Murder in Megara (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

Rumors went around the marketplace, a slight breeze turning up the undersides of leaves before the storm broke.

“The new estate owner is visiting Megara again!”

“It's rumored he's been making human sacrifices!”

“The City Defender suspects him of murder!”

“Why is he allowed to go free?”

Word of his arrival preceded him. Ears trained to hear picked up half-whispered conversations. Practiced eyes found the tall, slender figure as he skirted the marketplace.

He went down several side streets. The observer was nothing more than another evening shadow.

This time the quarry did not cut down an alley.

The observer saw John go up the stairs to the door of a modest dwelling in a three-story building faced in stucco.

***

Leonidas opened the door. “John, I wanted to tell you before you came in, my wife, well, she—”

“She does not wish you to be associated with a dangerous pariah like myself.”

Leonidas looked embarrassed. “I know she's being foolish.”

“Not at all. It is dangerous. She is wise to be cautious.”

“I'm sorry, John. I am happy to help an old friend, but women worry and she is my wife. You understand.…”

“I shall make this visit as brief as possible.”

They went inside. Helena could be heard in the kitchen. She did not bring wine. John observed the Tower of Babel had risen two or three stories since his last visit.

Leonidas brought him several sheets covered with numbers and notations. “I've copied the tax records for you. I apologize for the writing. I'm no scribe! But as you'll see, everything is in order.”

“Thank you, Leonidas. No question of missing entries or alterations then?”

“No, at least not this morning. While I was consulting the documents, I learned your estate was owned for a long time by an absentee senatorial family. It seems this family has, over many years, bought up adjacent land whenever it became available. It has never been productive and I have no notion why they would wish to own it.”

“Yes, it belonged to Senator Vinius. He lived in Constantinople.”

“I imagine, given the over-crowding in the capital, owning a large area of open land might be attractive. Perhaps he'd planned to retire here?”

“Or he was just given bad advice when seeking to buy land.”

John could sense his friend's unease, so much different than his first visit when it had seemed it might be easy to slip back into their old camaraderie.

As John turned to leave, Helena emerged from the kitchen. Leonidas raised a warning hand but she ignored him.

“John,” she said, “my husband and I have disagreed about this but my feeling is it's only right you should know what happened with your mother. Since Leonidas is reluctant to tell you, I shall.”

“I was just going,” John told her. “I won't bother you again until the trouble has passed.”

“Oh, that's a fine thing to hear! You're more interested in your tax records than your mother!”

Leonidas was appalled. “Helen, please…”

“A man ought to know about his family,” she said. “Even if he doesn't want to know. If a man wants to avoid his past he shouldn't come around disturbing friends from his past.”

“She's right,” John said, mostly to soothe Leonidas and partly because he could see no graceful way to escape whatever revelations Helen intended to impart.

Leonidas cast an apologetic glance at John, a silent plea asking what he could do in the face of her determination to speak.

“Anyway, everyone in Megara knows about her. Why shouldn't her son?” Helen continued.

“If that's true I'd find out soon enough,” John said, resigned to hearing what would probably turn out to be a farrago of rumors. “What is it everybody knows about my mother?”

“Well, late in life, Sophia became extremely religious. If it had just been increased church attendance no one would have taken any notice, but it got to the point where she would wander around the city and preach on the street. She held religious discussions with Halmus, shouting up to him when he was perched on his column. Much of what she spoke about was repentance and the life to come.”

John bit back a denial. He remembered his mother as quiet and self-effacing. A down-to-earth woman and certainly not a brazen religious zealot. Seeking out public attention would have been the last thing she would have done. But then, what did he know about her later life?

Helen seemed to sense what John was thinking. “We were all shocked, John. It wasn't like her at all. Eventually it became obvious she was…unwell. Age affects some people like that. Of course, it was dangerous for an older woman to walk the streets alone at night, and more than once your stepfather had to come into Megara to take her home. After a while she no longer appeared in town and eventually she died.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Do you imagine people here had forgotten the poor woman had a son? Why is her son not helping, they asked.”

“Helen,” snapped Leonidas. “Sophia had a husband to help her.”

“We all know what sort of help he was,” she shot back. “According to what we heard, Theophilus began to wager large sums, got deeply into debt, and sold the farm. Of course, he had inherited it as Sophia's husband. Then he vanished, leaving his creditors empty-handed. Those tax records won't have anything to say about that.”

