And could get no further.
His heart pounded. Pushing his head into the darkness was too much like submerging it in deep water. He tried to reach down, feeling for whatever was impeding him, but caught in an awkward position, could not raise himself. He felt he couldn’t breathe, as if the blackness was filling his mouth and nostrils.
He knew this was nonsense. He pushed harder with his feet, his soles failing to find purchase on slippery stones. Finally he gained leverage. A high-pitched ripping noise filled the narrow space as his tunic tore where it had snagged on a sharp piece of the grating.
Then he had slipped all the way under. He tried to sit up but there was barely room for him to roll over. Doing so, he scraped his shoulder against what felt like rough concrete above him. He may as well have been in a tomb.
He paused to allow his eyes to adjust but still could not make out even a glimmer of light ahead. It would be dark in the garden by now, but not, he supposed, this dark. The channel was not much wider than his shoulders. Was there room to turn around if it were necessary? If not, would he be able to get back under the grating feet first?
He began to pull himself forward. His fingers touched water and he yanked his hand back.
Calming himself, he put his hand back out. Surely it was nothing more than a puddle? He continued. Shallow water soaked his clothing. He had to keep his face too near it for comfort.
Then his shoulder banged into the wall. He tried to shift sideways and found he could not. The tunnel was narrowing.
Experimentally he attempted to push himself backward. It was more difficult than moving forward. If he kept going and became stuck at some point, it might be impossible to get out.
And what if there was a grating without a gap under it at the other end?
He realized he was gasping for breath and tried to control his breathing. His clothes soaked, surrounded by the damp, impenetrable darkness pressing in around him, John had the sensation of drowning slowly. When he tried to raise his face away from the water his head hit a hard ceiling.
Then the height of the tunnel was also decreasing.
He had a sensation of suffocation. He forced himself onward. Walls scraped at both shoulders.
Then gray shapes swam in the darkness ahead. Was it a trick of his eyes? He blinked. No. Reaching out he felt vegetation. He pushed through, hearing branches crack loudly and not caring.
He burst out into fresh air, straightening up, leaves and twigs caught in his close-cropped hair.
The builder had luckily considered a grating on the outside sufficient.
John listened in case his noisy entrance had alerted a guard. When he heard nothing he forced his way through thick rhododendrons into a clearing and sought Halmus’ artificial cave. He could no longer make out the voice booming down from the column. Had Halmus finished his religious diatribes? Might he appear suddenly in his garden? Or didn’t the sound reach back here through the vegetation?
Roosting birds rose in an agitated cloud as he passed below a cedar, a column of darkness rising into the night sky. He dodged behind a clump of rocks artfully arranged to provide, in less drought-stricken days, a waterfall feeding the stream. No one came to investigate what had frightened the birds. He worked his way unchallenged through a wild tangle of shrubbery and closely growing trees until he reached the entrance to the artificial cave.
He could see now what had led to his feeling of puzzlement during his first visit. The dome of concrete stretching back into the surrounding plants was far larger than the cell Halmus had shown him.
There would have been no reason to construct such a large hill for such a small cave.
Pushing away the animal skin hanging at its entrance, John stepped inside. He would have to investigate quickly, given Halmus or one of his guards might arrive at any time. He crossed the cramped space and moved the skin on the far wall enough to peer around it.
What he had expected to find was a comfortable bed, artfully hidden.
Instead he was staring into a large torchlit room with several doors leading from it. A couple of men lounged in the center of the open space honing swords. Neither looked to be of friendly disposition and one, while dressed smartly and sporting an elaborate fibula, had a pugnacious look. The fibula, which at a glance appeared to be shaped like a bird, reminded John of something. Maritza’s lament for her allegedly stolen jewelry?
He let the curtain fall gently back in place and escaped the way he had arrived, pausing only to pick up a shiny coin on his way out.
At the place where the stream entered the tunnel he paused. His breathing quickened. Perhaps there was a tree near the wall he could risk climbing and drop down into the street?
He heard approaching voices.
Taking a deep breath, he stooped down and gazed again into the black maw.
You were able to get in, he told himself. You can manage to get out.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Mithra!” John threw the covers back and sat up in bed, shading his eyes against the brilliant light streaming in. The sun was well up and the bucolic scene of fields and meadows, already awake while he was still half-asleep, irritated him.
“Don’t fret, John. If you hadn’t needed to sleep you wouldn’t have.” Cornelia appeared in the doorway, fully dressed, carrying a bundle of garments.
John glanced around. “Where are my clothes? I should be working by now.”
“Those vile rags you came in wearing last night are out in the courtyard. As soon as I came down to the kitchen this morning I could smell them.”
John remembered she had demanded he bathe before going upstairs to their rooms. “I apologize, Cornelia. I didn’t think it would be wise to look for a public bath in Megara.”
“No, you might have been mistaken for a plague carrier. Here’s fresh clothing.” She tossed the bundle to him. “As for your old clothes, they might serve as cleaning rags if the smell will come out.”
After he pulled on the tunic he followed Cornelia down to the kitchen. As in Constantinople, it had become the central gathering place of the house, quite inappropriately and particularly here where it was not even part of the owner’s quarters. But then John had grown up in a modest farmhouse, not a mansion or a country estate, and old habits, as Petrus would no doubt declare, die hard. This morning the sweet fragrance of the herbs Hypatia had hung up to dry mingled with the odors of cooking. The room was already coming to life. John’s mother used to say that the kitchen was the heart of a home and as soon as you walked into a kitchen you could tell what sort of life a family led.
He gulped the cup of wine waiting on the table. “Are there any boiled eggs? I can just take a couple with me and eat on the way.”
“Oh, John! You’re not going back to Megara?”
“No. I have business on the estate this morning.”
“You must rest. We haven’t had much peace since we got here, and before that-”
“That’s over with now.”
“You’re going to kill yourself!” Cornelia grimaced, obviously wishing the words back.
“You’re still convinced I was the intended victim, not Theophilus? If that were true, all the more reason for me not to be wasting time.”
She placed a plate of bread and cheese on the table. “Neither of us are as young as we used to be, and who knows what we’re facing. The City Defender suspects you or at least has indicated in no uncertain terms that he does. Perhaps he killed Theophilus and hopes to convict you of the crime.”
“I’m more concerned about you than myself, not to mention Peter and Hypatia. They chose to accompany us here. They could have remained in Constantinople. I am indebted to them.”
“You won’t be able to defend anyone, including yourself, if you succumb to exhaustion. Promise me you’ll take a few hours off and soon.”
“When I’m done with this visit I have to make.”