Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery

by Ray Faraday Nelson

  “It seems they played one trick more than you thought.” Optio Mannus stood before the table, glaring down at him.

  “It wasn’t my fault…”

  “I hope you can prove that. Soldiers have died for lesser mistakes.” Mannus turned to leave, face flushed with anger.

  Behind him Remus was muttering, “They were only slaves… and dwarfs even. How was I to know…”

  Mannus paused in the doorway. “Don’t just sit there like an idiot! Organize a search!”

  “Yes… yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  Mannus’ first thought, as he emerged into the street and the blazing sun, was This could ruin everything! He glanced around, saw one of Remus’ troops walking toward him, leading a handsome brown horse by the bridle.

  “Give me that,” Mannus commanded.

  The soldier opened his mouth to argue, but noticed Mannus’ rank and saluted instead, then bent over slightly to hold his foot as the optio swung into the saddle. With a clatter of hooves on the paving stones and a jingle of bridle chain, Mannus was on his way, whipping the horse to a gallop.

  It was only moments before he was forced to slow almost to a walk. The street was narrower a little ways from the prison, though, like all the streets in the city, it was straight as a rule and met all side streets at a perfect right angle. The crowds of tourists, street merchants, and devout pilgrims here for the Isis Festival made progress slow even on horseback. Again and again he found his way blocked by a wagon full of wildly colorful flowers or delicious-smelling cakes or candy statuettes of the goddess in the shape of a dove. Again and again some idiot, already drunk though the festivities had not yet begun, staggered into the Roman’s path and, in spite of shouted threats and even an occasional crack of the whip, would make way only with the most maddening slowness. Repeatedly some pack of filthy children and dogs ran almost under the hooves of the horse, making the poor animal balk or lurch sideways, once almost dumping Mannus into the street.

  The festivals of the elder gods and goddesses were always riots, reflected Mannus grimly. It’s as if the deities begrudged man even that shaky semblance of order he’d managed, over the centuries, to achieve. Chaos! That’s what the High Immortals loved!

  The road grew wider and the crowd thinner after he had passed through the Gate of the Sun and was beyond the walls of the Inner City, and he was able to once more break into a full gallop as the buildings of the Jewish Outer City, luxurious, half-asleep, and undulating gently in the shimmering heat, flashed by.

  With an exchange of salutes at the Gate of Canopus he passed outside the walls of the Outer City and swung southward into the suburb of Eleusis, where the streets, for the first time, curved and branched at odd angles instead of being laid out straight as a spear, for here, where the estates of the rich were located, property lines, not the dreams of city planners, determined everything.

  In a moment he reined up outside the gates of the Memnon villa and dismounted.

  “See to my horse,” he commanded the Praetorian who stood guard there, then pushed open the heavy gate and ran in, head down, puffing and panting.

  It was at the door of the Memnon mansion that his headlong rush was finally checked. “Stop,” said Daphnis, stepping forward out of the shadows to block the entrance. “Hesperian left orders he was not to be disturbed… for any reason.”

  “What’s this? Let me by,” wheezed Mannus.

  “Of course, if you’re a good enough swordsman…” The scribe’s handsome face wore a mocking smile. The smile vanished when Mannus, at the end of his patience, drew his short sword.

  Daphnis stepped aside with a low bow, saying only, “My, aren’t we masculine today!”

  In the great hall, Mannus shouted at a startled Wakar, “Where’s Hesperian?” The slave, speechless, could only point. Mannus dashed by him, pounded down the long, echoing hallway, and burst into the smaller dining room.

  Hesperian and Serapion were reclining at table. Hesperian had a cup of wine at his lips. Slowly he lowered the cup, without drinking, and turned toward Mannus, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

  Serapion, too, turned toward Mannus, but there was a look of thinly-disguised dismay in the young man’s eyes.

  Mannus saluted, then gasped out, “Hathor and Demetrius, sir! They’ve… escaped!”

  Hesperian’s face was an emotionless mask, but Mannus, who knew him well, could detect faint traces of anxiety: The flicker of an eyelid, a slight trembling in the big hands.

  The cup now rested on the table.

  Hesperian sprang to his feet. “And Simon Baal?”

  “He’s still under lock and key, sir.”

  “And did you order a search?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good! But wait… Did you also give orders that Hathor must, under no circumstances, be harmed?”

  “Why, no, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I saw no need…”

  “Damn you, Mannus! You know what bloodthirsty fools these local troops are! If they find her, they may kill her on the spot and expect a reward for it. I swear, if they do harm her, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  “I’m… sorry, sir.”

  Hesperian turned to Serapion. “Pardon me, my friend, but I must leave you. You’ll have to finish the lunch without me, but don’t worry. I’ll post two guards to see that you are not disturbed at your meal.”

  Serapion ate nothing, but he spent several minutes, after Hesperian and Mannus had gone, staring gloomily at Hesperian’s wine.

