Murder in Megara

by Eric Mayer

  John was approached twice, before he reached the end of the street. A prostitute he sent away with nothing more than a withering glare, but dropped a coin into the dirty hand of a grubby beggar. The coin flashed in the sunlight.

  When the observer reached the beggar the man rose hopefully from his nest of rags, hand outstretched. The observer showed him the point of his blade. That also caught the sunlight.

  John turned down a wider, colonnaded thoroughfare. Here it was easier to follow him since there were more passersby coming and going from the various emporiums. The observer closed the distance between himself and his quarry, not wanting to lose him in the crowd.

  John stopped abruptly to look over a silversmith’s display. The observer found himself beside a table piled with cloth. He picked up a bundle of bright green linen and watched John examine bowls and spoons.

  Surely the fool hadn’t come into Megara to buy such items?

  “Ah, sir, a fine choice for your good lady.” The beaming merchant almost obscured his view of the silversmith’s display. “This just arrived. These bright colors are what all the ladies at the emperor’s court are wearing this year. They look like flocks of pretty birds, sir, in their cheerful plumage. Pretty birds in the jungle, as some would say of the imperial court. Why, here in Megara—”

  “Yes, yes. I’m just looking.”

  A big cart pulled by two oxen lumbered down the street. As it passed the silversmith’s premises John turned to cross to the matching colonnade on the opposite side. As he did so he vanished behind the cart.

  The observer threw down the linen. By the time he’d trotted to where he could see around the creeping cart, his quarry had vanished.

  ***

  John moved quickly through an unobtrusive archway beneath the colonnade, hoping it didn’t lead to a private residence. Fortuna was with him. He found himself in a courtyard surrounded by workshops. He cut down an alley beside a building occupied by dyers, then turned off into what was little more than a cleft in the wall behind a bakery. He could feel the heat of the ovens radiating through the masonry at his shoulder.

  During his years in the capital John had developed an ability to feel a hostile gaze on his back. He could not say how it warned him and thought perhaps his eyes and ears were taking in information that did not register in his thoughts except as a sensation of danger.

  Cornelia would like the silver earrings he had just purchased.

  His plan was to mingle with the crowd in front of the semi-ruined temple that housed the unfinished statue of Zeus, enter the building, slip out of the back, and from there proceed to the house where Leonidas once lived. He was careful not to appear in a hurry, to pause and gawk as an ordinary traveler might at the towering columns that remained standing.

  He had one boot on the lowest step to the temple entrance when he sensed someone nearby.

  He whirled, hand going to the blade in his belt.

  A gap-toothed man smiled up at him.

  It was Matthew, the self-styled guide. “I am so glad you have returned, sir. My lecture was sadly interrupted. Shall I resume?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The modest dwelling where Leonidas once lived with his parents was still standing. John glanced in both directions before approaching, making certain his stalker had not picked up his trail. John had had to be brusque with Matthew, for fear the man he had just shaken off in the alleys and byways would come upon him out in the open in front of the building housing the statue of Zeus. The last thing John wanted to do was to bring old friends and their families to the attention of whoever was following him.

  John had some difficulty picking the house out in a row of homes of identical design but there it was, looking much as ever, the faded stucco seemingly in the same state of near, but not quite, disrepair. The staircase leading from the street to two floors of what he knew was rental housing was in similar condition.

  He went up three steps to the tiny, columned porch fronting the entrance to the private residence on the ground floor. Yes, still there in a shadowed corner he could see his own initials, Leonidas’, and those of a couple of other friends, traced surreptitiously in the wet concrete when Leonidas’ father had had the porch replaced.

  Emperors, generals, high officials, philosophers, and even charioteers were immortalized in stone, marble, and bronze in Constantinople. This was the only monument in the empire for John, former Lord Chamberlain.

  Leonidas’ father opened the door.

  He gazed at John with the same air of gentle bemusement he seemed to carry through life. He was the sort of man who would not attract attention on the street. If asked for a description the person questioned would have a hard time thinking of any feature that might separate him from anyone else.

  “John!” the man exclaimed, smiling broadly.

  And then John realized he could not possibly be seeing Leonidas’ father, unchanged by the years. This was his old friend Leonidas himself.

  “Please come in. Helen and I lived elsewhere when we first married, but both my parents died years ago and so, as you see, we moved back here.”

  John studied his friend. Leonidas looked as if he had been middle-aged for a long time and would remain middle-aged for quite a few years yet. His hair had not grayed much but was not so dark as to make him look any younger than he was. His face displayed wrinkles, but no more than might be expected with the passing of the years.

  “Here is Helen now,” Leonidas said. He introduced a plump, matronly woman whose smiling face would not have launched a fishing boat.

  “I’m so glad you came to visit, John,” Leonidas said. “I heard you had returned—who hasn’t? But I thought it best not to intrude, knowing how…well, how you are about such matters.”

  “I appreciate your consideration, Leonidas.”

