Murder in Megara (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

Another evening, another port, this time Lechaion, the western port of Corinth. John had spent much of the day traveling. Who could the courier with the scar and singular arrangement of teeth have been except his stepfather? So John had come here, to the city where the mysterious shipment of iron had originated, to look for Theophilus' past.

Rows of masts pointed accusing fingers at the darkening sky, and intoxicated men were already staggering in and out of the taverns lining squalid alleys radiating away from the water. The dying sun gave its blush to white marble-faced civic buildings. A large basilica stood within sight of the inner harbor, a mass of busy streets stretching away around it. Herds of cows voiced loud bovine complaints as they were driven into pens in a nearby market.

It was to an alley off a wide thoroughfare leading from the marketplace that John went in search of lodgings. By the time dusk had settled in and torches flared he had moved into a small room at the top of a house that leaned wearily on its two neighbors, inclining precipitously with them toward the rubbish-strewn ground to such a degree that going up the stairs meant a giddy, near crawling ascent to avoid tumbling down backward.

The stairway was greasy, dimly lit, and malodorous, but had the advantage of creaking loudly when pressure was placed on its steps, giving tenants ample warning of visitors who, by the appearance of the area, might not be welcome.

John took the room on a daily basis, being careful to pay in coins of the smallest value, and with one hand on the blade tucked in his belt as the landlord's agent counted them.

“What's the best tavern in these parts?” he asked the agent, a wizened little man with a distinct stoop and gray hair.

“Depends what you seek.” The reply was accompanied by a leer. “If it's a woman looking for a friend, you can do no better than sample the delights of the tavern run by my son. Step outside and I'll point it out to you.”

The tavern to which the old man referred was a large establishment across the street and appeared well patronized. John noticed a huddled shape lying against the wall.

Following his glance, his informant chuckled. “That's Maritza. A harpy with red hair and a scorpion's tongue,” he said. “She must have had good fortune and met a generous stranger tonight. Since her man went away she's had to fend for herself. Easy enough if you're a woman, but her ways are so well known in this quarter she hasn't been able to find anyone to take his place yet.”

The old man grew confidential. “Let me put it this way. I would not want to have her walking behind me in daylight, let alone in the middle of the night. She slashed the face of a girl who made a too-loud comment about aging whores in that very tavern. She keeps returning and my son is anxious about more outbursts from her in case the authorities get involved. Fortunately no one saw or knew anything about the first incident, if you follow me. Now, it happens my son has a couple of girls in residence who are as gentle as lambs and most willing to please. And when I say willing to please…”

John endured a lurid description of the delights available for a few coins in the upper room of the tavern in hopes of gleaning useful information. With none forthcoming, he finally escaped from the garrulous agent and made his way across the street. As he approached the tavern, two men were thrown out. Struggling futilely, shouting oaths and insults, they resembled a couple of seagulls with broken wings doing their best to take flight but not quite succeeding. By the time the revelers had picked themselves up from the dirt and reeled away together singing loudly, the woman had gone.

The tavern stank worse than the street. John went to the counter where the smell of fresher wine in vats sunk into its marble top and partially obscured the stench of stale wine, spilled or expelled onto the floor in various ways.

John clicked a coin loudly on the counter until the owner appeared, glowered at him, and ladled out a drink. He wasn't a big man, but he looked as tough as a charioteer, with a face resembling stained leather.

“The next time you see Theophilus tell him a friend of his is looking for him.”

The owner handed John a brimming cup. His face had suddenly become expressionless.

“I was certain the bastard said this is where he came to sell our takings,” John said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “He told me the owner's father had it all arranged with the authorities, to make it safe for business.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course I do. Out the window, across the roof, through the alley, straight in here, open your sack, and by the time the night watch arrives you'll be strolling out with coins in hand and your merchandise off to good homes. Those were Theophilus' words, and if he doesn't know thievery, who does?”

“I don't want trouble,” the owner said.

Two huge men whom John had taken for patrons had suddenly got up from the table where they were sitting. No doubt they had been the means by which the two revelers had been put, almost literally, to flight.

“I'm certain your father doesn't want trouble, either.”

“My father knows it is wise to be silent. He didn't tell you anything. Keep him out of this.”

“Perhaps he knows what I need to know. Perhaps he's easier to talk to.”

