None of them so much as touched a spoon.
“Come on! The porridge is getting cold!” He took another spoonful—chewed, swallowed.
“You were taking an awful risk,” whispered Hathor.
“Not at all, my dear. I know the rascal who’s after me expects me to expect poison, so poison is the one thing I’m no longer worried about. Next time, it’ll be something else—a knife, a sword—who knows?” He looked around at them again, eyes narrowing. “But whoever you are, you won’t find me an easy victim. I, too, know how to do the unexpected.” He took another bite, took his time chewing it. They waited expectantly, still not eating.
“What do you mean by that?” It was Demetrius who spoke.
“As of now, you are all my prisoners. The guards have my orders. They will kill anyone who tries to leave this estate without my permission.” He smiled at them blandly, thinking, All those round eyes. They look like a lot of fresh-caught mackerel… and I’m the fisherman!
After a moment of stunned silence, they all began protesting at once, while Odysseus leaned back and unconcernedly licked his fingers, enjoying a few stray bits of cereal that had escaped the spoon. He knew without looking that his men were quietly standing at the doors, swords drawn.
Demetrius had jumped to his feet and was shouting, “I have business to attend to on the docks. You can’t…”
Tall Serapion was leaning forward, saying in a serious tone, “You must allow me, if nothing else, to keep my appointment with Dionysius, the head of the library in the Holy Temple of Osiris-Serapis. Such appointments are not easy to come by, and if he’s offended…”
Hathor, seated next to her brother, was pleading. “Please, Father. I have shopping to do in the Agora-Diplostoon marketplace. I promised my girlfriends and…”
Adrastia drew herself up and glared down at him. “And I, I’ll have you know, have an appointment at the beautician’s!”
Odysseus lifted his hand for silence and for once was instantly obeyed.
He raised himself to a sitting position with a faint wheeze of effort, taking his time, as if unaware that all the fisheyes were upon him. He coughed, spat into his napkin and examined the phlegm with frowning interest, then finally said, “Too bad.” His voice was cold, emotionless, but slightly husky. “I am staging a gladiatorial spectacle here for your pleasure, featuring myself, a tired old man with a few tricks left up his sleeve, against a clever and unknown murderer—a fight to the death! Nothing else you might have had planned could be half so interesting.”
His small-boned green-robed body was erect now as he sat there, swaying slightly, looking at them exactly as a hooded cobra looks at its prey.
* * * *
Odysseus Memnon had convened a kind of court there in his dining room, appointing himself judge, jury and prosecutor all in one.
And perhaps executioner as well, thought Hathor as she stood in the walled-in garden at the center of the great house, watching the gulls high above her and waiting for her father’s next command. The morning heat had just begun but already she was sweating.
He had begun by questioning the slaves—the eunuch Wakar, little Sabella, the guards, the cooks, even the three terrified hunchbacked dwarfs—but as nearly as Hathor could make out from their excited whispers when they left his “courtroom,” he had thus far been able to establish only one important fact: Three members of the Memnon family had been in the kitchen briefly before the fatal meal.
They had tasted the soup and fussed over the spices to be put into it, so any one of the three could easily have dropped in the poison.
The three were Demetrius…
Serapion…
And she herself… Hathor!
Demetrius stepped up to her, breaking into her gloomy reverie with his harsh, angry, old man’s voice. “Why doesn’t he torture them?”
“What’s that?” She was dazed, unable to focus her mind on what he was saying.
“I said, I don’t understand why he doesn’t torture the slaves. Everyone knows a slave only tells the truth when he’s in mortal agony. One of them is bound to confess.”
“He doesn’t suspect the slaves,” she told him softly. “He’s not questioning them as if he thought one of them did it. He’s asking them about us. Can’t you hear what they’re saying? He’s asking them about us.”
Demetrius took a step backward. “He suspects us?”
She nodded.
“By the gods,” he whispered. He thrust a narrow forefinger into his mouth and gummed it nervously. Since breakfast Hathor had known Odysseus was certain the poisoner was a member of the family. He’d almost said as much, but apparently only now had Demetrius fully realized that he himself was a suspect.
He was shuffling away from her, finger still in his mouth, when Serapion approached her and whispered something to her too softly for Demetrius to overhear.
Wakar appeared at the doorway, blinking in the sudden sunlight. Shielding his eyes, he called, “Hathor! The Master wants to speak to you next.” He beckoned to her, his face expressionless.
She walked slowly toward him, leaving Serapion, arms folded, looking after her.
Adrastia gave her a reassuring pat on the arm as she passed, but Hathor impatiently jerked her arm away. Demetrius, his voice unnaturally loud in the silent courtyard, muttered, “Damn lot of trouble to make over the death of a dirty slave!”
As she passed from the sunlit exterior to the dim interior, Hathor stumbled, then felt Wakar’s firm hand on her elbow, guiding her. He’d always been there, she realized. He’d always been there, since she was a little girl, quietly guiding and protecting her. Perhaps Wakar, who could have no children of his own, had, without saying anything, adopted her, made himself the father that her real father, Odysseus, was almost always too busy to be. There were some things she could never bring herself to tell Odysseus, but she had told them to her faithful eunuch father Wakar, without thinking twice.
