Murder in Megara

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.”