Murder in Megara (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Don't call yourself my father, Theophilus.”

Cornelia sensed a suppressed fury in John's quiet voice of a depth she had never heard before. It was so shockingly cold and unexpected it made the skin on the back of her neck tingle.

“Get off my estate,” he had continued, “and stay off it.”

The intruder was John's stepfather. That was all Cornelia learned during their strained, mostly silent march back to the house. She had known John hated his stepfather, but the depth of his hatred she would never have guessed until now.

She knew John well enough not to question him when, as they came to the courtyard gate, he made a vague excuse about having matters to look into and wandered off toward the back of the house. Matters to think through was what he meant, and he needed solitude for that. It was his nature. She would have liked to have offered comforting words or listened until he had unburdened himself, but that was not John's way. Perhaps he would walk to the other end of the estate until he had reasoned himself out of his anger, or it might be he intended to return to the temple and make certain Theophilus had gone.

How little she knew of John's past. He rarely spoke of his family, had instead been almost secretive about them over the years. When questioned, he would tell her they were part of a different life and then change the subject. All she knew was that he never returned to them after he ran away from Plato's Academy as a young man to take up the life of a mercenary.

No doubt he had good reasons.

She crossed the courtyard and went into the kitchen, a big room with stairs in one corner leading up to the owner's quarters. The air was humid from pots steaming on the brazier. Hypatia sat at a well-scrubbed wooden table stirring a yellow mixture in a ceramic bowl.

“You've accomplished wonders in a short time, Hypatia.” Cornelia glanced around the tidy, clean room with pans, bowls, and utensils arranged along the shelf by the brazier, remembering the sour-smelling rats' paradise that had greeted them at their arrival.

“Peter can't abide a dirty kitchen and neither can I, mistress. But when there are no women in a house, such matters often get neglected.”

Drawing up a stool, Cornelia leaned her elbows on the table and asked what Hypatia was preparing. “Is it a sauce? Shall we have chicken tonight?”

“Oh no, mistress. Peter insists on overseeing all the cooking and I am uncertain what he plans.” Her face clouded. “I'm making chelidon to treat his eyes. They're causing him distress and I'm afraid he may lose his sight. It is said that swallows dropped chelidon juice into the eyes of hatchlings born blind and it's certainly a wonderful cure for eye problems. It really should be cooked in a brazen pot, but the only one I could find needs repair. I don't suppose it makes much difference, providing the ingredients are mixed to the correct proportions. That's the vital point.”

Cornelia expressed concern for Peter. She started to ask Hypatia about the poultice she had mentioned, then stopped. She felt awkward. Hypatia and Peter were servants, it was true, but had become more or less members of the family. How would the estate workers perceive such a state of affairs? Might it encourage lax work if they saw the mistress of the house chatting companionably with a servant? Or to be more accurate, would it encourage them to be more lax? As John had indicated, even a brief glance around the estate revealed they had not been closely attending to their duties while it was in the hands of the previous absentee owner.

As if summoned by the thought of estate workers, a big, bare-armed young man in a short laborer's tunic thumped into the kitchen. Tanned almost black, he was broad in the chest. His inky hair hadn't been cut for a long time and then badly. Yet his features might have been sculpted by Praxiteles.

He set the wooden stave he carried beside the door, cheerily asked Hypatia if there might be bread and cheese for a hungry watchman and, without waiting for a reply, helped himself to what was sitting on the nearest shelf.

“I see you've been hurt, Hypatia.” He spoke through a mouthful of bread. “Obviously you can't rely on your grandfather for protection. I'd be happy to accompany you next time you go into town.” He clapped a powerful hand around the stave and inclined it in Hypatia's direction, showing its wickedly sharpened point. “A taste or two of my stout friend here always persuades ruffians to be polite.”

Hypatia glared at him. “How did you know Peter and I have been to town? Did you follow us?”

