“No,” Cornelia agreed, “it wasn’t fair to ask that.”
She sat down at a table made of citron wood inlaid with silver. The late senator’s wife might have kept pots of cosmetics on it, if she could have been persuaded to leave Constantinople temporarily for what would doubtless have seemed very poor quarters in Greece.
“I blame myself for bringing John to this place,” she informed Cheops. She took up a kalamos from a silver tray that also held an ink pot, and began to compose a letter to Anatolius, John’s younger friend, the lawyer who had arranged for the purchase of the estate several years before, at a time no one could have foreseen John being exiled.
She had no one to speak to here about subjects John did not want to discuss. Her inclination was to confide in Hypatia, but that was improper. Not that Cornelia intended to share confidences with Anatolius. Rather, she thought he should be apprised of the situation. After all, he had paid them a visit just after their arrival and related the news from the capital. She also held on to the hope that as a former secretary to Justinian he might still have the emperor’s ear and speak on John’s behalf.
Philip, the farmer’s son who had been pestering Hypatia, reminded her of Anatolius. He was a rustic version of the classically handsome patrician lawyer. She supposed every time she saw Philip now she would be reminded of Constantinople, and all that she and John had left behind.
“I don’t want to return to the city,” she murmured, “but if John is going to be unhappy here, and if we are going to be in danger…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Cheops knew what she meant.
She dipped her kalamos in the inkpot and then scratched out the usual salutations.
She paused, deciding what to say. She stared at Cheops, who offered no suggestions. She turned the kalamos around, examining it, as if there might be some words hanging to its point. Finally she got up, opened the chest at the bottom of the bed, and dug through clothing and ornamental boxes until she found the note Anatolius had sent her some years before. Returning to the table she sat and read part of it again:
“I made inquiries after you mentioned wanting to buy an estate near Megara and discovered the heirs of the recently deceased Senator Vinius are eager to rid themselves of his holdings in that area of Greece. I only mention this because by chance the land includes the farm where John grew up, according to the information you gave me. It may therefore be of sentimental value to you with your hopes of retiring to Greece, although I would not count on John to share such sentiments. The report I obtained from the agent I sent indicates the estate includes the usual rocky fields and meadows, mainly suitable for raising sheep although there is a vineyard and several olive groves. The main buildings are not particularly large. There is no villa, only a few rooms set aside for temporary visits by the owner. As an investment the land is useless. It includes a few tenants. The place has been allowed to go to ruin since the senator rarely visited. I believe the heirs are selling it for a pittance because they want to shed its taxes. Although I feel duty-bound to mention the estate to you because of its location, I strongly advise against purchasing it.”
Good advice as it turned out. Cornelia bit her lip, angry with herself.
Why had she insisted on looking for an estate where they could eventually retire, away from the intrigues of the court? John had often voiced that desire to her privately, at least at times of frustration or when he felt she might be endangered. Then again, he had consented to her search and to the purchase. He had-or used to have-estates scattered around the empire, thanks to his high position, but he never paid much attention to them or even to the income they produced. He preferred to live in austerity, so difficult for a man of his wealth. Now the task was easier.
She resumed writing:
“You were correct about the estate being in disrepair. You were also correct about John’s lack of sentimentality. Thus far he has not visited his family’s farmhouse, but as it turns out, one of his family has unexpectedly visited him.”
She scribbled an account of Theophilus’ appearances, then went on to describe the dangers of going into the city.
“It is remarkable how much they hate us and are willing to view everything in the worst possible light. Yet when we first arrived here I thought the Goddess had smiled upon us. Who could have predicted that when John’s other holdings were confiscated this estate would be our only refuge? Realizing this, I made an offering of fruit and wine to Her the night we arrived. Need I tell you news of these so-called hellish rites has already reached Megara?”
The corner where she sat was beginning to grow dark. Writing rapidly and almost blindly, she related events up to and including the veiled threat from the City Defender.
“John again finds himself enmeshed in a dangerous situation, and in addition to the menace posed by the townspeople I am afraid there is the real risk that an imperial assassin might appear at our door. Of course, I am hoping that the emperor’s whim will suddenly jump in the opposite direction and John will be recalled. Please let us know what you hear. If you have a chance to speak in John’s favor, discreetly of course, I know you will do so. How ironic it is. You told us that Senator Vinius was an avid hunter. Yet now that John owns his estate it is we who are being hunted.”
Cornelia sat back and looked at her letter. After a while she lifted it, shook it gently, making sure the ink was dry.
“There, Cheops. Now I’ve got that off my mind I should feel much better. Only I don’t.” She looked crossly at the silent cat. “Is that all you have to say?”
She crumpled the letter and threw it at Cheops. It hit him on his withered snout and bounced away.
He remained adamantly silent.
Chapter Eight
Peter lit the lamp and its flame cast an unsteady orange illumination around the ground floor quarters he shared with Hypatia. The foreman of the laborers had lived here, during the time when the overseer required a foreman. The only furniture was a couple of stools, the round wooden table on which the clay lamp sat, and an enormous dining couch covered in blue silk, with silver fittings and elaborately turned legs, banished from the owner’s quarters by John, who found them uncomfortably crowded with luxurious furnishings.
Seeing their cramped space, Peter sighed. The room had not been designed to accommodate a couch fit for a banquet hall but he could scarcely refuse the master’s generous gift, and Hypatia had been delighted with it.
“I fear the master’s plans to repair one of the abandoned houses on the estate for us will come to nothing,” Peter said. “It may be impossible to persuade anyone to come from town to do the job, and there are not so many workers on the farm that they could be spared for the task. Not that I should complain. The master needs to have a proper villa built. He and the mistress can’t be expected to keep on living in rooms that were only meant for short stays.” His expression showed outrage.
“I can’t speak for the master or mistress, but we’re perfectly cozy here,” Hypatia replied. She was sitting on the couch with her legs drawn up.
“The place smells like the Mese on a damp day or the stables under the Hippodrome.”
“That may be so, but it’s a good honest smell.”
Peter looked out the door across the darkening courtyard. A dim light showed through a window in the second story opposite. “I observed the master go out not long ago. He was annoyed. I could tell by the way he carried himself.”
“You understand him better than I do. His expression never seems to change.”
“An excellent talent to have in Justinian’s court.” Peter closed the door. “We don’t want chickens getting in again.”
Hypatia laughed. “You never thought you’d be awakened by a chicken clucking away on your chest when we lived in Constantinople!”