Murder in Megara (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

“You can't go into town with an injured ankle, Peter.”

Hypatia knelt by the side of their bed, gently prodding the purpling, bloated mass of flesh where an ankle should have been.

“It doesn't hurt,” Peter insisted. He grimaced as her fingers examined the injury. “Not much. Nothing I can't stand. A walk to the marketplace is nothing like a forced march through the Isaurian mountains.”

Hypatia stood. “You're not in the military now. There's no need for you to go.”

“I must have landed on that foot when I fell into the pit,” Peter said. “I wish I could remember. I'll be better once I start moving around if you'd give me a hand to get up. “

Hypatia sighed inwardly. She was rarely aware of Peter's age. With harsh morning light highlighting his cuts and bruises, the time-weathered face, the last vestiges of gray hair, his thin limbs, she saw, for an instant, an old man. “No, Peter. Lie back down and rest. I heard the master and mistress speaking at breakfast. He's going into Megara and I'm certain he'll allow me to accompany him.”

“I suppose that would be all right if he doesn't feel inconvenienced,” Peter allowed himself to fall back. “It is my duty—”

“Your duty is to recover from your accident.” Hypatia bent and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.

Crossing the courtyard she realized she felt a maternal solicitude toward her elderly husband. Was that appropriate? They had only been married a few months. Should she feel differently toward Peter now they were wed than she had beforehand? They had grown closer during all the time they had worked together in the Lord Chamberlain's household until finally it had seemed only natural that they should marry. But was that a good reason to marry?

The master and mistress weren't married in the legal sense but they might as well have been. Theirs was not what anyone would call a traditional marriage. John was not yet old, but in a sense he was. He and Cornelia had had a child together before his terrible mutilation. That was long ago, however. Did Cornelia feel her marriage to John was what it should be? Did she ever see him as…what he was? But no, Hypatia told herself, she shouldn't even be having such thoughts.

What most distressed her about Peter's age was how little time they might have together. She tried to keep it out of her mind.

She took a basket from the alcove off the kitchen. Lying in its bottom was the paring knife with the cracked handle she'd been using to cut herbs during her forays into the meadows. Considering how she and Peter had been attacked it might not be a bad idea to take it into Megara with her or to keep it with her in case Theophilus' murderer was still slinking around the estate. She tucked it away in her tunic, out of sight.

In the kitchen, Cornelia was still lingering at the table, contemplating a plate holding a few crumbs and olive pits. When Hypatia inquired about John, she said he was already on his way to Megara.

“I told Peter I'd go with him,” Hypatia said. “Do you think I could run and catch up?”

“Why bother?” came the reply in a masculine voice. “I'll be glad to accompany you. And my companion here will gladly come along for safety.” It was Philip, standing in the doorway, hefting his sharpened stake.

“Shouldn't you and your friend be keeping an eye on the property rather than…than the pots on the brazier?” Hypatia had almost blurted out “keeping an eye on me.”

“If the mistress doesn't mind…” said Philip.

“I don't mind,” Cornelia replied. “It would be an excellent arrangement. If you can catch up to the master you can provide protection to him as well.”

“There, Hypatia, you've had your orders. Let's not delay.”

***

Philip told himself that Hypatia wasn't as cross as she pretended. He showed her a shortcut through the fields, all the while admiring her out of the corner of his eye. A bronze-skinned, black-haired beauty. Nothing like the farmers' daughters he saw outside Megara.

They did not see John. When they reached the track leading to Megara he wasn't in sight.

“The master always walks at a fast pace,” Hypatia said. “We won't catch up.”

“Why should we try? I'm here to look after you if necessary.”

“You aren't watching the estate while you're watching me.”

Did she emphasize the word “watching” or was that his imagination? Surely an attractive woman would not object to being watched politely?

“You must have some time off from your work,” Philip said. “There's more to see in Megara than the marketplace. It may not be Constantinople but I could show you some sights.”

“It's not a good idea for any of us from the estate to be spending time in town, the way everyone feels. If you're seen with me too often, Philip, they'll think you're in league with me.”

“Don't worry. No one in Megara is going to turn against me. I've lived here my whole life.”

Walking casually close to her, he managed from time to time to brush his hip against hers as if by accident.

“Why aren't you married at your age?” Hypatia asked.

“I've been waiting for you,” he grinned and watched for her reaction. Consternation, on the outside, but masking what? Did he see a flush of pleasure creep into her cheeks?

“You've lived with your father all your life?” She was trying to change the subject, he thought.

“On our farm, yes.”

“Just you and your father?”

Philip paused. Why would she be wondering whether he lived alone? He had to restrain his eager imagination.

“It's just my father and I. Except when Diocles was staying there. An unpleasant man, not suited to be overseer, in my opinion. But he's gone now. If you would like to visit sometime, I could show you our house. I am sure it is much grander than a servant's room. My father is out often, tending to his pigs.”

She glared at him and fell silent. Now she was obviously blushing.

It's true, Philip told himself. She's definitely attracted to me.

***

To an observer they might have been a married couple walking together. The dark-haired, sunburnt man protectively hovered near the dark-haired, tawny-skinned woman. Occasionally he would touch her arm, as if ready to steady her. When she sorted through the melons on sale, lifting them to her face to inhale their aroma, then passing them over for his opinion, their fingers brushed.

Did they see the sellers looking at them with hostile eyes, or notice their curtness? Did they feel the subtle pressure of a multitude of stares directed at their backs?

The man kept glancing around, as if alert for danger. One hand moved nervously, causing the wickedly pointed end of the stake he carried to waggle back and forth.

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.”