Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery

by Ray Faraday Nelson

  Chapter One

  The sky to the east grew brighter, and nearby a cock crowed. The air was cool and still. On all the Memnon estate nothing moved; neither palm tree nor statue, nor flowering bush.

  A seagull glided in and settled on the lawn. Just one gull. No more. There were other birds to be heard, singing their salute to the coming day, but only this one white gull was in sight.

  The murderer Serapion stood alone at his window and watched the gull.

  The murderer Serapion stifled a yawn. He had not slept and his body craved air, but Serapion stifled his yawn because he was too considerate to risk frightening the gull.

  The murderer Serapion thought, Is there no end to it?

  The answer came to him, and he smiled faintly.

  One more day.

  One more day and it would be over. Tomorrow was the Festival of the Ship of Isis, when all Alexandria would turn out to march in procession down to the sea, carrying the statue of Mother Isis, when there would be feasting and dancing. The bonfire would be lit at the top of the great lighthouse and the port would be opened… and then Serapion would be free to set sail for the farthest reaches of the Empire and beyond, his sister-wife Hathor at his side. And that blundering fool, the centurion, would have to let him go. Without proof, a Memnon could not be held beyond tomorrow morning, and there was no proof.

  You poor idiot, Hesperian.

  Serapion smiled.

  The gull fluttered from the lawn to a birdbath of pink marble.

  Serapion went on smiling.

  He thought, I’ve been a good son.

  He had not taken his father’s life. No, he had saved it! Odysseus died as an Egyptian, as a member of the church of Father Osiris-Serapis and Mother Isis. A man has two spirits, the Ka, spirit of the body, and the Ba, spirit of consciousness. The Ka of Odysseus would now remain with the body of Odysseus, the properly embalmed and ritually prepared mummy, guarding and protecting it. The Ba of Odysseus would now journey safely past all the dangers of the afterlife, journey to Amenti, the Western Land, the Land of the Ancestors, to dwell in union with Osiris-Serapis for a while. Then it would return to earth in a new body, and to a better world; where Christianity had passed and been forgotten and the ancient gods of Egypt, who have endured down the centuries and would continue to endure in ages to come, would have regained their former supremacy.

  If Odysseus had lived to become a Christian, he would have died not once, but twice, and from the Second Death there is no returning. Serapis saves only those who believe in him.

  Odysseus is in the Western Land, and when he thinks of me, he thanks me.

  Serapion wept silently with bitter, triumphant joy, still smiling.

  And the slave Rophos?

  It must have been the hand of Osiris-Serapis himself that caused the death of the slave. Now Odysseus would have someone with him in the Western Land to wait on him in death as in life. In the days of the Pharaohs a whole household of slaves often accompanied their master into the other world!

  I am a good son, and a good priest.

  Actually, Serapion was not yet an ordained priest of Osiris-Serapis, but he was a priest in his heart. He knew the slaves believed he was a priest. The dwarfs, in particular, were in awe of him. Even his sister struck terror into them, because they knew he loved her.

  If a priest kills, it is not murder. It is his right! It is his duty! That is what it is to be a priest; that is what it always has been. By right, a priest holds the power of life and death in his hand, in trust from his god. Even kings and queens rule only by the priest’s permission, and some day the barbarian Romans, with their crude manners and ignorant minds, would find that out. The long history of Egypt teaches one lesson, time and again: The soldier may rule for a day, now and then, but sooner or later all the power seeps back into the hands of the priest.

  There was a loud and sudden thump on Serapion’s door. He turned, startled.

  The gull, frightened by the sudden noise and motion, took wing.

  “Who is it?” Serapion called out.

  “A messenger.” By the gruffness of the voice and the Latin accent, Serapion recognized one of Hesperian’s men. “The Centurion commands you to have breakfast with him in one hour!”

  * * * *

  The sun had scarcely cleared the horizon, but already the streets of Alexandria, the white city, were filled with feverish activity.

  All along the waterfront and particularly around the great obelisk in the main public square in front of the Temple of Augustus crowds of merchants, naked slaves, and linen-robed, shaven-headed priests hurried to and fro like frightened ants. Tomorrow was the Festival of the Ship of Isis. Everything must be ready! Later on, around noon, it would be too hot to work, so now everyone must work like a veritable Hercules in the Aegean stables.

  Everyone worked, that is, but a few Jews, distinguished occasionally by their beards and more frequently by the blue trim about the edges of their tunics. These Jews stood around the edge of the square, some looking on with interest, others with frowning disapproval. The holidays of the goyim Greeks, Egyptians and Romans were not for them!

  One of these clusters of Jews, catching sight of a Roman uniform, stepped aside to make way for a tall, cloaked, bare-headed centurion and a short, thin young woman in a white silk gown. The centurion held the girl by the elbow, gently but firmly guiding her forward.

  “Gaius, won’t you let go of my arm?” Hathor asked.

