“All the same…” he began.
“So you must listen to me,” she interrupted firmly. “You must listen to me when I warn you to give up your insane religious fancies and join me in enjoying what little time—what little time I say—you have left of this life, or I’ll feel no sympathy whatever for you when your actions inevitably bring about your doom. It’s like a Greek play,” she ended pompously. “Your defiance of your natural duties tempts the vengeance of the gods.”
“‘You are above suspicion?” Odysseus said softly.
“Of course. I was with you all that afternoon. It was the others who were in a position to meddle with the soup.”
“To me it seems strange,” Odysseus told her, “that you were the only one who took the precaution of establishing that you were elsewhere. I think, if I were going to poison someone, I too would make sure I was seen as far away from the soup as possible.”
Adrastia was shocked, but not speechless.
“Very well, you old fool! If I poisoned the soup, how did I do it? Can you answer me that?”
* * * *
Wakar lit, one by one, the lamps in the elaborate petrolabrum, then pulled, hand over hand, the chain that raised the lamps to the ceiling. The fading red glow of the setting sun that filtered in from the courtyard was replaced by the cheery yellow light of the lamps, and as the petrolabrum swung, Wakar’s shadow grew alternately longer and shorter, longer and shorter. He stood, looking up with satisfaction, making sure none of the lamps had gone out on him.
Odysseus, Hathor by his side, stood in the dining room doorway, watching his slave with a moody frown. He raised his hand and called, “Wakar?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Where is everyone?”
“They’ve gone to their rooms, Master.” Wakar’s face looked curiously sinister, lit from below by the lighter lamp he held in his hands. Odysseus stared at him until he dropped his gaze. Such an opaque expression the eunuch had! It seemed so meek, so harmless, so loyal, but who knew what lay behind it? I wonder, my friend, thought Odysseus. Is Demetrius right? Are you, Wakar, the one who wants to kill me?
The slave was waiting expectantly.
“Good night, Wakar,” sighed Odysseus.
“Good night, Master.”
Wakar, walking with a soft, quick step, headed for the kitchen.
When he had gone, Odysseus said, “It’s getting cold in here, isn’t it, Hathor?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Odysseus shivered. “It cools off so fast when the sun goes down. Could you fetch me my green robe?”
“Of course, Father.” She hastened to do his bidding.
He stood alone in the great hall, listening to her sandals slapping the marble floors in the distance.
No, Wakar wasn’t the attempted killer. Odysseus knew who it was, and why. He had no real proof, but he was certain now, certain in his own mind.
He sighed, and rubbed his goose-pimpled old arms.
Hathor returned with the green robe and helped him on with it. He looked at her. He said gently, “Sometimes you look so much like your mother.”
“My real mother, you mean.” Her normally soft voice had a sudden hardness to it.
“Yes, Hathor. Of course.” He hesitated, then quickly, almost shyly, kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, Hathor.”
“Good night.” She looked down at her feet, a little embarrassed.
Odysseus turned away from her and slowly plodded alone up the long marble staircase to the second floor. He was dressed in expensive green silk robes and tunic, and decked with jewels and rings, but his gaunt face was the face of a coarse shipwright’s son grown old in a world of hard work and constant struggle. Once in his room, he closed his door but did not lock it.
I won’t shut you out, my dear killer, he thought.
He lit gold and silver oil lamps from the lighter lamp in the wall niche, watched them send out tenuous streamers of acrid black smoke, watched his shadow move over his vast, many-pillowed bed draped in green silk.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, then reached down to pick up his knife, a beautiful jeweled weapon he always kept by his bedside. He drew it from its sheath, watching how the rubies and diamonds set in its handle caught the flickering lamp light.
Behind him the early evening wind rustled the richly-embroidered floral curtains on the open window, rustled one of two papyrus scrolls that lay on his bed table. He half-turned, looked fondly at the scroll, read the tide, “The Gospel according to Mark.”
With a cautious fingertip he tested the point of his lovely dagger. Ah, it was sharp, so sharp! So curved, so polished, so perfect!
His eyes moved once again to the door. He smiled.
A fair fight! That’s all he’d ever asked of life, and that’s all he asked now.
There was a soft rustle behind him. Just the curtains or perhaps… He half-turned to look.
A hooded figure was framed in the window, silhouetted black against the last fading afterglow in the sky. Instantly Odysseus understood. So, he thought, you climbed up the vines on the outside of the house to attack me from behind!
The old man turned for his knife.
A javelin hurtled through the air to bury itself in the old man’s back.
He grunted, fell forward off the bed onto his knees on the marble floor, tried to rise, then went down flat on his face as the jeweled knife clattered uselessly on the marble floor.
The killer stepped toward him.
Odysseus twisted, looked up, recognized in the flickering lamp light a familiar face. The old man forced an agonized grin.
His last words were a strangled whisper: “I knew… I knew it was you.”
* * * *
Odysseus died in the autumn of 67 A.D.; in the spring of the following year, on the morning of March third…
* * * *
With a crash and a hiss the massive, slightly rusted bull’s-head ram, like the brass-knuckled fist of a boxer, shattered the crest of a wave, then arose dripping into the gray dawn light only to crash into another wave with still greater impact. A gale was rising and with it the sea; the water that only a half-hour ago had been smooth and glistening and flat was now pleated with vast moving hills of gray water.
