“Here I am. Look your fill.”
“No, no. Alone.” He glanced meaningfully at Rophos.
“As you wish,” sighed Odysseus.
Rophos departed with a low bow.
“You’re sure we’re alone?” Demetrius was glancing around with suspicion.
“Of course.”
Demetrius leaned over the bed on which his brother was reclining and, controlling himself with some effort, assumed a low serious tone. “It’s a joke, isn’t it?”
“A joke?”
“You becoming a Christian.” He forced a strangled laugh. “I must admit you almost had me fooled, but you’re a Greek-Egyptian and a Roman citizen. Christianity is only for Jews and slaves. Everyone knows that!”
Odysseus shook his head. “It’s no joke.”
“But how…”
“In Christianity there are no separate Romans, Greeks, Egyptians and Jews, no separate masters and slaves. These ranks, nationalities and separations belong to this world, and we leave the things of this world behind us.”
Demetrius brightened slightly. “Business is a worldly thing, too. Isn’t that right? So why don’t you turn the business over to me?”
“Never!” Odysseus’ eyes narrowed.
“Why not?”
“Because it was I who built it up. It’s mine to do with as I please.”
“At least give me half!”
“No! If it weren’t for me there would be nothing. Why don’t you build up your own business from scratch the way I did?”
“I can’t do that! You know I can’t. I’m not like you. I never was. And now… and now I’m no longer a young man.” For a moment he broke off, unable to continue, then added bitterly, “I always wondered why you kept everything in your own name. I always wondered. You were planning, weren’t you? All these years you were preparing for this moment!”
Odysseus considered the suggestion with surprise, though he gave no outward sign. It was possible. A man never knows all that is in his own mind, and it could give such a meaningful pattern to everything, from the very beginning, a pattern that would be complete and beautiful when he finally took the step of joining the Christians. He smiled.
Demetrius, noting the smile, changed his tack. “What about Simon Baal?”
Odysseus snorted derisively.
“Don’t you know how dangerous it is to cross a man like that?” Demetrius demanded. “The whole Memnon family could be murdered if he felt it was… expedient.”
Odysseus dismissed this threat with a wave of the hand. “So? Death is always not far away, but if the Christian promises are kept, one can buy eternal life with one’s death in this world. That’s a good bargain, as any businessman can see.”
“Bargain? Bargain?” cried Demetrius. “A gamble, you mean. An impossible gamble!”
“What’s one more gamble, old friend, after so many others? I’ve gambled my life and fortune again and again for prizes far more trivial than eternal life. Unless you gamble, you can’t win! But you don’t understand that. Only a few do. I was born understanding it, and that’s why I have what I have. That’s why I am what I am. Don’t you see? The same gambler’s spirit that made me rich now drives me to Christ, now drives me to throw the dice for immortality!” As Odysseus argued, his own doubts began to vanish and he found himself, for the first time, believing his own eloquent words. He paused, astonished, and considered what he’d said.
Demetrius burst out, “Have pity on me! I’m your brother.”
Odysseus answered gravely, “I have so many brothers now.”
Demetrius was about to protest, but the sight of his brother’s otherworldly expression stopped him. His shoulders sagged. He looked at the floor, saying, “I’ll come back, after you’ve thought…”
“You’d be wasting your time.”
“I see… Well, I guess I’m leaving then. I have things to do. My work, and yours too now. We’re pretty busy, you know, what with three grain ships in dry dock and all.”
“I know.”
“And the war.”
“The war. Yes.”
Demetrius halted by the doorway and, before departing, called back defiantly, “If I get no pity from you, you can expect none from me!”
Odysseus Memnon, already reaching for the scroll of the Gospel of Thomas, did not bother to answer.
* * * *
In the cloudless sky the light of day was fading as Odysseus strolled arm in arm with Adrastia through the gardens of his villa, Sabella leading them with an earthenware oil lamp and Rophos following with a huge feathered fan. The air was hot, humid and sluggish.
“I’ve let my hair down, darling,” said Adrastia.
“Oh? Yes, so you have. I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t notice,” she mocked. He heard the trace of despair in her voice but ignored it, only glancing at her briefly, without curiosity. She was, he noticed, examining a lock of her long black hair as if trying to determine why it had lost its attractiveness. Her smooth, fine-cut features wore a puzzled frown, fitfully illuminated by Sabella’s lamp.
“You should have seen the dwarfs today, dear.” She waited for his answer, but his attention seemed to be on something else. She continued brightly, “I never saw anything so funny in my life! You know how mischievous they are, but they’re so cute one can’t stay angry at them long. Bubo is the ringleader, because he’s the boldest. You know Bubo?”
“They all look alike to me.”
“Bubo is the one with the biggest hump on his back. Now do you remember him?”
Odysseus shrugged.
