“How did this figure walk? Quickly? Slowly? Like a man? or like a woman?”
“I don’t remember,” cried Livia in an anguished voice. “It was so long ago.”
“Nor do I,” wailed her husband, wringing his hands.
“Perhaps if you heard the voice…” suggested Hesperian urgently.
“He always spoke in a whisper,” the shopkeeper moaned.
Hesperian’s broad hands lifted skyward, then fell limply at his sides in a gesture of defeat. “Take them out and let them go, Mannus.”
Mannus obeyed, glancing at Hesperian with weary sympathy. When they had departed, Hesperian turned once again to the four Memnons around the low table.
“So, they saw nothing,” Serapion remarked.
“Almost nothing,” answered the centurion. “But I,” he added. “I saw something.”
There was an uneasy stir around the table.
Hathor opened her eyes and realized with a start that Hesperian was now looking directly at her.
“Hathor,” he said gently. “Could I have a few words with you, my dear, in private?”
She got up from her place on the couch beside Serapion and walked unsteadily across the room, and it seemed to her that the Osiris and Isis who sat in judgment in the mural on the wall might very well be sitting in judgment—of her.
Then she felt Hesperian’s powerful fingers on her elbow, guiding her out of the room, down a passageway, out into the bright courtyard garden. There he released his grip and they walked slowly, side by side, along the stone walkways between the flowerbeds, saying nothing.
“I found your room in the Egyptian quarter,” Hesperian said at length.
“I thought that’s what you were doing, Centurion.”
“Call me Gaius, Hathor. It makes me feel young again to have someone like you address me by my first name.”
“Gaius.” She tried the name on her lips experimentally.
“Yes.”
She paused to pick a flower. “All right. If you like, Gaius.”
“I do not wish to pry into your private life. I can understand why you might want to keep it a secret if you were living with a common Roman soldier. He is a Roman soldier isn’t he? Your lover?”
She nodded slowly. “I can’t seem to conceal anything from you, Gaius. But please don’t tell the family.”
“Why should I tell them a lie?”
“What’s that?” She faced him abruptly.
“It’s a lie, Hathor. Your lover is not a Roman soldier. He dresses like a Roman soldier, but no Roman soldier could spend so much time away from camp. Every night for weeks at a time… it isn’t possible. You could fool the neighbors in Rhakotis, but if you’d seriously wanted to fool a Roman officer you should have met with your love not more than once a week, twice at the most. That I could have believed.”
She sighed. “It seems we were not as clever as we thought. You know, that never once occurred to us.”
“Cleverness does not become such a charming young lady. Leave cleverness to old men like me and embrace honesty instead, a grace that is much easier for the inexperienced.”
“Honesty, Gaius?”
“Tell me your lover’s name.”
“No. I can’t.”
“You must. We found certain marks in your little love nest, marks that indicate a pilum was kept there, standing against the wall.” He took her hands in his, spoke more softly. “You are an intelligent woman, but love and loyalty may have made you blind to certain unpleasant possibilities.”
“Speak plainly, Gaius.”
“This lover, this false soldier you are trying to protect… he may be the man who murdered your father.”
She shook her hands free of his and stepped back from him, and her voice, when she spoke, was full of bitterness. “You are an intelligent man, Gaius, but you don’t understand women. Don’t you see? That’s the very reason I can never, ever tell!”
Chapter Three
As the sun neared the horizon the temperature began to drop, slowly at first, then more quickly, and a cooling breeze came in off the Mediterranean.
Hesperian once again held court in the courtyard garden, questioning and re-questioning everyone in the Memnon household, but his questions, even to the loyal Mannus, seemed pointless, stupid, almost absent-minded. Finally, one of the Praetorians arrived from somewhere out in the city and, taking Hesperian to one side, whispered something in the centurion’s ear.
A moment later, with renewed energy, Hesperian sent Mannus to fetch Demetrius.