  “No, my dear,” Hesperian answered her.

  “Perhaps you believe in my guilt after all?”

  “Not at all.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Two things. First, as all the witnesses agreed, when your slave Rophos had tasted the poisoned soup, he began to sway, and you cried out a warning. That was after he’d tasted the soup, but before your father did.”

  “So?”

  “So, if you’d known of the poison you might have, to save Rophos, called out before the slave took his taste, or somehow created a diversion, or even turned over the soup tureen.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And if you had wanted your father dead, you would have waited. You would have let him take a sip, then cried out. An instant earlier, and you would have been guilty, because you would have had to know about the poison. An instant later, and you would have been guilty because you saw Rophos sway and said nothing. But no, you called out during that tiny fraction of an instant when only an innocent person would.”

  He smiled down on her with satisfaction.

  “How clever of you,” she said coldly.

  “The second point, then. If you didn’t do it; who did? That would have given me some trouble, perhaps, if it hadn’t been for your false confession. There is only one person you would be willing to give your life for by making a false confession, and that is your brother Serapion. Isn’t that true?”

  She thought, Yes, it’s true. Her brother—and her lover. And her painful secret, her hidden guilt. If only I’d cut out my tongue…

  She said, “And now I suppose you’ll arrest him?”

  “Not yet. It is not enough to know a thing. One must also prove it.”

  They paused to allow two swearing Greeks to pass, dragging a wagon load of candy doves. When she spoke, her voice was weary, fatalistic. “You’re so clever, Gaius. You’ll find your proof.”

  “That Serapion is the murderer? Perhaps. But that is not what really needs proving.”

  “What else?”

  “You’re a remarkably virtuous woman in your perverse way, and you see others as being like yourself. They are not, my dear, and never were, not even in the fabled good old days of the Roman Republic. That includes your brother. What needs proving is that your brother is not worthy of the sacrifice you were ready to make for
him.”

  “You’ll never prove that!” She was angry now.

  “We shall see.”

  “You’re so Roman, so very Roman. So sure of yourself. So quick to pass judgment on what you don’t understand. And you don’t understand Serapion, and you don’t understand me, and you don’t understand Egypt. We know things here! We’ve been here a long time, longer than you Romans have called yourself a nation. We know things about the human spirit, about the gods, and about the truth behind the visible world! We know things about what happened in ages past, even before there was an Egypt! We know things, Roman! How can you pass judgment on us? You know nothing! ”

  “I can learn. There are things no man really knows… but everything else I can learn.”

  “Learn this, then!” She had raised her voice now, and a group of passing priests of Osiris turned to look at her, first with curiosity, then with approval. “There are laws higher than Roman laws, higher than any laws made by men, and by these laws Serapion is innocent! You may condemn him, but Osiris exalts him! Osiris praises him! He is the best of the Memnons, the only one of us who loves the gods more than money! You don’t know him… his kindness, his gentleness, his strength! You don’t know…”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Of course!”

  “Did you know, ahead of time, that he was planning to murder your father?”

  “No, but later…”

  “How much later?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “If you had known what Serapion was planning before the murder, would you have let him do it?”

  There was a long silence, then she answered uncertainly, “I… I don’t know.”

  “This man you know so well… he planned a murder and carried it out, and you did not know it.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Then there may be other things he does and thinks that you do not know.”

  “No! I won’t listen to you. It’s not so!”

  “Before I’m done, I’ll prove it to you.”

  They had come to the foot of a flight of broad white marble steps and Hathor, recognizing where she was, looked around in surprise. “Gaius! This is the prison!”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You’re not taking me here?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But you told me I was innocent!”

  “True. But all the same, I’m afraid I must place you under detention for a day or so—in only the most luxurious accommodations of course— so you won’t warn your brother that I know about him.”

  * * * *

  “The breakfast is laid in the small dining room, Master.”

  “Very good, Wakar.”

  Wakar hobbled down the great staircase and Serapion followed.

  Adrastia, who was already reclining at table, looked up with a frown as they entered. In the subdued and diffused sunlight that reflected in from the hall, he could see that in spite of her beautiful garments—she wore an ankle-length green silk tunic, loose-fitting but clinging, and over that a shorter, lighter-green wool palla embroidered in gold—and her high-piled Messalina coiffure, and her gold-bejeweled rings, bracelets and necklaces, she herself was no longer beautiful. There were lines around her eyes that makeup could not hide, hollows in her cheeks, a certain slackness in her flesh. Serapion thought, You should take better care of yourself, Mother, but he said nothing. It was obvious her serving women had been working on her since before dawn, but a little food and sleep would have done her more good.

  “You may go, Wakar,” she snapped.

  The slave departed with a bow.

  “Good morning, Mother.” It had always given him an odd feeling to call someone almost his own age “Mother.” “How lovely you look this morning.” He settled himself on the couch to her right.