There was one thing, however, she dared not tell even Wakar! He might understand, but if he didn’t… she couldn’t bear to think of that!
“Here she is, Master,” said Wakar.
Odysseus looked up when she entered the room, but did not smile. “Leave us, Wakar,” he said, his forehead deeply furrowed.
As the slave bowed out, the old man gestured toward the couch on his right. Hathor slowly crossed the marble floor and seated herself there, her eyes lowered, unable to meet his gaze. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and searched her face with his glittering, black, animal-like eyes.
“Look at me, girl,” he commanded.
She glanced at him an instant, then looked down again. He thinks he can read my thoughts in my eyes, she realized. And how did she know he couldn’t?
“Look at me,” he repeated. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Yes! She wanted to tell him everything, to confess everything. She had not been raised to tell lies, to keep secrets. It was too much of a burden, too much of a weight on her. It isn’t fair, she thought. The gods ask too much of me! But she did not speak.
“I know there’s something,” he said gently. “I can tell. Don’t be afraid, my dear. If it was you who tried to kill me, I won’t punish you. The others, yes, but not you. You can go to Rome and live with your mother. Would you like that?”
Her real mother, Octavia, not that damned Adrastia! Yes, she would like to go. It would be strange to see her mother again, after so long, but she’d also see Rome. Everyone should see Rome at least once. But still she did not answer.
“I’m waiting,” he prompted. His voice was not so gentle now.
“Will you… do something for me?”
“Perhaps. Ask and see.”
“Give up Christianity.”
She looked at him at last. His face was clouded,
uncertain. “Why?” he asked, gentle again.
“‘You believe someone in your own family has tried to kill you. Isn’t that right? How can there be any good in a religion that sets members of the same family at each other’s throats, brother against brother, wife against husband, son against father?”
“And daughter against father?”
She could not answer.
He slowly shook his head, sighing. “Don’t you know me yet? Don’t you know me well enough to know that once I decide to do something, I do it, no matter what anyone says? I’m too old to change, too old to learn to be soft and easy, like a woman. Don’t you know that yet?” Then, after another sigh, he added slyly, “But if I did give up Christianity, would you let me live?”
She was horrified. “But I’m not the one who tried to kill you!”
“You were in the kitchen.”
“Yes, that’s right. I was there.” She was on the verge of tears. The gods were asking too much of her. They always asked too much! “But I had nothing to do with any poison. You know I often go into the kitchen to see that everything is running smoothly. Since that bitch Adrastia takes no interest in the practical side of running this great house, and you’re so busy, and Serapion is so… spiritual, I have to look after things. You know that without me, the slaves would do nothing.”
“Your brother then. Is Serapion our poisoner?”
“No! No! Not Serapion!”
“You love your brother, don’t you?”
There was a painful pause, then she answered stiffly, “Of course. It’s my duty to love him.”
“My brother then. Was it good old Demetrius?”
Again she could not answer. It was unthinkably horrible that someone would try to murder his own brother, but there seemed to be no other choice. She began to weep softy.
A moment later she felt a hand on hers, a hand with long bony fingers and dry rough skin, like third-rate papyrus. Her father’s voice, when it came, was barely audible. “You’ve told the truth, and I know it.” She looked up, met his dark and worried gaze.
“I can tell when someone lies to me. I can see it in their face,” he said. “You’ve told me the truth, all the truth you know. Come, sit here beside me. Help me question the others.” He patted a place next to him on his couch. “Help me judge the others.”
Wordlessly, she nodded her acceptance.
* * * *
“Serapion,” announced Wakar.
“You may go, Wakar,” said Odysseus.
“Yes, sir.” He departed with a low bow.
Serapion stood a moment in the doorway, his face in shadow, but his stance, feet set apart, thumbs hooked into his belt, was as eloquent as any facial expression. He was, thought Hathor, so sure of himself, so proud and defiant. With a nod for his father and a smile for his sister, he stepped into the room.
The old man leaned forward. “I know what you’re going to say.”
Serapion was amused. “Then why bother to talk to me?”
“You’re going to join your sister in trying to blame all this on my religion.”
Serapion shrugged. “The ancient gods cannot be pleased by what you’re doing.”
“The ancient gods are dead!”
Serapion raised an eyebrow. “Oh? They’re sleeping perhaps, but not dead, or perhaps… perhaps they do not choose to be seen by human eyes. Who knows? They may at this moment be walking among us invisible, searching for traitors and blasphemers.” Hathor realized her brother was deliberately baiting Odysseus, trying to goad the old man’s famous temper. It was a foolish thing to do, under the circumstances, but Hathor could not help but admire Serapion’s courage.
“Superstition!” said Odysseus.
Serapion did not reply, only smiled his faint superior smile.
Odysseus thumped the table with a bony fist. “You smile? And do you still smile when I tell you that, even if your damn gods do kill me, you won’t get one drachma of my money? If I died now, it would all go to my brother and my wife, and as soon as I can change my will, everything—everything!—goes to the Christians. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Don’t you care?”