“Ave Caesar,” said old Demetrius, as he stumbled into the courtyard and gave a drunken salute. “Ave Caesar,” he repeated, swaying and almost falling. It was obvious the man had spent the afternoon drinking unwatered wine.
“Ave Caesar,” Hesperian answered, standing up and beckoning. The Roman’s voice was deep and calm, and Demetrius seemed pleased to hear it. Moving in an almost-straight line, Demetrius reeled toward the benches in the center of the garden where Hesperian waited.
“Ave Caesar,” the old man said a third time as he collapsed on one of the benches.
Hesperian settled himself on a stone bench across from him. At his side sat Daphnis, once again busy taking notes after having returned from a stint of watching the inn, and a little ways away stood Mannus, arms folded on his chest, listening.
The garden was suffused with a sulphurous red glow and Mannus wondered how long it would be before there was no longer enough light for Daphnis to continue working. The smell of supper was on the air. Was that roast pork? Mannus found that his mouth was watering.
“I didn’t do it,” announced Demetrius firmly.
“What didn’t you do?” asked Hesperian.
“Nothing. I didn’t do nothing.” He glowered at them belligerently.
“Someone did something.” Hesperian was sweet reason personified.
“The slaves did everything. The slaves always do everything. That’s what I keep telling you, but nobody ever listens to me.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “A Roman friend of mine—oh, yes, I have Roman friends—he was a kind man, and a moderate man, and a very easy master to his slaves. Yes, he was. He would get up in the middle of a drinking party and, right in front of his slaves, he’d tell everyone a slave was just as good as a Roman citizen. He’d say that, right in front of everybody. I heard him myself. And he’d put his arm around a slave’s shoulder and sing songs with the lowborn barbarian right there in front of everybody. By the gods, sir, it made me vomit!” He looked like be was about to vomit. “And you know what happened to that fine Roman gentleman?”
“No, what?”
“In the dead of night his slaves crept into his bedroom and tied him spread-eagle to his bed. Then, one by one, they killed his wife and children while he watched… killed them all by slow torture. They used little knives heated over a candle flame, sir. Little knives! One little cut at a time. They killed the Roman gentleman last. And those slaves… the next day they tried to pretend it was robbers that got in somehow. Do robbers torture like that? I ask you, do they?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Well, the Roman officer who investigated wasn’t fooled. He put the slaves to the torture, and sure enough, two days later there was a full confession. Every slave in the household had been in on it, even the women and children. And it was totally without motive! They didn’t even steal anything. Just plain bloodlust.”
“And you think something like that happened to your brother.”
“Exactly! Exactly! At last someone who understands! Why, my brother Odysseus would still be alive today if he’d followed the wise precaution of executing every slave in his household as soon as Rophos was murdered, rather than wasting time trying to find the murderer.”
Daphnis b
roke in, “It’s getting dark. Maybe we’d better have someone bring out a lamp.”
“No,” Hesperian said, rising to his feet. “That’s enough questions for the moment. Let’s go in to supper.”
Grinning with relief, Demetrius got up and, as he almost lost his balance, Mannus steadied him.
Hesperian pretended not to notice, but as he passed the old man, said casually, “By the way, Demetrius, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting a guest to dine with us tonight.”
“Who?” Demetrius asked, still grinning.
“A business associate of yours, or so I’d gather from the transcript of the first hearings. Simon Baal.”
The grin vanished.
* * * *
Mannus, guiding Demetrius into the dining room with a gentle pressure on the elbow, felt the old man shrink back at the sight of Simon Baal.
Simon had his back to them, and was chatting with Adrastia, making polite conversation in a way that gave the impression he did not know her well. Hathor and Serapion were already reclining, sharing a couch at the far end of the table.