  * * * *

  Adrastia Memnon, beautiful in the way a slightly wilted flower is beautiful, and clad in sweeping green silks and glittering rings, bracelets, and necklaces like a princess, strode grandly down the great staircase, paused a moment at the foot of the steps, delicate fingertips touching the base of her throat, practiced smiling, then set off in the general direction of the smaller dining room.

  Centurion Gaius Hesperian and his man Mannus passed her in the dim hallway. She wished them a good afternoon, but they were so engrossed in their muttered conversation they hardly noticed her.

  She shrugged. What could one expect from the Roman boors?

  As she reached the entrance to the smaller dining room, Serapion was just coming out, a soldier on either side of him. She wished him, too, a good afternoon, but he did not say a word, only glanced at her with such a wild-eyed look that she gave a little gasp.

  She watched him and his guards as they continued on up the hallway, a puzzled frown on her fine-cut features, then turned and entered the dining room.

  It appeared that Serapion and Hesperian had not touched a morsel, but all the same Wakar—faithful Wakar—was there, starting to clear the table.

  She was thirsty, she reached for a cup of wine.

  Wakar’s hand shot out and caught her wrist as he said, very quickly, one word. “No.”

  She turned on him, amazed. “How dare you say ‘No’ to me?”

  “That is the Centurion’s wine.”

  “What do I care? Wine is wine.” She tried to get free, but his grip was strong.

  “I’ll bring you a cup of your own.”

  “That will take time, and I’m thirsty now. I warn you! Let go of my wrist or I’ll have you whipped. I want that wine, and I shall have it!”

  He looked at her with anguish but did not let go. “No, no, beloved Mistress. That wine is poisoned.”

  “What?” She stopped struggling and took a step back from the table. His grip relaxed, but she could see on his face the evidence of some great inner conflict.

  “Who?” she asked him. “Who poisoned it?”

  “The dwarf Bubo.” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

  Adrastia prided herself on her kindness to her slaves
. In her way she loved them, and thought they loved her. The dwarfs in particular loved her; she was sure of it. “Impossible!” she said. “Not my Bubo!”

  “It was not you, Mistress, that he was trying to poison. It was the Centurion. Bubo is a good slave. He would give his life for the Memnon family.” He released her wrist and she stood rubbing it, bewildered.

  “But this poison…” she began.

  “He was only obeying his Master, Serapion.”

  She sat down abruptly on one of the couches around the low table. “I see. I see.” And she did indeed see. She saw and understood everything, all in a flash. Serapion! Yes, of course. Who else? “And you saw him? You saw Bubo put in the poison?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “And you did nothing to stop him or to warn the Roman?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Because of your loyalty to the Memnons?”

  “Yes.”

  Now it was she who reached out and took him by the wrist “I’ll never have you whipped, Wakar. Never again.”

  “No promises, Lady. Please. This thing is heavy on me. It is easy enough to be loyal to you, or to Hathor… even to Demetrius, who thinks of slaves as being lower than animals. But now I don’t know… I don’t know if I can still be loyal to Serapion.”

  “Because he murdered your master?”

  His wild laugh startled and frightened her. “My Master? No, Lady. Because I realize now Serapion must have killed Rophos, and I loved Rophos. I loved him, Lady!”

  Tears had begun to trickle down his cheeks.

  “Hush now. Hush, Wakar. That was long ago.” She gave his wrist a little squeeze, looking up into his anguished face. “Sit down here.” She patted the place beside her on the couch. He obeyed, slumping slowly into a sitting position. Old slave and young mistress, they leaned together as if for warmth, though the room was not cold.

  “Now listen to me, Wakar. Please control yourself and try to answer my questions.”

  “Yes. All right.”

  “Where is Bubo now?”

  “I don’t know. He was in the kitchen…”

  “Come, Wakar. We must find him.” But when I find him, she thought, should I punish him… or reward him?

  * * * *

  Adrastia had always known there was some place on the estate where slaves could hide and not be found, but she had never been able to figure out where, mainly because she had never tried very hard. It had not seemed important.

  But now, suddenly, it had become important, for, she was convinced, this secret place was where Bubo must be hiding. She and Wakar had searched everywhere else. Neither Bubo nor the other dwarfs seemed to be anywhere around the house or grounds, yet she could not imagine how they could have gotten beyond the wall that went around the Memnon estate on all sides and was guarded both by the Memnons’ personal guard and the Romans.

  As she and Wakar returned to the smaller dining room (where the meal remained undisturbed on the table), a suspicion crossed her mind. “Wakar, are you telling me all you know?”

  “What do you mean, Mistress?”

  “I think you know where the dwarfs are, but some sort of misplaced loyalty prevents you from telling me.”

  The eunuch turned away from her. So I’m right, she thought triumphantly.

  “Tell me,” she commanded.

  He said nothing.

  “I can have you whipped.”

  “After your promise?” said the slave.

  Damn. How can one whip someone who has just saved one’s life?

  “I must know, Wakar.” It was as if she was begging him. That wasn’t right. A mistress does not beg a slave for anything.

  “Why?” he asked her, quite simply.

