“She’s right,” John said, mostly to soothe Leonidas and partly because he could see no graceful way to escape whatever revelations Helen intended to impart.
Leonidas cast an apologetic glance at John, a silent plea asking what he could do in the face of her determination to speak.
“Anyway, everyone in Megara knows about her. Why shouldn’t her son?” Helen continued.
“If that’s true I’d find out soon enough,” John said, resigned to hearing what would probably turn out to be a farrago of rumors. “What is it everybody knows about my mother?”
“Well, late in life, Sophia became extremely religious. If it had just been increased church attendance no one would have taken any notice, but it got to the point where she would wander around the city and preach on the street. She held religious discussions with Halmus, shouting up to him when he was perched on his column. Much of what she spoke about was repentance and the life to come.”
John bit back a denial. He remembered his mother as quiet and self-effacing. A down-to-earth woman and certainly not a brazen religious zealot. Seeking out public attention would have been the last thing she would have done. But then, what did he know about her later life?
Helen seemed to sense what John was thinking. “We were all shocked, John. It wasn’t like her at all. Eventually it became obvious she was…unwell. Age affects some people like that. Of course, it was dangerous for an older woman to walk the streets alone at night, and more than once your stepfather had to come into Megara to take her home. After a while she no longer appeared in town and eventually she died.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Do you imagine people here had forgotten the poor woman had a son? Why is her son not helping, they asked.”
“Helen,” snapped Leonidas. “Sophia had a husband to help her.”
“We all know what sort of help he was,” she shot back. “According to what we heard, Theophilus began to wager large sums, got deeply into debt, and sold the farm. Of course, he had inherited it as Sophia’s husband. Then he vanished, leaving his creditors empty-handed. Those tax records won’t have anything to say about that.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” John agreed. “But knowing that may shed some light on Theophilus’ death.” He hoped his comment would make Leonidas feel better about his wife’s outburst.
Helen had run out of disclosures. Did she regret having forced the information on him? “I am sorry, John. It is hard to lose a parent.”
Leonidas showed him to the door. “It was all a long time ago. I’m happy you were able to buy your childhood home back, John. It must have meant a lot to you to be in a position to be able to do so.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Leaving Leonidas’ house, John wondered if his friend recognized the irony of that parting comment. John had been in a position to buy his childhood home, but he had returned only because he had been removed from his position at Justinian’s court.
It had not been a pleasant homecoming so far.
As if John wanted to reflect on his financial good fortune, Halmus stood atop his pillar, silhouetted against a red sky fading to gray, fulminating against the love of money.
“Love of money is a peril to your immortal soul!” he boomed, sounding louder in the twilight than under the glare of the midday sun. “Instead of leading godly lives, such love leads sinners to covet and steal their neighbor’s goods, wagering in the hopes of increasing their hoarded sums, the bribing of officials to pretend not to see when discovered committing crimes, the worm of avarice gnawing at their vitals, never letting a man rest, always seeking more, and yet no matter how much he has it is never enough.”
John wondered if the rich man atop his column was as blind to the irony of his words as Leonidas had probably been. When Halmus clambered down to return to his mansion, a veritable banquet would doubtless be laid out for him and he would spend the night in comfort and warmth, unlike street beggars who would be grateful for a corner out of the night wind and a crust or two from his table. The elaborately worked iron gate in the base of the column that gave access to the stairs inside must have cost Halmus enough to feed and clothe every beggar in Megara.
Hadn’t the blacksmith Petrus said something about not being paid for a gate he had been commissioned to make for Halmus? No, John remembered. That had been for Theophilus. Still, it was possible Petrus had made the gate for the column. Diocles had told John that Petrus did regular work for Halmus.
It had occurred to John that the blacksmith could have been assisting Theophilus in the illicit activities John had learned about in Lechaion. And Petrus conducted business with both Halmus and Theophilus. So what about Halmus? Might he have also been involved with Theophilus?
The thought of those who lived in constant deprivation rather than just during convenient hours brought to mind Halmus’ artificial cave, where, as on the pillar, he played at poverty. Or so he claimed. If Peter’s memory was reliable, Halmus had lied about his pilgrimage to see a sacred bush. Could anything else he said about his religion, or his business dealings for that matter, be trusted?
There had been something wrong about that hermit’s cell. At the time, John had been distracted by Halmus showing him a supposedly sacred twig, and the thought had gone out of his mind before he’d completed it.
Now, reminded, he followed it through to its end.
Halmus railed on about rich men and camels and needles, reminding John of an extremely wealthy and loudly self-professed Christian merchant in the capital who had constructed the main doorway to his mansion in the form of a gigantic needle’s eye, through which two imperial coaches could have passed side by side.
John walked past the tall brick wall of Halmus’ garden. When he turned the corner and went around to the back of the property, the stylite’s voice became only slightly muted. Darkness had fallen in the canyon of the street but the last red glare of sunset illuminated the tops of the buildings across the way.
The walls were too high to scale, and even if it were possible to reach the top, the intruder would be clearly visible to the guards who must be on duty.
However, John remembered a stream ran through the caged wilderness behind the mansion. He guessed it would emerge back here. In fact it did, and continued along the back of Halmus’ wall and the backs of the buildings farther on, no doubt offering a natural storm water system. Here, though, due to the dry weather its channel was mostly dry, exposing a rusted grating set in the wall above a deep bed where a mere trickle of water emerged from the garden. The grating would have barred entrance to the garden but the lack of water exposed a gap between the bottom of the grating and the uneven streambed wide enough for a slim man to squeeze under.
Or so it appeared.
John paused, listening. He could still hear Halmus preaching.
The street was deserted.
He slid down the steep bank to the stream, through broken pottery and shards of glass. The dark shapes of rats darted out of his way. Then he stood amidst rocks, mud-encrusted rubbish, and the smell of mold and decay.
Down here the space beneath the grating didn’t look as wide as it appeared from the street. Beyond he could see only darkness where the stream approached the wall.
He yanked at the bars. Flakes of rust came off, staining his hands orange, but the grating felt solid.
After a few more futile attempts to pry a bar loose, he bent down, carefully cleared away several jagged pieces of shattered ceramic, then lay down, grabbed the grating, and pulled himself forward.
He got his head underneath and rolled onto his back to find clearance for his shoulder. Pushing his boots against rocks greasy with the rotted remains of water plants, he forced himself further into the darkness.