Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery

by Ray Faraday Nelson

  “Yes… perhaps.”

  “Hathor is more emotional. She has not yet learned your philosophical detachment. If she felt you were in danger, there’s no telling what she might do… but then she’s only a woman, right?”

  Serapion, rattled at last, laughed nervously, but was unable to answer.

  “Women are weak,” continued Hesperian, almost absentmindedly. “They’re slaves of emotion, aren’t they? Not like men. Your sister’s devotion to you, for instance. There are some who might call it extreme, even perverse, but you, of course, feel nothing like that for her, do you?”

  “I feel toward her… just what a brother should.”

  “And nothing more. You see? A man feels what is fitting and proper, what is reasonable. That’s why all the great philosophers are men.”

  Serapion was able to say only, “Whatever she did, I’m sure it was for… a good reason.”

  The centurion shook his head. “No, no, I can’t agree with you there. I say she’s been a poor naive idiot, a dupe! I say her actions were the product of nothing but silly childish illusions!” He paused, glancing at Serapion sharply. “Well, brother, aren’t you going to leap to her defense?”

  Serapion was speechless.

  Chapter Two

  Demetrius Memnon and Simon Baal, under guard, emerged into the merciless morning sunlight from the relative darkness of the doorway of the Memnon mansion.

  With a feeling of hopeless degradation, Demetrius noticed that all the slaves were lined up along the walkway, watching him, even little Sabella. Sabella was grinning openly, looking him fearlessly in the eye, and it was he, this time, who turned his head away. Then he saw Adrastia, standing a little apart.

  He waved to her, forcing a smile. She turned away. At least they could have spared me this, he thought. To be stared at by mere slaves… who would have dreamed the gods could be so cruel?

  “Move along there, you two,” growled Daphnis, who was in charge of the detail.

  A few moments later the nightmare worsened: The great gates of the villa grounds swung wide and Demetrius found himself being driven through the streets, surrounded on all sides by curious, unsympathetic eyes.

  The crowds! Full of holiday gaiety! Lowborn dogs! Jews! Egyptian peasants and beggars! Sneering Roman soldiers and the round-blue-eyed northern barbarians in ragtag odds and ends of Roman armor. Even the camels, oxen, goats and donkeys they passed seemed to stare.

  “Straighten up,” hissed Simon Baal behind him.

  “What for?” snapped Demetrius.

  “Show them who you are!”

  Demetrius glanced back and saw that Baal was strutting along as if he was the guest of honor, as if this was perhaps a parade of triumph for him.

  “You look absurd,” Demetrius told him bitterly.

  “Not at all! Not at all! The crowd has more respect for a loser who walks proudly than for a winner who slouches. I tell you, my friend, there’s many a gladiator owes his life to good posture.” There was something obscene about the little Parthian’s forced cheerfulness, about the way his necklaces and bracelets and braids bounced with every step.

  Hawk-nosed, long-haired Daphnis noticed it too, because he called out to Simon: “Happy?”

  Simon wilted somewhat as the Roman fell in step with him. “What a question, sir!” huffed the dark little man.

  Daphnis reached out and toyed with the Parthian’s braids. “I’d be happy if I were in your shoes.”

  “What? What?” cried Baal indignantly. “Happy to go to prison?”

  Daphnis sighed. “I was in prison once, a soldier’s prison in Rome. When I was in prison, I was always in love.”

  The soldiers broke into a gale of harsh laughter. Daphnis’ homosexuality was no news to them.

  “Leave me alone,” protested Baal. “I’ll report you to Hesperian.”

  “But,” Daphnis said gleefully, “Hesperian is the very man who has set me to molesting you! He thinks you might not care for me. Imagine that! And he thinks you might even dislike me enough to tell me a few things about your employers, just to get rid of me.” He gave one of Baal’s braids a vicious tug. “Actually, I can see that you and I are going to get along.” He favored the spy with a lewd wink. “With those braids and all, it’s amazing how much you remind me of a certain whore I once knew, back in Rome on the Via Venus Verticordia. I’m not too clever, you know, and it’s always been hard for me to tell the difference between a Parthian and a woman, particularly,” he gave the braid another tug, “on the battlefield.”