“The Jew has a reputation for being clever at business. I find him rather stupid myself,” Simon was saying with an expressive gesture of his small bejeweled hand. His long black hair, hanging in braids down his back, bounced and jiggled with every movement; his generous sleeves, richly brocaded in a serpentine design of silver and gold thread, created a breeze in the heavy air strong enough to set the lamp flames dancing. He spoke Greek in the flowery Alexandrian style, with the flavor of a foreign accent.
Hearing footsteps, he turned and smiled up into the face of the approaching Hesperian. “Ave Caesar,” said Simon Baal, saluting. “You must be Centurion Hesperian.”
Hesperian returned the salute. “Thank you for coming.”
“I felt I must.” Baal cast a meaningful glance at two of Hesperian’s black-cloaked Praetorians who had taken up position near the door.
“Simon!” Demetrius shuffled forward, hand extended. Simon regarded him with unconcealed alarm, and Mannus smiled, almost able to read the dark little man’s mind. Here was Demetrius, obviously drunk, perhaps overly talkative. Here was Simon Baal, unexpectedly invited to supper with representatives of Nero’s personal guard. No, it did not look healthy, not healthy at all.
The two grasped each other by the wrist for a limp handshake. Simon said, “Demetrius! It’s good to see you. Now can you tell me what this is all about?”
Before Demetrius could answer, Hesperian broke in. “Come, let’s be comfortable. We can talk as we eat.” He guided Demetrius to the couch where Adrastia was already seating herself.
Hesperian’s actions were, for once, clear to Mannus. Simon and Demetrius must not be allowed an opportunity to compare notes. Each must be left to wonder what the other may have told Hesperian, and neither must be given any clear idea what Hesperian had found out for himself.
As Hesperian passed close to Mannus, the centurion said in a low, almost inaudible voice, “Did you see their faces? Be prepared to make an arrest, but not, of course, until after dessert.” The smile that passed between the two Romans was not lost on Simon and Demetrius, who looked on with scarcely-concealed dismay.
Simon, however, was still able to maintain a fairly suave facade, even when Hesperian laid a broad hand on his narrow shoulder and said, “And you, sir, may share my couch, in the place of honor.”
When all were in their places, Simon found that both Hesperian and Adrastia were between him and Demetrius. Mannus, strolling over to join Daphnis and the guards by the door, noted in the lamp light the glisten of sweat on Simon’s forehead.
“I win,” Mannus told Daphnis. “Hesperian says to be ready to make an arrest.” His voice was barely a whisper.
Daphnis frowned.
Hesperian rang a small silver bell.
Sabella came in with a basket of fruit, and the meal began.
As they progressed from one course to another, Adrastia monopolized the conversation with anecdotes about her “darling dwarfs.” There was an edge of repressed hysteria to her voice. Hathor and Serapion occasionally answered her in muttered monosyllables. Demetrius and Simon Baal said nothing, ate little, and tried not to look at each other.
“Well, Demetrius,” Hesperian said finally, with a frightening gentleness, “it is fortunate that we are not all as silent as you.”
“What… what do you mean by that?” Demetrius demanded. His voice was so loud that every eye in the room turned to stare at him.
Hesperian did not immediately answer, and when he did his voice was even gender, more deadly. “Your friend Simon Baal here is famous for his conversational skill.”
“No, no…” Simon protested. His teeth, exposed in a horrified grin, seemed to glow in the fitful lamp light.
“Such modesty!” The centurion raised a bushy eyebrow. “Why, your fame has spread all the way to Rome. Nero himself once remarked that he’d like to talk to you.”
“Nero himself?” Baal did not seem pleased by the honor.
“Nero himself, and what’s so surprising in that? You’re a traveler. You go everywhere, speak to everyone. What tales you must have swapped in the waterfront taverns of the world! In Spain, for instance.”
“Yes,” Simon admitted guardedly.
“In India!”
“Yes.”
“In Parthia!”
“Well, I…”
“You’ve been to Parthia, of course.”