  The entrance opened onto the large familiar front room from which other doors led to bedrooms and a kitchen. There was still the faint odor of the strong fish sauce Leonidas’ father had favored. Had Leonidas adopted his elder’s taste as well as his looks, or had the aroma of so much cooking of fish over the years saturated the walls with an olfactory memory?

  Leonidas invited John to sit down.

  The dining table still sat by the row of windows lining the wall facing the street. Sunlight sparkled in through many small panes, illuminating the abstractly patterned floor tiles and the colorful but loosely rendered mythological scenes on the walls. The beaming sun, the beaming faces of the couple, gave the impression of a happy home.

  With a slight smile John noticed the partridge, still occupying its wicker cage on a table in a corner, just as he remembered. But surely not the same partridge?

  “That is Julius Caesar,” Leonidas told him. “Unlike his namesake, he can only dream of crossing the Rubicon, confined as he is.”

  And never imagine a fatal dagger thrust through his feathers, John thought.

  When Helen had gone for wine John said, “I am sorry to hear about your parents, Leonidas.”

  “It was the Lord’s will that they depart early. And you are no less an orphan than I am, my friend. I couldn’t help noticing in the tax records years ago that Theophilus had sold the farm. Ah, I said to myself, so John’s mother is gone now too.”

  “Do you know the circumstances?” John asked, reluctant, not wanting to turn over the stones concealing the past but knowing it was what had to be done.

  “No, John. I’m sorry. After you left the academy, I visited the farm more than once asking for news, but you didn’t return and it finally became obvious you were never going to come back. Then, too, I disliked being anywhere near Theophilus. He made me feel unwelcome. I was afraid he was going to suddenly grab me and fling me out the door.”

  “And my mother?” John’s gaze met Leonidas’. They both knew what he meant. How many bruises did she have? How often were her eyes blackened?<
br />
  “She was well, John. Truly.”

  Perhaps she had given up the fight, John thought, or they had stopped quarreling over him once he had gone. Or was Leonidas trying to spare John’s feeling? “There’s something you aren’t telling me?”

  Leonidas looked sheepish. “Your mother was well when you first left but in more recent years…age wears us all down eventually. I met her in the marketplace from time to time and some years ago she suddenly couldn’t remember who I was. I heard that the City Defender’s men sometimes found her wandering around lost in parts of the city she shouldn’t have ventured into. Finally, several years ago she stopped coming into town and a year or so later word got back to the city that she had died. Given her condition no one was surprised. Probably it was a blessing. This was right before Theophilus sold the farm.”

  “I see. Thank you for telling me.” John had realized she was dead, but the manner of her passing distressed him. “What about Theophilus? I understand he fell on hard times after he sold the place.”

  “I couldn’t say. I am sorry I can’t tell you more.” Leonidas’ face darkened, as much as possible given its plain, good-natured features. “I suppose I should commiserate with you over the death of your stepfather.…” Leonidas took one of the cups Helen provided and poured wine. “I also know that however you felt about him, you would never have taken his life.”

  John took a sip of wine without tasting it. “You have heard the rumors.”

  “All nonsense.”

  John took another sip. Not Falernian, but not what might be sold in a tavern either. “I went to the house where Alexis lived, but the family had gone.”

  “You haven’t visited him yet? He went into the church. He’s the abbot at Saint Stephen’s Monastery, next to your estate. The local bishop is of advanced age and it is said Alexis could well be considered as a replacement. Our son, Stephen, decided to enter the church. He is presently a monk there.”

  John reflected that the church was more and more becoming a favored career path. He asked Leonidas how his own fortunes had fared.

  “Very well, John. I followed my father and work on tax collection records. Of course, compared to what you’ve accomplished…”

  “You mean managing to be exiled with the emperor liable any day to change his mind about the wisdom of leaving my head attached to my shoulders?”

  “There it is, you see. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, John. I am perfectly happy with the life I have. I’ve never wished for what some would call a big life. A big life often means big tribulations.”

  “You always spoke of seeing the world. Were you ever able to travel?”

  Leonidas shrugged and blushed slightly. “Well, I have seen Athens!”

  “We’re going to visit the Holy Land someday,” Helen put in.

  “Oh, yes,” Leonidas’ eyes lit up. “I study every travel account I can find. As soon as there’s time and money, we’ll go. Well, as soon as there’s time. I suppose I’ve spent as much on studying as several trips would have cost.”

  “He knows Strabo by heart,” Helen said. “He can tell you how long it should take to ride between every way station from here to Jerusalem, along five different routes.”

  “Six now, and I’m starting to plan a seventh—” He broke off. “But I will not bore you, my friend. You have seen the world. Rather than prattling on about my plans I should be asking you about the adventures you’ve had.”

  “My travels have not always been pleasant.”

  “I suppose not. Of course, everyone in Megara knows of you. When a native of a place such as this rises to the post of Lord Chamberlain, news soon reaches us.”

  “From the attitudes I’ve encountered so far, I would rather they didn’t know who I was or what post I held.”

  Leonidas waved a hand in dismissive fashion. “We don’t all share the same attitude. There are troublemakers everywhere. Diocles, for instance. The rascal’s been spreading rumors since he left your employment. There is great deal of enmity toward you in Megara. I happened to be in the marketplace the other day when your servants were attacked. I had been doing my best to defend your reputation. Little good it did. Are they all right?”

