Peter sat down beside her. He had to shoo away two cats, one large and black, the other small and mottled brown. They retreated with ill grace. “You are supposed to be in the barn working,” he scolded them. “Useless, idle things.”
The cats glared malevolently at the human who had usurped their privileged position.
“If you’re unhappy with our rooms, Peter, perhaps the master could direct the estate watchmen to help rebuild a house?” Hypatia suggested. “Do you think I should ask Cornelia about it?”
“You mean the mistress,” Peter corrected her firmly.
“Yes, the mistress.”
“Craftsmen are needed for that sort of work. The watchmen are most likely not qualified to do it. I don’t even think they’re qualified to watch.”
“The young man in charge of them strikes me as competent.”
“Competent? Perhaps, when the biggest threat is a sheep disappearing now and then and showing up again disguised with a fine sauce on a table in Megara. But for protecting us against those set on forcing us to leave?”
The black cat suddenly leapt onto the table, drawn by a moth fluttering around the lamp. Hypatia leaned over, picked the animal up, and sat it in her lap.
Peter’s wrinkled face wrinkled even further with displeasure. “We shall be overrun with vermin. Those cats shouldn’t be in here.”
“The cat is sacred and I would never harm one, as you know well enough. I hope I have not offended the gods by ducking this pair in a bucket of water to get rid of their fleas.” Hypatia stroked the cat. “Don’t listen to that man,” she told it and turned her attention back to Peter. “It would make me feel safer if the watchmen were properly armed with spears and swords rather than sharpened wooden staves.”
Peter shook his head. “You would be surprised, Hypatia. Even as a humble cook in the military I learned how much damage such apparently puny weapons can inflict if wielded correctly. Consider the giant Cyclops Odysseus and his men escaped. And how? By plunging just such a sharpened stave into its one eye.”
“At least a Cyclops is something we don’t need to worry about here.”
“We don’t have to worry about well-armed and armored legions either. A sharp stave is perfectly sufficient to deal with the sort of villains who might seek to do us harm.”
“Still-”
“Besides, the master could not obtain weapons legally. Those who are authorized to manufacture weapons are not allowed to sell them to private citizens. The master’s situation is precarious enough as it is. He must be careful not to run afoul of the law. His enemies would pounce on anything like that.”
“Do you suppose they are intent on having him eliminated entirely?”
“Exile is never sufficient for one’s enemies. You know Justinian’s whims. The exiled can return. The dead, of course, cannot.”
Peter had become animated in his exasperation. The black cat squirmed, lifting its head, its attention attracted now by the shadows moving on the wall behind the couch. Hypatia scratched its scarred and tattered ears. “How would the master’s enemies know what he’s doing? You don’t think they’ve sent spies here?”
“It would be a minor matter for a wealthy man to hire spies, and the emperor has almost certainly sent his own agent to keep an eye on his former Lord Chamberlain. For all Justinian knows, the master might be plotting revenge, and I am certain the master could exact revenge in some form if he were not the honorable man he is.”
“Illegal it may be but I would feel more comfortable if there were a few well-sharpened swords and spears close at hand. Philip told me-”
“Philip? You mean the young lout who’s been hanging around the kitchen?”
“He’s a pleasant enough young man.”
“He’s a chickpea!”
Hypatia giggled. “Oh, Peter, calling someone a chickpea!”
Peter bit back a sharp retort. He found himself not only staring at her but also seeing her. She was Hypatia, his long-time colleague, companion, wife, a collection of qualities he loved. With a sudden shock, he saw the dark eyes sparkling in the lamplight, the raven wing of hair falling across the smooth brow. He saw a woman. A young woman. Much younger than he was and moreover of a similar age as the wretched watchman.
“That rustic boy has been paying far too much attention to you, Hypatia. His task is to guard the estate, not to loiter in the kitchen gazing at you as if you were a honey cake on a platter.”
“Peter! I never noticed him looking at me like that.” She straightened her legs and sat bolt upright, alarming the cat, which jumped to the floor.
“Of course you didn’t notice. He made sure you didn’t.”
She reached toward him and he felt her fingers run softly down his bristly cheek. “And even if he had designs, you don’t think I would care, do you? We’re married, remember.”
“You told him, of course?”
Hypatia’s face crimsoned and she looked at the floor. “He did not ask about our relationship and I have not felt it necessary to tell him about our private lives.”
Chapter Nine
Peter wandered the grounds aimlessly, his thoughts as dim and suffocating as the humid twilight.
Hypatia had been ashamed to admit she was married to an old man; that was the truth of it. She claimed it had never occurred to her to mention her marital status to that young watchman who happened to keep visiting the kitchen. She would naturally try to spare Peter’s feelings. She was not a cruel woman, just a young one.
What had possessed her to marry Peter in the first place? Had it been pity?
Was it surprising if she found Philip appealing? He bore a passing resemblance to John’s friend Anatolius, who had briefly taken a romantic interest in her years before.
After a while the sound of singing drifting on the breeze drew Peter to the railed fence separating the estate from its neighboring monastery. The smell of earth blossoming as the sky darkened was joined by a trace of incense.
“Only Begotten Son, and Word of God, Immortal Who didst vouchsafe for our salvation to take flesh of the Holy Mother of God and ever Virgin Mary, and didst without change become man, and wast crucified, Christ our God.”
He immediately identified it as “Only Begotten Son,” a particular favorite composed by Justinian. Peter often sang it when working in the kitchen of the master’s house in Constantinople. Hearing it again in such unexpected circumstances reminded him that he should place his trust in a power beyond his own meager understanding. Perhaps after all they would find happiness in this unfamiliar place.
His gnarled hands tightened on the fence. Surely the master would lodge a complaint with the appropriate authorities about the ill treatment he and Hypatia had received in Megara? But meantime he would enjoy the peace of the deepening dusk, and join his voice to those in the monastery in praising the one who overcame death by his own death.
“…and by death didst overcome death, being One of the Holy Trinity, and glorified together with the Father and the Holy Ghost, save us.”
A line of birds flew overhead, winging off to their roosts for the night. The hills were blending their bulk into the darkening sky. A few sleepy birds cheeped in a cluster of stunted and wind-bent pines beyond the fence. He could see lamplight springing up far across the meadow beyond. Why had he allowed himself to become so agitated over nothing, as a boy would have done?
Here he was, neglecting his responsibilities, he chided himself. Soon it would be time for the evening meal. He must return and commence cooking. There was fish from the estate’s pond and a good sauce would disguise their dubious nature. What did he need? Cumin, honey, mustard, vinegar, oil, wine. Surely he could create an appropriate accompaniment from such ingredients in hand? It was fortunate he had brought his spices from Constantinople. Perhaps tomorrow a baked chicken or two? He must request the master’s permission to purchase seasonings in Megara, and he would go alone this time.