Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery

by Ray Faraday Nelson

  “If it wasn’t, would he have let me get this far?”

  “I suppose not.” The guard let Bubo pass.

  A second guard was similarly satisfied and even went so far as to unlock the cell doors for Bubo. The first cell was Hathor’s.

  “Come along,” said Bubo. “You’re free.”

  She asked no questions, but followed immediately.

  Demetrius almost spoiled everything, when his turn came.

  “What is this? Another trick?” demanded the gaunt old man, backing toward the far end of his cell.

  “Don’t be silly,” Hathor told him in an undertone. “Come along now, you heard me.”

  “Leave him here,” advised Bubo, and the guard, overhearing, laughed.

  But Hathor seized Demetrius by a bony wrist and dragged him bodily out into the corridor.

  As they hurried away the guard’s voice came echoing after them. “Good luck with the old goat!”

  The other guard let them out through the side exit into the street, but Bubo darted back, inside explaining to the surprised guard, “I forgot something.”

  “Bubo…” cried out Hathor.

  “I’ll meet you out front,” said Bubo, as the heavy door swung shut, separating him from her.

  A minute later Bubo re-entered Captain Remus’ office, where Suchos and Horus were now keeping a crowd of about fifteen Roman soldiers howling with laughter. The dwarfs had progressed to an imitation of Nero in the gladiatorial arena… with a bear.

  Nobody noticed Bubo’s return; nobody noticed him replacing the forged scroll on Remus’s table. He might as well have been invisible until he suddenly shouted: “All right! That’s enough.”

  There was a chorus of disappointed groans as the mock combat ceased.

  Bubo turned to Captain Remus, saying, “I’m sorry if we’ve disturbed your work.”

  “That’s all right.” The captain had not yet altogether stopped laughing.

  “But really, you won’t have to send a runner to confirm that order, sir,” Bubo continued blandly.

  “No? Why not?” Remus was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

  “Because we’ll go get Hesperian for you!” cried Bubo, and scampered out, followed by his two companions. “We’ll be right back!”

  “You’re welcome here any time,” shouted Remus, between chuckles.

  Hathor and Demetrius were waiting in the street, out of sight of the main entrance. The dwarfs almost passed without seeing them, but Hathor called out in a low voice, “Here, Bubo.”

  They held a hurried council in a narrow passage behind a statue of the goddess of justice.

  “We’d better get out of here before Remus finds out you’re gone,” said Bubo.

  “Not before I thank you… thank you all,” Hathor said.

  “Never mind that,” Bubo said, looking around worriedly. “Is there any place you and the old man can hide?”

  “Serapion’s ship is in the harbor. You know the place. Next to my father’s principal grain warehouse. We can go there,” she answered. Her body showed all too well through her white silk gown, and Bubo looked away, embarrassed, as she added anxiously, “But we can’t leave Alexandria without Serapion.”

  “Your murderous brother,” said Bubo bitterly.

  “You know about that?” She was surprised.

  “Of course. I’ve known for a long time, perhaps longer than you. You thought that because I was a dwarf and a slave I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t figure out anything, so you and your brother never bothered to hide from me the play of expression on your faces. I read your faces, and the whole story was there. And do you know something? I would have handed your brother over to the Romans if it hadn’t been for you. I couldn’t stand for you to know it was me who turned Serapion in.”

  She had turned quite pale. “Oh, Bubo…”

  “And now,” Bubo went on, “you want me to risk my life to save the man who murdered my Master… and he was a kind, fair master to me.”

  “I can’t ask you… after all you’ve done already.” Now Hathor was the embarrassed one.

  “Why not, eh? What does my life matter when balanced against the life of a Memnon? What does the life of a dwarf and a slave matter? I’ve read the face of the centurion, too. The centurion knows. Your brother’s secrets are secrets no longer.” One glance at her face told him that he was right. “And now I’m to walk into the same trap your brother is in and try to snatch him out from under the very eyes of the Romans. Well of course I’ll do it, my lady.”

  A burning anger seemed to transform the little man, to turn him into a giant. “I must humbly beg your pardon for not having done it already.”

  He turned on his heel and walked quickly away. Horus and Suchos trotted after him.

  “Serapion is a priest, you know,” called Hathor, before the dwarfs were out of earshot. “His magic will protect you.”

  “There is no magic!” Bubo snapped.

  And then Hathor knew that Bubo had never really feared her, but only pretended to.

  * * * *

  The terrible Egyptian sun had climbed almost to the zenith. Tall Serapion stood at the window of his second-floor bedroom and gazed moodily out over the broad expanse of the Memnon estate and at the jumble of bright white walls and red tile roofs beyond the wall.

  Alexandria!

  How he wished he could be out there now, in Alexandria’s streets, joining the milling crowds that prepared for the great Festival of the Ship of Isis, the most important holiday of the year, a real Egyptian holiday, not an imported one like the birthdays of the various Roman emperors and gods, or the enigmatic celebrations of Alexandria’s Jews and Greeks.

  It was so hot!

