Wakar nodded. “Yes. Most of the time.”
“On the night when your master was murdered, were you on duty here?”
“During the meal. After that I went back to the slaves’ quarters.”
“Then if someone had come through here and gone out that door…”
“I didn’t see anyone, Sir.”
“No, no, how could you?” Hesperian seemed angry, but more at himself than at anyone else. He turned to Mannus and muttered, “The case is crumbling, Mannus. I had it all right here in my hand, but now it’s crumbling.” His gaze returned to Wakar. “But you were here when the soup was poisoned?”
“So they say, but I saw nothing.”
“You said some of the Memnons were here in the kitchen.”
“Yes. Hathor. Demetrius.”
With a sigh Hesperian gazed at the bright doorway, as if expecting it to answer him. “And Serapion, Wakar.”
The motion was quick and furtive, but, out of the corner of his eye, Hesperian saw it. “Wakar! What was that you did just now?”
“Nothing, Sir.”
“You crossed yourself.”
“I suppose so. A meaningless gesture…”
“Meaningless? It means you’re a Christian! That’s what it means. Isn’t that right?”
Wakar, after a pause, nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“You crossed yourself when I mentioned the name of Serapion. Why?” Wakar, eyes downcast, remained silent.
“I know your religion. You’re sworn to tell the truth. Tell me the truth, then, about Serapion.” Hesperian waited expectantly.
Wakar thought, But the Christ also tells us that a slave must not disobey his masters. God places these men in authority over us. If we disobey them, we disobey God. Wakar could neither speak nor meet the Roman’s gaze.
Then he felt once again the presence of Rophos, though this time Rophos was invisible. Wakar thought (for he believed the dead could read thoughts), Rophos! What should I do?
But it was only at certain times that the dead could actually speak to the living, and this was not one of them. Rophos! Speak! By the living Christ, speak! These were his thoughts, but his lips were motionless.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, strong but gentle. The centurion was saying, “Rophos was your friend. Will you allow…”
Why didn’t Hesperian leave him alone? The other time had been easier. The other time the Romans had tortured only Wakar’s body.
Rophos! Come to me! By the risen Jesus! By eternal Yahweh! By the Holy Spirit! Come!
But the presence of Rophos was fading, fading away. And now, through the drone of the centurion’s urgent voice, Wakar heard something else, the sound of some of the servants in the smaller dining room, laughing together as they worked. It was a soothing, familiar sound, except for… Wakar straightened. Except for the poisoned wine, which was still in there on the table!
What was that? Sabella’s giggle. Sabella, he knew, was in the habit of eating a bit of the leftovers as she cleared a table, and of taking an occasional sip of the leftover wine.
“Excuse me, Sir,” Wakar said awkwardly to Hesperian. “Excuse me.”
Wakar caught a glimpse of the Roman’s amazed face as he turned and lurched toward the smaller dining room as fast as his crippled leg would allow.
There was the hallway, long and dim.
And there was the doorway to the dining room.
And there was Sabella by the table, cup in hand.
“No!” shouted Wakar wildly. The little black girl turned a defiant eye in his direction and raised the cup to her lips. He threw himself forward and slapped the cup from her fingers, spattering the floor and walls with wine.
The girl howled with dismay and anger and kicked him in the shins. (Fortunately her feet were bare.)
Behind him Wakar could hear the footsteps of the Romans, then the voice of Hesperian boomed out, “That was poison, wasn’t it? Poison meant for me!”
Wakar was tongue-tied.
The centurion continued, more loudly, “Is this what your barbarian religion means, Christian? That you stand by silently and allow men to be murdered?”
“No! No! You don’t understand!”
“Do you think your God, if there is a God, will forgive you if you go on protecting the man who murdered not only your master, but your closest friend? If that’s true, then your God must be worse than men!”
The face of Rophos appeared and disappeared abruptly, again and again, first near the table, then near the door, then over by the walls that glistened with trickling wine. There it was, smiling, behind the furious Sabella. There it was above the heads of the cowering serving maids. Then, suddenly, Rophos was gone. There had been no words, but somehow the specter had spoken.
Wakar collapsed on one of the couches next to the table. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, it’s Serapion. I can’t let this go on. It’s Serapion.”
There was silence only for a moment, then the deep voice of Hesperian roared out triumphantly: “On your feet, Wakar! I want you to repeat those words to my officers and men, to the whole world!”
Wakar stood up and limped slowly toward the door. He felt a great peace coming over him, a feeling of infinite relief.
There were running footsteps in the hall ahead of him, then Daphnis burst into the room, panting and sweating, and thrust him roughly to one side. The handsome scribe stood swaying, trying to get his breath. Hesperian said impatiently, “What now?”
“Trouble, sir.” Daphnis glanced at the serving maids and Wakar questioningly, as if to ask if it was all right to speak in front of them.
“Out with it!” commanded the centurion.
“Basileides, a former freedman of the Emperor Claudius and a rich and powerful friend of the Memnon family…” He paused to suck in a lung full of air. “He’s here with a signed order from the Praefectus of Egypt, Tiberius Julius Alexander. Sir, he is demanding that we stop the investigation and set everyone free!”
