***
After waddling into the house Lucian stood at an angle to the window, unobtrusively watching John confer with Philip. As soon as John had departed a tall man with a long face crept out of a back room, his soft boots making little sound.
Diocles, the former overseer, clucked in a scolding fashion. “I heard that conversation, Lucian. Didn’t I tell you to leave those fences alone?”
Lucian gave a massive shrug. “Fences are easily rebuilt. Philip, attend to it.” He addressed his son who’d just stepped inside. “You don’t have to be too accurate about where you place them either.”
“You don’t want the new owner angry with you, Father.”
Lucian didn’t bother to answer. Instead he rumbled at Diocles. “You can’t stay here much longer. If the eunuch sees you it will cause problems for me.”
“I’d like to hear you call him eunuch to his face,” the other sneered.
“It’s not wise to be disrespectful to your landlord and some things are better left unsaid,” Philip pointed out.
“You are only polite because you’re after that dark-skinned servant of his.” Lucian smirked. “You’ve been given a job, go and do it.” Turning back to Diocles, he continued. “I want you to leave, my friend.”
“Impossible. I need to stay on the estate, as you well know, at least until-”
“Forget that. It isn’t worth the risk.”
“Why did that fool Vinius have to die?”
“We all have to die sometime. You should have thought of what might happen if we were burdened with an owner who wasn’t absent all the time.”
“Easy enough to say now, Lucian. But who could have predicted anyone from Constantinople would come to live in this place?”
“Not me. I’m a farmer, not a prophet. But I can definitely smell trouble on the way if you don’t get off the estate.”
“After all I’ve done for you-”
“It doesn’t look like you’re going to be able to do anything more for me, or anybody else. And your presence here puts us all in danger.”
“Where is your gratitude? You can’t even put a roof over my head for a few days?”
“I have put a roof over your head for a while. Now go lodge with someone else you imagine owes you something.”
Diocles’ heated tone turned to ice. “Is it wise for you to turn me out, considering what I know?”
Lucian shuffled forward until his enormous bulk was leaning menacingly near to the former overseer. “You’re not going to hang yourself to hang me. I am telling you to vacate this place immediately after dark.”
Chapter Fifteen
John traversed almost the entire length of the estate on his way to interview the blacksmith Petrus. For the most part he kept to the ridge along the sea. As he passed within sight of what was known locally as the Rock of Deliverance, he suppressed a shudder. Here, it was said, those disappointed by life came to find deliverance from their woes in the sea.
He had heard the rumors about his father-his real father. He had been a child when his father had abruptly, shockingly, inexplicably simply ceased to be where he had always been. His mother told him that John-for he had been named after his father-had died. Only later, when he was old enough to go off alone with his friends out of his mother’s sight and hearing, had he heard the rumors. That his father, beset by financial difficulties, had escaped by way of the rock.
The boy who told him had merely been repeating what he’d heard his parents say. Neither he nor John were sure what “financial difficulties” were, except that from the tones with which older people said the words they guessed they must be very terrible indeed. John had imagined his father pursued up the rock by hideous dragon-like creatures. He had had many nightmares about it.
Later, when he learned more about people’s ways, he decided the story was probably nothing but malicious gossip.
He increased his pace and cut inland to visit the temple. There was no breath of wind and no sounds save for the occasional cry of a gull and the crunch of John’s boots in the grass. The drowsy peace of a day of honest work nearly completed seemed to be settling over the parched landscape. Theophilus’ murder seemed far away, a half-remembered dream.
John shook his shoulders in irritation. Not a dream, he told himself, a nightmare, and here he was mooning around as if he were a lovestruck youth attempting to write a poem to his beloved and had all the time in the world to wait for inspiration.
He stepped into the temple. He dared not kneel but stood facing east. “Lord Mithra, Lord of Light,” he prayed, “This was once a holy place. I have no other, despite its desecration by the body of Theophilus, in which to petition Thee that I be guided to the truth and so continue to serve Thee, slayer of the great bull.”
Afterward he inspected the ruins but could see nothing of interest aside from a small pink flower emerging from a crack in the marble floor. There were only the excavations and piles of dirt around the sides and back of the ruins. The dirt might have revealed footprints before it had been trampled over by the crowd that had gathered during the night. Now it was too late.
He continued on his journey and crossing a rise arrived at Petrus’ house. The blacksmith was unloading a wagon in the packed earth yard by his forge.
Petrus came toward John, slapping grime off his hands on the long leather apron that seemed attached to him as a second skin. “I’ve just come from your house, sir. I’d have given you a ride if I’d seen you along the road.”
“I walked along the ridge.”
“It offers a fine view of the sea but very hot on a day like today. Will you honor me by sharing a jug of wine? My throat feels as if I dined on rust this morning.”
John readily agreed and soon the two men were sitting on a green-stained marble bench under a large pine, surrounded by the fragrance of the fallen pine needles that cushioned their feet. It was near sunset. The shadow of the pine stretched away, impossibly elongated, across the dirt yard, over the wagon, over wagon wheels lying against a stack of metal rods, losing itself in a mass of dead weeds beyond.
“No, sir, I saw nothing,” Petrus said in response to John’s questions. “As you see, my house is shielded by the rise there, and I certainly heard nothing suspicious.”
It was true. Though nearby, the temple could not be seen. Neither could the monastery, which was even closer. The land had the peculiar characteristic that although mostly fields and meadows interspersed with small orchards and vineyards it did not offer many unobstructed vistas due to its low hills and depressions. It would be surprisingly easy to creep up on someone who felt safe because of the apparent openness of his surroundings.
“You live alone?”
“I do, sir. There was a girl, but she preferred to marry a rich man and so…but I hear she has grown shrill and is never satisfied with what he buys her. Perhaps I had a fortunate escape after all. A man who lives alone may boil his eggs as he wishes, as they say.” He spread big, calloused hands and smiled.
“It appears so, Petrus. What do you know about Theophilus?”
Petrus’ good-natured face clouded. “Too much, sir, and that’s a fact. I made a gate for him, a large gate. After it was installed, he refused to pay for it. Naturally I took my case to law. Bribery must have been involved since I lost. After that I refused to do any further work for him.” He paused and gave a wide smile. “I did however insure that Megara knew he couldn’t be trusted to pay his debts. It was the least I could do to protect others, but not, as I am sure you will agree, a reason to stab him in the back, even though that was what he had more or less done to me.”
“Indeed.” John did not add that in his opinion there were a number of valid reasons to put a blade into his stepfather even if he couldn’t condone such an act. It was not surprising his mother had allowed him to be sent off to Plato’s Academy. He might have been executed for murder if he had remained at home.