Murder in Megara (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

“Mithra!” John threw the covers back and sat up in bed, shading his eyes against the brilliant light streaming in. The sun was well up and the bucolic scene of fields and meadows, already awake while he was still half-asleep, irritated him.

“Don't fret, John. If you hadn't needed to sleep you wouldn't have.” Cornelia appeared in the doorway, fully dressed, carrying a bundle of garments.

John glanced around. “Where are my clothes? I should be working by now.”

“Those vile rags you came in wearing last night are out in the courtyard. As soon as I came down to the kitchen this morning I could smell them.”

John remembered she had demanded he bathe before going upstairs to their rooms. “I apologize, Cornelia. I didn't think it would be wise to look for a public bath in Megara.”

“No, you might have been mistaken for a plague carrier. Here's fresh clothing.” She tossed the bundle to him. “As for your old clothes, they might serve as cleaning rags if the smell will come out.”

After he pulled on the tunic he followed Cornelia down to the kitchen. As in Constantinople, it had become the central gathering place of the house, quite inappropriately and particularly here where it was not even part of the owner's quarters. But then John had grown up in a modest farmhouse, not a mansion or a country estate, and old habits, as Petrus would no doubt declare, die hard. This morning the sweet fragrance of the herbs Hypatia had hung up to dry mingled with the odors of cooking. The room was already coming to life. John's mother used to say that the kitchen was the heart of a home and as soon as you walked into a kitchen you could tell what sort of life a family led.

He gulped the cup of wine waiting on the table. “Are there any boiled eggs? I can just take a couple with me and eat on the way.”

“Oh, John! You're not going back to Megara?”

“No. I have business on the estate this morning.”

“You must rest. We haven't had much peace since we got here, and before that—”

“That's over with now.”

“You're going to kill yourself!” Cornelia grimaced, obviously wishing the words back.

“You're still convinced I was the intended victim, not Theophilus? If that were true, all the more reason for me not to be wasting time.”

She placed a plate of bread and cheese on the table. “Neither of us are as young as we used to be, and who knows what we're facing. The City Defender suspects you or at least has indicated in no uncertain terms that he does. Perhaps he killed Theophilus and hopes to convict you of the crime.”

“I'm more concerned about you than myself, not to mention Peter and Hypatia. They chose to accompany us here. They could have remained in Constantinople. I am indebted to them.”

“You won't be able to defend anyone, including yourself, if you succumb to exhaustion. Promise me you'll take a few hours off and soon.”

“When I'm done with this visit I have to make.”

He spotted a bowl of eggs, reached into it, and grabbed one. The shell broke in his hand, spraying yellow yolk on his clean tunic.

***

By the time he had eaten a breakfast of bread, cheese, and olives, and walked to Lucian's farm, the wet spot on his tunic where Cornelia had cleaned off the egg yolk was almost dry. Not that his destination was a place where he needed to look presentable. Long before he reached the farmhouse the warm breeze wafted to his nostrils the distinctive aroma of swine.

The house seemed deserted. He knocked at the open door and receiving no response went into the kitchen and called out for Lucian. There was no sound except for the flies buzzing around dirty dishes on the table. The room smelled of grease. The whitewashed wall behind the brazier was stained an unhealthy yellow.

John pushed open the door leading to a back room with an unmade bed. The window was open and he leaned out.

Diocles was not fleeing across the fields.

He stamped around the house, to alert anyone who might be sleeping.

There was nothing unusual to be seen and no sign that Diocles had been in residence, although John wasn't certain what indication of his presence there could have been. The overseer might well have made off with valuable items from the estate, but John had no idea what exactly had been on the estate to begin with, given Diocles had been careful not to keep an inventory.

On his way out he took another look at the kitchen table but there was no chance of noticing extra tableware. There must have been a week's worth of plates and bowls carelessly piled up, enough for the two men who lived there—or a handful of visitors.

Didn't Lucian employ even a single servant? It seemed not.

The tinny blast of a horn greeted him as he left the house. Climbing the low rise in the direction of the sound, he saw, descending into the boggy depression below, a herd of swine, followed by their immensely fat master, Lucian, wobbling along merrily, now and then blowing his horn.