Optio Mannus, cape streaming in the wind, stumbled across the heaving deck and, leaning over an open hatchway, shouted down, “Ship the oars! Ship the oars, I say!”
“With pleasure!” came back a gruff anonymous voice from below. There was scattered laughter, even a little applause.
No discipline, thought Mannus, frowning. The rowers were far from being combat-ready, if they ever would be.
He listened to the clatter of wood against wood as the oars, like the legs of a frightened turtle, were dragged into the hull of the ship. Straightening, he cupped his hands around his mouth to call out, “Raise the sail! Quick now, you cockroaches!”
Still frowning, he watched the broad, square, dull-orange sail go up. The crew, it was true, had been up all night and were tired, but that was no excuse for such almost defiant slowness.
There was a sudden mocking laugh behind him, so close he was startled. Almost automatically his hand leaped to the pommel of his short sword as he turned to face… Daphnis the Clerk.
“Go ahead and kill me now, handsome,” said Librarius Daphnis gleefully. “You’ll soon drown us all anyway.”
Disgustedly, Mannus said, “Go back to bed. I’ve got work to do.”
“You’re so nervous. What’s wrong? Are we lost?”
“Don’t be absurd. We should sight the Alexandrian lighthouse within the hour.”
“Is that so? Would you care to make a little wager? Say, thirty silver dinari?”
“I’ve had enough of your little wagers! And a
nyway…” He broke off and squinted, leaning forward tensely. “By the gods, there she is!” He pointed triumphantly. Ahead of them, rising from the pale mist that obscured the horizon, a whiteness gleamed in the first rays of the still-invisible sun. The thing was only a dot, too distant for him to see in any detail, but it was unquestionably the great lighthouse of the Ptolemies on Pharos Island, tallest building in the world.
“What do you think of that, eh?” Optio Mannus said triumphantly. “If I’d made that bet with you I would, for once, have won.”
The hawk-faced clerk was unruffled. “But since you didn’t, you lost.”
“Damn you!” Mannus cried in frustration, giving the mincing Librarius an angry shove, but when Daphnis shoved back, he ignored it. He had no more time to waste on bets and horseplay. The moment had come to go to the afterdeck cabin and awaken his commanding officer, Centurion Gaius Hesperian.
BOOK TWO
Chapter One
The morning sun streamed in Hathor’s window; the wind played with her shoulder-length light brown hair. Humming softly to herself, she slipped a loose-fitting peach-colored tunic on over her head and paused to admire her reflection in a polished-silver mirror.
“Sabella!” she called.
The skinny little slave girl hurried in from the next room.
“Yes, Mistress?”
“What do you think of it?” She pirouetted.
“Oh, that’s just fine, Miss. Just fine. Very nice dress.”
“But is it shocking?”
“Shocking, Miss?”
“Yes, Sabella dear. You know how much I’d love to shock those staid old philosophers when I get to Athens.” The two enjoyed a conspiratorial giggle together, but as Hathor turned away, Sabella’s face clouded. “You got to go?” demanded the black girl sullenly.
“No, no, of course not. I want to!”
In two days, they both knew, all Alexandria would turn out for the Festival of the Ship of Isis, and after that, when the port of Alexandria, now sealed for the winter storms, would be officially opened, there would be nothing to prevent Hathor from sailing away on the first high tide.
“Don’t be sad, Sabella.” Hathor patted the slave’s kinky hair. “I can’t stand to have others sad when I’m so happy.”
“Yes, Hathor.”
Hathor slipped off the peach-colored tunic and tossed it in her chest, which lay open on the bed. Then, slender and naked, she pranced over to where Sabella had laid out a great pile of clothing, almost Hathor’s entire wardrobe. Yes, she thought. I’ll take the peach one, and the white linen one with the flowery ribbon border, and this one, and this.
“Mama Adrastia,” said Sabella. Hathor turned to see her stepmother entering.
Hathor loved everyone today, even Adrastia. “Mother, why don’t you come too?” she asked her lightheartedly.
“You know why,” Adrastia answered wryly. “Demetrius and I have business to attend to up the Nile.” The death of her husband had long since ceased to trouble her (if it ever had), but there was a new seriousness about her, a new air of responsibility that was quite impressive in one so young. Adrastia sucked thoughtfully on a strand of her long black hair, and with a bejeweled slender white hand toyed with the hem of her richly-embroidered pale blue gown. It was an emblem of her new seriousness that she wore her hair long and straight, not piled up in a tower on her head as was her former habit. This in spite of the fact that such tall, elaborate hairdos were now in fashion. After a pensive moment, Adrastia continued. “We may even go on to India if political conditions within the Empire become too unsettled. We have extensive holdings in India, you know.”
“Really?” Hathor had not known this, but it was just one more surprise among many that had, one by one, come to the surface since the death of Odysseus Memnon. Her father had been a man with many secrets.
“There’s revolution in the air here, my dear,” Adrastia said. “Revolution has always been bad for the health of the rich. You would be wise to come with me.”
