Murder in Megara (11 page)
Authors: Eric Mayer
“You did not tell me the truth, Hypatia.” Peter said when she arrived back from the market with a full basket. His harsh greeting startled her.
She put her basket on the table and set down the small bunch of yellow wildflowers she carried.
“Did your young man pick those for you?” Peter asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you coming back with Philip. You told me you were going to go into town with the master.”
“He'd already gone. The mistress agreed Philip could accompany me. Ask her if you don't believe me!”
“It isn't fitting for us to question the mistress or the master.”
“Then you'll have to take my word for it. Isn't your wife's word good enough for you?”
“I used to think I could trust you.”
Hypatia could not remember seeing Peter so furious with her. “I don't like the way you are looking at me, Peter. I've done nothing to deserve it.”
Peter looked pointedly at the flowers on the table. “That young man has been following you around like a cat after you've given it a bowl of milk, expecting more.”
“Oh, Peter! I certainly haven't given Philipâ¦anything!”
“Why should you be angry? I'm the one who has something to be angry about. Do you think I'm too old to be jealous? Is that it?”
“But you have nothing to be jealous about!”
“That's the first thing everyone says.”
“If you need to be angry about something, then be angry about this. Philip told me that odious overseer Diocles didn't leave the estate as soon as the master ordered. He stayed with Philip's father for a while. Supposedly he's gone now, but how can we be sure? The master should know, don't you think?”
Peter fell silent. He looked as if he wanted to keep arguing. “Yes, you're right. I had better tell him.”
After he limped out Hypatia tossed the flowers into the brazier, went into their bedroom, roughly pushed the cats off the bed, sat down, put her head in her hands, and cried.
She wasn't even certain what she was crying about.
Perhaps everyone and everything.
***
On returning from Megara John searched the house and outbuildings until he found Cornelia in a gloomy, musty room attached to the barn. Covered ceramic jars, some pierced with numerous holes, filled shelves.
Cornelia leaned her broom in a corner, picked up a jar, and handed it to John. “Look at that!”
He brushed cobwebs away and looked inside. Delicate bones lay amid bits of walnut shells. “Someone forgot he was fattening dormice, or decided not to bother any longer.”
“Snails too. I'm sure we can guess who's responsible.”
“Or irresponsible.”
“The overseer, of course. Too busy swindling the owner to care.” She picked up the broom and resumed cleaning.
“You should leave that for Hypatia or the farm workers.”
“I can't sit around doing nothing, John. Besides, I enjoy exploring the place. You never know what you'll find. And what did you find in Megara?”
He described his visit to her, sneezing more than once as dust whirled through the air. As he talked he watched her reaching, bending, stretching, admiring her lithe form and the unconscious grace with which she moved, even when performing a mundane and dirty task.
When he had finished telling her about his visit, her face was bemused. “I'm surprised Halmus can conduct any business at all, between going on pilgrimages and preaching and having visions.”
Before John could reply he heard shuffling footsteps and turning, saw Peter enter.
“Master, I am sorry to bother you but I have just heard something I think you should know. The former overseer was staying with the tenant farmer, Lucian.”
Cornelia banged the broom angrily against the floor. “Wretched man! He ought to be staying in a jar, starving like these poor dormice.”
“Where did you find this out, Peter?”
“Hypatia just told me. She got it from that young watchman who keeps bothering her.”
“Thank you. I will look into Diocles' whereabouts.”
Peter hesitated in the doorway. “Masterâ¦about that story the merchant told youâ¦I overheardâ¦I didn't mean to eavesdrop but I didn't want to interrupt you when you were talking to the mistress.” He looked at his feet nervously. “Well, to be honest, you know how I love to hear pilgrim tales.”
“I do, Peter. Halmus' tale was certainly colorful. You have something to say about it?”
“He was lying to you, master.”
Cornelia gave a faint snort of derision. “Of course he was lying, he's from Megara.”
“What do you mean, Peter?”
“His description of the burning bush was not correct. I know because I've seen it with my own eyes when I traveled through that country during my days in the military. It isn't in the desert. Not at all, master. At the head of the valley, at the base of the mountains, the monks have built a church surrounded by cells in a beautiful garden. There is plenty of water, enough for a thriving orchard.”
“I see. Perhaps Halmus has difficulty recalling events?”
“It may be so, but it seems to me a person never forgets where he saw that bush.”
Cornelia waited until Peter was out of earshot before saying, “You know how these Christian pilgrims like to exaggerate.”
