Murder in Megara

by Eric Mayer

  The observer looked back across the square, past the stylite column, at the entrance to Halmus’ mansion, but no one had emerged yet.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Halmus’ servant told John that his master was currently resting from his devotions and free to discuss earthly matters. He showed John into the atrium. Atop the stylite column, half-naked and draped in chains, Halmus had looked the part of an ascetic, but in his atrium, dressed in fine garments, he resembled any other successful businessman, solid, well fed, and one who would not take orders from anyone.

  Or no mortal at least.

  “Yes, I have dealt with Diocles. I am glad you have removed him. He was a villain but the former owner of the estate wished me to do business through the man. I would not willingly have chosen to have anything to do with him. You will not be overseeing the estate yourself?”

  “My son-in-law will be overseer. He has been delayed but he’s a competent and honest man. He has had charge of a large estate not far from Constantinople.”

  “Very good. Except of course…”

  “As you say. There is a great deal of animosity here toward myself and my family.”

  “There is no animosity toward you in this house.”

  Was that true, John wondered? Who then were the evil ones releasing demons and conducting wicked rites, against whom Halmus had been fulminating from his column? He was starting to suspect the merchant was transformed into a different person, having climbed back down to the ground, when Halmus disabused him of the notion by launching into an account of his travels in the Holy Land.

  “We are a godly household. I have visited the summit of Mount Sinai, sat on the very rock upon which Moses smashed the tablets, and seen the spot where the golden idol stood.”

  As Halmus spoke he embarked on a peregrination of his home, which led them along corridors decorated with gaudy mosaics and through a huge kitchen into the garden behind the house. It couldn’t have been more different than the immaculately groomed grounds of the Great Palace. This was more of an untamed jungle, confined between walls like a wild beast.

  Halmus spread his arms, gesturing toward tangled brush and drooping tree limbs. “I think of this as my wilderness, a place to which I can retreat from the affairs of the world and commune with the Lord. My first intent was to re-create the rugged, rocky deserts of the Holy Land but in such a confined space the effect would not have been the same. I would have found myself sitting on a patch of bare ground, surrounded by walls, almost a prison. With this vegetation on all sides I can’t see the walls. I can imagine I am in the middle of a vast forest, far from humanity—a hermit, if you will.”

  John nodded politely. He had attempted to discreetly establish Halmus’ business relationship with the estate but Halmus was not forthcoming. Perhaps he didn’t want to tell John anything of his business, or possibly he was one of those men who left most their affairs to underlings. No doubt a churchman or another devout Christian would be impressed by the man’s pilgrimages.

  “Careful,” Halmus cautioned as they pushed through a thick planting of rhododendrons lining the steep banks of a small stream.

  The flashing trickle, appearing from and vanishing back into the overhanging vegetation, was just narrow enough to step across.

  “But perhaps I shouldn’t be talking about religious matters,” he went on. “Please do not take offense. In business matters I only judge people by their wealth, but I confess I do wonder about this rumor you worship Demeter.”

  So that was what Halmus had been trying to establish. “I can assure you, I do not worship Demeter.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Not that I would allow it to interfere with business. We must all render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. Not only does the emperor demand it, but Jesus commanded us to do so. And in order to render what is Caesar’s we must first obtain what is Caesar’s, is that not so?”

  John agreed.

  “Have you met Abbot Alexis? I believe his monastery’s land borders your estate. He is a good friend of mine. I will give you an introduction to him. You may want to attend services there.”

  “I’ve known Alexis since boyhood.”

  “Is that so? Excellent. A most competent man. He has greatly expanded Saint Stephen’s holdings. I will not be alone in recommending him to replace our current bishop when the time comes. After all, the church must make its way in this world, if it is to do the Lord’s work. A good bishop must first be a good businessman.”

  There appeared in front of them a dome-shaped hill largely overgrown with moss and weeds. It loomed large in the enclosed garden, vanishing back into the overhanging vegetation. As they approached he noticed the hill itself was constructed of concrete, left unfinished and lumpy to simulate rock.

  “Here is my hermit’s dwelling.” Halmus pushed back an animal skin hanging down inside the entrance, allowing them to enter a rough walled cubicle, its back also hung with an animal skin, a cramped space furnished only with the stub of a candle sitting on a flat rock against the wall. It could almost have been the beginnings of a miniature mithraeum had it been below ground, John thought.

  “I will be staying here tonight,” Halmus explained. “An angel appeared to me this morning as I preached and instructed me to pray here from nightfall until sunrise. Evil is loose in Megara and I must pray for our deliverance.”

  John said nothing. The businessman spoke of angelic visitation as if it were the price of olive oil. There was something odd about Halmus’ retreat. Before John had a chance to latch onto the thought, Halmus reached down and picked up a small stick laid beside the candle, extending the former in John’s direction. “A relic from the Holy Land. Please be careful how you handle it.”

  John grasped the stick and gave an inquiring look.

