Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery

by Ray Faraday Nelson

  She could not restrain herself from taking a quick glance at the guard. He had obviously been gazing at her body, and now, when she locked eyes with him, it was she who looked away first. The game of glances… she’d played it many times, but usually she’d won. This was humiliating.

  She’d heard a saying: “To be brave, you must first be without secrets.”

  Without secrets! Would she ever again be able to enjoy the luxury of being without secrets?

  Speaking loudly, as if to make sure the Roman overheard her, Adrastia burst out, “I believe I have the answer.”

  “Oh?” Demetrius turned toward her politely.

  “It doesn’t have to be one of us that did these dreadful things.” Adrastia, as she spoke, was watching the guard from the corner of her eye.

  “Who then?” Demetrius asked.

  “Octavia! Octavia, Odysseus’ first wife.” Adrastia looked around at them in triumph.

  “How can you say such a thing?” Hathor demanded.

  “Please Hathor, spare us your misplaced loyalty. Think how she must have hated the old man for divorcing her and exiling her to Rome. Think how she must have longed for revenge! By Isis, I would have wanted revenge if he’d done the same to me.”

  “She’s not like you,” Hathor said, with venom.

  “She’s not petty,” added Serapion.

  Even Demetrius spoke up. “She’s a good woman.” He nodded slowly to himself, like a judge satisfied with his verdict.

  “What’s this?” cried Adrastia, as if appealing to the gods Osiris and Isis enthroned in the mural on the wall. “Are they all against me? I call the gods to witness… if she had been so very good, why did the old boy kick her out of his bed and pull me in? Can you answer me that?”

  Serapion, forefinger to lips, said in a low voice, “Please, Mother. Must you babble everything you know?” He nodded meaningfully in the direction of the Roman guard, who now had his back to them, eating the last of his dates and seemingly paying no attention to them.

  “Me? Babble?” She shook her finger in Hathor’s general direction. “You want to see a big mouth? There! Your sister! Have you seen how she talks to that vile ape, Hesperian? I’m sure that, thanks to her, we haven’t one family secret left!”

  Wakar had entered the room, bowed slightly to the guard’s back, and come shuffling up to the table to clear away the dirty dishes and uneaten food.

  “That’s unfair,” Demetrius said. “You don’t know…”

  “I’m never unfair!” Adrastia howled. “She’s the one who’s been babbling! I know she has!”

  Adrastia’s outbursts had a calming effect on Demetrius, making him feel that, as her elder, he ought to calm her somehow, make her behave. He leaned forward and laid a bony hand on her wrist. “There, there, my dear. We all know that if there’s a babbler around here, it’s your little friend Sabella.”

  “Sabella?” Adrastia stared at him blankly.

  Hathor sat up suddenly. “Sabella?” she echoed, looking around with quick anxious eyes. “Where is that girl? I haven’t seen her since before lunch… and she usually hangs around at mealtime, hoping to get her little paws on some scraps. Where is she?”

  Demetrius shrugged. “Who cares?”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Serapion said.

  Hathor caught hold of Wakar’s arm. “Wakar! Tell me! Where’s Sabella?”

  He said gently, “She went somewhere with Centurion Hesperian.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then Demetrius said, puzzled, “I wonder where?”

  Hathor’s voice was an anguished whisper. “I think I know.”

  * * * *

  The little Egyptian landlord held the small, dull greenish-bronze portrait bust in his fat hands, examining it carefully.

  “Are you sure it’s a good likeness?” he asked.

  “Avery good likeness,” Hesperian answered. He had found the head in Odysseus bedroom and instantly realized that it might prove useful. It was not in the flattering Greek style that made everyone look like a god or goddess, but rather was in the realistic Roman style that delighted in showing every pore and wart. It could not have looked more like Hathor if it had been her real head turned to bronze, and if it was beautiful it was only because the subject was beautiful.

  “She has light brown hair,” Mannus prompted. “You’re sure you haven’t seen her?”