“Not in the least.”
“You’re a strange one, Serapion. I’ve never been able to figure you out.”
Serapion turned to Hathor. “Am I so hard to figure out?” He did not wait for her answer, but went on. “Actually I’m a simple man, a simpler man than you, perhaps more like your father and your father’s father than you are. I follow the old gods that they followed, love the sea that they loved. You’ve turned your back on your roots in this land, in its history, in its age-old wisdom. I have embraced my roots, returned to this land. Many families follow the same pattern; the father rebels and the son returns to the old ways. If and when I have a son, he may well be a man like you, a lover of new things, and the little war between you and me will be fought all over again between him and me.”
“Philosophy!” Odysseus pronounced the word as if it were an obscenity. “We were talking about money, Serapion!”
“Money is not a subject that holds much interest for me. When you bring it up, I’ll admit my interest wanders.”
“Where would you be without it? Answer me that!”
“I’ll soon find out, won’t I?” Serapion’s smile broadened into a grin. “It was an adventure for you to become rich. I was born rich, so that’s no adventure for me. For me it will be an adventure to become poor, to see if I can live like a philosopher on bread, water and words. Money? Possessions? To you, in spite of your new-found religious pretensions, money and possessions are the only reality. To me, they’re illusions, all illusions. Fame is an illusion too, and security. There is no security for mortals! Why, even death is an illusion. All wise men tell us that. The only value there is in our short life here on earth is the effect it has on our other lives in future incarnations, either here or in some realm beyond death. Don’t your precious Christians know that?”
A glance of sudden understanding passed between father and son, and Hathor realized that, in spite of everything, the two had a strange hidden affection and respect for each other.
The old man nodded thoughtfully. “There is another life. You’re right. But Serapion, my boy, it seems I’m only now beginning to understand what that implies.”
* * * *
As Serapion was leaving, old Demetrius pushed past him in the doorway, too impatient to wait for Wakar to announce him.
“Odysseus! You must give up this madness!”
He began pacing nervously in front of Odysseus and Hathor, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Hathor was struck by the difference between the two brothers: Odysseus so forceful and decisive, Demetrius so uncertain and harassed. Yet they looked so much alike physically, they might have been twins.
“What madness?” Odysseus asked.
“Why, this Christianity business, of course. Give it up, man! Give it up! There’s nothing in it but ruin, ruin for us all.”
“I can’t give it up now. People would say I’d backed down because I was afraid.”
“A donation then. Give these fanatics some kind of modest donation. I know priests. They’ll be satisfied with that, more than satisfied. Everyone will be happy!” He was wringing his hands.
“A Memnon does not do things halfway, Demetrius. You’re a Memnon. You should know that.”
Demetrius caught the sinister undertone in his brother’s voice. “What are you saying? Are you saying I was the one who tried to kill you?”
“Were you?”
“Gods help us, no! How could you even think such a thing? I? I who have spent my life protecting your interests? One of the slaves must have done it. Since the rebellion of Spartacus, no man’s life has been safe. A slave did it, I tell yo
u. Torture them. You’ll see. One of them will confess!”
“I’m sure one of them would, guilty or not, but this time it will not do simply to find some sort of sacrificial victim to punish. If I don’t get the right man, he’ll get me!”
“But… but I’ve done nothing yet,” blurted out Demetrius.
Hathor leaped to her feet, crying, “Yet? Yet? What do you mean by that?”
Miserable Demetrius was unable to answer, even to speak. Hathor pointed a quivering finger at him and screamed. “You! You did it! You did it! I can see it in your face!” Actually, her vision was blurred by tears, but the man’s cringing, pleading body seemed to her to cry out his guilt from every pore.
Odysseus laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Proof, dear,” he murmured. “We must have proof.”
Turning, she could see that in spite of his words, her father was clearly pleased by her show of emotion.
* * * *
Wakar led out Demetrius, who was still desperately protesting his innocence, and led in Adrastia. Hathor greeted her with, “It was Demetrius, Mother. He almost the same as admitted it!”
“Hush now, Hathor,” Odysseus said.
“I’m not surprised,” Adrastia commented dryly. She did not remain standing but, without waiting for an invitation, gathered her skirts and seated herself on a couch to the left of Hathor. Hathor was now between her stepmother and her father, forcing old Odysseus to lean forward to talk around her. It was an awkward arrangement for an interrogation; doubtless that was, Hathor thought, why Adrastia had chosen it.
“And I can’t blame the poor man,” went on Adrastia, with an airy wave of her delicate hand. “It was, after all, the only way to prevent a financial—and social—disaster to the whole family, and,” she added mysteriously, “a disaster also to certain parties outside the family, powerful parties, parties with the power, perhaps, to decide the future of the Empire. I can speak freely and frankly since, of the Memnon clan, only I was nowhere near the kitchen and thus am, like Caesar’s wife, above suspicion.” She reached across Hathor to touch his hand, and repeated emphatically, “Above suspicion.”
Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery Page 7