Murder in Megara

Chapter Nine

Peter wandered the grounds aimlessly, his thoughts as dim and suffocating as the humid twilight.

Hypatia had been ashamed to admit she was married to an old man; that was the truth of it. She claimed it had never occurred to her to mention her marital status to that young watchman who happened to keep visiting the kitchen. She would naturally try to spare Peter’s feelings. She was not a cruel woman, just a young one.

What had possessed her to marry Peter in the first place? Had it been pity?

Was it surprising if she found Philip appealing? He bore a passing resemblance to John’s friend Anatolius, who had briefly taken a romantic interest in her years before.

After a while the sound of singing drifting on the breeze drew Peter to the railed fence separating the estate from its neighboring monastery. The smell of earth blossoming as the sky darkened was joined by a trace of incense.

“Only Begotten Son, and Word of God, Immortal Who didst vouchsafe for our salvation to take flesh of the Holy Mother of God and ever Virgin Mary, and didst without change become man, and wast crucified, Christ our God.”

He immediately identified it as “Only Begotten Son,” a particular favorite composed by Justinian. Peter often sang it when working in the kitchen of the master’s house in Constantinople. Hearing it again in such unexpected circumstances reminded him that he should place his trust in a power beyond his own meager understanding. Perhaps after all they would find happiness in this unfamiliar place.

His gnarled hands tightened on the fence. Surely the master would lodge a complaint with the appropriate authorities about the ill treatment he and Hypatia had received in Megara? But meantime he would enjoy the peace of the deepening dusk, and join his voice to those in the monastery in praising the one who overcame death by his own death.

“…and by death didst overcome death, being One of the Holy Trinity, and glorified together with the Father and the Holy Ghost, save us.”

A line of birds flew overhead, winging off to their roosts for the night. The hills were blending their bulk into the darkening sky. A few sleepy birds cheeped in a cluster of stunted and wind-bent pines beyond the fence. He could see lamplight springing up far across the meadow beyond. Why had he allowed himself to become so agitated over nothing, as a boy would have done?

Here he was, neglecting his responsibilities, he chided himself. Soon it would be time for the evening meal. He must return and commence cooking. There was fish from the estate’s pond and a good sauce would disguise their dubious nature. What did he need? Cumin, honey, mustard, vinegar, oil, wine. Surely he could create an appropriate accompaniment from such ingredients in hand? It was fortunate he had brought his spices from Constantinople. Perhaps tomorrow a baked chicken or two? He must request the master’s permission to purchase seasonings in Megara, and he would go alone this time.

By the time he turned to go back, night had fallen. A huge orange moon appeared, an evil eye staring out over the hilltops, casting its unnatural light over meadows and fields while leaving shadows impenetrable. The wide and open space of the countryside made Peter feel more exposed to danger than he had ever felt in the crush of the city where everyone knew danger lurked around every dark corner and among the glittering notables at court.

He recited a comforting verse from a psalm. “The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night.”

It didn’t make him feel much better. Admittedly he didn’t really expect the moon would smite him, but the sight of it unnerved him and made him anxious about who might be lying in wait in the shadows. He had a large armory of psalms at his command. He had studied the scriptures diligently most of his adult life, teaching himself to read while he was employed by an undemanding scholar who had allowed Peter the use of his library.

He glanced along a nearby ridge, then permitted himself a ripe oath. There, vaguely visible against the sky, Hypatia and Philip strolled close together. He couldn’t make out their faces but Hypatia’s profile was easily recognizable and whom else could she be meeting but Philip?

He watched them for a short time before they vanished into the shadows. He felt giddy and realized he’d been holding his breath.

Taking a shallow, painful gasp and sad of heart, he resumed walking. He did not care in what direction as long as it led away from what he had witnessed.

Peter cut across fields and meadows paying no attention to where he was going, ignoring the burrs that clumped on his tunic and the clawing brambles. Once or twice he tripped over a protruding root. Suddenly he found himself approaching the ruined temple. The sight brought him back to his senses.

“Accursed building,” he muttered, glad to have something to vent his wrath upon. “An affront to heaven. It should be demolished.”

Yet was it not true that the master and mistress and Hypatia all worshiped proscribed gods? Sometimes he wondered if in fact they could be the same as the one Lord he followed but just known under a different name.

He halted.

Was someone moving inside the temple?

Could it be whoever was responsible for the city’s talk of unspeakable ceremonies?

Perhaps the Lord had directed his steps here for a reason?

He stepped forward, straining his eyes to distinguish details.

Surely that was the master rising from his knees?

***

John too had heard faint singing as he walked briskly around the estate, his usual custom when contemplating difficulties to be resolved. In this instance, he was grappling with the sudden rush of memories caused by the reappearance of Theophilus.

He would, he thought, sit in the ruined temple for a while and pray to Mithra for guidance.

Carefully skirting the trenches where excavation was under way, he passed between two standing columns.

The gibbous moon that had followed him from the house saturated the interior with an unearthly light. Stepping over a fallen column, his boot came down not on marble but something yielding. A body lay there, half in and half out of the moonlight.

He bent closer and saw the moon reflected in the staring dead eyes of his stepfather.