“I'm one of the master's watchmen, so it's my business to notice comings and goings. At least think about my offer, Hypatia. I wouldn't want to see you come to further harm.” He took a bite of his cheese and addressed Cornelia. “Now, mistress, would you send a young woman into town with no escort but a tottering old man?”

“I think it is time you returned to your duties,” Cornelia snapped.

Philip bowed awkwardly, grabbed his weapon, and fled, muttering apologies.

Hypatia looked at the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh.

“That young man seems to be on very familiar terms with you,” Cornelia observed.

“Philip's the tenant farmer's son. He's in and out of the kitchen constantly. Just a growing boy, always hungry.”

“A growing boy? He must be in his mid-thirties. Your age.”

“Well, he doesn't seem to recall it, mistress. Men have a habit of being younger than their age.” She made a show of measuring out a spoonful of honey from the terra-cotta pot next to her mixing bowl.

Cornelia left shortly thereafter in a thoughtful mood.

Perhaps Hypatia tended to see men as younger than they were. That would explain much. On the other hand, she doubted that bread and cheese were the only attractions the kitchen held for Philip.

Chapter Three

John stepped into the courtyard as the dazzling edge of the rising sun appeared over the barn roof. Wisps of fog steamed from the tiles. There was a chill in the air of the type that often presages a hot day. The front of the massive barn across from the house delineated the far side of the open space. House and barn were joined by extended wings housing servants' quarters, storage rooms, and animal pens.

John shaded his eyes from the glare and looked around.

The blacksmith, a short, powerfully built man with a good-natured face and snub nose had already arrived. He was enveloped in a leather apron reaching past his knees, as if he were working at his forge rather than lounging in front of the pigsty. His punctuality impressed John.

“Petrus, sir, my name is Petrus. How may I be of assistance?”

“I want you to deal with these first.” John indicated the equipment piled next to the barn door.

The blacksmith strolled over and hunkered down over a broken plow, taking a closer look with his hands, tapping and fingering, knocking off bits of dried dirt. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “I'm surprised the fields could get tilled at all.” He stood, slapping his soiled hands on the leather apron. “I can take care of these, but it might be better to simply replace them.”

“Have you spoken about this to the overseer?”

“No, sir. Diocles hasn't consulted me about repairs for months.”

“Has he ordered any tools from you? Pitchforks, spades, hoes? Much of what I've seen needs replacing or is in short supply. I've only found a single pruning hook for the olive trees.”

“It's been a year since I've made any farm tools, sir, and I could certainly use the work. Not to speak ill of a fellow laborer, but Diocles doesn't run the estate as he should. A workman is only as good as his tools, that's what I always say. A dull sickle makes a hard harvest. A pitchfork with no handle is worse than a hammer with no head, for a nail can be pounded with a brick but what can replace a pitchfork?”

John concealed his surprise at sensing neither enmity in Petrus nor wariness of his new master. Hadn't the town's opinion of John and his family come to the blacksmith's ears? Had he heard the rumors and dismissed them? Or was he merely being polite to the owner of the estate on which he lived as a tenant?

“Certain items for the kitchen are needed. Consult Peter on that. I understand a large bronze pot needs repair, for a start.”

Petrus smiled. “You know what the thrifty say. Make whole your pot and save more than just a cooking vessel.”

Before John could reply he was interrupted by Cornelia calling urgently from an archway leading into the courtyard.

“John! Come quickly!”

“What is it?”

She had vanished back inside. He found her standing beside a large amphora in the enclosure where the olive oil was stored.

“A mouse, John! A dead mouse floating in the oil!”

John patted her shoulder. “Since when are you afraid of mice?”

“I'm not, but it gave me a shock and…” she paused, composing herself, “Do you think someone was trying to harm us? Was it put there on purpose…?”

“I've never heard of anyone being poisoned by a mouse.”

“No, but we aren't in Constantinople now. Everyone here hates us. Can we trust the estate workers? The mouse might have been tossed in there just out of malice.”