  Once again the soldiers exploded with malevolent guffaws.

  “You’ll get nothing from us,” said Demetrius, in a voice so low it could hardly be heard. Instantly, Daphnis turned his attention to the old man.

  “A miracle!” crowed Daphnis, “It talks! So you’re not dead after all. You certainly look like a corpse!”

  I wish I were a corpse, thought Demetrius.

  Daphnis slipped a brawny arm around the old man’s narrow shoulders, saying, “I’ll get nothing from you, eh? You’re a brave man… or is it that you’ve reached the age when one forgets things?”

  Demetrius tried unsuccessfully to shrug off the unwanted arm. “I’ve reached the age when I know better than to talk to scum like you!” Daphnis had an ugly laugh. “What’s this? Insulting a member of Nero’s personal guard? Why, that’s almost the same as insulting our emperor and god himself. I didn’t realize you were an atheist.” The Roman’s grip became painfully tight.

  “By all that’s holy…” With a violent effort Demetrius pulled free.

  “And a rebel too,” added the Roman mockingly.

  The old man crouched and picked up a loose brick from the pavement, then straightened up, brandishing it over his head. “I warn you!” For a moment the two stood glaring at each other, then the Roman lunged forward. Demetrius swung the brick, but Daphnis danced easily out of the way. The force of the swing, however, turned the gaunt old man around, and Daphnis, seizing the opportunity, lashed out with a well-aimed kick in the rear that sent Demetrius sprawling in the gutter.

  “One crime after another,” Daphnis said, slowly shaking his head. “Now it’s attempted murder!” Demetrius lay on his belly, resting his weight on his elbows, his bald head drooping.

  “Get up!” snapped the Roman.

  Demetrius didn’t move. He was crying softly, tears streaming down his wrinkled, hollow cheeks.

  Daphnis reached down, grasped Demetrius’ wrist, and jerked him to his feet. “Stop that whimpering. It’s disgusting!” He let go of the old man’s wrist, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. “All right, all right. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Neither man said another word the rest of the way to the prison.

  * * * *

  The heavy wooden door was barred from the outside, and there were iron bars on the one small high window, but otherwise the room did not look at all like a cell.

  Seated on the couch that did double duty as a bed, Demetrius took inventory of his surroundings, surprised at the degree of luxury allowed him. There were rich, heavy drapes on the walls, even a well-made little writing table, though without either pen or writing stylus. And everything was so clean!

  He’d been so sure they would make him wallow in filth. But he was, after all, still a Memnon, not an ordinary bread-snatcher from the Diplostoon marketplace. A Memnon! He smiled. That name still meant something, even now.

  He was alone in the room. Solitary confinement? It didn’t matter. Demetrius was glad that at last there were no eyes upon him to witness his degradation.

  The voice, when it came, was so unexpected that it startled him, making him spin around on the couch with a jerk.

  “Is that you, Demetrius?”

  “Why yes… yes, it is, but who…”

>   “It’s Hathor. Praise Isis, someone’s come at last to get me out of here.”

  The muffled voice came from the other side of the wall.

  “Well, no,” mumbled the old man. “I haven’t come for that, exactly.”

  “I understand. Gaius wants to keep me here, so here I stay. But you can carry a message for me to Serapion!”

  “Wait. Let me explain…”

  “There’s no time. You must go as fast as you can and tell Serapion that Hesperian knows everything, that Hesperian is setting a trap. Run, Demetrius!”

  “I can’t run. I can’t even walk.”

  “But you must!”

  “I’m a prisoner here too.”

  There was a long pause, then she said dejectedly, “Of course. Of course. You’re a prisoner here too.”