  “Never!” The fat little man returned the portrait bust to Mannus with impatience.

  Daphnis grasped Sabella by her skinny wrist and snarled, “If you’re lying, slave…”

  “No! No!” she squealed, trying to wriggle free. “I saw her! I saw her!”

  Hesperian laid a restraining hand on Daphnis’ shoulder, then turned to thank the landlord for his help.

  “It was nothing,” the fat man said with a bow. “I am always ready to show my friendship for the senate and people of Rome.”

  The group—Hesperian, Mannus, Daphnis and Sabella—mumbled their farewells to the landlord and stepped out of the dark doorway into the hot light of early afternoon. Like most of the streets here in Rhakotis, the Egyptian quarter of Alexandria, the street in which they stood was narrow, dirty, and crowded. As a donkey loaded with dried peat clopped past, they were forced to press themselves against a wall to let it by.

  “You’re too impatient,” said Hesperian to Daphnis as they continued on their way.

  “Too impatient, sir?” Daphnis replied defensively. “We’ve shown that head to almost all the landlords and innkeepers in the neighborhood and not one…”

  “There’s a difference between almost all and all,” Hesperian said with a faint smile.

  “There’s another inn up ahead,” said Mannus, pointing. Mannus had felt sure Hesperian would find what he was looking for, so he was pleased but not surprised when the old woman who kept this next inn recognized the bust instantly. The woman, whose name was Hecate, was delighted to volunteer not only what she knew, but also what she only suspected.

  “She called herself Octavia,” Hecate cackled, looking up at Hesperian from the doorstep where she sat. “Yes, I know her all right. She lives right here in this building.” She gestured with a gnarled hand toward a narrow passage leading back into the building. At the end of the passage, dimly visible in the gloom, was a crude ladder leading to the second floor.

  The old woman lowered her voice. “I knew she was no common street girl. She tried to talk like one, but she didn’t fool old Hecate. Her Greek was too good, and when I tried to speak to her in Egyptian, like people talk around here, she didn’t understand hardly a word. I knew then, sir, that she was some rich aristocratic Macedonian-Greek lady living under a false name, probably so her highborn family and friends wouldn’t know she was the whore of a common Roman soldier.” She favored them with a grotesque wink.

  “Did you ever speak to this soldier?” Hesperian asked.

  “No, sir. It was always the woman who gave me the rent money. The soldier always stood back in the shadows, like he didn’t want me to see his face.”

  Hesperian leaned forward. “Was he wearing his uniform?”

  “When he was wearing anything at all,” crowed the crone.

  “Can you tell me anything about the uniform?”

  “It was the same as yours, sir. All Roman uniforms are alike, aren’t they?”

  Hesperian frowned, frustrated. “The color… was it red? Black? Blue?”

  “I don’t remember. Never did see him in a good strong light. He came and went at night, you see. Otherwise he stayed in his room.”

  “Can we see the room?”

  “Of course! Glad to show it to you!” She dragged herself to her feet and led the way down the dim passage and up the ladder. They paused in the second floor hall while she unlocked the d
oor with a large rusty iron key she wore, along with several others, on a cord around her neck.

  There was a foul smell in the room. Mannus noticed it the moment they entered, but it took him a while to locate the source of the odor, some decaying fruit in a dish on the floor next to the bed. There were ants on the fruit, millions of them. Mannus shuddered. He could smell the stale sweat in the dirty linen bed sheets, the rancid olive oil in the unlit lamp that stood on a rickety table, and the stench of hot fermenting camel dung that wafted in through the slightly-open shuttered window.

  “Disgusting,” sniffed Daphnis.

  “But understandable,” Hesperian added. “Hathor is used to having slaves do all the housework. It’s not easy for her to get used to having to do such things for herself.”

  A pile of rags was in one corner of the room. Hesperian crossed quickly, knelt, and examined them.

