Murder in Megara

Chapter Eight

Peter lit the lamp and its flame cast an unsteady orange illumination around the ground floor quarters he shared with Hypatia. The foreman of the laborers had lived here, during the time when the overseer required a foreman. The only furniture was a couple of stools, the round wooden table on which the clay lamp sat, and an enormous dining couch covered in blue silk, with silver fittings and elaborately turned legs, banished from the owner’s quarters by John, who found them uncomfortably crowded with luxurious furnishings.

Seeing their cramped space, Peter sighed. The room had not been designed to accommodate a couch fit for a banquet hall but he could scarcely refuse the master’s generous gift, and Hypatia had been delighted with it.

“I fear the master’s plans to repair one of the abandoned houses on the estate for us will come to nothing,” Peter said. “It may be impossible to persuade anyone to come from town to do the job, and there are not so many workers on the farm that they could be spared for the task. Not that I should complain. The master needs to have a proper villa built. He and the mistress can’t be expected to keep on living in rooms that were only meant for short stays.” His expression showed outrage.

“I can’t speak for the master or mistress, but we’re perfectly cozy here,” Hypatia replied. She was sitting on the couch with her legs drawn up.

“The place smells like the Mese on a damp day or the stables under the Hippodrome.”

“That may be so, but it’s a good honest smell.”

Peter looked out the door across the darkening courtyard. A dim light showed through a window in the second story opposite. “I observed the master go out not long ago. He was annoyed. I could tell by the way he carried himself.”

“You understand him better than I do. His expression never seems to change.”

“An excellent talent to have in Justinian’s court.” Peter closed the door. “We don’t want chickens getting in again.”

Hypatia laughed. “You never thought you’d be awakened by a chicken clucking away on your chest when we lived in Constantinople!”

Peter sat down beside her. He had to shoo away two cats, one large and black, the other small and mottled brown. They retreated with ill grace. “You are supposed to be in the barn working,” he scolded them. “Useless, idle things.”

The cats glared malevolently at the human who had usurped their privileged position.

“If you’re unhappy with our rooms, Peter, perhaps the master could direct the estate watchmen to help rebuild a house?” Hypatia suggested. “Do you think I should ask Cornelia about it?”

“You mean the mistress,” Peter corrected her firmly.

“Yes, the mistress.”

“Craftsmen are needed for that sort of work. The watchmen are most likely not qualified to do it. I don’t even think they’re qualified to watch.”

“The young man in charge of them strikes me as competent.”

“Competent? Perhaps, when the biggest threat is a sheep disappearing now and then and showing up again disguised with a fine sauce on a table in Megara. But for protecting us against those set on forcing us to leave?”

The black cat suddenly leapt onto the table, drawn by a moth fluttering around the lamp. Hypatia leaned over, picked the animal up, and sat it in her lap.

Peter’s wrinkled face wrinkled even further with displeasure. “We shall be overrun with vermin. Those cats shouldn’t be in here.”

“The cat is sacred and I would never harm one, as you know well enough. I hope I have not offended the gods by ducking this pair in a bucket of water to get rid of their fleas.” Hypatia stroked the cat. “Don’t listen to that man,” she told it and turned her attention back to Peter. “It would make me feel safer if the watchmen were properly armed with spears and swords rather than sharpened wooden staves.”

Peter shook his head. “You would be surprised, Hypatia. Even as a humble cook in the military I learned how much damage such apparently puny weapons can inflict if wielded correctly. Consider the giant Cyclops Odysseus and his men escaped. And how? By plunging just such a sharpened stave into its one eye.”

“At least a Cyclops is something we don’t need to worry about here.”

“We don’t have to worry about well-armed and armored legions either. A sharp stave is perfectly sufficient to deal with the sort of villains who might seek to do us harm.”

“Still-”

“Besides, the master could not obtain weapons legally. Those who are authorized to manufacture weapons are not allowed to sell them to private citizens. The master’s situation is precarious enough as it is. He must be careful not to run afoul of the law. His enemies would pounce on anything like that.”

“Do you suppose they are intent on having him eliminated entirely?”

“Exile is never sufficient for one’s enemies. You know Justinian’s whims. The exiled can return. The dead, of course, cannot.”

Peter had become animated in his exasperation. The black cat squirmed, lifting its head, its attention attracted now by the shadows moving on the wall behind the couch. Hypatia scratched its scarred and tattered ears. “How would the master’s enemies know what he’s doing? You don’t think they’ve sent spies here?”

“It would be a minor matter for a wealthy man to hire spies, and the emperor has almost certainly sent his own agent to keep an eye on his former Lord Chamberlain. For all Justinian knows, the master might be plotting revenge, and I am certain the master could exact revenge in some form if he were not the honorable man he is.”

“Illegal it may be but I would feel more comfortable if there were a few well-sharpened swords and spears close at hand. Philip told me-”

“Philip? You mean the young lout who’s been hanging around the kitchen?”

“He’s a pleasant enough young man.”

“He’s a chickpea!”

Hypatia giggled. “Oh, Peter, calling someone a chickpea!”

Peter bit back a sharp retort. He found himself not only staring at her but also seeing her. She was Hypatia, his long-time colleague, companion, wife, a collection of qualities he loved. With a sudden shock, he saw the dark eyes sparkling in the lamplight, the raven wing of hair falling across the smooth brow. He saw a woman. A young woman. Much younger than he was and moreover of a similar age as the wretched watchman.

“That rustic boy has been paying far too much attention to you, Hypatia. His task is to guard the estate, not to loiter in the kitchen gazing at you as if you were a honey cake on a platter.”

“Peter! I never noticed him looking at me like that.” She straightened her legs and sat bolt upright, alarming the cat, which jumped to the floor.

“Of course you didn’t notice. He made sure you didn’t.”

She reached toward him and he felt her fingers run softly down his bristly cheek. “And even if he had designs, you don’t think I would care, do you? We’re married, remember.”

“You told him, of course?”

Hypatia’s face crimsoned and she looked at the floor. “He did not ask about our relationship and I have not felt it necessary to tell him about our private lives.”