“No, they wouldn't,” John agreed. “But knowing that may shed some light on Theophilus' death.” He hoped his comment would make Leonidas feel better about his wife's outburst.

Helen had run out of disclosures. Did she regret having forced the information on him? “I am sorry, John. It is hard to lose a parent.”

Leonidas showed him to the door. “It was all a long time ago. I'm happy you were able to buy your childhood home back, John. It must have meant a lot to you to be in a position to be able to do so.”

Chapter Thirty-five

Leaving Leonidas' house, John wondered if his friend recognized the irony of that parting comment. John had been in a position to buy his childhood home, but he had returned only because he had been removed from his position at Justinian's court.

It had not been a pleasant homecoming so far.

As if John wanted to reflect on his financial good fortune, Halmus stood atop his pillar, silhouetted against a red sky fading to gray, fulminating against the love of money.

“Love of money is a peril to your immortal soul!” he boomed, sounding louder in the twilight than under the glare of the midday sun. “Instead of leading godly lives, such love leads sinners to covet and steal their neighbor's goods, wagering in the hopes of increasing their hoarded sums, the bribing of officials to pretend not to see when discovered committing crimes, the worm of avarice gnawing at their vitals, never letting a man rest, always seeking more, and yet no matter how much he has it is never enough.”

John wondered if the rich man atop his column was as blind to the irony of his words as Leonidas had probably been. When Halmus clambered down to return to his mansion, a veritable banquet would doubtless be laid out for him and he would spend the night in comfort and warmth, unlike street beggars who would be grateful for a corner out of the night wind and a crust or two from his table. The elaborately worked iron gate in the base of the column that gave access to the stairs inside must have cost Halmus enough to feed and clothe every beggar in Megara.

Hadn't the blacksmith Petrus said something about not being paid for a gate he had been commissioned to make for Halmus? No, John remembered. That had been for Theophilus. Still, it was possible Petrus had made the gate for the column. Diocles had told John that Petrus did regular work for Halmus.

It had occurred to John that the blacksmith could have been assisting Theophilus in the illicit activities John had learned about in Lechaion. And Petrus conducted business with both Halmus and Theophilus. So what about Halmus? Might he have also been involved with Theophilus?

The thought of those who lived in constant deprivation rather than just during convenient hours brought to mind Halmus' artificial cave, where, as on the pillar, he played at poverty. Or so he claimed. If Peter's memory was reliable, Halmus had lied about his pilgrimage to see a sacred bush. Could anything else he said about his religion, or his business dealings for that matter, be trusted?

There had been something wrong about that hermit's cell. At the time, John had been distracted by Halmus showing him a supposedly sacred twig, and the thought had gone out of his mind before he'd completed it.

Now, reminded, he followed it through to its end.

Halmus railed on about rich men and camels and needles, reminding John of an extremely wealthy and loudly self-professed Christian merchant in the capital who had constructed the main doorway to his mansion in the form of a gigantic needle's eye, through which two imperial coaches could have passed side by side.

John walked past the tall brick wall of Halmus' garden. When he turned the corner and went around to the back of the property, the stylite's voice became only slightly muted. Darkness had fallen in the canyon of the street but the last red glare of sunset illuminated the tops of the buildings across the way.

The walls were too high to scale, and even if it were possible to reach the top, the intruder would be clearly visible to the guards who must be on duty.

However, John remembered a stream ran through the caged wilderness behind the mansion. He guessed it would emerge back here. In fact it did, and continued along the back of Halmus' wall and the backs of the buildings farther on, no doubt offering a natural storm water system. Here, though, due to the dry weather its channel was mostly dry, exposing a rusted grating set in the wall above a deep bed where a mere trickle of water emerged from the garden. The grating would have barred entrance to the garden but the lack of water exposed a gap between the bottom of the grating and the uneven streambed wide enough for a slim man to squeeze under.

Or so it appeared.

John paused, listening. He could still hear Halmus preaching.

The street was deserted.

He slid down the steep bank to the stream, through broken pottery and shards of glass. The dark shapes of rats darted out of his way. Then he stood amidst rocks, mud-encrusted rubbish, and the smell of mold and decay.

Down here the space beneath the grating didn't look as wide as it appeared from the street. Beyond he could see only darkness where the stream approached the wall.

He yanked at the bars. Flakes of rust came off, staining his hands orange, but the grating felt solid.