“Well, today—you won’t believe this, Odysseus—today Bubo stole some of my clothes from my room and dressed up like me, and Suchos dressed up like you, and the third, Horus, pretended to be a Christian priest and they stood on the table in the kitchen and presented a little play that they made up as they went along. The kitchen slaves were screaming with laughter! They didn’t know I was standing in the doorway, watching it all. You should have seen them! There was the one that was supposed to be me pulling on your right arm and there was the Christian priest pulling on your left arm while they both squealed, ‘He’s mine!’ ‘No, he’s mine!’ It was easy to see by the gestures that the priest was a homosexual. It was so funny! By the gods, it would have done your gloomy old heart good to see them!”
Odysseus grunted politely, and Adrastia went on with a gaiety bordering on hysteria. He looked up at a statue of Anubis, the dog-headed god of death, a looming silhouette against the sky, and thought, What if I suffer a fatal heart attack before I become a Christian? His wife’s chatter faded away in his consciousness, and there was only Anubis, a faint trace of a smile on his ebony canine lips, gazing down at him. Will I really go to that place of eternal torture the Christians have told me about? He turned abruptly and grasped Adrastia roughly by the shoulders, stopping the flow of her monologue in mid-sentence. “I’ve no time for talk of dwarfs and pranks!”
She was startled. “What’s this, my dear? What’s this?”
Haltingly he began, “I may die soon…”
“Oh no, darling! Don’t say that!” Her tone was false.
“Listen. I’m serious. I’m sick, Adrastia, sicker than I’ve ever allowed you to know. I’ve had a few attacks already. The next one, that could come at any moment, might finish me. Can’t you understand? Can’t you see? My body is finished—so I must turn to those who tell me there is another part of me that will remain after my body is gone.”
“I can tell you that! You should have asked me. Listen—there is a part of you that will remain after your body is gone.”
Surprised, he let go of her arms. “What part?”
“Your money.”
He did not join her in her laughter, but muttered, “I can�
�t talk to you,” and turned away. “Money, pranks, dwarfs—that’s your whole universe.” He gathered his cloak around him, though it was still quite warm in the garden.
From behind him her voice came to him as if from a great distance, though he knew she was close. “Our foolishness is holy if it amuses the gods, and isn’t that what they made us for? I can’t think what else we can do for them. Gods are to men as men are to dwarfs—isn’t that right?— both men and dwarfs live only as long as they amuse their masters—and you, you’ve become a bore, not only to me, but to the gods—and everyone else!”
He sighed and turned again to face her. “I can’t talk to you,” he repeated softly, then took her arm. “Come, my darling. Let us join the family at the supper table. There will be gossip and wit there, I’m sure, enough for even you.”
They returned to the house in silence, each lost in private broodings, and allowed Sabella to lead them to the dining room.
The others were already there, reclining around the table—Serapion, Demetrius, Hathor, and a few serving maids. Odysseus scanned them with disgust as they turned to him their smiling mask-like faces— or was that just the effect of the smoky, flickering oil lamps?
He took his place at the head of the table, and Adrastia settled down beside him. Hathor, sharing a couch with her brother Serapion, looked at Odysseus with puzzled curiosity. Ah, little Hathor, if you knew what was in my mind…
Wakar the eunuch served nuts, cakes and fruits—just an appetizer.
As usual the others politely waited until Odysseus had taken his first bite before they began. Chewing, he watched them with a speculative eye. Was there danger here? He could feel it, as if one of the gods was whispering a warning in his ear. He’d learned to heed such feelings; they’d saved his life several times before.
The appetizer course was soon over; now it was time for the soup.
Rophos entered the smoky, lamp-lit room pushing a little red wooden serving cart on which sloshed a large silver soup tureen. Stopping next to the table, he removed the cover and inhaled the savory steam that billowed forth, his lips curved in a dreamy smile, his eyelids drooping in a pantomime of gluttony.
He bowed and began ladling soup into bowls. It was chicken soup. Odysseus could smell it.
Was it the steam? Or was it the hot humid air in the room that made Odysseus break out in sweat?
Hathor, spoon in hand, raised her eyebrows at him questioningly.
What were they all waiting for? Oh yes, they were waiting for him to take the first sip of the soup. The host must always take a sip first before the others can begin. That was just good manners—or was it, this time, something more?
His eye moved slowly from face to face in the dimness, searching for… what? Fear? A hint of guilt? Anxiety?
All dinner table gossip had ceased.
Silently, without expression, they returned his gaze.
He cleared his throat. “Hmmm… well… With so much resentment around us—we live, as everyone knows, in a decadent age—perhaps I should adopt the habits of our beloved Emperor Nero and have someone taste the food for us… Just in case.”
He gestured to Rophos, who hesitated, then stepped forward to bravely play the role of “royal taster.” Rophos took a sip, frowned a moment in concentration, then swallowed, smiled and looked around at the guests. “Very good!” he announced, then licked his lips as if making sure not to waste one precious drop.
Everyone was watching him intently, but he seemed perfectly all right.
“If you’re quite finished…” Adrastia began impatiently.
“Wait!” warned Odysseus, raising his hand.
Still the eunuch stood there smiling, pleased to be the center of attention.
Finally Odysseus picked up his spoon and dipped it in his soup, a sheepish smile breaking out on his thin lips which seemed to say, “I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.”
