Mary Reed: Murder in Megara

“They were certainly collected, sir. But in these hard times it can be impossible to come up with the required sums all at once, and thus I am given last year’s taxes, which include part of the year before, along with this year’s, but part of this year’s needs to be credited to last year, leaving part of last year’s to make up for any deficit this year, which can be accounted for next year, so that it all adds up eventually.”

“One needs to be Pythagoras to grasp your accounts, Diocles.”

The overseer made no reply. John saw his eyes move, and then narrow, as he looked from one end of the codex strewn table to the other.

“Apart from these accounts, “ John said. “I notice the tenant farmer Lucian appears to have cultivated more land than he is entitled. I refer to several fields that are supposed to be dedicated to grazing the estate’s livestock. Why have you allowed this?”

Diocles licked his lips. “This sickness I mentioned killed off many sheep, so I suggested some of the lost income might be made up by growing produce, until the flock could be replenished.” There was an edge to the overseer’s voice.

John judged him to be one of those men who become angry when their lies are not readily accepted. “Further, remind Petrus that a condition of his tenancy is giving priority to what needs doing on the estate, for which he is well paid. He told me he needs work but I’ve seen smoke from his forge every day.”

“He has regular commissions from Halmus, one of Megara’s wealthiest and most respected men,” Diocles offered. “And a hard worker like Petrus is always interested in more work.”

“I’m glad to hear it. He will have all he wants. And the estate workers. Do they live in Megara?”

“All of them live here, in the workers’ quarters.”

“You aren’t employing paid workers from the town or elsewhere?”

“We have lost some farm workers lately, because-”

“I shall now inspect their quarters.”

They crossed the courtyard and went through a doorway not far from the barn. The interconnected buildings and wings here were a warren rivaling the interior of the Great Palace in confusion if not extent. Rather than wandering inadvertently into a perfumed hall full of decorative court pages, however, visitors were more liable to end up amongst the cows.

“You see I insist on cleanliness and order,” Diocles said, gesturing around a large whitewashed room akin to a barracks, lined with mats.

“The door at the back?”

“More workers’ quarters.”

Diocles opened the door with obvious reluctance to reveal a flight of stairs. John followed the overseer down into darkness and a strong smell of unwashed humanity. As his eyes began to adjust to the meager light seeping in through two high, tiny windows in the stone walls, he saw the forms of men sitting or lying in heaps of straw. They were all shackled and chained to the walls. There was no sound save for the loud buzzing of flies.

“These are workers who are recalcitrant,” Diocles gave John a challenging look.

“This is a prison, Diocles. It isn’t legal to keep farm slaves under such conditions.”

“Technically speaking, I agree, but there is a difference between the laws in the making and the laws of practicality. Slaves are necessary. They are less expensive than hired workers and can be pawned off on unsuspecting buyers if they become ill.”

By the time the two men returned to the triclinium John had ordered the men to be freed. “It’s clear to me you’re an incompetent liar who was robbing Senator Vinius for years. Not only that, you have been disregarding Roman law.”

“If you would allow-”

“Count yourself fortunate that I am not having you arrested for maintaining an illegal farm prison. You are relieved of your duties immediately. Remove your possessions and be gone before dark.”

“But I have been here for-”

“Too long.”

Diocles stared at John, then as if realizing John’s decision was final, he forced words from between tightened lips. “You don’t understand Megara. You will be made to understand. You will be gone soon and I will still be here, of that you may be certain.”

The rocky track from John’s estate to Megara could be covered in less than an hour on foot and John took half the time, striding along like a soldier on a forced march, working off his anger. Back in Constantinople, he would have shrugged at the overseer’s insolence, even though he could have had the man thrown into the imperial dungeons for it. The fact that he was no longer in a position to mete out punishment made him wish to do so. Recognizing this made John angrier still, both with Diocles and himself.

It was just as well he had an excuse to walk. He wished to inform Halmus the businessman that he would not be dealing with Diocles any longer. The overseer’s negligence had at least spared John the dilemma of what task to assign his son-in-law once John’s daughter, Europa, and her husband, Thomas, arrived to assist at the estate. Thomas had been managing an estate not far from the capital and John was anxious to hand over day-to-day operations to him.

The sun felt unusually hot, as if it were closer here than in the capital. There was a different quality to the light. It seemed to draw the color of everything up to the surface. Not that there was much to see, only vineyards and olive groves surrounded by decayed stone walls and beyond, rugged hills speckled with sheep and low thorny shrubs.

John hadn’t been this way before. This was the first time he’d ventured into the city. There had been no particular reason for him to visit and he’d been busy with the endless chores that always accompanied settling into a new place. He reflected that it was ironic that the great metropolis of Constantinople had ages ago, according to legend, been colonized by Megarians, led by Byzas, a son of Poseidon. Now John, a native of Megara and once a high official in the capital, was returning to Constantinople’s origins as well as his own.

Making his way through the grounds of the Great Palace in Constantinople and the crowded square of the Augustaion John had been perpetually alert, instinctively scanning faces, sensitive to any movement in his vicinity, instantly aware if there were eyes focused on him. Hadn’t John wished often enough that he could let down his guard? Why did he feel strangely enervated rather than relieved?

***

Halmus lived in a curiously nondescript two-story house dominating one corner of Megara’s main marketplace. The facade of his home was brick and a thick confusion of dusty branches visible above high walls behind it provided ample evidence of a garden.

Residents and farmers extolling their produce thronged the square, all talking at the tops of their voices as if to compete with the stentorian tones of the man in rags standing atop a column beside Halmus’ house.

“Demons! Yes, my friends, beware, I say, beware as you value your immortal souls! The filth of hell is among us! Don’t leave your homes after sunset! There are dangers hiding in the night! For certain persons we know of have been busy loosing demons who lurk in the darkness, waiting to possess the unwary.”

John looked up once more at the voice of doom, then rapped on the iron-studded house door sporting a brass knocker in the shape of an angel. The stylite’s flow of impassioned words reminded him of addresses from similar holy men in Constantinople. He had not expected to find one of their fellow ranters in residence in Greece, but there he stood in full cry outlined against the sky.

A passerby had pointed out Halmus’ house, pausing long enough to inform John that the stylite was referring to the hellish newcomers at an estate overlooking the sea who were conducting unspeakable rites in a ruined temple to Demeter.