  “But wait, Hathor. Are you saying that Serapion is the murderer?” She didn’t answer, but he knew it must be true. Serapion was the murderer, and running around free, while he, Demetrius, was in prison. “Typical,” he muttered.

  * * * *

  The water around Bubo’s bare feet and legs was not unpleasantly cold—tepid rather—as he sloshed cheerfully through the absolute darkness. Bubo had no need of light; he had been underground many times before. All the slaves in the neighborhood knew how to slip quietly through the subterranean aqueducts. It was only their masters who comforted themselves with the illusion that once the gates were closed and the guards posted, no one could get in or out of the luxurious estates of this Alexandrian suburb.

  The passages were restrictive—even Bubo the dwarf could reach up and touch the rough brick ceiling—but a normal-sized man could get through if he was willing to crawl. The aqueducts were fairly-well-traveled, but not sufficiently traveled to make the water taste bad. One might flee down here into the cool humid darkness to escape an irate master or the noonday sun, or to visit some pretty slave girl who lived in a different household. And if the passages smelled a bit earthy, and if an occasional spider web brushed one’s face in the dark, what were such things to a slave?

  Bubo paused to let his companions, Horus and Suchos, catch up. The sound of their splashing was so loud it was hard to believe that nothing could be heard above ground. “Ssh,” hushed Bubo, half-angrily.

  Out of the darkness came a stifled giggle.

  “Have you still got the moneybags?” Bubo whispered.

  “Listen.” There was a reassuring jingle, another giggle; then Horus said in a low voice: “You’re sure this isn’t stealing?”

  “Of course not!” Bubo was indignant. “We’re not taking the Memnons’ money for ourselves. We’re taking it to help them.”

  “We might be punished…”

  “Never! We’ll be rewarded. You’ll see. If we can help our Masters to escape, I wouldn’t be surprised if they set us free.”

  “Set us free?” There was doubt in Horus’ voice.

  “Of course! And think about this, my friend. If the Romans cart the whole family off to prison, who knows where we might end? In the mines, perhaps, or even in the arena. When all’s said and done, our lives could be a lot worse than they have been. But if we were free with a little money… there’s always a place for a few dwarfs in the theatre.” He thought about a mime he’d once seen. Everyone had applauded, but to Bubo it hadn’t seemed so wonderful… Everything would have looked twice as funny done by a dwarf!

  “But do we have to take the money?” Horus persisted.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Couldn’t we rescue just Hathor and leave old Demetrius in prison to rot?”

  “We made the plan, and you both agreed to it,” Bubo said. “Now we stick to it, no matter what happens.” He turned his back on them and waded on.

  * * * *

  The forged order, on a scroll of the finest Augustan papyrus, had cost them plenty. It was almost as if the one-eyed old Arab in the Egyptian quarter who had done the job for them had been able to see through the moneybags and count the coins inside, down to the last drachma.

  But, thought Bubo, it was worth it!

  The Arab had even been able to produce, from a vast collection of stolen Roman bric-a-brac, an authentic seal ring of the Praetorian Guard with which he pompously stamped the hot wax on the roll. That seal alone was worth something, the Arab had assured them, not to mention his risk…

  And now Bubo held the precious scroll in his hand, and it was smooth against the palm of his hand, not rough like the poorer grades of papyrus, and they still had money enough left to bribe the gatekeeper at the prison to let them in to see the captain of the guard.

  Now, as if in a dream, the tall, heavy-set Roman—a man named Captain Remus—was bending over, reaching down to take the forged order from Bubo’s shaking fingers.

  “Here it is, sir,” Bubo said in a small voice. “From Centurion Gaius Hesperian of Nero’s Praetorian Guard, sir.”

  “So I see.” As Captain Remus took the document and straightened up, he examined the seal with interest.

  Bubo glanced at Horus and Suchos, who were cowering close by. Their tunics were still a little damp from the trip through the aqueduct but, Bubo decided, the dampness could just as easily have come from sweat. It was hot outside, though here within the stone walls of the prison it was comfortable enough.

