Murder in Megara (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

Peter tried to scream but his throat felt paralyzed. Straining desperately he finally forced out a nearly inaudible grunt. Then another. Then a hoarse bellow broke though, brought him awake, and drove from his mind whatever it was had made him want to scream.

Or was he awake?

He was sitting up on a rudimentary bed in a cavernous room, illuminated only by an oil lamp glimmering at the far end. A strong smell of incense did not quite mask an underlying odor that reminded him of a public lavatory. In the sepulchral dimness he made out rows of beds upon which lay gray, motionless forms. Occasionally a pitiful low moan broke the silence.

Did he still dream or had he fallen into hell?

A firm hand pressed against his chest and pushed him back down. “There, there, now. Are you trying to wake the devil? Lie back. You're in no shape to be leaping around.”

The hand belonged to a youngish man with a stolid, round face strangely cheerful considering the circumstances. He wore long, shapeless, unbleached robes. “My name is Stephen,” he said. “The same name as our monastery, so if I get lost they know where to send me. And you?”

“Peter,” Peter replied, having to think about it.

“You're in the hospice of Saint Stephen's monastery. Not that you are in need of such care but there was a spare bed. Don't worry about all the blood on your tunic. It seems an excessive amount considering your scrapes and scratches are slight.”

Looking down, Peter saw dried patches of blood on his clothing and abrasions on exposed skin. His injuries might have been minor but they were numerous. He ached everywhere and his head throbbed painfully.

Stephen smiled benignly. “I shall see you are escorted home shortly and this time you will be on the road rather than blunder about in the dark. We don't want you falling down another hole.”

“I fell into a hole?” Peter groped back into the oblivion prior to his panicked awakening. He remembered walking, approaching the temple. After that, nothing. Had his waking scream carried over from the startled cry he gave as he fell? There were excavations beside the temple.

“A pit, in fact. There are plenty of them around Megara, most very old. Every so often legends resurface and people go about looking for the treasure supposedly buried when Corinth was overrun and destroyed a century and a half ago. According to some of the tales, the church spirited its treasury out of the city, along with valuable relics, so naturally people will get it into their heads to search in our vicinity. We fill them up when we find them. Recently the story's been revived. One of our goats fell into a fresh pit last month not a stone's throw from the chapel.”

“I must have been very careless,” Peter said, futilely trying to recall how he put himself into such a predicament. “My eyesight isn't what it used to be, especially in the dark.”

“Don't blame yourself, Peter. The older pits are overgrown with brush and weeds. They're hard to see even during the day. You shouldn't wander around at night without a light.”

“I will have to inform the master. He won't want to have traps like that on his land.”

“You are from the estate? A nest of godless pagans, I hear. I shall be able to correct that impression now, given you are a good Christian.”

Peter, puzzled, asked him how he knew.

“You were muttering prayers before you woke up. If you were beseeching the Lord to rescue you from whatever brought on that hideous shriek you let out…well…I should not like to meet whatever it was and especially after sunset.”

“I can't remember what made me scream or anything else before that…” As he spoke, it began to come back to him. As he neared the temple, he'd seen John there. Something—what it was he didn't know—told him to keep this information to himself. “How did you find me?”

“I heard a cry and found you curled up like a baby at the bottom of the pit.” Stephen smiled. He looked so much like one of the rustics Peter had haggled with in the markets of Constantinople he half expected him to begin to extol the virtues of his fish or radishes. “I thought you were dead of a broken neck at first. I returned to the monastery for help and we brought you back. And here you are.”

“Did I wander onto the monastery grounds?”

“No. I had gone out to get a closer look at the temple. I must admit it was curiosity. There was a commotion over there and I could make out a crowd with torches from my window. Was it a celebration of some kind?”

Peter tried to force his thoughts forward, past the instant when he'd spotted John in the temple. But the bridge between then and now was missing, washed away by…what? John had been alone, hadn't he? There were no torches, were there? “I have no notion what you saw, Stephen. It must have been while I was unconscious. The master never said anything about a celebration.” He paused. “Do you mean pagan rites?”

“I can't say. That's why I was curious. I heard no singing. Pagans in the old days would sing more lustily than we monks, so I understand, not to mention other lusty matters.”

“My master was not doing anything unlawful, of that I can assure you.”

Stephen looked disappointed. “You saw nothing at the temple, then? Saw no one on your way there?”

“No.”

Stephen smiled. “Then my curiosity will have to go unsatisfied. You are a good and loyal servant, Peter. I should have been attending to my own business rather than trying to get a peek at what might have been blasphemous doings. We must never give in to our foolish weaknesses. I shall need to do penance for it and for thinking ill of your master. Now I shall fetch you a poppy potion for your pain.”

“Please don't trouble yourself. My wife is knowledgeable about those matters.”

The thought of Hypatia brought back to Peter the sight of her walking along the twilit ridge next to Philip. How he wished his fall had erased that from his memory. But it was best he know, wasn't it? He needed to acknowledge his own surrender to foolish weakness. “May I see the abbot before I leave?”

