Murder in Megara

Chapter Two

“Don’t call yourself my father, Theophilus.”

Cornelia sensed a suppressed fury in John’s quiet voice of a depth she had never heard before. It was so shockingly cold and unexpected it made the skin on the back of her neck tingle.

“Get off my estate,” he had continued, “and stay off it.”

The intruder was John’s stepfather. That was all Cornelia learned during their strained, mostly silent march back to the house. She had known John hated his stepfather, but the depth of his hatred she would never have guessed until now.

She knew John well enough not to question him when, as they came to the courtyard gate, he made a vague excuse about having matters to look into and wandered off toward the back of the house. Matters to think through was what he meant, and he needed solitude for that. It was his nature. She would have liked to have offered comforting words or listened until he had unburdened himself, but that was not John’s way. Perhaps he would walk to the other end of the estate until he had reasoned himself out of his anger, or it might be he intended to return to the temple and make certain Theophilus had gone.

How little she knew of John’s past. He rarely spoke of his family, had instead been almost secretive about them over the years. When questioned, he would tell her they were part of a different life and then change the subject. All she knew was that he never returned to them after he ran away from Plato’s Academy as a young man to take up the life of a mercenary.

No doubt he had good reasons.

She crossed the courtyard and went into the kitchen, a big room with stairs in one corner leading up to the owner’s quarters. The air was humid from pots steaming on the brazier. Hypatia sat at a well-scrubbed wooden table stirring a yellow mixture in a ceramic bowl.

“You’ve accomplished wonders in a short time, Hypatia.” Cornelia glanced around the tidy, clean room with pans, bowls, and utensils arranged along the shelf by the brazier, remembering the sour-smelling rats’ paradise that had greeted them at their arrival.

“Peter can’t abide a dirty kitchen and neither can I, mistress. But when there are no women in a house, such matters often get neglected.”

Drawing up a stool, Cornelia leaned her elbows on the table and asked what Hypatia was preparing. “Is it a sauce? Shall we have chicken tonight?”

“Oh no, mistress. Peter insists on overseeing all the cooking and I am uncertain what he plans.” Her face clouded. “I’m making chelidon to treat his eyes. They’re causing him distress and I’m afraid he may lose his sight. It is said that swallows dropped chelidon juice into the eyes of hatchlings born blind and it’s certainly a wonderful cure for eye problems. It really should be cooked in a brazen pot, but the only one I could find needs repair. I don’t suppose it makes much difference, providing the ingredients are mixed to the correct proportions. That’s the vital point.”

Cornelia expressed concern for Peter. She started to ask Hypatia about the poultice she had mentioned, then stopped. She felt awkward. Hypatia and Peter were servants, it was true, but had become more or less members of the family. How would the estate workers perceive such a state of affairs? Might it encourage lax work if they saw the mistress of the house chatting companionably with a servant? Or to be more accurate, would it encourage them to be more lax? As John had indicated, even a brief glance around the estate revealed they had not been closely attending to their duties while it was in the hands of the previous absentee owner.

As if summoned by the thought of estate workers, a big, bare-armed young man in a short laborer’s tunic thumped into the kitchen. Tanned almost black, he was broad in the chest. His inky hair hadn’t been cut for a long time and then badly. Yet his features might have been sculpted by Praxiteles.

He set the wooden stave he carried beside the door, cheerily asked Hypatia if there might be bread and cheese for a hungry watchman and, without waiting for a reply, helped himself to what was sitting on the nearest shelf.

“I see you’ve been hurt, Hypatia.” He spoke through a mouthful of bread. “Obviously you can’t rely on your grandfather for protection. I’d be happy to accompany you next time you go into town.” He clapped a powerful hand around the stave and inclined it in Hypatia’s direction, showing its wickedly sharpened point. “A taste or two of my stout friend here always persuades ruffians to be polite.”

Hypatia glared at him. “How did you know Peter and I have been to town? Did you follow us?”

“I’m one of the master’s watchmen, so it’s my business to notice comings and goings. At least think about my offer, Hypatia. I wouldn’t want to see you come to further harm.” He took a bite of his cheese and addressed Cornelia. “Now, mistress, would you send a young woman into town with no escort but a tottering old man?”

“I think it is time you returned to your duties,” Cornelia snapped.

Philip bowed awkwardly, grabbed his weapon, and fled, muttering apologies.

Hypatia looked at the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh.

“That young man seems to be on very familiar terms with you,” Cornelia observed.

“Philip’s the tenant farmer’s son. He’s in and out of the kitchen constantly. Just a growing boy, always hungry.”

“A growing boy? He must be in his mid-thirties. Your age.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem to recall it, mistress. Men have a habit of being younger than their age.” She made a show of measuring out a spoonful of honey from the terra-cotta pot next to her mixing bowl.

Cornelia left shortly thereafter in a thoughtful mood.

Perhaps Hypatia tended to see men as younger than they were. That would explain much. On the other hand, she doubted that bread and cheese were the only attractions the kitchen held for Philip.