There was a pause, then Demetrius blurted drunkenly, “He goes to Parthia all the time. Now me, I’ve never been outside of Alexandria, so you see…”
“Thank you, Demetrius,” Hesperian said.
Baal was glaring openly at the old man.
Hesperian continued. “So, Simon, you go to Parthia and swap tales with Parthians, perhaps with actual agents of the Parthian king. Do you wonder that Nero wants to talk to you? Parthia is Rome’s enemy. What seems like idle gossip to you might be valuable information to Nero. He might feel moved to reward you. That is, if you were as willing to talk to us as you are to talk to them.”
“Of course. Of course I am!” Simon said hopefully.
“You are what? Willing to talk to us or to them?”
“To you! To you!”
“Or to the highest bidder, eh? That’s only good business. You pride yourself on being a good businessman, don’t you?”
“An honest businessman, Centurion.”
Daphnis, standing nearby, laughed.
Hesperian smiled. “You must pardon Daphnis. He does not believe there is any such thing as an honest businessman.”
Demetrius roused himself to speak again. “What are you saying? Is Simon Baal a spy? A traitor? This man my brother and I accepted in good faith?”
“Shut up!” snapped Simon.
“I can’t believe it!” Demetrius reared back so violently he almost fell off his couch. “My friend… a traitor!”
“You drunken idiot!” Simon cried in exasperation. “He’s tricking you. Can’t you see he’s tricking you?”
“I have nothing to hide.” Demetrius drew himself up in righteous indignation.
“Naturally,” Hesperian said soothingly. “It’s jealousy, nothing but jealousy, that makes your competitors in Rome say that when they’d almost driven your brother out of the shipping business, it was Parthian money that saved him.”
“Yes, that’s it. Jealousy. They’re jealous.” Demetrius was blinking stupidly.
“You men!” Adrastia broke in with a ragged laugh. “Always talking business. We need some entertainment. My dwarfs!”
“Yes, the dwarfs!” agreed Demetrius, swaying.
“My dwarfs, Wakar! Summon my dwarfs!” she repeated, more loudly.
Wakar, who had been carrying a tr
ay of dirty dishes toward the door, paused and glanced questioningly at Hesperian.
“Yes,” said Hesperian. “By all means, let us have a little entertainment.”
* * * *
“Bravo!” shouted Demetrius.
The dwarf Suchos played a double flute, producing a lively cascade of two-part harmony and counterpoint with an occasional deliberate wrong note thrown in for comic effect. Horus thumped out the rhythm on a broad one-headed drum he held in one hand and struck with the other, at intervals breaking into song in his high, cracked voice. Bubo, who seemed to be the leader of the dwarf trio, did a dance that included an inordinate number of cartwheels and somersaults. In spite of the hump on his back, he was amazingly quick and graceful.
Mannus paid no attention to the “entertainment.” His eyes were fixed on the figure of Gaius Hesperian, trying to guess the centurion’s next move. Simon, too, was watching Hesperian, but Hesperian seemed to have forgotten all about the questioning as he leaned forward and selected a large polished red apple from the fruit dish on the table in front of him. He leaned back, bit into it, chewed.
No one else was eating.
Suddenly, without warning, Bubo leaped up on the table and, to the horrified amazement of all, flung himself into Hesperian’s lap.
Adrastia was on her feet in an instant. “Bubo! How dare you! Oh, this time you’ve gone too far! I’ll have you whipped until you…”
“No, no,” Hesperian protested. “Don’t punish the little fellow. Really, I thought it was quite amusing.” The dwarf had already bounded from his lap and scuttled away. “Let the entertainment continue.”
“Well, I… oh very well,” Adrastia reluctantly agreed, settling once again onto her couch. Mannus noted that she seemed relieved at not having to punish Bubo. The double flute, which had been momentarily silent, burst once more into song as Bubo turned handsprings.
Simon Baal, sweating, leaned forward. “You’ve been making some serious charges against me, Centurion. I demand…”
Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery Page 12