John looked down at the half-submerged rodent. Small glassy eyes stared back. He noticed Petrus looking on from the archway, hiding a smile behind his hand.

The blacksmith let out a stifled chuckle. “I beg your pardon, mistress. I know it must be difficult for a city person to come to grips with country ways. You've got to try and see the humor in them. He who smiles at ill fortune will conquer it, you know.”

Cornelia glared at him. Obviously he had misunderstood the cause of her discomfiture.

“Don't worry about it spoiling the oil,” John said “On such occasions my mother would add a handful of some plant or other and it purified the oil.”

Cornelia gave him a puzzled look. “I thought plants didn't interest you.”

“You can hardly avoid them completely when growing up in the country. This plant, if I remember right, was quite tall and branched out. It had white flowers.”

“I'm sure Hypatia will know what it is. I'll get a ladle and fish the poor beast out.”

John returned to Petrus, who apologized profusely for his comments.

“No doubt you find us amusing? A strange family perhaps?” John replied.

“No, sir, I wouldn't call it strange. Some in Megara…well…but never mind…I don't find it strange. Not at all.”

“Very well,” was the curt reply. “Before you bring your wagon for these plows, find Diocles and send him to me. I'll be in the triclinium.”

Chapter Four

Diocles was late. As sunlight falling through narrow windows crept across the triclinium floor, John shifted irritably on the edge of a dining couch with faded red upholstery, one of three around the long marble table.

No one had kept the emperor's Lord Chamberlain waiting.

Finally he got up and examined the wall paintings. He hadn't taken much notice before because he and Cornelia ate their meals in the second-floor living quarters which extended over the back of the house except for the triclinium. It surprised him to see, here in the countryside, bucolic scenes, not unlike the mosaic on the wall of his study in the capital. Why would a visiting owner need to look at a painted countryside when he could see the real thing simply by stepping outside or looking through a window?

Not that Senator Vinius had visited his estate very often.

Looking more closely, John realized the fresco landscape was not of the present time but rather that of classical Greece, with pagan temples on the hilltops and satyrs leering from behind intricate, stylized foliage. Here and there he spotted apparent additions, which might have been drawn by a child. A cow, or was it an overly large cat?

A crudely rendered waterfall descended in one corner. The ceiling directly above it showed water stains and peeling plaster.

“I see you are admiring my little repair job,” came a voice from the doorway.

Diocles entered, a tall, dark haired man of saturnine appearance, whose eyebrows met above a long nose. In soft boots and a green tunic decorated with a large bronze fibula in the shape of an eagle, he was dressed for a banquet.

“Repairs?”

“I like to put my hand to creative works from time to time, sir. And I thought, why not take advantage of such a golden opportunity? The waterfall becomes very realistic when it rains. I found it striking to contemplate while dining. Besides, a daub of paint is so much less expensive than replacing a roof and the former owner was ever careful of his finances.”

“I see.” John went back to his couch and gestured Diocles to join him at the table. From the way the overseer's long nose wrinkled it appeared he didn't like what was being served—several courses of accounts spread out in codices and scrolls. “Then you have been using the triclinium for your meals? As you used the owner's quarters rather than the overseer's quarters?”

“Senator Vinius gave his permission, naturally.”

“I should like to see that.”

“Impliedly permitted it, I mean,” Diocles replied.

“Much may be implied in a person's absence.” John pushed a codex over to Diocles. “To proceed. According to the entry here the roof was replaced only last year. The expenditure was, in fact, considerably more than the cost of what you called a daub of paint.”

“Oh. Yes. That was the barn roof. As you will learn, sir, a farm needs a dry barn.”

“Thank you for enlightening me. You have much experience in overseeing a farm?”

Diocles nodded.

“Then you should be able to explain some of the discrepancies I've found in your records.”

“I will be glad to explain whatever small matters you don't understand, sir.”