He raised the spoonful of soup to his mouth, eyes lowered with embarrassment, thinking, Adrastia will never let me forget this.
“No!” screamed Hathor. “Look!”
Old Odysseus lowered his spoon, the soup still untasted, and glanced up in time to see Rophos crumple and fall face down on the floor.
Chapter Four
After a sleepless night, Odysseus Memnon arose before dawn and wandered alone through the silent mansion, standing at last on a balcony overlooking the garden, head lowered, fingers clasped behind his back. There were flocks of birds in the brightening sky, wheeling and crying, but their song seemed only to emphasize the profound silence that had settled over the flower gardens, the statues, the high spike-topped walls that surrounded the estate.
“Rophos is dead,” he murmured.
Shivering, he pulled his gray wool cloak tight around his fleshless bones, frowning with resentment at the morning chill. In an hour or two it would be the heat he would complain of—for the old, the temperature is never right.
The breeze stirred, bringing to his nostrils the heavy scent of blossoms, but he did not smile. The thought of flowers was too closely linked to the thought of funerals, of his own shriveled mummy smeared with plaster and decked with bright petals of many colors.
He sighed, then whispered again, “Rophos is dead.” After a moment he added, “But I’m the one they were after.” And who were “they”?
His own family.
His wife, his brother, his son, his daughter.
If any stranger had entered the grounds, certainly the dogs would have set up a howl; as for the slaves—they had no motive. He was the kindest master in all Alexandria; his business associates were shocked at his laxness, but Odysseus knew what life was like at the bottom, knew that he himself might have ended up someone’s property had he been sold to pay his debts. That was something Demetrius, in particular, preferred to forget.
There was a special horror to murder when it was between members of the same family. Murder within the family! That was the shadow that darkened so many noble names. Herod. Cleopatra. Nero. And Memnon. Odysseus remembered, suddenly, his father’s dying eyes. But that was different. That was self-defense.
Murder—or attempted murder—within the family was worse than a horror. It could be a scandal. And a scandal was bad for business. A scandal dried up credit, the lifeblood of business.
Elbows on the railing, he nodded slowly. It would be better not to inform the authorities about Rophos’ death. If something happened to one of his slaves, it was nobody’s business but his own. Not one word of the matter must pass outside the walls of the Memnon estate!
A kind of black ecstasy came over him, a perverse delight in the prospect of his own destruction. Was this how those criminals felt? Was this the way of those men who shouted out obscene jokes from the cart on the way to their own crucifixion?
He would do nothing.
He would wait, passively, and let them kill him. If they, after all he’d done for them, still wanted him dead, it was better to leave this world as quietly as possible—this world where there was neither gratitude nor justice. Socrates, the wisest of men, had quietly waited for his enemies to kill him, had even, with his own hands, knowingly lifted the cup of poison to his lips.
And Socrates, thought Odysseus, had many loving friends in the world. I have none. Does a true gentleman continue to intrude on a party when he learns he is not wanted?
Or perhaps, perhaps he’d do more than wait. Perhaps he’d save them the trouble of killing him. Perhaps he’d become his own murderer!
A vast weariness had crept over him. It seemed now that the Christian’s Heaven and the Egyptian’s Western Land were equally worthless. The best, after all, would simply be to sleep and never wake. He closed his eyes.
He thought, Did they all want me dead? Or just one of them? What did it matter?
So
meone was crying. Someone was weeping softly. He opened his eyes, startled, and glanced around.
A brilliant sliver of sun had appeared on the horizon and he blinked, grimaced and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare. The long shadows in the garden were hiding something, someone. Squinting, he could make out a small, bent over figure down near the palm grove. Who was it?
The weeping continued, low and anguished.
The figure emerged from the shadows, still bent over, walking with a slow, unsteady step.
“Sabella!” said Odysseus, astonished.
She heard him and looked up, wide-eyed, frightened.
“Sabella,” he called. “What’s wrong?” She did not answer, only stared up at him in panic for a moment, then turned and fled toward the slaves’ quarters as fast as her spindly little legs could carry her.
Odysseus chuckled indulgently, then laughed out loud. She was his favorite among the slaves. If no one else loved him, at least she did, and now she must be weeping, he thought, because she’d miss him when he sold her to a new master.
This thought broke the spell of his depression; his dry, wrinkled face broke into a cunning smile as, his mood of passive fatalism forgotten, he began laying plans.
* * * *
“Don’t eat that!” cried out Hathor in alarm.
“And why not, my dear?” Odysseus paused, the spoon of steaming porridge halfway to his lips.
“It might be poisoned. Let one of the slaves taste it for you.”
Smiling, he closed his lips on the porridge, chewed a bit, then swallowed.
Adrastia, reclining next to him on the couch, muttered, “You old fool.”
“Fool?” he said. “You call me a fool?”
“An old fool,” she repeated, more loudly.
A rustle passed around the breakfast table as the Memnons exchanged nervous glances.
Setting down his spoon, he looked at them all with condescension, almost contempt. “Eat up! Can’t you see I’m still alive?”
Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery Page 6