The owner's expression changed just enough to betray anxiety “Look, I never heard of this Theophilus. What does he look like?”

John described his stepfather, again loudly, stressing the scar on his cheek and lack of teeth. He half turned to face the room and saw he had everyone's attention. “It's worth a lot to me to find him,” he concluded.

“He hasn't been in here. Perhaps he drinks in another tavern nearby. More likely he was lying to you.”

John laughed. “You think I hadn't considered that? The man's a better liar than he is a thief. Has anyone else been in here, talking about iron shipments?”

“Iron shipments? No.” The man's obvious bemusement satisfied John that he was telling the truth. John took his cup and sat at a table as far away from the looming thugs as he could get. He sipped his drink slowly, hoping for someone to sidle up to him and whisper he had information on Theophilus, or a man with a scar, or some questionable dealings in iron, but no one did. After a time he surreptitiously emptied most of his wine onto the floor and left. He had a number of other taverns yet to visit.

Chapter Twenty-six

Hypatia was talking with Philip yet again.

From her bedroom window Cornelia could see them standing where the dirt track behind the house passed through a sagging gate in a ruined fence. Hypatia's basket was full of the herbs she had gathered. Perhaps she was talking to Philip about the herb bed she intended to start, a larger version of the one she had cultivated in the inner garden of John's house in Constantinople, rather than meeting Philip by arrangement.

At least that was what Cornelia hoped.

Philip was supposed to be patrolling the boundaries of the estate and yet he invariably appeared to meet Hypatia whenever she went out.

Hypatia turned away and continued down the path. Philip followed, gesturing, saying something Cornelia couldn't hear.

Cornelia pulled herself away from the window, feeling guilty and chagrined at feeling guilty. She certainly had the right to know how her servants were behaving, particularly when it might lead to disruptions in the household. Nevertheless, what she could only admit was spying made her uncomfortable.

She caught the mummified cat staring at her.

“No, Cheops,” she muttered. “No matter how isolated we are here I refuse to start talking to you.”

She went downstairs to the kitchen still contemplating the problem. She could, and probably should, order Hypatia not to spend time with Philip, or ask John to change the young man's duties. It wouldn't do to have their only two servants quarreling.

Traveling around the empire as a performer in a troupe had not prepared Cornelia to serve as mistress of a wealthy household, and neither had her years sharing John's spartan life in the capital where his only servants had been, just as here, Peter and Hypatia.

They were more like family than servants.

Hypatia came in and set her basket down. It looked heavy. She'd dug up herbs by the roots for planting. Her cheeks were red from the exertion of carrying the basket, or from anger or some other strong emotion.

“Are you and Peter…?” Cornelia paused, groping for words that would not seem offensive.

“He's only a little bruised and scratched and my bump is getting smaller.” Hypatia gingerly touched her head.

“I didn't mean that. I meant are you…well, it's been hard for all of us coming here. A big change. And you and Peter have already had a big change in your lives.”

Hypatia bent and settled some plants threatening to fall out of the basket more securely. The mixed scents of the herbs and fresh earth filled the air. “We're happy, mistress.”

“Sit down, Hypatia. I want to talk with you.”

***

“Certainly I have time to talk to you, Peter. I hope our conversation the other night was helpful.” Abbot Alexis pushed a stack of codices out of the way and regarded Peter, seated on the opposite side of the table in the monastery study. “You remain fretful about this marriage of yours to a younger woman. Is that so?”

Peter nodded

“Are you familiar with the teachings of the apostle Paul?”

“Yes. In fact I have a special fondness for him.” Peter reached into the neck of his tunic and fished out a small, crude coin attached to a string. “I have taken to wearing this lucky coin around my neck. We need protection here. The coin is from Derbe. I found it along the way when I was serving in the military. I know that it sounds blasphemous to say it is a good luck charm, but Paul preached in Derbe and sometimes I think perhaps it fell from Paul's own purse, or he may have sat to rest near where it was dropped, and that something of his spirit remains in it. But that isn't what I came to talk about.”

Peter chided himself silently, exasperated. Why had he babbled about his coin? Was he too nervous and upset to control his tongue? Or was that another ability one gradually lost with old age?

Thankfully the abbot did not appear offended. In fact he smiled. “An portable icon one might say. There is nothing blasphemous about icons. We know that although the saints are everywhere they are most strongly where their icons are displayed.”