  “This tunic must be Hathor’s,” he said, holding up a bit of soiled cloth.

  “It seems to be about the right size,” said Daphnis. “But how a fine lady like her could bring herself to wear such a thing…”

  “A woman in love will do anything,” Hesperian said. He had picked up another tunic, stood up, and was measuring it against himself. “Our soldier must have been tall.” He glanced toward the old woman for confirmation.

  “Oh yes, yes, he was a tall one. That’s right,” she said.

  There was a belt there, too—a worn army belt. Hesperian slipped it around his waist.

  “Too small for you, sir,” Mannus said.

  “Our soldier… he’s thin, isn’t he?” Hesperian asked Hecate.

  “That’s right. Now that you mention it, I remember he’s quite a skinny fellow.”

  “Search the room,” commanded Hesperian.

  They searched, but found nothing more.

  Hesperian turned to the old woman and began, “I want to thank you for…” He stopped, squinting at the wall.

  “What’s wrong?” Mannus asked.

  “There’s a scratch up there on the wall. You see it?”

  “Yes,” Mannus answered, puzzled.

  Hesperian’s eye darted toward the floor. “And there’s another on the floor.” He measured the distance between the two scratches with his eye. “There was a pilum standing here. It’s just the right distance between the scratches!”

  “I’m not surprised,” Daphnis said airily. “It’s obvious what happened. Odysseus found out his daughter was overly fond of Roman soldiers, and she had to kill him to silence him.”

  Hesperian sighed. “I would not like to think so. She seems such a gentle creature.” He turned to Hecate. “Is the soldier here often?”

  “Oh yes. Sometimes I saw him slip in every evening for weeks at a time.”

  “That’s strange,” muttered Hesperian.

  “Strange? Why?” asked Hecate, but Hesperian, deep in thought, was already leaving.

  “Post a watch outside the inn,” he told Mannus. “But have him dress as a civilian. I want to know immediately if this mysterious soldier appears.”

  * * * *

  It was mid-afternoon in Alexandria; hot, humid, oppressive.

  Mannus, on a brown mare, rode ahead, trying as best he could to clear the way for Hesperian, who followed on his black stallion, the portrait bust of Hathor in his lap and Sabella gleefully perched on the saddle in front of him. Daphnis had remained behind to keep an eye on the inn until a suitably unobtrusive soldier could be sent to relieve him.

  “Clear the way! Clear the way for a Roman officer!” Mannus cried, but out of a combination of sluggishness caused by the heat and a sullen resentment toward all Romans, the Alexandrian citizens seemed very reluctant to obey.

  Thus Mannus was quite irritable and morose when they finally came in sight of the gates of the Memnon estate. One of the Praetorians, on foot, could be seen hurrying a pair of fat prisoners along ahead of them. Mannus took no notice, but Hesperian, with a slap of his reins, galloped on ahead and hailed the soldier with a hearty, “Ave Caesar.”

  “Ave Caesar,” the soldier answered, with a stiff-armed salute.

  “And what do we have here?” Hesperian was dismounting as he spoke, then reached up to help Sabella down.

  The soldier laid a hand on the shoulder of a plump little man in a brown wool tunic. “Let me introduce you, sir, to T. Vindaius Ariovestus, drug dealer and compounder of panaceas.” The little man seemed speechless with terror. The soldier turned to an equally fat and equally frightened middle-aged woman. “And this is his wife, Livia.”

  “Good afternoon, friends of Rome,” Hesperian said to the prisoners, then added, “I trust you are friends of Rome.”

  The prisoners said nothing, only stared at him.

  He turned to the soldier. “And why, may I ask, have you placed these good people under arrest?”

  “They’ve made two mistakes, sir.”

  “So?”

  “The first was to sell poison to someone who may well be our murderer.”

  “And the second?”

  “The second was to discuss it at a tavern where they were overheard by men willing to talk in return for a few silver drachmas.” He gave his moneybag a knowing jingle.

