by Eric Mayer
“You told him, of course?”
Hypatia’s face crimsoned and she looked at the floor. “He did not ask about our relationship and I have not felt it necessary to tell him about our private lives.”
Chapter Nine
Peter wandered the grounds aimlessly, his thoughts as dim and suffocating as the humid twilight.
Hypatia had been ashamed to admit she was married to an old man; that was the truth of it. She claimed it had never occurred to her to mention her marital status to that young watchman who happened to keep visiting the kitchen. She would naturally try to spare Peter’s feelings. She was not a cruel woman, just a young one.
What had possessed her to marry Peter in the first place? Had it been pity?
Was it surprising if she found Philip appealing? He bore a passing resemblance to John’s friend Anatolius, who had briefly taken a romantic interest in her years before.
After a while the sound of singing drifting on the breeze drew Peter to the railed fence separating the estate from its neighboring monastery. The smell of earth blossoming as the sky darkened was joined by a trace of incense.
“Only Begotten Son, and Word of God, Immortal Who didst vouchsafe for our salvation to take flesh of the Holy Mother of God and ever Virgin Mary, and didst without change become man, and wast crucified, Christ our God.”
He immediately identified it as “Only Begotten Son,” a particular favorite composed by Justinian. Peter often sang it when working in the kitchen of the master’s house in Constantinople. Hearing it again in such unexpected circumstances reminded him that he should place his trust in a power beyond his own meager understanding. Perhaps after all they would find happiness in this unfamiliar place.
His gnarled hands tightened on the fence. Surely the master would lodge a complaint with the appropriate authorities about the ill treatment he and Hypatia had received in Megara? But meantime he would enjoy the peace of the deepening dusk, and join his voice to those in the monastery in praising the one who overcame death by his own death.
“…and by death didst overcome death, being One of the Holy Trinity, and glorified together with the Father and the Holy Ghost, save us.”
A line of birds flew overhead, winging off to their roosts for the night. The hills were blending their bulk into the darkening sky. A few sleepy birds cheeped in a cluster of stunted and wind-bent pines beyond the fence. He could see lamplight springing up far across the meadow beyond. Why had he allowed himself to become so agitated over nothing, as a boy would have done?
Here he was, neglecting his responsibilities, he chided himself. Soon it would be time for the evening meal. He must return and commence cooking. There was fish from the estate’s pond and a good sauce would disguise their dubious nature. What did he need? Cumin, honey, mustard, vinegar, oil, wine. Surely he could create an appropriate accompaniment from such ingredients in hand? It was fortunate he had brought his spices from Constantinople. Perhaps tomorrow a baked chicken or two? He must request the master’s permission to purchase seasonings in Megara, and he would go alone this time.
By the time he turned to go back, night had fallen. A huge orange moon appeared, an evil eye staring out over the hilltops, casting its unnatural light over meadows and fields while leaving shadows impenetrable. The wide and open space of the countryside made Peter feel more exposed to danger than he had ever felt in the crush of the city where everyone knew danger lurked around every dark corner and among the glittering notables at court.
He recited a comforting verse from a psalm. “The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night.”
It didn’t make him feel much better. Admittedly he didn’t really expect the moon would smite him, but the sight of it unnerved him and made him anxious about who might be lying in wait in the shadows. He had a large armory of psalms at his command. He had studied the scriptures diligently most of his adult life, teaching himself to read while he was employed by an undemanding scholar who had allowed Peter the use of his library.
He glanced along a nearby ridge, then permitted himself a ripe oath. There, vaguely visible against the sky, Hypatia and Philip strolled close together. He couldn’t make out their faces but Hypatia’s profile was easily recognizable and whom else could she be meeting but Philip?
He watched them for a short time before they vanished into the shadows. He felt giddy and realized he’d been holding his breath.
Taking a shallow, painful gasp and sad of heart, he resumed walking. He did not care in what direction as long as it led away from what he had witnessed.
Peter cut across fields and meadows paying no attention to where he was going, ignoring the burrs that clumped on his tunic and the clawing brambles. Once or twice he tripped over a protruding root. Suddenly he found himself approaching the ruined temple. The sight brought him back to his senses.
“Accursed building,” he muttered, glad to have something to vent his wrath upon. “An affront to heaven. It should be demolished.”
Yet was it not true that the master and mistress and Hypatia all worshiped proscribed gods? Sometimes he wondered if in fact they could be the same as the one Lord he followed but just known under a different name.
He halted.
Was someone moving inside the temple?
Could it be whoever was responsible for the city’s talk of unspeakable ceremonies?
Perhaps the Lord had directed his steps here for a reason?
He stepped forward, straining his eyes to distinguish details.
Surely that was the master rising from his knees?
***
John too had heard faint singing as he walked briskly around the estate, his usual custom when contemplating difficulties to be resolved. In this instance, he was grappling with the sudden rush of memories caused by the reappearance of Theophilus.
