Murder in Megara

Chapter Six

“You aren’t considering bowing to threats.” Cornelia was not asking but stating the obvious. She and John sat on a length of ruined stone wall resembling a bad tooth jutting out behind the house. They watched chickens scratch in the gravel of an empty area that should have held farm wagons.

“Not that I am at liberty to flee, even if I were inclined to do so.”

“What could the emperor do if you departed for Egypt or Bretania?”

John pointed out Justinian’s reach extended to the borders of the empire and beyond.

“But he isn’t as vindictive as Theodora, and she’s dead now and can’t influence him,” Cornelia argued.

“You said I shouldn’t bow to threats. Do you think I should consider leaving?”

Cornelia frowned and kicked irritably at a hen pecking near her sandals. “No, it’s just the situation. It’s maddening being…well…”

“Being in prison, essentially. Which is what exile amounts to, though it is a very large prison to be sure, unlike the one where Diocles had those men chained up.”

“They’re gone?”

“Peter said they took to their heels as soon as the blacksmith struck off their shackles. They were free to stay on as hired men and continue working here but they must have feared the overseer would return or I would change my mind. I can’t blame them.”

“That’s what enrages me, John. We’re don’t have as much freedom as slaves.”

“They were freed slaves.”

“Yes. I know you refuse to employ slaves.”

“As were Hypatia and Peter once. And I was one myself, remember. After the Persians captured-”

She placed her hand on his where it pressed lightly against the warm stone. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“It’s hard to avoid the past when you’re forced to look at its landscapes every day.”

“You’ve managed to avoid much of it, John. We haven’t visited the farmhouse where you grew up yet and you’ve told me nothing about your stepfather. You’ve been no more forthcoming than you were during our years in Constantinople.”

John lifted his gaze to the sky above the distant hills, not staring into the past but looking away from the farmyard that reminded him too much of the past. “He treated our slaves cruelly.”

“Boys always hate their stepfathers, John.”

“It was more than that.”

“Theophilus came back looking for you while you were in Megara.”

John jerked his gaze away from the sky to look with unconcealed concern at Cornelia. “What did he want? I clearly ordered him to stay away! Did me make any threats?”

“No. He just said he wished to see you.”

“About what? Did he say why?”

Cornelia’s expression clouded. “Well, he did mention he’s fallen on hard times. He wondered if he could borrow some money to-”

John offered her a bitter smile. “You see? I have the measure of the man, don’t I? He dared come around here begging, from me of all people!”

“You are his son by marriage, John, and I suppose he was hoping to trade on that.”

John squeezed her hand. “Doubtless you noticed that scar on his cheek? I put it there, during a fight-our last fight-before I went to Plato’s Academy. I was sent to Athens largely to get me away from Theophilus.”

“But surely your mother wanted you to have an education?”

“She did, but Theophilus wouldn’t have paid for it if he hadn’t been afraid of me. I should never have gone. I don’t know how my mother managed to deal with him on her own afterward.”

“He mistreated her?”

John released her hand and stood abruptly. “Enjoyable as it is sitting here with you, I’ve lingered too long. I must continue going over the estate records.”

Cornelia got up slowly, smoothing her tunic. A couple of wispy chicken feathers wafted into the air. “You’ve always been mysterious about your family. Perhaps it would be helpful to talk about it.”

“So people say. It isn’t. Talking about one’s problems just creates a new burden for the listener. Besides, I would have to remember things I would far rather forget.”

“Young men become angry, leave home, and vow never to see their families again, but then they grow up and often change their minds.”

“The man I am now was never young. The youngster who ran off to become a mercenary was another person altogether, living a different life. The man who arrived in Constantinople as a slave and rose to hold the post of Lord Chamberlain was not the youth who left Plato’s Academy.”

“But, John, that’s not true. I knew the young mercenary and I know the former slave. They are one and the same.” She kissed his cheek lightly. “And both of them are maddeningly obstinate.”