A muddy, sluggish stream wound through reeds and willows in the bottom of the depression. The swine lumbered forward, each dropping into the first mud it found.

“Good afternoon,” Lucian called out sonorously, coming toward John. “The sun is going to be particularly fierce today so I have brought my friends to their afternoon pasture early. Oh, for a hog's life, to gorge ourselves and wallow in the warm mud without a care in the world!”

“And have our throats cut in our youth,” John observed.

“Might it be better then to enjoy our youth and not have to endure the rest?”

John noticed the farmer's face was bright scarlet with exertion. “Tell me, Lucian, have you been wallowing in the mud and neglecting your duties?”

“What do you mean? Is it the fences? I did set my son to righting the matter, but you know how lazy youngsters can be.”

“Since Philip is on night duty, he needs to rest during the day so has little time to do the task. I realize correcting the boundaries will take some time, but that's not what I wished to speak about. Where is Diocles? Where are you hiding him?”

“Diocles? But he's gone, has he not? Has someone been lying to you? Who accused me of hiding Diocles?”

“Has he been staying with you?”

“I haven't seen him since he was discharged. You told him to leave the estate immediately.”

“You know about that? Then you must have spoken to him before he left. Did he give any indication of where he intended to go?”

The tenant farmer looked around as if seeking advice from his swine. They snuffled and grunted contentedly but had none to offer. “Oh, yes, of course. He was naturally in a hurry. Said he would go to Megara, seek work there. I told him it was unlikely he would be offered any, given nobody wants a dishonest man working for him. Especially one who keeps suspicious accounts.”

“A fine sentiment, Lucian, but I happen to know Diocles stayed here after I ordered him to leave. What other activity has he been involved in, apart from robbing the estate?”

“I couldn't say. Isn't that enough? I mean…” He lifted his horn and sent a sour bleat in the direction of several smallish pigs climbing the far side of the depression. As if they understood his message, they trotted back down to their companions.

“Young ones,” Lucian said. “Almost time to separate them from their mothers.” He lumbered over to a huge hog covered in mud. If its massive sides hadn't moved, John might almost have taken it for a small knoll. Lucian slapped the monster. “Goliath, this is. There's some meals fit for the emperor on him, you can be sure of that.”

John decided it would be no use pressing the farmer for information. It was better to give him time to think, and something to think about. “You realize you are a tenant here, Lucian. If I find out you know more than you're saying, or have been involved in some scheme with Diocles, I'll have you evicted.”

“Evicted?” The other paled.

“I am not Senator Vinius, nor do I live far off in Constantinople where I can't see what's going on here. I am willing to forgive any transgressions, given how out of control matters were here, provided you make a confession. I am not as interested in theft right now as in finding Theophilus' murderer.”

“But surely you can't suppose Diocles was involved, sir? Or myself?”

“Think about what I have said, unless you want to find a new home for yourself and your swine.”

John strode away, furious. Lucian was certainly lying. But then, what had he expected? Perhaps Cornelia was right, he needed to rest, needed to clear his mind.

What had he discovered? He wasn't certain the dead man had been the intended victim or who might have wanted him dead or why. His stepfather's illegal activities might offer a clue.

And what if Cornelia's fears were correct and John had been the target?

Now some way from the farmhouse, he was startled to hear running steps behind him.

When he pivoted, Philip was close enough to have stabbed him in the back with the sharpened stave he was waving. “Sir, please, a word with you!”

John's hand had already gone to his blade. He kept it there. “What is it?”

Philip cleared his throat, obviously uneasy. “Sir, I wish to ask a question.”

“Ask.”

The other looked around and lowered his voice. “It's…it's about your servant Hypatia, sir. I request permission to marry her.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

Hypatia and Peter had argued before going to bed. Again. About Philip, again.

Peter had gone to sleep. Hypatia lay awake listening to her husband's wheezy labored breathing, interspersed with fitful snores.

Why hadn't she simply told Philip she was married if she truly had no interest in the young man? That's what Peter kept asking.