Hesperian was the first into the hallway, but Wakar was close behind him. The centurion turned and said softly, “Stick close to me, Wakar. I’m going to need you.”
A richly-dressed fat old man with dark mottled skin was waddling toward them, shaking a pudgy fist and bellowing, “I want to see the commanding officer here. I want… ah, there you are, Centurion!” He thumped his bloated chest and gave a flabby salute. “Ave Caesar!”
“Ave Caesar,” echoed Hesperian, Daphnis and Mannus.
“Ave Caesar,” chorused the crowd of well-dressed but decadent-looking Greek-Egyptian aristocrats who followed the fat man. Wakar noticed that several of the aristocrats wore the toga of Roman citizenship… a distinguished company indeed.
And there among them, smirking, was the Parthian, Simon Baal.
“My name may mean something to you,” said the fat man, with a slight bow. “Basileides.”
“I’ve heard of you,” answered Hesperian crisply.
“And I, sir, have heard of you. Everyone is amazed at the stories of the evildoers you have brought to justice. You and I know, of course, that there’s never much truth in these stories, but the people must have heroes.” He smiled. “What’s really remarkable is that someone as lowborn as you could rise so high in the ranks of the army, and so young, too. You and I.” He winked. “We know how little birth matters these days, fortunately for us. But…” He frowned, almost pouted. “…really, Gaius—may I call you Gaius?—this time you and Nero have gone too far. He has no authority to send in his private troops on a purely local matter like this, arresting people right and left without evidence, without even charges. As soon as I heard you had ordered a manhunt for members of such a fine and universally-respected family as the Memnons, I had no choice but to instantly bring the matter to the attention of my good friend
, Alex—Tiberius Julius Alexander—who agreed with me that this harassment of innocent people, undertaken without his knowledge or consent, must stop at once.”
Hesperian leaned forward. “But sir, what would you say if I told you I now know who it was that killed Odysseus Memnon?”
“Lies!” cried out Simon Baal, his head snapping up so violently it set his braids bouncing.
Basileides ignored the interruption. “Do you have proof?”
“The testimony of one of his slaves…” began Hesperian.
“The word of a slave? What’s that worth?” sneered Simon. Some of the Greek-Egyptian nobles laughed outright.
“Together with a chain of simple, logical reasoning…” Hesperian said.
Basileides broke in, “After all this time, no possible chain of reasoning could be convincing enough to justify holding a Memnon. No, nothing short of a freely-given confession before unimpeachable witnesses would convince us.” The nobles nodded their agreement. “Do you have that?”
“No,” admitted Hesperian, after a baffled pause.
The fat man brandished a scroll. “Then you have no choice but to obey this order from Praefectus Alexander himself!” He turned and caught sight of Adrastia coming down the hall, a puzzled expression on her face. “Adrastia! Don’t worry, my sweet. I’ll have you out of this man’s power in no time.” He turned back to Hesperian. “And now where’s Serapion? I have no intention of leaving here without him.”
This can’t actually be happening, thought Wakar, dazed. He stepped forward and said, “May I speak?”
“No!” called out Simon Baal.
There was a murmur of accord from among the nobles.
Wakar turned toward Hesperian, thinking, The Roman is clever. He’ll think of something.
But the centurion just stood there helplessly, arms dangling at his sides. After a long pause, Hesperian exhaled softly and said, “Follow me.”
He led them all through the hallway, out into the great front hall, up the marble staircase and finally to the door of Serapion’s bedroom. The guard at the door looked at him questioningly.
“Wait here,” said Hesperian, his voice heavy with defeat. “I’ll bring him out.”
“We’ll wait all right,” said Basileides, glancing at Adrastia, Simon Baal, and the rest of his friends. “Not that we don’t trust you…”
The guard stepped aside and Hesperian opened the bedroom door.
* * * *
Mannus knew that in every battle there comes a time when the action goes beyond anything that either general had planned for, a time when planning is replaced by improvisation and chance, but even then there is an advantage to the commander who has prepared himself for such a moment, who is ready to act in the midst of chaos.
But Mannus was as surprised as any of the others who waited there outside the door (which Hesperian had only half closed) at the centurion’s first words to Serapion. That wasn’t the voice of a defeated man, but of the victor!
“They’ve come for you, Serapion.”
There was a long silence before Serapion’s reply. “I expected as much.”
Hesperian’s voice was crisp and commanding now, as if he was speaking to one of his troops. “Get your things together.” There was a sound of shuffling feet, then Hesperian added, “Are you still proud, Serapion?”
Suddenly Mannus understood. Without actually saying so, Hesperian was giving Serapion the impression that he was under arrest!
Serapion’s voice, when it came, was defiant. “Of killing the old man? Yes, damn you! I had my reasons, good reasons, but reasons I could never expect a Roman to understand!”
Mannus glanced around at the stunned faces of Basileides and his friends. They wanted a freely-given confession before unimpeachable witnesses? Well, here it was!
There was another pause, then the sound of a sudden blow, a grunt, and the thud of a falling body. Mannus was the first to leap through the doorway, short sword in hand.