He would, he thought, sit in the ruined temple for a while and pray to Mithra for guidance.
Carefully skirting the trenches where excavation was under way, he passed between two standing columns.
The gibbous moon that had followed him from the house saturated the interior with an unearthly light. Stepping over a fallen column, his boot came down not on marble but something yielding. A body lay there, half in and half out of the moonlight.
He bent closer and saw the moon reflected in the staring dead eyes of his stepfather.
Chapter Ten
Torchlight did its corybantic dance around the ruins. Light and shadows gamboled on the crumpled body of Theophilus, attracting moths to flirt with a fiery fate.
A small group had gathered at the temple. Armed men, some holding torches, were stationed near the corpse. Uncaring and intent on their own business, unseen crickets trilled the same ancient chorus they had sung hundreds of years before during rites to the goddess Demeter. The murmur of hushed voices joined the crickets’ song and the hiss and pop of the torches.
John stood against a column, staring in the direction of his stepfather. The flickering light continually revealed the corpse for an instant and then veiled it in shadow. It might have been a dream rather than something that added a hint of copper to the night smells of earth piled nearby. Perhaps no one else noticed the subtle odor but John was only too familiar with the smell of blood.
Glancing around, John saw all eyes were focused on the City Defender, squatting on his haunches beside the body to examine it.
Georgios stood up and looked at John. “The dark patch on his back tells its own tale,” he observed. “And now you tell me yours. First, you doubtless carry a blade. Show it to me.”
John didn’t like the man’s tone. It had been a long time since he had taken orders from anyone but the emperor. Unfortunately, he reminded himself, those days were over. He handed his dagger over for examination without comment.
Georgios gave it a perfunctory glance and smiled. “Clean. But then it would be, wouldn’t it? You
had plenty of time to clean it before we arrived.”
There had been no reason for the City Defender to bother examining the dagger, except to make a show of ordering John around in front of the small crowd at the temple. Philip and the other watchmen were ranged behind Cornelia and Hypatia a few paces away. The blacksmith and tenant farmer, along with a couple of estate workers, stood nearby. Behind them several of Georgios’ men stood ready to take appropriate action if anyone attempted to flee.
John took his blade back, careful to betray none of the anger he felt.
Georgios turned the corpse over with his boot and regarded the dead man with distaste. A pool of blood, black in the torchlight, had spread in front of the bench from where he and Cornelia often admired the sea. Had Theophilus been sitting there when the murderer crept up behind him and struck?
The City Defender rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I wager it’s been hundreds of years since anyone performed a sacrifice in this temple. Do you suppose Demeter still protects her adherents?”
Was he speaking metaphorically or did he suspect Theophilus had been slaughtered during a pagan ritual of the kind John and his family were rumored to be carrying out?
“Not much is known about her mysteries but it is certain Demeter never demanded human sacrifices,” John informed him. “Pigs, certainly.”
“Oh? You are an authority on what were our local deities?”
“Any educated person would say the same. I am certainly no authority on Demeter, let alone an adherent.”
Georgios stepped away from the body, sliding his boots along the marble floor with a squeaking noise to rub blood off their soles. He took counsel of the star-pocked sky and then continued. “Is it true you visit this ruin at night?”
“I do. I find it restful. Your informants will also doubtless be able to confirm the truth of my statement that I have also sat here in full view of anyone passing by during the hottest part of the day.”
“Informants? I don’t have that many men at my disposal, which is why I cannot guarantee your safety. Or the safety of those on your estate, as you can see.” He nodded toward the corpse. “You overestimate me.”
John doubted it. It would be difficult to overestimate Georgios’ power in Megara. The City Defender not only had responsibility for keeping civic order, he also oversaw the city’s courts. His power was backed by those who appointed him: the local bishop, the largest landholders, and the curials, the first citizens on whom the administration and finances of cities had depended before certain of Justinian’s endless reforms.
“Do you know the dead man?” Georgios asked.
“Yes. He was my stepfather. I ordered him off my estate.”
“It was not a happy relationship?”
“No. He was here earlier today asking for money.” He glanced toward Cornelia and saw her frown. He had no intention of allowing her to lie for him and risk getting herself into difficulties.
“Going by his begging and the threadbare garments he’s wearing it would appear that prosperity and Theophilus were not on speaking terms. And yet his son was a rich and powerful man,” Georgios observed.
“His stepson.”
“If you insist on legalisms, his stepson. What do you know of his movements of late, what he has been doing?”
“Nothing. Before this week I had not seen him since I was a young man.”
“Indeed.” Georgios’ expression clearly showed his disbelief.
John was acutely aware that whereas the City Defender held an important post in Megara, he himself was in the unfamiliar position of being, essentially, an ordinary citizen. It was a strange sensation, as if the world had been turned inside out. Was this how those he had questioned in his own investigations felt? Furthermore, it was obvious Georgios did not like John. He shared all the basest prejudices of his fellow townspeople. John was a stranger, a man with an unusual family, one who was out of favor with the emperor and fortunate to have retained his head. In short, he was a suspicious character.