  She gripped his arm. “I must hear from Bubo’s own lips that Serapion is the murderer. It seems so unbelievable. I mean, I always took Serapion for a harmless dreamer, a weak child in the body of a man. The Serapion I knew—or thought I knew—could never have made the decision, let alone formed the plan and carried it out.”

  “Hush.” Wakar held up his hand for silence. “Someone’s coming.”

  There were indeed the sounds of hurrying footsteps, and the Roman scribe Daphnis stuck his head in the door. “Have either of you seen the dwarfs recently?” he demanded.

  “Why no,” Adrastia answered. They’re looking for them, too, she thought, slightly puzzled.

  “I’m not surprised,” Daphnis said off-handedly. “They’d be fools to come back here after helping Hathor and Demetrius to escape.” The Roman had continued on his way before Adrastia could recover enough from this new bit of information to ask an intelligent question.

  Wakar said softly, “Serapion is proud. If you confront him face to face and ask him, perhaps he himself will tell you what he’s done.”

  She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes. Perhaps you’re right. Come, let’s go up to his room and see if we’ll be allowed to speak to him.”

  Hesperian and Mannus met them as they came out into the hall. “Wait, Wakar. I want to have a word with you,” said the centurion. Wakar stopped, but Adrastia, since no one attempted to stop her, continued on down the hall.

  * * * *

  “I suppose you can go in,” said the guard outside Serapion’s bedroom door. “I have no orders to the contrary.” He stood aside and she entered.

  Serapion, seated dejectedly on the edge of his bed, looked up at her with suspicion. “Adrastia! What do you want?”

  She closed the door behind her carefully. She knew that with the door closed the guard would not be able to eavesdrop so long as she and Serapion kept their voices down.

  Finger to her lips, she quickly crossed the room and seated herself beside him. “You did it, didn’t you?” she whispered.

  “Did what?” He was on his guard.

  “Killed my husband, of course.”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would I do…”

  “Ah, I see in your face that I’m right. Until this moment I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “No, you are. You think I’m angry about it. You think I might tell the Romans. How little you understand me! Don’t you see? I’m glad you did it! I admire you for it! Oh, how I underestimated you, just because you wouldn’t help me run the Memnon financial empire. But of course you wouldn’t want to get mixed up in business! You’d find such things dull… and they are dull.”

  She edged closer to him, continuing in a low, breathless voice, “But I could handle the dull parts of it. You could spend your time sailing. You could be commander of your father’s fleet of grain ships and fighting ships. If you and I were to marry—oh it’s not so insane as it sounds—we’d hold the whole Memnon empire together, build it up bigger than ever. You’ve never been comfortable calling me your mother, I know that, because we’re almost the same age, and because there’s more between us—it’s unspoken but it’s there—than there could be between son and stepmother.”

  “No, by Serapis. No!”

  “I offer you everything, and you still say ‘No’?”

  “I can’t marry you!”

  “There’s someone else? Ah, Hathor. Of course. Well, I’m not jealous. Every man has his other woman. At least we’d keep it in the family.”

  “I can’t marry anyone. Tomorrow I may be in prison…”

  “No, no. I can help you.”

  He turned to face her at last, and she shrank back from the desperation in his eyes. “I don’t need your help,” he said so loudly that she glanced involuntarily toward the door. Up to this point they had been speaking in whispers and near-whispers, but she was sure the guard could not have failed to overhear that last remark.

  She stood up, murmuring, “I see. You have other
help, eh? The dwarfs? You don’t need to answer. But if you need me, I am with you, remember that.”

  As she went out she could feel his feverish eyes burning into her back, and she thought, You murderer. You magnificent murderer! Why won’t you believe me?

  * * * *

  The afternoon sunlight, hot and bright, streamed in the open kitchen door. Wakar stared numbly at the sunlight, and as he did the Roman centurion and his aide, who stood on either side of him, seemed to fade out of his consciousness, and a strange feeling came over the slave, a feeling that at any moment he would see his old friend, cheerful, foolish Rophos, step through that door again, as he had done so many times in years past.

  But Rophos was dead.

  With a jerk, Wakar once again became aware of those around him. The centurion was saying: “This doorway, Mannus, may be the most important one in the house, for our purposes. Through this doorway someone could slip out, climb up the vines on the outside wall, and spear old Odysseus like a fish in a barrel, and through this doorway someone might also slip into the kitchen to poison the soup. It’s one of the few doors that open to the outside of the house rather than to the courtyard.”

  Mannus nodded and said something Wakar couldn’t make out. The Romans were fading out again, and suddenly, with feverish hallucinatory clarity, there was the smiling face of Rophos peering out from the shadows behind the great brick oven where the bread was baked.

  Wakar did not fear the dead. To him, as to almost everyone else, it was not uncommon for the dead to visit the living, in dreams or, more rarely, when one was wide awake. The dead were his friends. They could tell him where riches were hidden, or predict the future. It was the living one must fear! And this ghost in particular was his friend. Good old Rophos! But now the face had vanished.

  Hesperian called, “Wakar! Come here.”

  Like a sleepwalker, the slave obeyed.

  “You’re in the kitchen a lot, aren’t you?” the centurion asked.