By the time he turned to go back, night had fallen. A huge orange moon appeared, an evil eye staring out over the hilltops, casting its unnatural light over meadows and fields while leaving shadows impenetrable. The wide and open space of the countryside made Peter feel more exposed to danger than he had ever felt in the crush of the city where everyone knew danger lurked around every dark corner and among the glittering notables at court.
He recited a comforting verse from a psalm. “The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night.”
It didn’t make him feel much better. Admittedly he didn’t really expect the moon would smite him, but the sight of it unnerved him and made him anxious about who might be lying in wait in the shadows. He had a large armory of psalms at his command. He had studied the scriptures diligently most of his adult life, teaching himself to read while he was employed by an undemanding scholar who had allowed Peter the use of his library.
He glanced along a nearby ridge, then permitted himself a ripe oath. There, vaguely visible against the sky, Hypatia and Philip strolled close together. He couldn’t make out their faces but Hypatia’s profile was easily recognizable and whom else could she be meeting but Philip?
He watched them for a short time before they vanished into the shadows. He felt giddy and realized he’d been holding his breath.
Taking a shallow, painful gasp and sad of heart, he resumed walking. He did not care in what direction as long as it led away from what he had witnessed.
Peter cut across fields and meadows paying no attention to where he was going, ignoring the burrs that clumped on his tunic and the clawing brambles. Once or twice he tripped over a protruding root. Suddenly he found himself approaching the ruined temple. The sight brought him back to his senses.
“Accursed building,” he muttered, glad to have something to vent his wrath upon. “An affront to heaven. It should be demolished.”
Yet was it not true that the master and mistress and Hypatia all worshiped proscribed gods? Sometimes he wondered if in fact they could be the same as the one Lord he followed but just known under a different name.
He halted.
Was someone moving inside the temple?
Could it be whoever was responsible for the city’s talk of unspeakable ceremonies?
Perhaps the Lord had directed his steps here for a reason?
He stepped forward, straining his eyes to distinguish details.
Surely that was the master rising from his knees?
***
John too had heard faint singing as he walked briskly around the estate, his usual custom when contemplating difficulties to be resolved. In this instance, he was grappling with the sudden rush of memories caused by the reappearance of Theophilus.
He would, he thought, sit in the ruined temple for a while and pray to Mithra for guidance.
Carefully skirting the trenches where excavation was under way, he passed between two standing columns.
The gibbous moon that had followed him from the house saturated the interior with an unearthly light. Stepping over a fallen column, his boot came down not on marble but something yielding. A body lay there, half in and half out of the moonlight.
He bent closer and saw the moon reflected in the staring dead eyes of his stepfather.
Chapter Ten
Torchlight did its corybantic dance around the ruins. Light and shadows gamboled on the crumpled body of Theophilus, attracting moths to flirt with a fiery fate.
A small group had gathered at the temple. Armed men, some holding torches, were stationed near the corpse. Uncaring and intent on their own business, unseen crickets trilled the same ancient chorus they had sung hundreds of years before during rites to the goddess Demeter. The murmur of hushed voices joined the crickets’ song and the hiss and pop of the torches.
John stood against a column, staring in the direction of his stepfather. The flickering light continually revealed the corpse for an instant and then veiled it in shadow. It might have been a dream rather than something that added a hint of copper to the night smells of earth piled nearby. Perhaps no one else noticed the subtle odor but John was only too familiar with the smell of blood.
Glancing around, John saw all eyes were focused on the City Defender, squatting on his haunches beside the body to examine it.
Georgios stood up and looked at John. “The dark patch on his back tells its own tale,” he observed. “And now you tell me yours. First, you doubtless carry a blade. Show it to me.”
John didn’t like the man’s tone. It had been a long time since he had taken orders from anyone but the emperor. Unfortunately, he reminded himself, those days were over. He handed his dagger over for examination without comment.
Georgios gave it a perfunctory glance and smiled. “Clean. But then it would be, wouldn’t it? You had plenty of time to clean it before we arrived.”
There had been no reason for the City Defender to bother examining the dagger, except to make a show of ordering John around in front of the small crowd at the temple. Philip and the other watchmen were ranged behind Cornelia and Hypatia a few paces away. The blacksmith and tenant farmer, along with a couple of estate workers, stood nearby. Behind them several of Georgios’ men stood ready to take appropriate action if anyone attempted to flee.
John took his blade back, careful to betray none of the anger he felt.
Georgios turned the corpse over with his boot and regarded the dead man with distaste. A pool of blood, black in the torchlight, had spread in front of the bench from where he and Cornelia often admired the sea. Had Theophilus been sitting there when the murderer crept up behind him and struck?
The City Defender rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I wager it’s been hundreds of years since anyone performed a sacrifice in this temple. Do you suppose Demeter still protects her adherents?”
Was he speaking metaphorically or did he suspect Theophilus had been slaughtered during a pagan ritual of the kind John and his family were rumored to be carrying out?
“Not much is known about her mysteries but it is certain Demeter never demanded human sacrifices,” John informed him. “Pigs, certainly.”
“Oh? You are an authority on what were our local deities?”
“Any educated person would say the same. I am certainly no authority on Demeter, let alone an adherent.”
Georgios stepped away from the body, sliding his boots along the marble floor with a squeaking noise to rub blood off their soles. He took counsel of the star-pocked sky and then continued. “Is it true you visit this ruin at night?”
“I do. I find it restful. Your informants will also doubtless be able to confirm the truth of my statement that I have also sat here in full view of anyone passing by during the hottest part of the day.”
“Informants? I don’t have that many men at my disposal, which is why I cannot guarantee your safety. Or the safety of those on your estate, as you can see.” He nodded toward the corpse. “You overestimate me.”
John doubted it. It would be difficult to overestimate Georgios’ power in Megara. The City Defender not only had responsibility for keeping civic order, he also oversaw the city’s courts. His power was backed by those who appointed him: the local bishop, the largest landholders, and the curials, the first citizens on whom the administration and finances of cities had depended before certain of Justinian’s endless reforms.
“Do you know the dead man?” Georgios asked.
“Yes. He was my stepfather. I ordered him off my estate.”
“It was not a happy relationship?”
“No. He was here earlier today asking for money.” He glanced toward Cornelia and saw her frown. He had no intention of allowing her to lie for him and risk getting herself into difficulties.