“Didn’t you inquire about your family?” Georgios pressed on. “I understand you grew up on a farm nearby.”
“Why were you investigating me before any crime was committed?” John parried.
“Do you think I am accusing you of murdering your stepfather?”
“You seem inclined to detain me here with irrelevant inquiries rather than searching the area. The farm forming part of this estate passed out of my family’s possession many years ago, after I had gone.”
“In the course of making the purchase, you must have been curious about where your relatives were.”
Why did everyone assume one had to maintain an interest in their family, no matter how little connection remained to them?
“The purchase was made by an agent, and my curiosity or lack of it is irrelevant,” John snapped. “I would suggest you turn yours into ways of catching the murderer.” He realized immediately he had overstepped his unaccustomed boundaries.
The City Defender didn’t bother to reproach him but there was cold warning in his glare. “I doubt any criminal would linger nearby after my men and I arrived. He or them will be long gone by now.” He took a torch from one of his men and held it, sizzling and spitting sparks, near Theophilus’ face. “I anticipate you will not know how he received that scar either?”
Before John could answer, he felt a hand on his arm. It was Cornelia. Did she really fear he was about to elaborate on the brawls he had with his stepfather as a boy?
“Peter!” she whispered. “Peter’s missing. He might be in danger. We’ve got to find him. We can’t stand around here doing nothing.”
Georgios looked up. “A member of your household? Missing? I ordered you and your servants to accompany us to this temple.”
“I thought his wife would bring him with her.” John turned, seeking out Hypatia.
She stood at the edge of the shifting pool of light, her face drawn and terrified in the flickering illumination. “I couldn’t find him at the house, master.”
Philip stepped toward Hypatia. John thought the young man was about to put his arm around her but he didn’t. “Don’t worry about Peter,” Philip told Georgios. “He’s just an old man”
“Even old men can commit murders,” Georgios replied. He turned to his armed torchbearers. “Find him.”
Chapter Eleven
Peter tried to scream but his throat felt paralyzed. Straining desperately he finally forced out a nearly inaudible grunt. Then another. Then a hoarse bellow broke though, brought him awake, and drove from his mind whatever it was had made him want to scream.
Or was he awake?
He was sitting up on a rudimentary bed in a cavernous room, illuminated only by an oil lamp glimmering at the far end. A strong smell of incense did not quite mask an underlying odor that reminded him of a public lavatory. In the sepulchral dimness he made out rows of beds upon which lay gray, motionless forms. Occasionally a pitiful low moan broke the silence.
Did he still dream or had he fallen into hell?
A firm hand pressed against his chest and pushed him back down. “There, there, now. Are you trying to wake the devil? Lie back. You’re in no shape to be leaping around.”
The hand belonged to a youngish man with a stolid, round face strangely cheerful considering the circumstances. He wore long, shapeless, unbleached robes. “My name is Stephen,” he said. “The same name as our monastery, so if I get lost they know where to send me. And you?”
“Peter,” Peter replied, having to think about it.
“You’re in the hospice of Saint Stephen’s monastery. Not that you are in need of such care but there was a spare bed. Don’t worry about all the blood on your tunic. It seems an excessive amount considering your scrapes and scratches are slight.”
Looking down, Peter saw dried patches of blood on his clothing and abrasions on exposed skin. H
is injuries might have been minor but they were numerous. He ached everywhere and his head throbbed painfully.
Stephen smiled benignly. “I shall see you are escorted home shortly and this time you will be on the road rather than blunder about in the dark. We don’t want you falling down another hole.”
“I fell into a hole?” Peter groped back into the oblivion prior to his panicked awakening. He remembered walking, approaching the temple. After that, nothing. Had his waking scream carried over from the startled cry he gave as he fell? There were excavations beside the temple.
“A pit, in fact. There are plenty of them around Megara, most very old. Every so often legends resurface and people go about looking for the treasure supposedly buried when Corinth was overrun and destroyed a century and a half ago. According to some of the tales, the church spirited its treasury out of the city, along with valuable relics, so naturally people will get it into their heads to search in our vicinity. We fill them up when we find them. Recently the story’s been revived. One of our goats fell into a fresh pit last month not a stone’s throw from the chapel.”
“I must have been very careless,” Peter said, futilely trying to recall how he put himself into such a predicament. “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, especially in the dark.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Peter. The older pits are overgrown with brush and weeds. They’re hard to see even during the day. You shouldn’t wander around at night without a light.”
“I will have to inform the master. He won’t want to have traps like that on his land.”
“You are from the estate? A nest of godless pagans, I hear. I shall be able to correct that impression now, given you are a good Christian.”
Peter, puzzled, asked him how he knew.
“You were muttering prayers before you woke up. If you were beseeching the Lord to rescue you from whatever brought on that hideous shriek you let out…well…I should not like to meet whatever it was and especially after sunset.”