“Perhaps he had a vision, or thought he did,” John mused. “I'm not certain his humors aren't deranged, or perhaps wants people to think they are. There would be advantages.”
Cornelia set aside her broom. “What about Diocles? You're going to make certain he's gone, aren't you? The man might be dangerous.”
“Indeed. For now, if he's still here, I like knowing where he is without him realizing.”
John ran a finger along a row of numbers in the codex lying open on the triclinium table, shaking his head now and again and frowning. He had returned to the overseer's books. The mundane task made less of a change from listening to Halmus' heavenly visions than he would have guessed. Diocles' figures appeared to be little more than visions themselves. After less than an hour, John's fingertip was black with ink from tracing the malfeasance of the so-called overseer.
Whereas one might expect entries that supported each other in the manner of the blocks forming the walls of a city, with each expenditure entered against income and the resulting sum transferred onward, they revealed nothing approaching such an ordered arrangement.
It was obvious Senator Vinius had never sent an agent to check the accounts. John continued reading. He came to an entry recording the purchase of a herd of goats a few months before. There were no subsequent references relating to the sale of the herd, yet John had seen no goats on the estate.
He was about to make a note of the discrepancy when he found, farther down, an entry for a large sum spent on “remedies for sick goats” and then another for “disposal of goat carcasses.”
It seemed amazing an entire herd of goats would die within such a short time and given John was already suspicious of what he could only call Diocles' unusual accounting methods, it seemed highly unlikely. It was not to be wondered the former overseer dressed well. When it came to the estate's books, the overseer could produce goats out of thin air, send them straight back, and make money off the herd in the process.
What was Diocles doing now, John wondered, apart from spreading malicious rumors about the new owner of the estate? In addition to worrying about whoever killed Theophilus, should he also be worried about any vindictive actions the former overseer might take? Was Diocles capable of violence as well as fraud?
He was contemplating the question when Peter limped into the room accompanied by a dusty rustic and announced: “A messenger seeking to speak to you, master.”
“Are you the person in charge, sir?” his visitor inquired.
When John confirmed that he was, the messenger handed over a writing tablet, bowed, and was escorted out.
John watched Peter's obviously painful exit. The servant shouldn't be up and about, but it was useless to tell him so.
He cut the thin cord tying the tablet's two beechwood frames together and opened them. The wax surface within bore a confirmation relating to the purchase of a large flock of sheep. More of Diocles' imaginary livestock? Unlike goats, there certainly were plenty of sheep on the estate.
John consulted the codex in front of him. He wasn't surprised to find no mention of any such transaction on the date given in the tablet, nor for a week before or after.
Was this some peculiarity of business in Megara? Or business as conducted by Diocles?
The message must have been intended for the overseer. The messenger hadn't asked for John or the owner of the estate but for whoever was in charge, which for years had been Diocles. No doubt the rustic bearer of the tablet was unfamiliar with Diocles and had naturally assumed John's answer meant he was the estate overseer.
What could the purpose be? Diocles didn't need such a message delivered to him to falsify the accounts. Unless he was being instructed to make a false entry?
No doubt Diocles would have understood what it meant.
Was it in code perhaps?
Having just spent time talking with people who seemed to be concealing information and now being immersed in Diocles' duplicitous accounts, the idea of artful concealment was not far from his thoughts.
John muttered an oath and picked up the tablet again. He pondered what the reference to sheep could possibly mean. The world was full of things the gentle-faced animals could represent.
As he reread the message he noticed a mark on the wooden frame around the wax. A deep gouge marred one of the raised borders of the right hand leaf. Similar marks on the outer leaves were to be expected, but an inner location seemed peculiar given that, when closed, the two inner surfaces lay together, protecting both frame and wax.
During his years of imperial service John had learned of many ingenious methods for secret communications.
He gently scraped the wax from its shallow rectangular tray.
“Mithra!” he muttered.
Carved into the wood under the wax was a short message. Evidently written in great haste, as witnessed by the uneven depth of its lines, one of which ended with a deep scratch stretching to the gouge which had alerted him to investigate further.
The secret message was as cryptic as the original in that it appeared to be too innocent to require concealment:
“Per July agreement. Delivered to Nisaea iron in agreed quantity.”
Like all the ports John had ever passed through, Nisaea was a scene of controlled chaos. By the time he arrived, the evening sun cast long ropes of shadow across the crowded docks where lines of workers moved unceasingly between moored ships, piles of merchandise, warehouses, and waiting wagons. The last time John had seen this raucous ant heap was when he and his family landed after their journey into exile. It was with mixed feelings he paused and watched several men running around and between some large crates stacked at the edge of the nearest dock, leaving a lurid trail of loud oaths hovering in the humid air that smelled of spices, fish, and the droppings of cart animals.
