“Going by his begging and the threadbare garments he’s wearing it would appear that prosperity and Theophilus were not on speaking terms. And yet his son was a rich and powerful man,” Georgios observed.
“His stepson.”
“If you insist on legalisms, his stepson. What do you know of his movements of late, what he has been doing?”
“Nothing. Before this week I had not seen him since I was a young man.”
“Indeed.” Georgios’ expression clearly showed his disbelief.
John was acutely aware that whereas the City Defender held an important post in Megara, he himself was in the unfamiliar position of being, essentially, an ordinary citizen. It was a strange sensation, as if the world had been turned inside out. Was this how those he had questioned in his own investigations felt? Furthermore, it was obvious Georgios did not like John. He shared all the basest prejudices of his fellow townspeople. John was a stranger, a man with an unusual family, one who was out of favor with the emperor and fortunate to have retained his head. In short, he was a suspicious character.
“Didn’t you inquire about your family?” Georgios pressed on. “I understand you grew up on a farm nearby.”
“Why were you investigating me before any crime was committed?” John parried.
“Do you think I am accusing you of murdering your stepfather?”
“You seem inclined to detain me here with irrelevant inquiries rather than searching the area. The farm forming part of this estate passed out of my family’s possession many years ago, after I had gone.”
“In the course of making the purchase, you must have been curious about where your relatives were.”
Why did everyone assume one had to maintain an interest in their family, no matter how little connection remained to them?
“The purchase was made by an agent, and my curiosity or lack of it is irrelevant,” John snapped. “I would suggest you turn yours into ways of catching the murderer.” He realized immediately he had overstepped his unaccustomed boundaries.
The City Defender didn’t bother to reproach him but there was cold warning in his glare. “I doubt any criminal would linger nearby after my men and I arrived. He or them will be long gone by now.” He took a torch from one of his men and held it, sizzling and spitting sparks, near Theophilus’ face. “I anticipate you will not know how he received that scar either?”
Before John could answer, he felt a hand on his arm. It was Cornelia. Did she really fear he was about to elaborate on the brawls he had with his stepfather as a boy?
“Peter!” she whispered. “Peter’s missing. He might be in danger. We’ve got to find him. We can’t stand around here doing nothing.”
Georgios looked up. “A member of your household? Missing? I ordered you and your servants to accompany us to this temple.”
“I thought his wife would bring him with her.” John turned, seeking out Hypatia.
She stood at the edge of the shifting pool of light, her face drawn and terrified in the flickering illumination. “I couldn’t find him at the house, master.”
Philip stepped toward Hypatia. John thought the young man was about to put his arm around her but he didn’t. “Don’t worry about Peter,” Philip told Georgios. “He’s just an old man”
“Even old men can commit murders,” Georgios replied. He turned to his armed torchbearers. “Find him.”
Chapter Eleven
Peter tried to scream but his throat felt paralyzed. Straining desperately he finally forced out a nearly inaudible grunt. Then another. Then a hoarse bellow broke though, brought him awake, and drove from his mind whatever it was had made him want to scream.
Or was he awake?
He was sitting up on a rudimentary bed in a cavernous room, illuminated only by an oil lamp glimmering at the far end. A strong smell of incense did not quite mask an underlying odor that reminded him of a public lavatory. In the sepulchral dimness he made out rows of beds upon which lay gray, motionless forms. Occasionally a pitiful low moan broke the silence.
Did he still dream or had he fallen into hell?
A firm hand pressed against his chest and pushed him back down. “There, there, now. Are you trying to wake the devil? Lie back. You’re in no shape to be leaping around.”
The hand belonged to a youngish man with a stolid, round face strangely cheerful considering the circumstances. He wore long, shapeless, unbleached robes. “My name is Stephen,” he said. “The same name as our monastery, so if I get lost they know where to send me. And you?”
“Peter,” Peter replied, having to think about it.
“You’re in the hospice of Saint Stephen’s monastery. Not that you are in need of such care but there was a spare bed. Don’t worry about all the blood on your tunic. It seems an excessive amount considering your scrapes and scratches are slight.”
Looking down, Peter saw dried patches of blood on his clothing and abrasions on exposed skin. His injuries might have been minor but they were numerous. He ached everywhere and his head throbbed painfully.
Stephen smiled benignly. “I shall see you are escorted home shortly and this time you will be on the road rather than blunder about in the dark. We don’t want you falling down another hole.”
“I fell into a hole?” Peter groped back into the oblivion prior to his panicked awakening. He remembered walking, approaching the temple. After that, nothing. Had his waking scream carried over from the startled cry he gave as he fell? There were excavations beside the temple.
“A pit, in fact. There are plenty of them around Megara, most very old. Every so often legends resurface and people go about looking for the treasure supposedly buried when Corinth was overrun and destroyed a century and a half ago. According to some of the tales, the church spirited its treasury out of the city, along with valuable relics, so naturally people will get it into their heads to search in our vicinity. We fill them up when we find them. Recently the story’s been revived. One of our goats fell into a fresh pit last month not a stone’s throw from the chapel.”
“I must have been very careless,” Peter said, futilely trying to recall how he put himself into such a predicament. “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, especially in the dark.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Peter. The older pits are overgrown with brush and weeds. They’re hard to see even during the day. You shouldn’t wander around at night without a light.”
“I will have to inform the master. He won’t want to have traps like that on his land.”
“You are from the estate? A nest of godless pagans, I hear. I shall be able to correct that impression now, given you are a good Christian.”
Peter, puzzled, asked him how he knew.
“You were muttering prayers before you woke up. If you were beseeching the Lord to rescue you from whatever brought on that hideous shriek you let out…well…I should not like to meet whatever it was and especially after sunset.”
“I can’t remember what made me scream or anything else before that…” As he spoke, it began to come back to him. As he neared the temple, he’d seen John there. Something-what it was he didn’t know-told him to keep this information to himself. “How did you find me?”
“I heard a cry and found you curled up like a baby at the bottom of the pit.” Stephen smiled. He looked so much like one of the rustics Peter had haggled with in the markets of Constantinople he half expected him to begin to extol the virtues of his fish or radishes. “I thought you were dead of a broken neck at first. I returned to the monastery for help and we brought you back. And here you are.”
“Did I wander onto the monastery grounds?”
“No. I had gone out to get a closer look at the temple. I must admit it was curiosity. There was a commotion over there and I could make out a crowd with torches from my window. Was it a celebration of some kind?”
Peter tried to force his thoughts forward, past the instant when he’d spotted John in the temple. But the bridge between then and now was missing, washed away by…what? John had been alone, hadn’t he? There were no torches, were there? “I have no notion what you saw, Stephen. It must have been while I was unconscious. The master never said anything about a celebration.” He paused. “Do you mean pagan rites?”