  Though he was clad only in a light white linen tunic and sandals, he was still drenched in sweat. Better even than being out in the streets of the White City would be to stand on the deck of his fighting ship, up front in the prow above the heavy gilt-iron hawk’s head ram that had smashed through the side of so many pirate ships. Better to be far out at sea, beyond sight of land, on that ship that was like a living creature, with its eyes painted on the sides of the prow and its tail feathers turning up back in the stem… and its great square red sail catching the gale. At sea Serapion could cast off all his garments as he cast off all the polite restraints of “civilization” and, naked as a slave or a common sailor, let the wind, laced with cold salt spray, cool his body from head to toe.

  He sighed.

  Here in his room the wind was so feeble it hardly moved the green curtains on either side of him, let alone cooled his suffering flesh.

  Hesperian’s man, Optio Mannus, had just left, after giving Serapion an order—An order, mind you!—to lunch privately with the centurion this noon. At sea it would be he, Serapion, who gave the orders.

  I wonder, he thought, how much Hesperian knows.

  He must know something, or how would he dare be so bold as to command a Memnon to dine with him? But he had been bold, even impudent, from the beginning. Did he really think Hathor had committed the murder? Or was the arrest of Hathor a trick?

  It may be his way of throwing me off my guard.

  He turned from the window and began to pace the room, sandals slapping the marble floor.

  If I can hold him off for just a few more hours!

  There was a faint rustle outside the window.

  His hand flew to his side, clutching for the handle of his sword, but it was gone. Hesperian, of course, had disarmed him, but the reflex, born of long training, was still there. He glanced around quickly, searching for some substitute weapon.

  Ah, that heavy silver candle holder! That would have to do.

  He grasped it like a club and, stepping softly, approached the window. A hand appeared, gr
asping the windowsill. Someone was coming in! Serapion thought, So this is Roman Justice. One of Hesperian’s men is going to kill me in exactly the same way I killed my father. He raised the candle holder to strike.

  An ugly little face appeared in the window, round-eyed with surprise. “Wait! It’s me, Bubo!”

  With a grunt of relief, Serapion lowered his makeshift weapon. The dwarf shifted his weight from the vines to the sill and scrambled into the room.

  “By Serapis, what are you doing here?” began Serapion in a loud voice.

  Bubo winced and, finger to lips, hissed, “Sssh, you fool. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

  “You?” Serapion almost burst out laughing, but he did lower his voice.

  “Yes, me, but not for your sake. If it weren’t for your sister, I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help, little man.” There was the Memnon pride again.

  “Oh no? Suppose I tell you that the centurion knows everything, that he’s sure you’re the murderer and is only waiting to arrest you when he’s tricked you into some damaging admission. Do you still think you can afford to be so grand and independent?”

  Serapion frowned. “How do I know this is true?”

  “Your sister sent me. I got her and Demetrius out of jail. They’re waiting for you on your ship down by the largest grain warehouse. Listen… there is a way out of here.” He told Serapion about the underground aqueduct, then finished with: “Now do you believe me?”

  “It could be Hesperian that sent you, not my sister.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Bubo said, “That’s true, but you’ll have to trust me. Make up your mind.”

  Serapion considered, rubbing his lean jaw with a muscular finger. Hesperian knew. Serapion had felt that for some time now, but had not wanted to believe it, yet now…

  “I believe you, Bubo.”

  “Good! Now we wait for the right moment and slip out the window and down the wall. The Roman guard passes here only about every five minutes… they are so sure you can’t get beyond the outer walls of the estate that they’re not guarding your window very well. Then it’s down the back stairs to the aqueduct and…”

  “Not so fast, little man. There’s one thing I have to do before I leave.”

  “What’s that?” Bubo was exasperated.

  “Kill Hesperian.” Serapion said it very calmly, almost indifferently. Of course. What could be more logical? Most of the Romans were stupid, easily outwitted; but Hesperian, it seemed, was different. Hesperian might follow him, sniff him out like a bloodhound, stop him somehow. No, the centurion was too clever to live.

  “You really are a madman,” said Bubo, taking a step backward. “They’re watching you now. You couldn’t possibly…”

  “But you could.” Serapion’s voice was still cool and detached.

  Bubo shook his head violently. “No! I never killed anyone, and I never will.”

  “Would you like to stay here when I leave? The Romans might change their minds about torturing you if they are angry enough, and you couldn’t tell them where I was, could you? That would be betraying Hathor. You’d die before betraying her, wouldn’t you?” He looked down at the little humpbacked man with a cold, calculating eye.

  When there was no reply, Serapion strode to the far corner of the room, knelt, and with his fingertips pried up a loose bit of red mosaic tile from the Greek key design in the floor’s border. Below the bit of tile was a small hole from which he gingerly extracted a tiny bottle made of blue-green translucent glass.

  He handed the bottle to Bubo, saying casually, “Here’s a bit of very special seasoning. I’m sure it will improve the centurion’s wine.”

  * * * *

  In the Memnon household, lunch, like breakfast, had never been an elaborate affair: Bread, cheese, a bit of cold meat, some vegetables, and fruit washed down with cool, spiced and watered wine. Simple but nourishing.

