonnaded main thoroughfare, everything required of a proper Roman municipality. He’d glimpsed all these trappings on his way to the square where he now stood. But while marble could be shipped in, it was not possible to supply a large, boisterous, and variegated population. The marketplace was crowded, but the surrounding streets were empty—compared with those of Constantinople—and John imagined the baths and theater would be sparsely attended. There was something missing, some feeling of excitement, a subtle, invigorating tension created by the presence of many people going about their lives in close proximity, as in the capital. By contrast Megara looked like a city but it had the soul of a small town.
John finished the fish and tossed the skewer aside. The vendor offered a different type of fish than the vendors near the docks in Constantinople.
Halmus continued to thunder doom from his airy perch. Could he really address the populace in that fashion for hours? John didn’t wish to return home before speaking with him about whatever estate business he conducted with Diocles and discussing future prospects. Provided of course that Halmus had any voice left.
Suddenly, he felt uneasy and exposed, standing in the middle of the open square. As if he were being watched. Yet he had noticed no signs that anyone had recognized him. There had been no sideways glances, no quick turnings of heads.
The square sat at the base of twin hills, each crowned by an acropolis. John decided to explore the nearest, the easternmost. He had barely set out, however, when the ruins of a monumental temple caught his eye. A few upright marble columns and crumbling walls sat incongruously amid streets of tottering wooden tenements. It appeared as if the temple had fallen from the sky and crushed whatever it landed on, largely disintegrated, and caved in, scattering broken columns and blocks.
As he climbed the steps to what remained of the entrance he saw the outline of a giant knee, covered in the folds of a crudely rendered robe. This then must be the unfinished statue of Zeus, Megara’s chief claim to fame. He wondered if Halmus, whose voice he could still faintly make out without being able to discern the words, ever demanded the destruction of this remnant of paganism. The part-time stylite was a full-time businessman and would doubtless appreciate the fact that Zeus brought a constant stream of visitors. And visitors spent money on lodgings, food, and other necessaries, not to mention temporary companionship.
That was the theory, but today the temple looked deserted except for a short, gap-toothed fellow squatting in a shadow near the entrance. He leapt to his feet and sidled up to John.
“Honored, sir, my name is Matthew and I can see you are interested in Megara’s most famous antiquity. Now, it happens I have the sad history of the great unfinished Zeus at my fingertips, having studied it for years. For a small consideration I would be happy, as the saying goes, to speak of things older than parchment, that you may appreciate this most wonderful artifact all the more when you view it.”
“Would not this history be more effective given before the sculpture?”
“Its custodians refused me further entrance some time ago because my fee to recite the history is less than theirs,” his would-be guide confessed. “Even though they knew I had five children crying for bread, a sick wife, and elderly parents to support! Fortunately, those who make their way to Megara to see this wonder are generous, sir, always generous.”
John handed him a couple of coins. He had read of the history of the colossus but hoped to gather more useful information about the city and its residents by questioning the short man with the large family after he concluded his remarks.
Matthew plunged into his lecture immediately. “The image is work of Theocosmos, a native of this region. The god’s visage, as soon you will see, is of ivory and gold but the rest remains nothing but clay and gypsum. The work remained unfinished because the Peloponnesian War so reduced public revenues.”
John decided Matthew’s knowledge of the statue came not from a lifetime of study but rather from a quick perusal of Pausanias or some other ancient travel writer, although where he would have found such a source in Megara was hard to say. However, it was better to listen to the man chatter on than go back to the marketplace and subject himself to Halmus.
John glanced toward Zeus’ knee as Matthew rattled on. Perhaps he should stop the lecture and go in to get a better look at this wonder.
His guide stopped in mid-sentence, muttered “It’s Georgios, the City Defender,” and had slipped away as unobtrusively as a shadow fleeing the sun by the time a contingent of men armed with spears reached the temple steps.
John took stock of their leader, a tall, broad-shouldered man. Georgios’ strong, square-jawed face would have looked well on a nomisma. From his expression and the way he carried himself, he struck John as a man who demanded immediate obedience. A formidable opponent, if that is what he was destined to be.
Ordering his men to a halt, Georgios strode up the steps alone, hand on the sword at his side. “You are the newcomer known as John,” he stated rather than asked. “I intended to visit your estate, but since you are here in my city I will seize the opportunity to warn you now.”
“Warn me? Do I have something to fear?”
Georgios ignored the question. His lips were locked into the taut smile of a man looking forward to a g
rim task. “I am aware of a certain incident involving your servants. I am concerned for their safety as well as that of you and your family if you continue to visit Megara.”
“That is necessary, given where we live.”
“I hope it will not be necessary in the future. I have been advised by prominent citizens that public sentiment is against you. I do not have a palace guard at my disposal and I cannot offer you special protection. My men cannot be everywhere or see everything.”
“It appears you are expecting trouble.”
“It is my duty to anticipate the worst, and also to keep public order. Incidents such as the one caused by the presence of your servants here threaten the public welfare.”
“I appreciate your concerns for my family, but if you are suggesting we stay out of Megara…that is not possible.”
“Not as long as you live nearby. Which is why you might consider whether you should eliminate the necessity for putting yourself and your family in danger.”
“You mean leave the area?”
Georgios looked thoughtful, as if considering the question, before responding. “Regrettably, that may be the wisest course. It is difficult enough that I cannot protect you adequately within Megara’s walls, but remember that your estate lies entirely beyond my oversight yet is still within easy reach of anyone who takes a disliking to you, or any of your family. It would be best if you left the area entirely while you are still able.”
Chapter Six
“You aren’t considering bowing to threats.” Cornelia was not asking but stating the obvious. She and John sat on a length of ruined stone wall resembling a bad tooth jutting out behind the house. They watched chickens scratch in the gravel of an empty area that should have held farm wagons.
“Not that I am at liberty to flee, even if I were inclined to do so.”
“What could the emperor do if you departed for Egypt or Bretania?”
John pointed out Justinian’s reach extended to the borders of the empire and beyond.
