“She was still expecting you to return,” Cornelia said, “and anticipated when you did, you would eventually look here. Your mother intended for the farm to pass from her to you, John. And now you own it, although not by the means she envisioned. You are not going to make this public, are you?”
John took the will back, and stared at it, as if it might hold some undeciphered code. “You’re afraid this part of the estate will pass to the monastery because she was dead before I returned? I don’t know what the legal situation would be about that.”
“We must consult Anatolius about that. But meantime, is there anything else there?”
John sat on the bench with Cornelia beside him. It felt as if a god-the Zeus of Megara perhaps-had reached down and shaken the kiosk, leaving it at a peculiar angle. John had lost all sense of balance. They both stared at the remaining sheet in the box.
“It’s not a poisonous snake,” Cornelia finally said, plucking it up and thrusting it into John’s hands. “Read it to me.”
John complied:
The repentant sinner John to his dear wife Sophia, greetings from Alexandria. I pray things have been well for you and our son. Many times in many places my thoughts have flown to both of you, yet I was ashamed to follow them. I thank the Lord, believing as I do that John has made both of us proud and did not take to my wandering ways.
From this letter you will know that on the day I left I did not commit my body to the sea and my soul to hell, as is commonly supposed in Megara, according to what I was told by a traveler who passed through there. I believed there was something better beyond our little farm, but I have learned that whatever paths we travel they all lead to the same destination.
Now that I have nearly reached that blessed ending, the holy father has admonished me to write to you and beg forgiveness as I have already begged forgiveness of the Lord. Give my affectionate greetings to our son. Although I am too weak to write this myself, you will recognize my signature.
John
Written by the scribe Marius in the fifteenth year of Emperor Justinian
Cornelia put her hand on John’s. “I’m so sorry, John.”
He smiled wanly and continued to stare at the letter. “Perhaps it is a poisonous snake after all. I should have preferred to read that my father planned to return once he’d made his fortune or when he’d had his fill of travel. Anything other than simply abandoning his family.”
“He must have been returning home when he fell ill.”
“Yes, certainly, Cornelia.” John tried to believe her. “He will be dead by now given he was too ill to write himself and this was dictated years ago. More importantly, do you notice when it is dated? After Theophilus married my mother, meaning father was still alive and the marriage was not legal.”
His voice almost broke as the words emerged. He had a feeling, close to shame, that his mind should insist on examining every fact, weighing every possibility, and manufacturing conclusions even in the face of such a devastating personal sorrow.
Cornelia squeezed his hand. “It must have been terrible for your mother to hear from someone long thought dead and especially since she had remarried, or thought she had, at least.”
John placed the letter into the box, closing its lid carefully. He tried to ignore the stinging in his eyes and the hot flush along his cheekbones. “Theophilus could not inherit the farm since his marriage to Mother was invalid. Therefore it could not have passed to him at her death and so its sale to Senator Vinius may not be valid either. In fact, this document means I cannot be certain who owns the farm. When Mother died before I returned, the monastery should have taken possession. I have to assume she left a copy of her will with Alexis, having made the bequest to his monastery. Why didn’t Alexis make his claim?”
“Perhaps,” came Cornelia’s whispered reply, “your mother is not dead.”
Chapter Forty-five
Hypatia sat on the side of the bed rubbing a pungent ointment into the abrasions on her ankles. The sharp odor made Peter’s eyes water, but then, in his old age everything made his eyes water-cold, heat, wind, memories of his youth. The cats, one on each side of their mistress, blinked in annoyance but maintained their vigil.
Peter found a place on the bed for himself as far from the black cat as possible. “Those beasts hover about when you don’t feel well, like furry vultures.”
“Oh, Peter! Cats sense when we’re sick and want to comfort us.”
“Are you healing well? What else did the City Defender do to you?”
Hypatia replaced the lid on the ointment jar. The cats eyed it warily. “I have told you more than once. I was treated well enough, except for the shackles. Please stop fretting.”
“I can’t stop worrying when the City Defender’s men could arrive to arrest you again at any time. You know he’s certain you killed Diocles. You don’t think he’ll bother to investigate local residents like Petrus or Lucian, do you? Not when there was a foreigner on the scene, and a mere servant at that.”
Hypatia looked tense. “I am certain everything will be as it should be. Why wouldn’t it be? I didn’t kill Diocles. Why would I?”
“I gather from what I’ve overheard that he threatened the master.”
“Don’t be foolish!” Hypatia began to nervously pet the black cat.
Peter could hear the cat purring in contentment, a monstrous reaction to the dire situation. “Personally, I think Philip killed the overseer.”
Hypatia stiffened. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?”
Her obvious anger distressed him. “But Diocles was staying with Philip’s father when he should not have even been on the estate. It may be there was a quarrel and Philip was settling the score for his father. But the City Defender won’t look into the possibility, not when he can accuse-”
“Peter, please stop. You’re making me afraid. I’ve been trying not to think about it.”
“Don’t worry, Hypatia. I have the solution. I intend to confess to the City Defender that I killed Diocles.”
Hypatia stopped petting the cat. She stared at Peter in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I had the same reason the City Defender will suppose you had. To defend the master.”
“But you were nowhere near the blacksmith’s forge that night.”
“Are you certain? Does it make any difference? I’m an old man. How many years, or months, do I have left? The Lord might take me at any time. Why, I might not outlive those mangy animals you’ve adopted. You’re still young with your life ahead of you. And besides, you will not be burdened with me.”
Hypatia leapt from the bed in a fury, sending the cats flying. One of them knocked the ointment jar over and it rolled to the wall. “Don’t say such things! I dread the day I am not burdened with you, Peter. I hope it never comes. I won’t stand by and let you lie for me. You didn’t kill Diocles any more than I did.”
Feeling the weight of her wrathful gaze, Peter rose with difficulty until they were both standing. “But it doesn’t matter, you see, whether I confess to killing Diocles because I did, indeed, murder Theophilus.”
“Sit down, Peter. You’re ill. You’ve been injured, suffered shocks. Your humors are deranged.”
“No, that isn’t so. The day after Theophilus was found at the temple-after I’d fallen into the pit-well, you see, I couldn’t remember anything except approaching the temple, and then waking from a nightmare at the monastery. But it has been coming back to me. First I recalled my dream about the angel standing guard as I lay in the pit. Then more memories returned. I fell into the pit while fleeing from what I’d done.”
“I don’t believe a word of it!”
“But I do recall walking along and then, suddenly, nothing but air under my feet. I woke with a terrible feeling that I had done something wrong.”