Hesperian was sprawled on the floor, still conscious, but with blood running down his forehead. “The window…” he groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position. Outside Mannus heard the sound of a man landing on the lawn, then running footsteps.
Hesperian, shaking his head slowly, dragged himself to a kneeling position and reached out to pick up a heavy silver candle holder that lay on the marble floor beside him, then grinned sheepishly at the small crowd gathering around him and said, “I thought it would be more convincing if I let him take a crack at me.” He rubbed his forehead, then examined the blood on his fingers. “Don’t worry about Serapion. My men are all over the villa. He can’t get far.”
“Let me help you, sir,” Mannus said, stooping and extending a hand. With a grunt and a heave he had the centurion on his feet.
Hesperian blinked and swayed as Mannus continued to hold him erect. “Sorry. I guess I’m still a little dizzy.” With an effort he steadied himself. “And now my friends…” His slightly unfocused gaze swept around the circle of Greek-Egyptian aristocrats. “Now I am issuing an order for Serapion’s arrest. Do any of you gentlemen wish to object?”
Not one of them, including Simon Baal, dared to say a word.
Hesperian continued, “Then Daphnis, spread the word. I want this estate sealed… nobody goes in, and nobody goes out. Then I want every corner of the house and grounds searched, and searched again, until Serapion is found.”
Daphnis saluted. “Yes, sir!”
Hesperian seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Mannus, will you oversee the search? I’d like to lie down for a few minutes.” He stretched out and closed his eyes. “If I’m asleep when you catch him, wake me, eh? Show me no mercy.” He touched his forehead and winced.
“Yes, sir,” Mannus said uncertainly, backing away from the bed to join the others, who were filing out of the room, murmuring excitedly to each other.
In the hallway Mannus felt a hand tug at his elbow. It was the slave Wakar limping along, trying to keep up. “Master Mannus, I have something to tell you.”
“Later, slave, later,” Mannus growled, brushing the eunuch impatiently to one side.
Mannus was sure that everything depended on speed. There was no way for Serapion to leave the estate, so all he had to do was move quickly enough to flush Serapion out before nightfall. After dark it might not be so easy.
But as the afternoon faded away and he found himself in the kitchen, watching the red glare of the setting sun stream in through the open doorway, his certainty began to waver. When Daphnis appeared in the doorway, Mannus shouted at him, “Have you found him yet?”
Daphnis shrugged. “No, but he must be somewhere on the estate. There’s no way he could get out of here unless he actually has magical powers.” The sardonic smile on the scribe’s face said quite plainly that he had no faith in magic of any kind. Mannus, however, was not so sure. In Roman Britain he’d seen things no man could explain or, having seen them, forget.
There was a rustle behind him and Mannus turned, startled. It was Hesperian, a bandage on his forehead, doubtless put there by one of the serving maids.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Mannus with concern.
“Damned headache, that’s all. But you… haven’t you found Serapion yet?”
“No sir, but we’re sure he’s around here somewhere.”
“You are? Then tell me, how did those dwarfs get out of here when they went to get Hathor and Demetrius out of prison?”
“Well… I don’t know exactly, sir.”
“Neither do I, but I’ll tell you this. There’s some way out of this place, some way we don’t know about. There’s got to be!”
“Sir…” It was Wakar, emerging from the darkness behind the huge brick oven near the door.
“Do you know?” demande
d Hesperian.
“I… I think I do.”
“Then why didn’t you tell us?”
“I tried to tell your man Mannus, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Tell me then!” Hesperian shot a look of exasperation in Mannus’ direction.
“There’s a way all the slaves use,” said Wakar nervously. “There are underground aqueducts connecting all the estates together…”
“Of course!” cried Hesperian. Sabella had just come in carrying an earthenware oil lamp in which a smoky little flame was burning. Hesperian snatched the lamp from her fingers and led the way downstairs. “Look there,” he said, pointing, as the others caught up with him.
On the brick rim of the cistern, near where the aqueduct pipe protruded from the wall, there were muddy footprints, some small and some normal-sized.
“By the gods,” whispered Mannus.
“Now we’ll never catch him,” added Daphnis.
As Hesperian turned his face toward him, Mannus could see every dark line of anger and frustration outlined in light and shadow from the lamp.
“We must!” shouted the centurion, and the shout echoed for a long time before it faded away.
“He could be anywhere…” began Daphnis.
“Not anywhere. Somewhere special. Somewhere that someone like him would go and someone else wouldn’t. Think, man, think!”
Daphnis and Mannus looked stupidly at each other.
“Wait…” said Hesperian. “Serapion’s a sailor. A sailor must have a ship! And that’s how he’d get out of Alexandria. He’s got a ship!”
“That’s right, Sir,” said Wakar.
“Quick, Wakar,” demanded Hesperian. “Tell me where it’s moored.”
“In the harbor somewhere. I don’t know where.”
“Does anyone in this house know?”
“Adrastia perhaps.”
“She’ll never tell us anything. She’s a Memnon!” Hesperian started back up the stairs. “Mannus! Daphnis! Get the men together. Get some fast horses from the stables. We’re heading for the harbor!”
Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery Page 19