  The Roman officer walked slowly over to the window, a narrow, barred rectangle through which came the beam of sunlight that was the room’s only illumination.

  Why doesn’t he open the scroll? thought Bubo, trying not to show any outward sign of tension.

  “Beautiful design,” said Captain of the Guard Remus. Bubo had noticed the design too—a Roman eagle with every feather etched in detail, and the initials that stood for “The Senate and People of Rome.”

  Is there-something wrong with the seal? thought Bubo.

  “Seems a shame to break it,” said Captain Remus with a little laugh, then broke the seal and began unrolling the scroll. Bubo relaxed somewhat.

  Remus held the scroll up to the light from the window and read it, frowning and moving his lips. He was, though an officer, not a very educated man, or so it seemed. Bubo watched his face, his moving lips, his heavy working jaw, the stubble of beard on his cheek.

  The Roman grimaced.

  “S-something wrong, sir?” Bubo ventured.

  “I don’t understand these Praetorians,” the officer said, shaking his head slowly. “He wants us to release two prisoners we’ve just finished locking up for him. By Mithra, what is he up to now?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, sir. I just brought the message.”

  “Yes, of course. You wouldn’t know anything about it. Still, it’s strange. Where is this Centurion Hesperian now?”

  “At the Memnon estate, sir, I guess.”

  “Hmm. Yes. I know the place. Gloomy old pile of rocks with a lot of statues. Yes, I know the place. Maybe I ought to send a runner out to the Memnons to ask this centurion to confirm this order.”

  “No, you’d better not do that,” broke in Horus.

  “Why not?” demanded the Roman, still not really suspicious.

  “Well…” Horus was tongue-tied.

  “This centurion, sir,” Bubo improvised. “He doesn’t like delay. When he gives an order, he expects to be obeyed… instantly!”

  “Instantly, sir,” echoed Suchos.

  Captain Remus laughed. “And if he isn’t obeyed instantly, what does he do?”

  “Oh, by the gods, don’t ask!” cried Bubo.

  “There are some things too horrible to talk about,” added Horus.

  “You don’t really want to know,” finished Suchos miserably.

  “Come on, you little rascals, tel
l me.” Grinning, Captain Remus walked over and set the scroll on a massive table in the center of the room. He seemed bored, in search of some sort of entertainment to put some life into his dull guard duty. An idea appeared in Bubo’s mind; there was no time to think it over, only time to act on it. He turned to Horus.

  “This!” shouted Bubo, slapping Horus in the face. Horus was more astonished than really hurt: The dwarfs rough-housed like this all the time, but the slap was totally unexpected by Captain Remus who, after an instant of stunned amazement, exploded in laughter.

  Thought Bubo, Simple things for simple people.

  “And like this,” added Bubo, kicking Suchos in the rear.

  “And this,” said Horus, tripping Bubo and, when he fell, jumping on his ribs. (That really hurt!)

  In an instant the three little men were in a whirlwind of mock combat. Captain Remus was laughing so hard he could hardly stand up, and other guards, hearing the noise, appeared at the door and came crowding in to watch the show, sniggering and elbowing each other playfully in the ribs.

  As the dwarfs went down in a writhing, squirming, kicking pile on the floor, Bubo whispered, “Give them a good show, boys,” then pulled free.

  All eyes were on struggling Horus and Suchos when Bubo picked up the forged scroll from the table and slipped it under his tunic. Then, a moment later, he quietly stepped out through the now-unguarded door into the hall.

  Bubo had been to the prison several times before. He had never been arrested, but he had come down with old Odysseus when there had been a drunken sailor—or even a ship’s captain—to bail out. Bubo knew there was only one part of the building fit for such honored guests as the Memnons, and now the little man was headed there, walking quickly but trying not to appear rushed.

  There was a guard at the door of that wing. Bubo showed him the forged order.

  “Is this all right with Captain Remus?” the guard asked suspiciously.