  “Serapion.” She looked at him with dark troubled eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “This trip you and Hathor are planning… Couldn’t you put it off?”

  “Why should we?”

  “I need you. It’s silly, I know, but I hadn’t realized until now that it’s up to me to manage it all, the whole Memnon financial empire, now that Demetrius has been arrested.”

  “I thought you were taking a trip yourself, to India.”

  She shook her head. “Not now. Don’t you see? I have to stay here. I have to run things, do everything old Odysseus used to do… but I don’t know how. I’ve never really even run this house. It’s been Hathor who saw to everything. I don’t know how to begin!” She seemed on the verge of tears.

  “Well, you’ll have to learn, won’t you?”

  She sat up with an angry jerk. “I might have known you’d say something like that! You’re nothing but a dreamer, your head so full of the other world you can’t see what’s going on in this one! Well, go ahead and dream! You’ve never taken one decisive action in your life, and you never will!”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Serapion’s voice held the merest touch of malicious amusement, too light a touch to be noticed by the furious Adrastia.

  She leaned toward him, grasped his well-muscled wrist. “The money, the power… I’m willing to share it with you.” Her anger was already fading, to be replaced once again by a kind of pleading anguish.

  He shrugged. “Keep it.”

  “No, no. I’m serious.”

  “You have given so much for it… marrying an old man, an impotent old man if I’m not mistaken, and you’ve been faithful to him, haven’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then it should be yours! You’ve paid for it many times over. I don’t need it. I already have all I want.”

  “But, you have nothing!”

  “That’s what I want.”

  She was still talking, still begging him to share the Memnon empire with her, but he was no longer listening to her, though her fingers occasionally dug cruelly into his wrist. His thoughts had turned to the gods, particularly to Osiris-Serapis. So for they had protected him. So far they had kept the centurion baffled, after having totally defeated the earlier investigators. It must be, then, that the gods smiled on his actions. It must be that he had found favor in their eyes. And now that he had come this far without being captured, without making a mistake, certainly he would be able to continue to evade the law for one more day. The centurion was a fool!

  “And why should we wait for a fool?” he said aloud, cutting Adrastia off in mid-sentence.

  “What?” She was bewildered.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he demanded.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

  “Then why don’t you eat?”

  “I’m waiting for Centurion Hesperian.”

  “Don’t you understand how your life has changed? You must no longer wait on anyone. It is for others to wait on you!” He turned toward the door and raised his voice. “Wakar!”

  The servant appeared in the doorway.

  “Wakar,” commanded Serapion. “Bring us bread and fruit.”

  “Right away, Master.”

  Serapion and Adrastia had almost finished their breakfasts when Wakar hobbled in to announce: “Centurion Gaius Hesperian is here.”

  * * * *

  Serapion did most of the talking, light, witty, bantering as always, often smiling as if at some private joke, while Hesperian, across the table from him, ate dates, nodded, and grunted politely in all the right places. Charming! But there was a deadly tension in the air, and Adrastia felt it. It made her very uncomfortable.

  “I really must be going…” she began falteringly, her eyes darting back and forth from one expressionless masculine face to the other.

  “Go then,” said Serapion with a warm smile
. “I’m sure our Roman friend here will keep me amused.”

  She turned to Hesperian, who nodded wordlessly, his mouth full. She got up quickly and hurried out, not looking back.

  Serapion said offhandedly, “I wonder if my sister will be breakfasting with us. She’s usually up by this time.”

  Hesperian had to swallow before answering. “I think not.”

  “Oh? What makes you say that?”

  “I’ve arrested her.” The centurion seemed absorbed in the task of selecting the right nut from a bowl full of nuts. There was a long pause while Serapion studied Hesperian’s face intently. Is this a trick? Is the fool trying to trick me?

  At length Serapion said, quite calmly. “Oh, is she the guilty one?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well… I don’t know.”

  “She made a full confession.” His blunt fingers finally found a nut that was exactly right and popped it into his mouth. There was another silence as Serapion thought, She must be trying to protect me!

  Hesperian looked up. Their eyes met for the first time since Hesperian’s arrival in the room. Hesperian spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “I thought you might be able to tell me something.”

  “I…”

  “Yes?”

  “It may surprise you, Centurion, but I have nothing to say.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me at all. I expected it. It confirms my theories exactly.”

  Serapion noticed an odd tone in the Roman’s voice, a sad irony, a certain cynical wistfulness that seemed to say, “I have expected the worst, and I have not been disappointed.” The slight warmth Hesperian had showed him up to now had vanished and been replaced with something almost like… contempt. There was no change in the weathered Roman face, but the deep voice was cold. Yes, it was all in the voice. “You have so much poise for such a young man, Serapion. Your sister confesses to the murder of your father, and you remain calm. Her life may be in danger, and yet you somehow remain unmoved. It is, no doubt, your religion that gives you this inner strength.”