“Certainly. I shall take your request to him.”

***

It did not occur to Peter until he was shown into the abbot's study that it was the middle of the night and he would be interrupting his sleep. He apologized profusely. When the abbot assured him that he had been awake anyway, waiting to hear Peter was comfortable, he apologized further.

The abbot hovered solicitously while Peter lowered himself with care onto a bench in front of a table buried beneath codices. The codices, some bound in leather and others between boards, were piled so high and haphazardly it seemed a minor miracle they didn't all slip off and slide down to the floor.

“Evidence of my scholarly endeavors,” the abbot explained. “There is so much of interest in the world and our lives are so brief. Are you able to read?”

“Yes. I taught myself long ago.”

The abbot nodded his approval as he sat down on the opposite side of the table. “It is a fine thing to be able to read.” To Peter, peering at him through twin pillars of codices, he resembled his rescuer Stephen if the younger monk had been left outside to weather for thirty or forty years. His round, cheerful face was reddened and lined. Deep furrows in his high forehead and dark creases radiating from the edges of his pale, watery eyes told of countless late night hours spent pondering the written word.

“I am very grateful to Stephen,” Peter said. “If not for him, I don't know what would have become of me.”

“A fine young man. He is one of those who attend the ailing and elderly in our hospice and a favorite with our residents. Those who are lost on the dark roads the elderly often wander down smile when he appears, even if they can no longer speak or remember their own names. He is a blessing to all. I would not be surprised if in due course he succeeded me as abbot.”

“I wish to ask a favor on his behalf,” Peter said. “Stephen said he should not have been indulging his curiosity when he found me. I hope you will not be too harsh with him.”

To Peter's surprise the abbot chuckled. “I will refrain from exacting punishment altogether. His curiosity about such matters might be partly my fault because I too have an interest in the ancient religions.” He waved a hand at the tottering stacks between them. “It is remarkable how many and various are the delusions we humans have believed at one time or other.”

Delusion? Was the abbot reading Peter's mind? Peter stared at the other, anguish suddenly etched on his face. “I am afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“I have deluded myself. Because of this, I have committed a terrible sin.” Peter drew a trembling hand over his face. The physical aches from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet were nothing compared to the pain he felt in his heart, or was it in his soul?

“If it would help you to tell me more?” The abbot's voice was kindly.

Peter took his courage in his hands. “I married a young woman, an Egyptian. We have both served the same master for years. She is barely half my age, and at the time I was ill. Perhaps she felt sorry for me, but I have come to realize it was not fair to her. I succumbed to pride and covetousness and lust. How can I complain now she prefers someone younger? How can I rectify my error?” To Peter's horror tears began rolling down his cheeks.

“Remember, Peter, a husband and wife become one flesh. The marriage union is sacred.”

“But I have noticed she talks to a young watchman on my master's estate a great deal. Do you think she is miserable, waiting for me, an old man, to die?”

“Young persons talk to each other but it means nothing. Try to conquer your jealousy, Peter. As for being old, you are as vigorous as a spring lamb compared to the sad state of some of our hospice residents. My advice is to talk to your wife quietly about your concerns and pray for the health of your marriage.”

Chapter Twelve

The City Defender had departed, four of his men carrying the body of Theophilus in a blanket. Cornelia sat in the bedroom, staring at Cheops as John came in, a cylindrical wicker work basket in his hand. He sat down beside her. “I hid it in the barn after sending word to Megara to notify the City Defender of Theophilus' death.”

“Why? Is it important? It's just a shabby old basket.” Cornelia's response betrayed both exhaustion and exasperation.

“It could be very important. There's nothing unusual about the basket but when I found it next to Theophilus it was decorated with these.” Reaching into the neck of his tunic, he pulled out several strips of dark blue cloth.

Cornelia looked at them and then at John.

“They were tied to the basket,” he explained. “Strictly speaking they should be purple ribbons but I suppose these were as close as could be managed at short notice.”

“Scraps of blue cloth? Baskets? Do you mean we have to worry about someone with deranged humors lurking in the bushes and popping out now and then to leave gifts for us?”

John gave a thin smile. “This is hardly a gift, Cornelia. It's a sacred basket, a cista. It resembles those used during the rites of Demeter.”

“You mean the City Defender was correct and Theophilus was murdered during a pagan ritual?”

“That's what the basket would doubtless suggest to many.”

Cornelia's jaw tightened in anger. “Or would have suggested, if the City Defender had found it with the dead man. I see why you removed it.”

“Leaving the basket with the body was an inspired act of malevolence. So I brought it back and hid it in plain sight, knowing the house and barn would be searched. As indeed they were. Without the strips of cloth it appears to be nothing more than another old basket.”

“Was there anything inside?”

John opened the lid and showed her the empty interior. “Not when I found it. During an actual ritual it would have contained a serpent.”

“I hope it didn't contain a snake tonight. I would not like to think a poisonous snake had taken up residence in the ruins.”

“It would not necessarily be poisonous.”

