Murder in Megara by Eric Mayer Page B

mention speaking with Philip? Why would it upset Peter? Did she have something to feel guilty about? He had to remind himself that he was investigating a murder, not his servants’ domestic affairs.
    ***
    Philip, son of John’s tenant farmer Lucian and head of the estate watchmen, was sitting half-asleep on a bench outside his father’s dwelling when John arrived. The foliage of a fig tree planted by the door provided welcome shade, and bees buzzing around a row of hives nearby added a somnolent note to the day.
    Perhaps it was the particular angle of the sun casting dappled shadows across the bench through the leaves of the fig tree that made John remember his youth, when on such a day he would be studying, seated at a bench under a tree at Plato’s Academy, and much further back, when his mother would be singing in a sunny kitchen as she performed whatever mysterious and necessary domestic rites mothers carried out in kitchens. He forcibly pushed his memories back into the past and hailed Philip as he approached.
    The young man rubbed his eyes and stood. “Sir?”
    Not for the first time Philip’s dark-haired handsome looks reminded John of his friend Anatolius back in Constantinople. Or rather, the younger version of his now gray-haired friend. John winced inwardly. How cluttered with the past one’s mind became. Whichever direction one turned, there was the past, always getting in the way. He was almost pleased when a light breeze sprang up, carrying the unappealing stench of pigs, a smell he recalled well enough but for which he harbored no nostalgia.
    Philip wrinkled his nose. “My father has had great success with swine, sir. What can I do for you?”
    â€œYou were on duty overnight, Philip?”
    A nod.
    â€œDid you see anything of the dead man?”
    â€œNo, sir. If I had I should have informed the City Defender.”
    â€œHypatia says you weren’t far away when she spoke to you.”
    â€œShe mentioned our meeting? Quite by chance, it was. She asked if I had seen the elderly servant she works with. She was out searching for him. It was unwise of her and I told her so. You can’t see the temple from that spot. You know the land there, all low hills and shallow depressions.”
    â€œThe moon was bright last night.”
    â€œYou can only see the temple from farther along the ridge in the direction of the monastery. I turned back before that point because the grounds curve away from the sea there. I wasn’t patrolling the far end. I’ll question the watchman who takes that section.”
    â€œYou didn’t hear anything?”
    â€œOnly the monks singing.”
    The young man’s father emerged from the house, squinting against the sunlight. Lucian was one of the fattest men John had ever seen and at Justinian’s court, thronged with the obscenely wealthy and well fed, he had seen some very obese men indeed. The farmer wobbled a few steps forward, then stopped and inhaled the odoriferous breeze. “Ah. You know what that is, sir? That’s the smell of good money.”
    Lucian’s voice boomed out, deep and resonant, as if his massive, bulging figure was as hollow as an untenanted tomb inside. “Don’t be hard on my boy,” he continued. “It’s too bad intruders got onto the estate but the property lines are long and the watchmen few.”
    Philip shot a look of consternation at Lucian. “Father, please!”
    â€œThere’s some truth in what he says,” John replied. He didn’t add that he had attempted to engage more watchmen but found no one willing to work for him.
    Lucian broke in before John could say more. “You’ll be asking me if I saw anyone wandering about last night. Not that they’d try to get to the temple from this end of the estate. More likely to come up the path from the shore. I can’t tell you, since I was abed, like all laboring men should be at that