Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery

by Ray Faraday Nelson

  The sun was hot and bright, the dung plentiful.

  Livia closed the shutters, tired of gazing into the empty street below, tired of the sun and the heat and the smell. She sat down on a keg with a deep sigh, grateful, at least, that she could take the load of her great bulk off her feet. She had no use for the races. Neither did her husband. He was at least as fat as she was. He agreed with her that on a day like this the racetrack was too far away to walk to.

  So, even though there were no customers, they kept the little shop open, telling each other that it helped to build a reputation for reliability. It was important to build-up a “name.”

  His name, as the sign above the entrance to his shop proclaimed, was “T. Vindaius Ariovestus, compounder of panaceas, including Chloron, the Unbeatable Green Salve.” In smaller letters, it added, “A preparation of aniseed.”

  His name was there on the sign, but it was she who labored in the upstairs room mixing everything. Vindaius was just the “front man.”

  She heard the ladder rattle. He was coming up.

  A moment later his round pink head appeared in the open trapdoor, glistening with sweat. “Livia! Livia! We have a customer!”

  “So?”

  “He wants poison, Livia!”

  She shuddered in spite of the heat. Why did they have to deal in poison? Didn’t the regular medicine and drug trade bring in enough money? But he’d told her there was a demand for it, and it was their duty to…

  But at least she had convinced him it was not wise to advertise this darker side of the business. Only a few people knew, and those few were not fond of publicity.

  “What kind?” she asked him dully.

  “The most powerful you can make!”

  With a grunt she heaved herself to her feet. “Let me get the recipe.” She opened a dusty trunk and rummaged around in a pile of yellowed papyrus and parchment scrolls.

  “Hurry, dear!” Vindaius was excited. “This customer… he’s a rich man. I can tell by his clothes. He keeps his face hidden by his cloak and speaks in whispers.”

  “In whispers, eh?” Some kind of disgusting pervert. All rich people were perverts, as far as she was concerned.

  “I have to go down now,” he said apologetically. “We wouldn’t want him to get impatient and take his business elsewhere!”

  “I suppose not.”

  The ladder rattled, and when she looked over at the trap door he was gone. A moment later she heard his high-pitched laugh, sounding very nervous, somewhere down below.

  She was afraid, as she always was when she had to touch the collection of jars and bottles she kept in the back of the room—in a separate cabinet. She was afraid—and not without reason—that she might one day find she had accidentally poisoned herself.

  Nevertheless she set to work pounding, mixing and stirring, now and then consulting a recipe on a scroll she could barely read in the dim light. It wouldn’t do to disappoint the customer!

  The customer!

  As she worked she became more and more curious. In these cases it was generally best to know as little as possible about the client, but still… Was he a disappointed lover? Or perhaps an ambitious politician? In spite of herself she was consumed with curiosity.

  It showed in her voice a moment later when, crouching on her hands and knees by the trap door, she called down, “It’s ready.”

  The ladder rattled again, and she reached down, carefully placing the small stoppered vial into her husband’s pudgy hand.

  After hurriedly using her pitcher and basin to wash her hands, she hastened to the shutters in hopes of catching a glimpse of the customer—but a glimpse was all she did get as the heavily cloaked figure strode away down the street.

  A moment later she had climbed down to join her husband in front of the shop, bombarding him with questions, but he was no help. The best he could say was, “The rascal overpaid me, so he must be up to something, but he kept his face so well hidden in his cloak he could have been a woman and I wouldn’t have known it.”

  Chapter Three

  She looked at him anxiously from behind a wayward lock of her shoulder-length light brown hair.

  “Father—you’ve always been a reasonable man.”

  “I like to think so, my dear.”

  His face a mask, Odysseus Memnon thought, When, little Hathor, was the last time I heard you praise me, even insincerely? She bit her lip nervously while he waited for her to go on. Her hair was swinging now with the swaying of her gilt-trimmed white sedan chair and Odysseus, his own chair moving beside hers, felt a sudden tenderness, an impulse to reach over and touch her, but he remained frozen, immobile. There were too many people around—the slaves who bore the sedan chairs on their padded shoulders, the crowd of dusty sweating Jews, Greeks, Arabs and Egyptians who flowed past in the savage noonday sun, the eunuch Wakar who marched ahead shouting “Clear the way there! Clear the way, you lowborn dogs!” Odysseus hated to make any sort of public display of his feelings, particularly before those he considered his inferiors.

  As the silence lengthened, he self-consciously arranged the folds of his long green silk tunic. Why didn’t she speak? What was she waiting for?

  When she finally began, her voice was so low he couldn’t make out what she was saying above the din of the streets.

  “What’s that?” he demanded, leaning toward her.

  “I said, I hope you will continue to let reason rule your life.”

  “Of course I will!”

  “I hope you will continue to be open-minded and willing to listen to rational appeals, if those appeals come from those who love you, who have only your best interests at heart.”

  Rhetoric, he thought with disgust. Perhaps it was a mistake to educate females—if this was the result!