Peter turned the worn coin over thoughtfully before tucking it back into place. “My belief is not wrong then?”

“Not at all. Who knows what, exactly, the truth is? So long as we are making an honest effort to find it, where is the harm? The pagans I studied had their own icons, which they called idols. Yes, they were wrong. But they were trying to find the truth. Just as you are.”

Peter wasn't certain it was necessarily a good thing to be compared to ancient pagans.

“You must be aware that Paul recommended marriage to those with less fortitude than himself,” the abbot said. “Better to marry than to burn.”

Peter felt his face getting hot. “Yes, but, that wasn't…well…” What could he say? At his age he didn't burn. There might still be a warm coal buried under the ashes in the brazier.

“You don't need to be embarrassed, Peter.” The abbot went on to talk at length, citing scripture and the teachings of the church fathers.

By the time Peter left the study he was relieved to escape the torrent of learning. He had felt a need for spiritual assistance but had come away mostly with a feeling of mortification at his own weakness. What went on between Hypatia and him was no one's business but theirs. Not even a clergyman's. What had he been thinking coming here?

“Peter. Back to visit us.”

For an instant he didn't recognize the young monk who spoke, then he realized it was his rescuer. “Stephen. Yes, I was speaking with your abbot.”

“Or rather he was speaking.”

“True enough. How did you know?”

“I've seen enough visitors emerge from that study looking as if they've been beaten about the ears. He's a fine man, is our abbot, but his scholarship is boundless.”

They went into the sunshine, Stephen leading Peter to the monastery herb garden, the sort of garden Hypatia talked about planting, Peter remembered with a pang. Their voices, which had sounded so loud in the narrow, dim hallway, were suddenly quieter in the open landscape, under the high dome of the sky. Bees hummed, gulls cried, occasionally there came the sharp clang of a hammer from the direction of the blacksmith's forge.

“I brought you here because I would like to talk to you in private, Peter. Has any progress been made in finding that poor soul's murderer?”

Peter told him there had not been, so far as he knew.

“What does your master say? Does he suspect anyone?”

“The master would not confide such matters to me, Stephen.”

“He's been investigating, hasn't he? I've heard he had a great reputation for solving crimes for the emperor.”

Peter agreed, without offering more information on that matter.

While they walked through the garden, Stephen inspected the plantings, each variety confined to its own square plot. “We use a lot of these in the hospice. Abbot Alexis encourages our efforts and they provide much comfort to all. He is so caught up in his studies I sometimes doubt if he'd recognize any of our residents if he met one in the halls. Not that they should be wandering away from the hospice, though it has happened now and then.”

He paused and pointed out an aromatic shrub bearing light purple flowers. “Dew of the sea. A beautiful name for a beautiful herb. Strengthens the failing memory, you know. Yes,” he continued, “I once discovered an old fellow drawing with a pilfered kalamos on a page torn from one the abbot's valuable old codices. He must have found his way into the study and stolen it along with the kalamos. A messy palimpsest that made!”

Peter murmured it was a shame anyone would steal from an abbot, not certain what Stephen was trying to tell him.

“My point,” Stephen said as if he had asked that very question, “is that Abbot Alexis is not perhaps the best person from whom to seek advice on worldly matters. Not that he isn't a fine man, but oftentimes his thoughts fly nearer to the angels than to us earthly beings.”

“You know I've been seeking advice?”

“Don't be embarrassed, Peter. I may be much younger than you but like the abbot I am a man of God and am here to serve all in such ways as can be done.”

“And what would you advise?” Peter asked reluctantly, since it had become obvious he was going to be given advice whether he wanted it or not. It occurred to him Stephen's personal solution to worldly entanglements may have been to avoid them by entering holy orders.

“You know what the scriptures say, Peter. The wife is bound to obey her husband. It is up to you to instruct her, and it is up to her to follow your instructions.”

Peter murmured a reluctant assent. He was not comfortable giving orders, especially to Hypatia.

“And just as importantly,” Stephen continued. “You must pray to the Lord together.”

***

“You may go now, Hypatia.” Cornelia finally said.

The conversation had been brief and awkward. Cornelia had done her best to indicate her concern to Hypatia, stressing that her private life was considered such but that a certain standard of behavior was expected.

“Thank you for speaking with me, mistress,” Hypatia told her. “I will take your advice and pray to my goddess.”