  “You have in your hand a small part of the bush that burned with holy fire. Can you feel some lingering warmth? Can you hear a faint vibration after all these centuries of the thunderous voice of the Lord speaking to Moses?

  “After descending Mount Sinai, where I visited the cave in which Moses stayed for forty days and nights, a cave not unlike this one I may add, I was asked whether I wanted to see the burning bush which still lived,” Halmus continued. “I was eager to do so, so after cautioning me that the journey would be arduous, my guide and I set out across the desert. This was near the head of the valley that runs in front of the holy mountain and which is easily crossed in two hours. But on account of the miraculous presence of the bush, the geography of the place is like nothing else on earth.

  “We walked all morning and on into the afternoon and although we never turned, as far as I could tell, the mountain lay sometimes before us, and other times behind us, and at others was invisible. So, too, the position of the sun in the sky moved around the zenith mysteriously, and also I sensed I was walking downhill or up an incline when my eyes told me the barren ground remained level.

  “Finally, late in the afternoon, we came to an utterly flat and bare expanse upon which grew not a single blade of grass. The surface beneath my feet was gray and hard. It might have been solid rock. And in the midst of this deathly landscape grew the bush from which the Lord spoke in the fire.

  “After falling on our knees to pray we turned our backs and left. In a few steps we were at the edge of the valley and looking back could see no sign of the bush. But it had shed a few twigs for pilgrims such as I, and the one you are holding proved that we had been there.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “You did not tell me the truth, Hypatia.” Peter said when she arrived back from the market with a full basket. His harsh greeting startled her.

  She put her basket on the table and set down the small bunch of yellow wildflowers she carried.

  “Did your young man pick those for you?” Peter asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you coming back with Philip. You tol
d me you were going to go into town with the master.”

  “He’d already gone. The mistress agreed Philip could accompany me. Ask her if you don’t believe me!”

  “It isn’t fitting for us to question the mistress or the master.”

  “Then you’ll have to take my word for it. Isn’t your wife’s word good enough for you?”

  “I used to think I could trust you.”

  Hypatia could not remember seeing Peter so furious with her. “I don’t like the way you are looking at me, Peter. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

  Peter looked pointedly at the flowers on the table. “That young man has been following you around like a cat after you’ve given it a bowl of milk, expecting more.”

  “Oh, Peter! I certainly haven’t given Philip…anything!”

  “Why should you be angry? I’m the one who has something to be angry about. Do you think I’m too old to be jealous? Is that it?”

  “But you have nothing to be jealous about!”

  “That’s the first thing everyone says.”

  “If you need to be angry about something, then be angry about this. Philip told me that odious overseer Diocles didn’t leave the estate as soon as the master ordered. He stayed with Philip’s father for a while. Supposedly he’s gone now, but how can we be sure? The master should know, don’t you think?”

  Peter fell silent. He looked as if he wanted to keep arguing. “Yes, you’re right. I had better tell him.”

  After he limped out Hypatia tossed the flowers into the brazier, went into their bedroom, roughly pushed the cats off the bed, sat down, put her head in her hands, and cried.

  She wasn’t even certain what she was crying about.

  Perhaps everyone and everything.

  ***

  On returning from Megara John searched the house and outbuildings until he found Cornelia in a gloomy, musty room attached to the barn. Covered ceramic jars, some pierced with numerous holes, filled shelves.

  Cornelia leaned her broom in a corner, picked up a jar, and handed it to John. “Look at that!”

  He brushed cobwebs away and looked inside. Delicate bones lay amid bits of walnut shells. “Someone forgot he was fattening dormice, or decided not to bother any longer.”

  “Snails too. I’m sure we can guess who’s responsible.”

  “Or irresponsible.”

  “The overseer, of course. Too busy swindling the owner to care.” She picked up the broom and resumed cleaning.

  “You should leave that for Hypatia or the farm workers.”

  “I can’t sit around doing nothing, John. Besides, I enjoy exploring the place. You never know what you’ll find. And what did you find in Megara?”

  He described his visit to her, sneezing more than once as dust whirled through the air. As he talked he watched her reaching, bending, stretching, admiring her lithe form and the unconscious grace with which she moved, even when performing a mundane and dirty task.

  When he had finished telling her about his visit, her face was bemused. “I’m surprised Halmus can conduct any business at all, between going on pilgrimages and preaching and having visions.”

  Before John could reply he heard shuffling footsteps and turning, saw Peter enter.

  “Master, I am sorry to bother you but I have just heard something I think you should know. The former overseer was staying with the tenant farmer, Lucian.”

  Cornelia banged the broom angrily against the floor. “Wretched man! He ought to be staying in a jar, starving like these poor dormice.”

  “Where did you find this out, Peter?”

  “Hypatia just told me. She got it from that young watchman who keeps bothering her.”

  “Thank you. I will look into Diocles’ whereabouts.”