Now and then one of the men would leap upward and grab at something hidden from John's view by the crates and then there would be another outburst of inventive swearing echoing across the water.
It might have been some arcane ritual performed when landing cargo.
However, he had not walked from his estate to the port to ponder local customs. What he sought was information on who had shipped a consignment of iron. Certainly it was an unremarkable, everyday kind of arrangement, but what raised his suspicions was why such a transaction should be recorded in a secret fashion when inscribing it on the wax surface of the tablet would have served as well.
It did not seem normal business practice and was therefore worth investigating.
He skirted a large fish tank sunk into the dock into which a pair of fishermen were transferring their catch from a boat that had seen better days, while a third man haggled about the price for a small octopus with a party who engaged in emphatic denigration of its value. Making his way to the harbormaster's hut, John found a visitor arguing with the official in residence.
“It wasn't my fault they got away,” the visitor shouted at the furious harbormaster as John entered the cramped untidy space buzzing with flies. “It was an accident. Accidents happen.”
“You mean one of your men let them loose deliberately to cause trouble, so your crew better catch them. The well-fed fool in Megara expecting them is not going to be very happy to hear his three monkeys have escaped and will probably never be seen again. Go and help the search and hurry up. His servant will be here in an hour or so to pick the demons up.”
“I'll borrow a fishing net, that should help trap 'em. If not, you could always say they died during the voyage.”
“Possibly. I should have to levy a small charge to pay for that service. Now get on with it.”
As the other left, the official turned to John. “What do you want?”
His tone of voice made it plain his temper was short and his sunburnt face wore an angry expression emphasized by a deeply creased frown bridging dark eyebrows.
“I wish to inquire about a shipment of iron for my estate.”
“Your estate?” The harbormaster looked him up and down and sniffed, as if to say servants are all the same, talking about their estate as if they owned it. “You wish to know about an iron shipment? I know nothing about such a cargo andâ”
A hoarse burst of swearing entered by the open door as a man in a ragged tunic raced past waving his arms and screaming abuse at an unseen colleague who, it seemed, had allowed the hairy little bastards to escape.
“It seems rather lively this evening,” John observed with a thin smile.
The harbormaster glared at him. “As I was saying, I don't know anything about a shipment of iron. Have you any proof it even belongs to your estate? Valuable goods, iron. I can't authorize its release to any vagabond who arrives claiming ownership.”
John, silently noting the harbormaster had just tacitly admitted he did in fact know of the shipment despite his initial denial, produced the tablet with the message burnt into it.
“Ah,” the harbormaster said after a brief glance. “Yes. Yes, this proves you are entitled to information. I am instructed to release it only to a person carrying this message. We do have your shipment, sir, and I shall see it arrives at the estate as soon as possible. It will involve a small charge for delivery, the usual arrangement to release goods landed here if they are transported on to their destination.” He paused. “You are not the usual courier.”
“I have not been in the area very long. Do you recall when the last shipment occurred?”
The harbormaster shrugged. “No. And the businessman involved does not send documentation. I admit it is somewhat unusual but shipping iron isn't illegal and, after all, we must be flexible in dealing with the contingencies of marine business. I don't have time to ask questions, considering the volume of goods landed here daily.”
John handed him a couple of coins. “The charge you mentioned and a little extra for the information.”
The harbormaster grinned. “I see you are an honest businessman, sir.”
“Then you will understand that, being honest, I need to know who the usual courier is, in case there is some irregularity.”
“You are most conscientious, sir. I really don't know anything further I can tell you other than the man has a scar on his face and not many teeth and the ones he has are all on one side of his mouth.” He rubbed his chin and screwed up his face as if thinking hard. “I wish I could remember where the shipment originated. It's on the tip of my tongue.”
“Sometimes it helps to think of something else. Like this.” John dropped another coin into the man's hand.
“You're right, sir. Why, it just occurred to me when I was admiring Justinian's profile. The vessels carrying these shipments sail from Corinth. As you are new to the area, I should warn you about Corinth. A notoriously sinful city since ancient times, where honest men are cheated and murdered and public women flaunt themselves.”
“In some ways, then, it resembles Constantinople,” John observed as he turned to leave, stepping to one side to avoid a stout, perspiring man who rushed in as an agitated monkey leapt through the open window and scuttled into a corner.