  “Sometimes,” she went on, choosing her words with care, “when a man reaches a certain age…”

  “Go on, girl. Spit it out.”

  “When a man reaches a certain age, he allows hope to usurp the throne of reason and…”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “And he becomes a willing victim of liars, of liars who promise him anything—even eternal life—in order to lay hands on his money and property.”

  “Those are the Christians you’re talking about, aren’t they?”

  “I’m not talking about specific cases.”

  “At least not yet, eh?” He chuckled, grinning at her candidly.

  “The wise man, Father, the philosopher, does not act this way,” she continued doggedly. “The philosopher continues in his old age on the path he chose as a youth. As the noble Socrates demonstrated by his example, even certain death does not sway the Man of Reason. The Man of Reason has spent his life building something; he does not at the end tear it all down. His heart…” She faltered, gripping the arms of her sedan chair so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “His heart…?” he prompted.

  Suddenly her composure broke. “You fool!” she screamed. “You damn fool! Don’t you see what they’re doing to you? You can’t do it. You just can’t!”

  “Oh, can’t I now?” He leaned back in his chair, smiling with satisfaction.

  She gestured toward the crowd. “Do you want to see me out there among those people, hungry, filthy, sick? Don’t you know what will happen to me without the protection of your money and position?”

  “Full circle,” said the old man, almost to himself. “I began out there, you know. There was a time when I was lower than the lowest of them. There’d be a certain justice, a certain poetry…”

  “Justice? Poetry?” She half rose, then fell back in despair.

  She did not know—how could she—how close he was to being swayed by her appeals, but there was something missing still. If only she could reveal to him by some clear s
ign that she still loved him as she did when she was small, he thought. If only she would confide in him!

  “About your lover…” he began slyly.

  She stared at him blankly.

  “You can tell me Hathor. I can keep a secret. Only the gods know all the secrets I’ve got locked away in here.” He touched his hairless head with a long bony forefinger.

  “Don’t try to change the subject, now…”

  “Why won’t you tell me, eh? Are you ashamed of him? Can’t he support you properly? Or perhaps he is, as they say, less than a gentleman.”

  “He’s as rich and well-bred as you are!”

  “In that case you must tell me his name. I’d like to meet him.”

  She turned away without answering.

  “Well?” he insisted.

  “You know him already.” Her voice was almost lost in the clatter of a passing wagon.

  “What? What’s that you say? I know him already? Then tell, you witch! Tell! I must know!”

  She faced him, pale and frightened. “By Isis, I hope you never do. It would kill you… and me too!”

  * * * *

  The following morning, before the heat of day, Odysseus Memnon visited the temple of Osiris-Serapis, patron deity of Alexandria. Was it a lingering trace of belief, or at least respect for the god his father believed in? Odysseus himself could not have said, but there was a feeling in the visit, a sadness that stuck in his throat, pained him in his chest.

  He was saying goodbye, once and for all, to an old, old friend.

  He left his slaves behind him at the foot of the great marble staircase and, sandals in hand and with bowed head, he slowly mounted the hundred steps up to the entrance, then paused at the head of the stairs, panting and slightly dizzy.

  He thought, What if the heart attack comes here? If he died at the entrance to the temple, everyone would take it as a sign that he’d returned to the True Faith.

  “I can’t let them think that,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ve got to stay alive just a little longer.”

  Beneath him lay Alexandria, the White City, spread out under the blue morning haze. There was the harbor, split by a long land bridge out to the island of Pharos, where the immense lighthouse towered, impressive even at this distance. There, beyond the lighthouse, was the sea.

  He turned and continued on his way, pulling his cloak tightly around him, though there was no wind.

  He passed between two rows of massive red granite columns, crossed a wide stone-paved courtyard, and entered the Hall of Worship through a pair of huge bronze doors whose carved panels told the story of the birth, death and resurrection of Osiris-Serapis. Above him was a high dome of dark green basalt displaying the twelve signs of the zodiac and the celestial history. Ahead hung a broad tapestry which represented with breathtaking artistry Alexander the Great dressed as Pharaoh Osiris-Serapis, with the combined crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. Beneath Memnon’s shuffling bare feet stretched a glittering mosaic of many-colored glass, jewels and precious metals portraying the mythical history of Egypt, its kings and queens, its gods and goddesses, from Osiris and Isis, who brought culture to Egypt from the fabled Western Land, to Cleopatra, last to rule before the Roman conquest. The mosaics felt cool and smooth under the soles of his feet.

  He lifted the corner of the tapestry and stepped into the semi-darkness of the Holy of Holies.

  He stood swaying, blinking, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dimness, then looked around. There was nobody else in the room. Odysseus was alone with the god.

  At the end of a long broad aisle that passed through a forest of carved and painted pillars, Osiris-Serapis sat enthroned, faintly illuminated by flickering oil lamps and tiny candles set in red glass containers.

  Odysseus approached him.

