Murder in Megara

Chapter Twenty

“You can’t go into town with an injured ankle, Peter.”

Hypatia knelt by the side of their bed, gently prodding the purpling, bloated mass of flesh where an ankle should have been.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Peter insisted. He grimaced as her fingers examined the injury. “Not much. Nothing I can’t stand. A walk to the marketplace is nothing like a forced march through the Isaurian mountains.”

Hypatia stood. “You’re not in the military now. There’s no need for you to go.”

“I must have landed on that foot when I fell into the pit,” Peter said. “I wish I could remember. I’ll be better once I start moving around if you’d give me a hand to get up. “

Hypatia sighed inwardly. She was rarely aware of Peter’s age. With harsh morning light highlighting his cuts and bruises, the time-weathered face, the last vestiges of gray hair, his thin limbs, she saw, for an instant, an old man. “No, Peter. Lie back down and rest. I heard the master and mistress speaking at breakfast. He’s going into Megara and I’m certain he’ll allow me to accompany him.”

“I suppose that would be all right if he doesn’t feel inconvenienced,” Peter allowed himself to fall back. “It is my duty-”

“Your duty is to recover from your accident.” Hypatia bent and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.

Crossing the courtyard she realized she felt a maternal solicitude toward her elderly husband. Was that appropriate? They had only been married a few months. Should she feel differently toward Peter now they were wed than she had beforehand? They had grown closer during all the time they had worked together in the Lord Chamberlain’s household until finally it had seemed only natural that they should marry. But was that a good reason to marry?

The master and mistress weren’t married in the legal sense but they might as well have been. Theirs was not what anyone would call a traditional marriage. John was not yet old, but in a sense he was. He and Cornelia had had a child together before his terrible mutilation. That was long ago, however. Did Cornelia feel her marriage to John was what it should be? Did she ever see him as…what he was? But no, Hypatia told herself, she shouldn’t even be having such thoughts.

What most distressed her about Peter’s age was how little time they might have together. She tried to keep it out of her mind.

She took a basket from the alcove off the kitchen. Lying in its bottom was the paring knife with the cracked handle she’d been using to cut herbs during her forays into the meadows. Considering how she and Peter had been attacked it might not be a bad idea to take it into Megara with her or to keep it with her in case Theophilus’ murderer was still slinking around the estate. She tucked it away in her tunic, out of sight.

In the kitchen, Cornelia was still lingering at the table, contemplating a plate holding a few crumbs and olive pits. When Hypatia inquired about John, she said he was already on his way to Megara.

“I told Peter I’d go with him,” Hypatia said. “Do you think I could run and catch up?”

“Why bother?” came the reply in a masculine voice. “I’ll be glad to accompany you. And my companion here will gladly come along for safety.” It was Philip, standing in the doorway, hefting his sharpened stake.

“Shouldn’t you and your friend be keeping an eye on the property rather than…than the pots on the brazier?” Hypatia had almost blurted out “keeping an eye on me.”

“If the mistress doesn’t mind…” said Philip.

“I don’t mind,” Cornelia replied. “It would be an excellent arrangement. If you can catch up to the master you can provide protection to him as well.”

“There, Hypatia, you’ve had your orders. Let’s not delay.”

***

Philip told himself that Hypatia wasn’t as cross as she pretended. He showed her a shortcut through the fields, all the while admiring her out of the corner of his eye. A bronze-skinned, black-haired beauty. Nothing like the farmers’ daughters he saw outside Megara.

They did not see John. When they reached the track leading to Megara he wasn’t in sight.

“The master always walks at a fast pace,” Hypatia said. “We won’t catch up.”

“Why should we try? I’m here to look after you if necessary.”

“You aren’t watching the estate while you’re watching me.”

Did she emphasize the word “watching” or was that his imagination? Surely an attractive woman would not object to being watched politely?

“You must have some time off from your work,” Philip said. “There’s more to see in Megara than the marketplace. It may not be Constantinople but I could show you some sights.”

“It’s not a good idea for any of us from the estate to be spending time in town, the way everyone feels. If you’re seen with me too often, Philip, they’ll think you’re in league with me.”

“Don’t worry. No one in Megara is going to turn against me. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

Walking casually close to her, he managed from time to time to brush his hip against hers as if by accident.

“Why aren’t you married at your age?” Hypatia asked.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he grinned and watched for her reaction. Consternation, on the outside, but masking what? Did he see a flush of pleasure creep into her cheeks?

“You’ve lived with your father all your life?” She was trying to change the subject, he thought.

“On our farm, yes.”

“Just you and your father?”

Philip paused. Why would she be wondering whether he lived alone? He had to restrain his eager imagination.

“It’s just my father and I. Except when Diocles was staying there. An unpleasant man, not suited to be overseer, in my opinion. But he’s gone now. If you would like to visit sometime, I could show you our house. I am sure it is much grander than a servant’s room. My father is out often, tending to his pigs.”

She glared at him and fell silent. Now she was obviously blushing.

It’s true, Philip told himself. She’s definitely attracted to me.

***

To an observer they might have been a married couple walking together. The dark-haired, sunburnt man protectively hovered near the dark-haired, tawny-skinned woman. Occasionally he would touch her arm, as if ready to steady her. When she sorted through the melons on sale, lifting them to her face to inhale their aroma, then passing them over for his opinion, their fingers brushed.

Did they see the sellers looking at them with hostile eyes, or notice their curtness? Did they feel the subtle pressure of a multitude of stares directed at their backs?

The man kept glancing around, as if alert for danger. One hand moved nervously, causing the wickedly pointed end of the stake he carried to waggle back and forth.

The observer looked back across the square, past the stylite column, at the entrance to Halmus’ mansion, but no one had emerged yet.