  “Yes. Fortunately.”

  “Leonidas,” said Helen. “Show your old friend your work.”

  Leonidas reddened again. “Helen, I’m sure he doesn’t—”

  “Of course I should like to see it!”

  “I’ll light the lamp.” Helen hurried through the doorway in the wall opposite the row of windows. By the time John and Leonidas had stepped into the tiny windowless room it was illuminated brightly.

  “You remember my bedroom?” Leonidas asked.

  “How would I forget a room painted with scenes from the Odyssey?” The Cyclops, the cannibalistic Laestrygonians, Aeolus and his winds, shades from the underworld, but not the sirens or Circe or Calypso. It was a room for a young boy.

  “It was our son’s too. But now it is mine again.”

  Tables of all kinds and shapes and every number and arrangement of legs stood against the walls. For an embarrassed instant John was afraid Leonidas was going to tell him he collected tables. Then he noticed displayed on a single-legged stand a model of the pyramids, and next to it, on a marble slab supported by four lion’s legs, the Parthenon.

  “You see this?” Leonidas directed John’s attention to a miniature re-creation of a high wall featuring a wide gate. “This is Troy, or the walls, at least. More accurately, improved walls. For several years now I have been pondering how the city might have been better defended and making adjustments to my model as they come to me. What I wanted to show you first, though, was my Constantinople.”

  Helen moved away from the largest table, allowing John the view gulls enjoy looking down on the Great Palace and its tiered gardens, the Great Church, part of the Mese.

  “It’s nothing but clay and paint, a little marble, plenty of wood, brick. Just bits of everything.” Leonidas’ voice rose with excitement.

  “It is remarkable,” John said and meant it. “And amazingly accurate so far as I can tell. Though I have never flown over the capital to be able to look down on it. Where did you find your descriptions?”

  “I’m always on the lookout for any kind of travel writing or history or treatise on architecture. And I’ve arranged interviews with visitors from the capital and people who have journeyed there. I hope that you will be able to assist me. I would like to try my hand at the Great Palace.”

  “I can describe the grounds and buildings to you in detail, when there’s time.”

  Helen smiled with evident pride. “Any emperor can expand the empire but how many men could shrink it to this size?”

  Seeing the couple standing there looking down on the tiny city, John recalled the statue of Zeus he still had to inspect, and couldn’t help comparing Leonidas and Helen to Zeus and Hera gazing down from Olympus.

  “Who could want anything more?” Leonidas observed, displaying the uncanny ability he’d always had of seeming to read John’s thoughts. “From our little home, Helen and I can see to the ends of the world. And I actually know the emperor’s Lord Chamberlain and a man who will, one day soon I wager, be raised to bishop. I have been blessed.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alexis led John into the monastery library. John could hardly recognize him. The unruly hair of the impulsive young prankster John remembered had receded, revealing the broad forehead of one who thinks deeply. The perpetually flushed cheeks had grown hollow, the full lips, spouting every kind of juvenile outrage, were narrowed. What struck John most were the eyes, once gleaming with mischief, now vague and staring as if focused on some distant vision. The face might have been formed by years of living on prayer under a desert sun, but so far as John was aware, Alexis had never left the comforts of Megara.

  “And so you have retur
ned after all these years,” Alexis said. “When we were boys, who would have thought we would take such different journeys?”

  They sat at a long table piled with codices and many scrolls, most of obvious antiquity. There was as much papyrus as parchment. The sun, near setting, had tinted the walls of the whitewashed room gold, now gradually turning to orange.

  “Some of our holdings have taken equally long journeys, and I think you will find looking at a few of great interest.” Alexis turned to address the young monk who had entered bearing a polished wood box. “There you are, Stephen. Yes, that’s the box I want. Some of the greatest rarities I keep under lock and key,” he explained to John. “And this is Leonidas’ son. Stephen, our visitor is an old friend of your father’s and has just come from his house.”

  “I am honored to meet you.”

  At Alexis’ instruction, Stephen began to light lamps in the wall niches.

  Alexis pulled a ragged sheet of parchment from the box, holding it to catch the last light from the windows.

  “Yes, this is the document I mentioned. A few lines on the worship of Demeter in this area, written by an anonymous monk some centuries ago. There is nothing left but this badly decayed piece of parchment. Nevertheless, it is fascinating if fragmentary. Perhaps you could read it aloud to refresh my memory?”

  John took the brittle sheet and began to read. “The goddess’ daughter stolen by…pigs driven into a chasm…remains later retrieved for certain rites…initiation…torchlit procession…sacred basket an important ritualistic artifact…little is known of mysteries of the higher grades…”

  Fragmentary was a charitable description, John thought.

  “There is great antiquarian interest in these old religions,” Alexis tucked the sheet gently back into the box. “Though spending so much time poring over ancient texts has made my eyes dimmer than they should be at my age. Stephen, you may return this to my study now.”