“First, there is the small matter of the lack of maintenance. The estate has the appearance of having been pillaged by the Goths. I hold you, as overseer, responsible for the neglect. What is your explanation?”

Diocles' gloomy countenance darkened until John thought a storm was about to break out over the man's head. However, only a few drops of sweat ran down his overseer's creased forehead. “Residing here less than a month, sir, you might not realize—”

“It's been enough for me to observe the sorry conditions. Explain.”

“Yes, certainly.” Diocles' shoulders slumped but John could see defiance in his eyes. “For one thing, it has been a bad year in general for everyone. Very dry, all year, and an outbreak of sickness a month or so ago meaning lack of laborers and subsequent delays in completing the tasks needing to be done then. We're still endeavoring to accomplish the last, ditches to be cleaned out and tools needing repair, for example.”

“The blacksmith tells me it's been months since you asked him about repairs.”

“There were so many other tasks to be accomplished first, sir.”

“Indeed. I have also noted the meager income recorded for this past year and by contrast the luxurious furnishings in the owner's quarters. I particularly notice very few sales of the wool and oil produced here. Further, I have established that most of the storage jars for the latter are empty.”

“Easily explained, sir. The olive crops last year were very disappointing, and with fewer sales we have had to consume much of our own produce rather than buy such as was needed. As for the other matter: The previous owner was very fond of his comforts. I suspect that is why we rarely saw him.”

“Rarely? He hadn't visited in a decade, if not longer.”

“True, he preferred to stay in Constantinople. However, there was always the possibility he might suddenly decide to visit. It was my responsibility to ensure all would be as he wished if he should. I also laid in a stock of expensive wine for him and kept it near me, to ensure the estate workers didn't take advantage.”

“Expensive wine is more important than patching the roof of the dining room where the senator would drink the wine! And how did you know of the former owner's tastes? Whence came the money to pay for these comforts?”

“It was sent by his agent, who reported his master's requests that these tasks be undertaken.”

“I see. These instructions were conveyed merely by word of mouth?”

“How did you guess, sir?” Diocles nervously fingered his bronze eagle. He looked as if he wished he could fly away. Dark patches of sweat blossomed down the sides of his green tunic.

John thought of his other estates, now confiscated, but seldom visited during his residence in the capital. Had they been mismanaged into ruin? If so, Justinian would be disappointed when the proceeds of their sale were added to the imperial treasury.

He pulled a codex over to him. “This purports to be the tax record. Regarding the blacksmith and the tenant farmer, there is no indication of their required tax payments. It is your job to see they are properly collected and turned over to the authorities promptly when due.”

“They were certainly collected, sir. But in these hard times it can be impossible to come up with the required sums all at once, and thus I am given last year's taxes, which include part of the year before, along with this year's, but part of this year's needs to be credited to last year, leaving part of last year's to make up for any deficit this year, which can be accounted for next year, so that it all adds up eventually.”

“One needs to be Pythagoras to grasp your accounts, Diocles.”

The overseer made no reply. John saw his eyes move, and then narrow, as he looked from one end of the codex strewn table to the other.

“Apart from these accounts, “ John said. “I notice the tenant farmer Lucian appears to have cultivated more land than he is entitled. I refer to several fields that are supposed to be dedicated to grazing the estate's livestock. Why have you allowed this?”

Diocles licked his lips. “This sickness I mentioned killed off many sheep, so I suggested some of the lost income might be made up by growing produce, until the flock could be replenished.” There was an edge to the overseer's voice.

John judged him to be one of those men who become angry when their lies are not readily accepted. “Further, remind Petrus that a condition of his tenancy is giving priority to what needs doing on the estate, for which he is well paid. He told me he needs work but I've seen smoke from his forge every day.”

“He has regular commissions from Halmus, one of Megara's wealthiest and most respected men,” Diocles offered. “And a hard worker like Petrus is always interested in more work.”

“I'm glad to hear it. He will have all he wants. And the estate workers. Do they live in Megara?”

“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.”