  Peter hesitated in the doorway. “Master…about that story the merchant told you…I overheard…I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I didn’t want to interrupt you when you were talking to the mistress.” He looked at his feet nervously. “Well, to be honest, you know how I love to hear pilgrim tales.”

  “I do, Peter. Halmus’ tale was certainly colorful. You have something to say about it?”

  “He was lying to you, master.”

  Cornelia gave a faint snort of derision. “Of course he was lying, he’s from Megara.”

  “What do you mean, Peter?”

  “His description of the burning bush was not correct. I know because I’ve seen it with my own eyes when I traveled through that country during my days in the military. It isn’t in the desert. Not at all, master. At the head of the valley, at the base of the mountains, the monks have built a church surrounded by cells in a beautiful garden. There is plenty of water, enough for a thriving orchard.”

  “I see. Perhaps Halmus has difficulty recalling events?”

  “It may be so, but it seems to me a person never forgets where he saw that bush.”

  Cornelia waited until Peter was out of earshot before saying, “You know how these Christian pilgrims like to exaggerate.”

  “Perhaps he had a vision, or thought he did,” John mused. “I’m not certain his humors aren’t deranged, or perhaps wants people to think they are. There would be advantages.”

  Cornelia set aside her broom. “What about Diocles? You’re going to make certain he’s gone, aren’t you? The man might be dangerous.”

  “Indeed. For now, if he’s still here, I like knowing where he is without him realizing.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  John ran a finger along a row of numbers in the codex lying open on the triclinium table, shaking his head now and again and frowning. He had returned to the overseer’s books. The mundane task made less of a change from listening to Halmus’ heavenly visions than he would have guessed. Diocles’ figures appeared to be little more than visions themselves. After less than an hour, John’s fingertip was black with ink from tracing the malfeasance of the so-called overseer.

  Whereas one might expect entries that supported each other in the manner of the blocks forming the walls of a city, with each expenditure entered against income and the resulting sum transferred onward, they revealed nothing approaching such an ordered arrangement.

  It was obvious Senator Vinius had never sent an agent to check the accounts. John continued reading. He came to an entry recording the purchase of a herd of goats a few months before. There were no subsequent references relating to the sale of the herd, yet John had seen no goats on the estate.

  He was about to make a note of the discrepancy when he found, farther down, an entry for a large sum spent on “remedies for sick goats” and then another for “disposal of goat carcasses.”

  It seemed amazing an entire herd of goats would die within such a short time and given John was already suspicious of what he could only call Diocles’ unusual accounting methods, it seemed highly unlikely. It was not to be wondered the former overseer dressed well. When it came to the estate’s books, the overseer could produce goats out of thin air, send them straight back, and make money off the herd in the process.

  What was Diocles doing now, John wondered, apart from spreading malicious rumors about the new owner of the estate? In addition to worrying about whoever killed Theophilus, should he also be worried about any vindictive actions the former overseer might take? Was Diocles capable of violence as well as fraud?

  He was contemplating the question when Peter limped into the room accompanied by a dusty rustic and announced: “A messenger seeking to speak to you, master.”

  “Are you the person in charge, sir?” his visitor inquired.

  When John confirmed that he was, the messenger handed over a writing tablet, bowed, and was escorted out.

  John watched Peter’s obviously painful exit. The servant shouldn’t be up and about, but it was useless to tell him so.

  He cut the thin cord tying the tablet’s
two beechwood frames together and opened them. The wax surface within bore a confirmation relating to the purchase of a large flock of sheep. More of Diocles’ imaginary livestock? Unlike goats, there certainly were plenty of sheep on the estate.

  John consulted the codex in front of him. He wasn’t surprised to find no mention of any such transaction on the date given in the tablet, nor for a week before or after.

  Was this some peculiarity of business in Megara? Or business as conducted by Diocles?

  The message must have been intended for the overseer. The messenger hadn’t asked for John or the owner of the estate but for whoever was in charge, which for years had been Diocles. No doubt the rustic bearer of the tablet was unfamiliar with Diocles and had naturally assumed John’s answer meant he was the estate overseer.

  What could the purpose be? Diocles didn’t need such a message delivered to him to falsify the accounts. Unless he was being instructed to make a false entry?

  No doubt Diocles would have understood what it meant.

  Was it in code perhaps?

  Having just spent time talking with people who seemed to be concealing information and now being immersed in Diocles’ duplicitous accounts, the idea of artful concealment was not far from his thoughts.

  John muttered an oath and picked up the tablet again. He pondered what the reference to sheep could possibly mean. The world was full of things the gentle-faced animals could represent.

  As he reread the message he noticed a mark on the wooden frame around the wax. A deep gouge marred one of the raised borders of the right hand leaf. Similar marks on the outer leaves were to be expected, but an inner location seemed peculiar given that, when closed, the two inner surfaces lay together, protecting both frame and wax.

  During his years of imperial service John had learned of many ingenious methods for secret communications.

  He gently scraped the wax from its shallow rectangular tray.

  “Mithra!” he muttered.