  Hesperian’s voice grew softer, almost gentle. “Vindaius, I have no wish to harass an honest merchant. If you’ll simply tell me to whom you sold that poison, I’m sure I’ll have no need to bother you any further.”

  The little man awkwardly rubbed the sweat from his bald head with his gross forearm. “Mercy, sir. Have mercy.”

  “Of course. Just answer my question.”

  “But that’s just it. I don’t know who it was! It might have been a woman…”

  “A woman?”

  “I couldn’t see her face, but we all know poison is a woman’s weapon. A man settles his affairs with a tempered blade.”

  “So you say it was a woman?”

  “It might have been,” said the miserable little man. “I told you… I don’t know.”

  Hesperian stood a moment, vexed, then, “If you saw this poisoner again perhaps…”

  “Perhaps I might recognize her? It’s… it’s possible.”

  A faint smile appeared on Hesperian’s thin lips.

  “Come into the house and we shall see,” the centurion said, leading the way.

  * * * *

  The Memnons had remained at table, though the food had long since been cleared away and the conversation had degenerated to dispirited and sporadic trivialities. It was in one of those all-too-frequent embarrassed pauses that Hathor heard the footsteps approaching and glanced up to see the guard at the door snap to attention, thump his breast and give a straight-arm salute.

  “Ave Caesar!” he bellowed as Gaius Hesperian entered.

  Behind the tall balding Roman came Mannus and a fat middle-aged couple, Alexandrians of a fairly low social class from the cut of their somewhat crude tunics.

  Hathor, Serapion, Adrastia, Demetrius; all turned as one to face the newcomers, but Hathor, after a moment, shrank back as if to hide behind her brother Serapion, who continued to stare at Hesperian with a superior smile.

  “Good afternoon, honored friends,” began Hesperian with a slight inclination of his head. “If I may have a moment…”

  Blustering old Demetrius, made more-than-usually brave by wine, interrupted. “How long are you going to hold us under house arrest, eh?”

  Hesperian, unperturbed, answered, “I assure you that when the port opens the day after tomorrow, you will all be free to go wherever you like except, of course, for those guilty of some serious crime. Until then, where is there to go?”

  “Can we depend on that?” demanded Serapion defiantly.

  “Absolutely.” Hesperian met the tall young Alex
andrian’s gaze, unimpressed by the Memnon pride. “I’m a sportsman. If I don’t bag my prey by then, I’ll concede defeat gracefully.”

  Adrastia protested, “We’re not prey! We’re human beings, not animals.”

  The guard at the door laughed and said, “In the arena it’s not always easy to tell the difference.”

  Hesperian silenced him with a frown.

  Demetrius drew himself up with drunken dignity. “I fail to see the humor of your underling’s little joke.” He swayed, blinking. “Perhaps that is because, sir, if you are successful, one or more of us might actually end up wrestling with a tiger or sparring with a gorilla.”

  The centurion shook his head. “No, no. It is rare for persons of your station in life to end up in the arena or the mines. A single merciful stroke of the sword… that’s the worst you have to fear, and it might be possible to escape punishment completely if, let us say, the victim turned out to be an enemy of Rome.”

  Demetrius fell silent, an expression of thoughtful guile on his bony features.

  All this time the plump little Alexandrian and his wife had been studying the faces of the four Memnons, their eyes darting from face to face with increasing desperation. Hesperian turned abruptly and, with a gesture toward the four, commanded, “Choose, Vindaius!”

  Hathor closed her eyes and tried to imagine Mother Isis bending over her, protecting her. She had her doubts about the gods. She was not like her brother, who almost seemed to take the Immortal Beings for granted, but now she felt suddenly that Isis must be real. She must be real because… because poor mortals needed her so much.

  After a long painful silence, Vindaius blurted out, “I can’t choose! It could have been any one of them, or none.”

  Hesperian turned to his wife. “And you, Livia?”

  “All I saw was a cloaked figure in the distance.”