“I’ll be all right,” Hathor said gaily. “My brother will protect me. He’s not only a fine sailor, but well on the way to becoming a priest as well, so I’ll be safe from all dangers, natural or supernatural.”
Serapion, she knew, would be the captain of the ship that took her to Greece, and he had chosen no slow and clumsy cargo ship, but a swift fighting bireme, a rammer. The war in Judea continued, and Serapion was taking no chances.
Hathor slipped on another dress. “There’s only one thing that worries me, Mother.”
“Oh?”
“The authorities… they may not be finished with us.”
Adrastia snorted contemptuously. “That so-called investigation has been dead for months. What did they do, eh? Tortured the slaves, asked a few stupid questions, ran around like fools. We’ve nothing to show for it but poor Wakar’s limp.”
“Poor Wakar,” Hathor repeated sadly. The eunuch Wakar had been the worst tortured. The soldiers had had a half-hearted hope of a confession, or at least some additional information from him. Wakar had said nothing, and now would probably limp for the rest of his life.
“Besides,” Adrastia said, “they dare not meddle too much in the affairs of a family as wealthy and powerful as we Memnons. The Praefectus of Egypt, Tiberius Julius Alexander, was a personal friend of your father’s, and everyone knows it.”
“So the case is closed?”
“Completely closed, dear. I’m certain of it.”
Hathor was now wearing a white silk gown that hung sheer to her ankles. She slipped on a necklace with a pendant in the shape of a golden dung beetle and struck a pose, hands on hips, pelvis thrust forward. “How do I look now?”
“Oh pretty,” Sabella cried, clapping her hands.
“Delightfully obscene,” said Adrastia.
Hathor heard Wakar coming down the hall. His step was now rendered unmistakable by the tortures he had undergone, a pitiful step, scrape, step, scrape. It hurt Hathor to hear it. But now Wakar was hurrying, almost running. What could be wrong? It would have to be something deadly serious to make poor Wakar run.
All eyes turned toward him as he appeared in the doorway, panting and flushed, and leaned against the doorjamb, trying to catch his breath.
“What is it, Wakar?” cried Adrastia. “Speak, man!”
Wakar’s words came out between agonized gasping breaths. “There are soldiers… at the gates. They demand… to question us… about the death… of the Master!”
Stunned, Hathor followed Wakar to the head of the great marble staircase, Adrastia beside her, Sabella trailing along behind, eyes round with fear. “After all this time,” Adrastia muttered indignantly. “It’s an insult!”
Hathor looked down the stairs at the chaos below.
The slaves were running about like frightened chickens, certain they were going to be tortured; and there was gaunt little old Demetrius shouting and cursing, trying to calm them, but only adding to their panic. Serapion stood to one side, pale and withdrawn.
Adrastia descended the stairs two or three steps at a time, and ran over to confer with Demetrius in excited whispers. The others followed more slowly behind her. As Wakar reached the foot of the stairs, Demetrius turned to him and commanded peevishly, “Let them in, you idiot! If we don’t let them in right away, it will make them all the more suspicious.”
Wakar stumped painfully off to obey.
Hathor heard the squeak of hinges as the heavy front door swung open, then the measured tramp of marching feet. As the slaves stepped back to make way for them, a squad of eight Roman soldiers entered the echoing hall and snapped to attention. By their black capes and tunics, and by their huge oval bronze-ornamented black shields, Hathor recognized them as members of Nero’s personal guard, the dreaded Praetorians. This was obviously no routin
e investigation!
The Praetorians had formed two lines of four troops each and now, turning so the two lines were face to face, took three measured paces backward so that a passage was formed. One of the soldiers, speaking Greek with a heavy Latin accent, shouted, “Announcing Centurion Gaius Hesperian, personal agent of our lord and savior, the god Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus! You will all please remain standing!” He repeated this announcement in Latin.
Hathor heard Adrastia whisper to Demetrius, “Tell me quick. What is the proper way to address a Praetorian centurion?”
Demetrius hesitated, then advised her uncertainly, “Call him Caesar. After all, he is Caesar’s personal representative.”
In the terrified hush that now fell over the room, Hathor could hear the footsteps of one man in the outer hall.
The man entered, paused a moment to glance sharply around, then strode to the center of the floor. As one man the soldiers thumped their breastplates and gave him a stiff-arm salute, shouting, “Ave Caesar!”
He answered their salute with no more than a faint nod, leaving no doubt in Hathor’s mind that he was the man in command.
Unlike his troops, Centurion Gaius Hesperian carried no shield, wore no helmet or armor. He was clad simply but elegantly in a short red tunic, sandy brown cloak and open-toed leather boots, and was armed with a short sword slung from a shoulder strap and a dagger on his belt. He might almost have been a wealthy civilian except for the swagger stick of twisted vine he held in his right hand, the symbol of his authority. He was clean-shaven (most Romans were), tall, lean and athletic, but his hair was iron-gray and receding, and there were lines of age and responsibility in his face. His thick bushy eyebrows were iron-gray also and the eyes themselves were a cold blue-gray, piercing, but with just a hint of playful irony.
Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery Page 8