“But who brought the basket to the temple?”

John stared into the basket as if the answer might be written on the bottom. “Theophilus or his murderer or someone wishing to perform a ritual or wanting to make it appear someone else had been performing one, or—”

“Or it might have been left there by accident by one of the men shoring up the temple foundations. There's shade inside, a good place to have a bite to eat while taking a break from digging. Perhaps you were too long at court, John. Everything appears to be a plot of some kind.”

John snapped the lid shut. “A workman would hardly have decorated his lunch basket in that fashion. The only difference between court and countryside is that those with evil intent would not be dressed in silk garments, though their blades would be as sharp,”

“You're right, John. I'm too tired to think clearly. Nevertheless, baskets are generally used to carry things, not to throw suspicion on people. Isn't it possible that whoever brought it to the temple carried something in it?”

John nodded. “We should consider the simplest possibility first. If something was in the basket it might have been extremely valuable, worth killing for, yet small enough to fit in a basket. And if it was in a basket, why not take it away in it? Theophilus could have been involved and his partner or partners decided to dispose of him rather than risk him telling what he knew. We know he needed money, the City Defender would pay him for information…it fits together.”

“Oh, John, the plots you weave!” Cornelia took the basket from him, laid it on the floor, and slid over beside him. “And what about you?”

“What do you mean? You know I'm accustomed to this sort of situation.”

“Your stepfather was just murdered.”

John's expression hardened. “You are well aware of my feelings toward Theophilus.”

“Still, you grew up—”

“Besides, I hadn't seen the man for years and certainly never expected him to come back like a shade to haunt me. He died long ago as far as I'm concerned.”

“With the rest of your past.”

“Exactly.”

“Like me, John. You never bothered to seek me out either.”

“How, Cornelia? How could anyone have found a woman who traveled all over the empire with an obscure troupe of performers?”

“You were Lord Chamberlain. You could have hired agents. How many troupes recreate the bull leaping of ancient Crete? If someone had asked innkeepers at Antioch if bull leapers, complete with a bull, had stayed with them do you imagine they would have asked which one?”

“As far as I knew you found someone else. I had vanished and never returned. Why wouldn't you? The young mercenary who had been hired to guard the troupe, who had an affair with a pretty performer, had suddenly decided to move on, as young men of that kind always do. You had no reason to know I'd fallen into the hands of the Persians. And after that…after the way I was treated, and sold as a slave, I wasn't fit for you anyway.”

Tears were overflowing the dark smudges beneath her eyes and running down her cheeks. “Don't ever say you are not fit for me, John!'

“Ah…now…please, Britomartis,” he muttered, invoking his old pet name for her, alluding to the Cretan Lady of the Nets because she had snared him at first sight, a name they both joked only John would have thought to use.

Cornelia pushed him away. “No! Don't you Britomartis me!”

She wiped her eyes. “Here I am weeping over your lost past. We must think about Peter.”

“We'll take up the search again at first light. I'm sure if Georgios' men had located him they would have paraded him in here. Hypatia said he'd got into a dark humor and went out to calm down. He'll be disappointed that he missed all the excitement.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right.” She put an arm around him. “Now you can Britomartis me.”

***

The roosters crowed before Hypatia realized that morning was finally arriving. She had begun to think it would never come. The window of the bedroom remained dark, opening as it did on the still-shadowed courtyard. It was a relief to abandon trying to sleep and get up. Peter had alarmed her the night before by bolting, obviously agitated and upset. She went after him but he was nowhere to be found. After returning to their quarters she lay awake all night waiting for his return.

She went into the other room, smoothing down the wrinkles in her light sleeping tunica. She had done so much tossing and turning it would have been more restful if she had simply stayed up all night. She half expected to see Peter asleep on the couch, having crept in and not wishing to awaken her, but it was occupied only by the two cats who opened their eyes reluctantly and gave her resentful looks.

Where was Peter?

Had he seen her walking with Philip?

She bit her lip.

Had he seen anything further?

Philip had led her to a cliff projecting into the sea, giving her a stunning view of the monstrous moon trailing its long silver tail across the glassy water. The handsome young watchman had told her that it was the favorite spot for disappointed lovers to cast themselves into the sea. He had been joking, she thought.

Her imagination ran wild. She saw Peter, in despair, approaching the edge of the cliff and throwing himself over, or perhaps taking a track down to the shore and walking into the water. Or coming to the edge of the estate and carrying on, walking until he was ambushed by persons seeking to rob him. Or perhaps meeting someone from Megara who recognized him as one of the loathed newcomers, out on a lonely road, unarmed, in the dead of night.

What had Peter seen?

She must have been talking to herself because a voice from the doorway answered her.

“What did I see? What are you talking about? Is that any way to greet your husband?”

Peter stood there, one hand on its frame to steady himself. By the faint predawn grayness that had begun to seep into the courtyard she saw his clothes were torn, his face haggard. He looked older.

“Oh, Peter,” she cried. “Thank the Goddess!”

“Thank the Lord,” he corrected her as she clung to him.