After a few more futile attempts to pry a bar loose, he bent down, carefully cleared away several jagged pieces of shattered ceramic, then lay down, grabbed the grating, and pulled himself forward.

He got his head underneath and rolled onto his back to find clearance for his shoulder. Pushing his boots against rocks greasy with the rotted remains of water plants, he forced himself further into the darkness.

And could get no further.

His heart pounded. Pushing his head into the darkness was too much like submerging it in deep water. He tried to reach down, feeling for whatever was impeding him, but caught in an awkward position, could not raise himself. He felt he couldn't breathe, as if the blackness was filling his mouth and nostrils.

He knew this was nonsense. He pushed harder with his feet, his soles failing to find purchase on slippery stones. Finally he gained leverage. A high-pitched ripping noise filled the narrow space as his tunic tore where it had snagged on a sharp piece of the grating.

Then he had slipped all the way under. He tried to sit up but there was barely room for him to roll over. Doing so, he scraped his shoulder against what felt like rough concrete above him. He may as well have been in a tomb.

He paused to allow his eyes to adjust but still could not make out even a glimmer of light ahead. It would be dark in the garden by now, but not, he supposed, this dark. The channel was not much wider than his shoulders. Was there room to turn around if it were necessary? If not, would he be able to get back under the grating feet first?

He began to pull himself forward. His fingers touched water and he yanked his hand back.

Calming himself, he put his hand back out. Surely it was nothing more than a puddle? He continued. Shallow water soaked his clothing. He had to keep his face too near it for comfort.

Then his shoulder banged into the wall. He tried to shift sideways and found he could not. The tunnel was narrowing.

Experimentally he attempted to push himself backward. It was more difficult than moving forward. If he kept going and became stuck at some point, it might be impossible to get out.

And what if there was a grating without a gap under it at the other end?

He realized he was gasping for breath and tried to control his breathing. His clothes soaked, surrounded by the damp, impenetrable darkness pressing in around him, John had the sensation of drowning slowly. When he tried to raise his face away from the water his head hit a hard ceiling.

Then the height of the tunnel was also decreasing.

He had a sensation of suffocation. He forced himself onward. Walls scraped at both shoulders.

Then gray shapes swam in the darkness ahead. Was it a trick of his eyes? He blinked. No. Reaching out he felt vegetation. He pushed through, hearing branches crack loudly and not caring.

He burst out into fresh air, straightening up, leaves and twigs caught in his close-cropped hair.

The builder had luckily considered a grating on the outside sufficient.

John listened in case his noisy entrance had alerted a guard. When he heard nothing he forced his way through thick rhododendrons into a clearing and sought Halmus' artificial cave. He could no longer make out the voice booming down from the column. Had Halmus finished his religious diatribes? Might he appear suddenly in his garden? Or didn't the sound reach back here through the vegetation?

Roosting birds rose in an agitated cloud as he passed below a cedar, a column of darkness rising into the night sky. He dodged behind a clump of rocks artfully arranged to provide, in less drought-stricken days, a waterfall feeding the stream. No one came to investigate what had frightened the birds. He worked his way unchallenged through a wild tangle of shrubbery and closely growing trees until he reached the entrance to the artificial cave.

He could see now what had led to his feeling of puzzlement during his first visit. The dome of concrete stretching back into the surrounding plants was far larger than the cell Halmus had shown him.

There would have been no reason to construct such a large hill for such a small cave.

Pushing away the animal skin hanging at its entrance, John stepped inside. He would have to investigate quickly, given Halmus or one of his guards might arrive at any time. He crossed the cramped space and moved the skin on the far wall enough to peer around it.

What he had expected to find was a comfortable bed, artfully hidden.

Instead he was staring into a large torchlit room with several doors leading from it. A couple of men lounged in the center of the open space honing swords. Neither looked to be of friendly disposition and one, while dressed smartly and sporting an elaborate fibula, had a pugnacious look. The fibula, which at a glance appeared to be shaped like a bird, reminded John of something. Maritza's lament for her allegedly stolen jewelry?

He let the curtain fall gently back in place and escaped the way he had arrived, pausing only to pick up a shiny coin on his way out.

At the place where the stream entered the tunnel he paused. His breathing quickened. Perhaps there was a tree near the wall he could risk climbing and drop down into the street?

He heard approaching voices.

Taking a deep breath, he stooped down and gazed again into the black maw.

You were able to get in, he told himself. You can manage to get out.