Hadn't she, in fact, told Philip? Perhaps not. It hadn't occurred to her that Philip didn't know. That's what she kept telling Peter.

If she wasn't attracted to the youngster then she must be ashamed to admit to him she had married an old man, Peter had pressed on.

But that was untrue. Why didn't Peter trust her? What more evidence of trust could he have than her marrying him?

She enjoyed Philip's attentions, though, Peter insisted. Otherwise she'd put an end to them.

She lay staring upward, watching ghostly reflections flicker across the ceiling. Peter's ragged breathing stopped and started.

Finally she got out of bed, shivering in her thin tunica until she pulled on her clothes. Then she crept out of the room, pausing to move a clay scorpion into the middle of the bedroom doorway to stand guard, just in case.

One of the cats ran under her feet, mewling in anticipation of being fed. She shushed it and went through the courtyard and out the gate.

Philip would be making his rounds. If she took the path to the edge of the property she'd be sure to find him.

There was no point putting the task off any longer.

Night shrouded the landscape. She had not gone very far along the path until the house and outbuildings were concealed by fog rolling in from the sea. Her footsteps sounded too loud. She thought fog would have muffled sounds but tonight it seemed to have the opposite acoustic effect.

She took a rutted trail leading along the ridge overlooking the sea, invisible tonight.

On either side her surroundings vanished into the fog. She might have been treading a narrow track across an abyss concealed from her gaze. That is how it felt living in Megara, going about one's everyday tasks but aware of unseen dangers wherever one turned. A single misstep and you would plunge over the edge.

Out of the house, in the cold, away from Peter's maddeningly loud breathing, she began to realize the foolishness of this midnight walk. Fog swirled and clung with clammy fingers to hair, face, and garments. Trees and bushes swam toward her out of the white miasma, receding behind as she strode forward at an increasing pace.

Could she see Philip under these conditions?

Should she shout for him?

Or would it be unwise to reveal her location?

She stopped and muttered to herself to calm down. Who would be out here aside from Philip or one of the other watchmen?

Apart from whoever had killed Theophilus, or wanted to kill the master, or someone from the city who wished the whole family ill will?

She swallowed and said a prayer to her gods. The clicking and chirping of night insects replied.

A breeze sprang up, momentarily clearing the fog away from a figure crouched beside the path.

No, it was merely a gnarled, ancient olive tree bent away from the sea. How long had the dwarf sat here? Was it part of an unthinkably old grove, long since vanished? Did the ghosts of all who had lived here and cultivated the land through countless centuries haunt the nights?

She thought of demons. The demons supposedly released by the excavations at the temple, the demons called on by imagined pagan worshipers, the demons her magickal clay scorpions were meant to ward off.

She had neglected to bring a protective charm with her.

As the breeze increased it tore rags of mist from the billowing foggy curtain, revealing a stretch of wall, a glint of sea, light from a house.

The blacksmith's house.

Philip was crossing the dirt yard behind the forge.

Hypatia had only a glimpse but she was certain it was Philip.

Why would he be going to see Petrus at this time of night?

She started down the hill to the house, hurrying to catch him. Burrs caught on her tunic and thorns tore at her arms as she fought through a thicket that turned out to be denser than she expected.

She emerged from the brush behind a heap of metal rods at the edge of the open space. She smelled smoke. The yard was empty. Weird lights spilled out of the wide archway leading to the forge. She caught a glimpse of an illuminated inner wall. Strange shapes, among them the Key of the Nile, flickered across the wall and vanished.

She ran through the archway, prepared to call Philip's name, and stopped.

Despite the faint warmth radiating from the embers in the forge, she began to shiver until her entire body trembled.

A body lay sprawled in front of the forge.

She bent down and turned the body over.

Not Philip, thank the gods.

The faint glow illuminated the lifeless face of the overseer Diocles.

Before she could decide what to do the owner of the forge appeared. Almost immediately a heavy footstep marked the entrance of Lucian the pig farmer.

The three of them stood there, looking at the body and at each other, all of them equally horrified and mystified.

Or pretending to be.