  When at last Odysseus halted, the god loomed over him, majestic and beautiful. Serapis’ body was carved from blue-black marble and his ornaments were of precious jewels set in gold, but his face was made of delicate polished ivory and wore an expression of calm, fatherly concern. His long hair and full beard looked almost real, for the art style was Greek, lifelike and flowing, not rigid and stylized like the style of the Pharonic Egyptians.

  Serapis was not a statue, it seemed, but a giant man—a kind, sad, giant man.

  Looking up into his face, Odysseus said softy, “I could have loved you.”

  The god did not answer. So it was just a statue after all.

  Odysseus waited, giving the god every opportunity to speak, then said mockingly, “You never should have let the Romans win” and with a cruel, blasphemous snicker he turned his back on the god and stumped away.

  He was still smiling as he emerged from the darkness and, squinting and shading his eyes with a bony hand, recognized the figure of his son Serapion strolling toward him in the company of three shaven-headed priests.

  * * * *

  “Are you surprised to see me here?” asked the younger Memnon as they reached the head of the Stairway of a Hundred Steps.

  “Why should I be? You’re always hanging around here in the temple, wasting your time on ancient scrolls and endless fruitless argument with baldies like that.” Odysseus gestured contemptuously toward the three priests behind them in the courtyard, now too far away to overhear.

  “Well, I must say, my honored Father, that I was surprised to see you here—surprised and pleased.” As he beamed down on Odysseus, the old man looked away, annoyed.

  “Don’t try to read any profound meaning into it, my boy.” Old Memnon leaned against a granite sphinx and slipped on his sandals, then started down the steps, his son following.

  It was already warmer than it had been when Odysseus had gone in, but a slight breeze had sprung up. I won’t even work up a sweat, he thought, if I take it easy. In the back of his mind somewhere was the thought of a heart attack. It would still give the wrong impression if he died here on the temple steps. To die leaving the temple, in fact, was even worse than dying while entering.

  The father dawdled along, and the son, humoring him, dawdled with him.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Serapion in a hushed voice.

  “Beautiful? What do you mean?”

  “Alexandria.” He gestured toward the panorama that stretched out before them. “Alexandria is the most beautiful city in the world, and I’ve seen them all.”

  “More beautiful than Rome?” Odysseus had not “seen them all,” but Rome, the only foreign capital he had visited, had impressed him greatly.

  “Rome is so gross. All those apartment buildings.” Serapion wrinkled his aristocratic nose.

  Something, Odysseus realized was wrong, but at first he couldn’t figure out what. Then, quite suddenly, he knew what it was. Serapion had not mentioned Christianity, let alone attempted to argue with him about it, and Serapion was the one in the family he’d most expected— even hoped—would be furious.

  He glanced at the boy over his shoulder, frowning. He’d never been able to figure Serapion out. Was this really his son, this tall soldier-like youth with the face of a holy ascetic? Or had his first wife Octavia had some lover visiting her while Odysseus was spending night after night in business conferences? No, that was impossible. She’d been too good for such things. In fact, she’d seemed at times to have been too good for any vulgar sexual things, even with her husband.

  Serapion, his voice distant and impersonal, had begun an impromptu oration on the glory of Alexandria’s past, of Alexandria’s traditions and cultural sophistication. Odysseus had heard it all before. Angrily he turned and snapped, “Don’t play with me, my boy.”

  “Play?” The slightly disdainful eyes looked pained.

  “Tell me now, and tell me frankly—what do you think of my becoming a Christian?”

  Serapion, a fe
w steps higher than his father, looked down and said gently, “I too have been going through a religious crisis, but now it’s resolved. The Temple of Osiris-Serapis has accepted my application to study for the priesthood. You will serve your god, and I will serve mine!”

  * * * *

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your reading, Master, but…”

  “Yes, yes, spit it out!” Odysseus laid the scroll he had been reading on the bed table and looked up at Rophos, his eunuch, thinking, What now?

  “Your brother Demetrius has been here since early this morning, Master, waiting to see you.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Around noon, Master.”

  The old man grimaced.

  “Tell him to come back tomorrow.”

  “He says he won’t let you put him off again, Master. He says he absolutely insists on seeing you today, if only for a few minutes.”

  Odysseus thought, He’s been here every day since that damn dinner party. I suppose the only way I’ll get him to leave me alone is to give him a few words. With a sigh, he motioned to Rophos to show his brother in. Rophos left the room, bowing.

  Odysseus stole a longing glance at the scroll on his bed table. The Gospel of Thomas! It was not like the other scroll the Christians had given him, not like the Gospel of Mark. The Gospel of Mark told a strange story, but a clear one. The Gospel of Thomas, supposedly the older and more authentic document of the two, seemed to contain only disconnected sayings of Jesus, without story, context or explanation, and some of the sayings were so obscure Odysseus could only guess at their meaning—but he’d always been fond of puzzles.

  “Demetrius Memnon!” announced Rophos from the doorway. Bald, emaciated, wild-eyed Demetrius stumbled in, white tunic rumpled and disheveled, claw-like hands clasping and unclasping each other. “Odysseus! I must see you!”