  Even this food was not yet on the table when Serapion came into the smaller dining room and reclined on his couch. There was nobody else in the room; only a fly buzzed lethargically around the ceiling from time to time.

  Serapion, resting on one elbow, watched the fly and frowned. It was cool and dim in the room, and very quiet. Quite comfortable in every way. But where was Hesperian?

  The Roman was usually the soul of punctuality. Was he late this time on purpose, to make Serapion nervous? Indeed, what better way to soften up a guilty suspect?

  Forcing himself to concentrate, Serapion began his calculations. Let’s see. When the Roman collapsed from the effects of the poison, there would be time for a quick walk through the kitchen to the back stairs and down to the furnace room, which opened onto the cisterns and the underground aqueduct. Very good.

  But what if Hesperian was on his guard? Serapion pursed his lips. I’m younger than he is… quicker… probably stronger. And there would certainly be a knife on the table. One unguarded moment and the Roman would be dead before he knew what had happened. And suppose Hesperian had posted a guard outside the door? Well, with Hesperian’s sword, he could finish off the guard quickly enough, particularly with the element of surprise in his favor.

  But if Hesperian did not come in alone? What then?

  Serapion bit his lip. Things were happening too fast now. There was no time for that careful planning that makes success a certainty. Perhaps it would have been better not to try to kill Hesperian, when so much was in the hands of the Fates.

  He heard footsteps in the hall. One person? Two? Three? There was an echo: it was hard to tell at first.

  It was one! He was sure of it. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Gaius Hesperian, smiling and genial, entered.

  “Ave Caesar,” said the Roman, with a vague salute.

  “Ave Caesar.” Serapion gave no outward sign of his tension.

  Hesperian reclined on the couch across the table from him.

  Serapion thought: He hasn’t even posted a guard outside the door.

  In the dim light that found its way in from the courtyard, Hesperian’s clean-shaven, square-cut face seemed to have lost its lines of age and worry, and in spite of the gray in his thick, bushy eyebrows and receding hair, he seemed somehow young, innocent and… trusting. When he laid down on the marble top table the swagger stick of twisted vine that was the symbol of his centurion’s authority, it was with a gesture that, to Serapion’s feverish eyes, seemed to say more clearly than words, “I am no more than a man. I too can die.”

  The impression was strengthened by the fact that, though he wore short sword and dagger, he had no helmet or armor, only a short red linen tunic and a pair of open-toed leather boots. By the gods, he looked as defenseless as a baby!

  “You’re a clever fellow, my friend,” began Hesperian.

  “I? Oh, no, it’s you who are famous for your keen mind.”

  Hesperian regarded him seriously. “I know I have a certain reputation, but I must honestly confess that I don’t deserve it. I’m actually rather slow-witted—no, really I am—but persistent. It’s my belief that even a slow-witted man can understand anything if he tries long enough.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Ah, but I do… now, where is our lunch?”

  “It will be ready in a moment, I’m sure.”

  “They fuss over food too much, don’t you think, Serapion? A simple lunch like this, but they must put in a little of this and a little of that… You know what I mean?”

  Serapion nodded, feeling slightly ill.

  At that moment Wakar appeared, bowed almost imperceptibly, and shuffled in with the food on a tray. As the slave set one dish after another on the table, Serapion burst into a flood of talk, saying anything that happened to come into his head, all the time thinking, Pour the wine, Wakar. P
our the wine!

  “Ah, my friend Hesperian, have you ever tasted Jewish food? There are so many rules to follow in its preparation you’d think it would be dull and tasteless… but it isn’t! Here in Alexandria there are eating places in the Jewish quarter where you can get food that would be the envy of the gods. Sometimes I think it isn’t what you put into food that makes it good, but what you leave out…”

  Wakar was pouring the wine from a small, perhaps one-quart, amphora, into the two white, glazed-pottery, goblets. Serapion thought, What if he insists that I drink first? The host is supposed to drink first, but am I the host, or is he? Do I dare hold the poison in my mouth? No. I’d just pretend to drink. But wouldn’t he notice?

  But as he thought these things, his mouth, as if it was someone else’s, went on talking, just a little too fast. “The best food is what you get at sea. I don’t mean the garbage you bring along. I mean fish, fresh-caught and fried right there on deck over a crackling brazier of live coals.” Neither man had touched the food or the wine. Serapion rattled on.

  Hesperian raised a hand to stem the flow. “What’s wrong, Serapion? Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Frankly, no. There’s so much tension…”

  “Well, I am! And thirsty, too.”

  Hesperian reached for his wine.

  Chapter Three

  Captain of the Guard Remus was horror-struck.

  “Demetrius and Hathor Memnon escaped? But that’s impossible!”

  “They’re not in their cells,” said the guard.

  “You mentioned that there were some dwarfs here,” Optio Mannus prompted.

  Captain Remus threw himself down in a chair behind the heavy table in the center of the guardroom, pale in the reflected light from the single sunbeam that entered through the room’s small and only window.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Remus said. “But I didn’t let them past. They played tricks for a while to amuse us, then went on… they said they’d be right back with a confirmation of their order.” He held up the scroll.