Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery

by Ray Faraday Nelson

  “Serapion, please,” she pleaded, but he seemed not to hear her.

  “That’s it, you idiots!” he screamed at his crew. “Enough! Now, full ahead! Pull, you scum! Pull those oars! We’ll get him this time!”

  Hesperian’s commands could also be heard across the narrowing gap between the ships, but there was a note of dismay in the Roman’s voice. “Break the turn! Veer out! Full ahead there!” There was a cracking sound of oar against oar. Serapion burst into a maniacal laugh.

  “Get up!” he shouted, dragging Hathor to her feet. “You see that? His oarsmen can’t change rhythm quickly without getting confused. Look at that! Look at that!” He was laughing hysterically.

  Now the rowers on Hesperian’s ship had picked up the new rhythm from the steady dull thump of the oarmaster’s drum, but the ship had already lost valuable momentum. The Ra-Harakhti, whose crew, even during the difficult turning maneuver, had moved as one man at all times, was now moving at full ramming speed, and bearing down relentlessly.

  Serapion’s crew needed no oarmaster’s drum: They kept together as the musicians in a fine orchestra keep together, almost by instinct.

  “We’ve got him!” Serapion shouted exultantly. “Stand by for the shock!”

  A volley of arrows whistled overhead and Hathor, in the instant before she ducked below the gunwales, caught a glimpse in the bright moonlight of Hesperian’s agonized face, then there was a heavy splintering crash and a shock that sent her sprawling as Serapion’s ship rammed into the side of Hesperian’s, just forward of the stem.

  * * * *

  In the instant after the impact, the two ships were locked together in a terrible silence broken only by a creaking, scraping sound and the snap of an occasional breaking plank, as the vessels rose and fell with the sea, each movement increasing the damage to Hesperian’s ship, while Serapion’s remained virtually unharmed.

  The centurion, by keeping a firm grip on the rail, had managed to remain on his feet, and as he looked down the long sweep of his opponent’s deck, he could see nobody looking in his direction. Time seemed to pass more slowly, there was ample time to estimate the damage to his ship, realize the ship was finished, and make the decision to attempt one last desperate move.

  He vaulted the rail and landed on the curved upper face of the heavily-braced prow that supported Serapion’s hawk’s-head ram and clung there as the ships separated. The prow was only slightly damp, not dangerously slippery; this part of it was well above the water line. He took a deep breath and clambered forward until he reached the dangling anchor chain, tested it to see if it was secure and, finding that it was, climbed up it hand over hand and, a moment later, swung a leg over the rail and found himself on the forward deck of the Ra-Harakhti.

  Behind him, moving steadily further away, he could hear the panicked screams of his own rowers, but he did not so much as glance in their direction; there was nothing more he could do for them. If they kept their wits and clung to the ship, they wouldn’t drown. The bireme was made of wood and it would float… though rather low in the water, of course… and they were not far from shore.

  Ahead of him, as he had hoped, there was nobody on deck but Serapion, Hathor and the two Nubian tiller-men. All the slaves, including the dwarfs, were below-decks, and Demetrius… that old man’s troubles were over.

  Hesperian thought, Surprise is with me. If I can reach Serapion before he can call for help…

  He drew his short sword and sprinted for the afterdeck, cape streaming behind him. But one of the naked black giants cried out in surprise and pointed, and now Serapion looked up, astonished, and called out, “Hesperian!” Instantly he let go his sister’s wrist, drew his own short sword, and crouched, ready.

  Hesperian slowed to a walk. He reflected, We’re equally matched. We have the same weapons, and are both without shield or helmet.

  But Serapion was younger, and probably quicker, more nimble.

  Hathor screamed, “No!” and rushed forward to try to stop her brother, but he threw her aside with such force that she fell and seemed stunned, perhaps unconscious. Hesperian gripped his sword a little tighter, a sudden irrational anger welling up inside him.

  They were face to face now.

  Hesperian stopped.

  The two men stood like statues a moment, then began to circle each other warily, each waiting to catch the other off guard. Out of the corner of his eye Hesperian could see the Nubian giants waiting for a sign from their master and, through the openings in the deck next to the gunwales, the heads of astonished rowers appearing.

  A high piping voice called out, “Need help, Master?”

  It was Bubo, the dwarf.

  The crew laughed, but Serapion said nothing, he just kept circling, a trace of a contemptuous smile on his thin lips. In another moment there was nothing to be heard but the creak of the ship and the faint rush of the wind and the distant breakers on the shore.

  It is, Hesperian thought, a beautiful night. The breeze was warm, and the moonlight was, by now, almost as bright as day. The pitch and roll of the ship was gentle, soothing. To be on this ship, on such a night, with Hathor, under different circumstances… Hesperian’s blade lowered a hair’s breadth.

  Serapion lunged.

  Sword blades clanged together.

  The two men parted, unhurt, and continued to circle.

  “Very good,” murmured Serapion. “My compliments, Roman.” He lunged again.

  There was a lightning exchange of thrusts and parries, but this time as they separated Hesperian was bleeding freely from a cut in his right leg.

  “You’re getting old, Roman,” Serapion remarked, then smiled faintly and added, “But don’t worry. I’ll see you don’t get any older.”

  He lunged again, but it was only a feint. All the same, Hesperian was forced to take a step backward.

  Serapion attacked again, this time in earnest, and Hesperian found himself retreating steadily. Laughing recklessly, Serapion advanced behind a blade that flicked and darted like a serpent’s tongue, so light on his feet he seemed more a ghost than a swordsman, while the centurion, limping badly, could only stumble back along the deck until he found himself amidships.

  There he tried to counter-attack, but only succeeded in picking up a deep cut on his left arm. He managed to stand firm for a while, but he was getting dizzy from pain and loss of blood. He had to see, but his eyes had begun to go out of focus, and every time he moved his wounded leg it hurt as if cut again. His left arm hung useless at his side… there was no feeling in it. But the worst pain was in his mind, the humiliating realization that Serapion was just playing with him, tormenting him… for sport!

  And then Hesperian slipped.

  He slipped in his own blood and went down on one knee, and Serapion, with a sweep of the cloak, caught the Roman’s sword in its folds and jerked it from his hand.

  Before Hesperian could draw his dagger, Serapion was standing over him, sword at his throat, panting and laughing.

  “Lie down on the deck, face down, Roman,” Serapion commanded, grinning.

  Hesperian hesitated.

  “Now!” shouted Serapion.

  Hesperian obeyed.

  “Now,” went on Serapion, “pull out your dagger very slowly and throw it away. Ah, that’s it.”

  Hesperian did as he was told.

  Hathor, who had dragged herself into a sitting position some distance away, called out, “Serapion, please! Please! You can’t kill him when he’s helpless like that!”

  Serapion answered scornfully, “I suppose not, little sister. There’s no sport in it. I’ll let my slaves do the cleaning up.” He turned to the crowd of rowers who had come up on deck to watch the fight. “All right, you there. Finish him off!”

  * * * *

  As he looked down at the Ro
man who lay, face down, spread-eagle on the deck, Serapion thought with a kind of awe, This is the moment of victory.

  It was hard to believe that the terrible game was over, and that he had won.

  But what could stop him now? The only ship that had pursued him had been wrecked, and the only man who had come close to catching him now lay helpless at his feet. With Hesperian dead, the way would be clear to freedom and perhaps honor and wealth in Parthia at the court of King Vologases, perhaps an overland trip to India to exploit the Memnon business holdings there.

  He wiped his short sword clean, returning it to its sheath.

  And he thought, I have been faithful to my god, Osiris-Serapis, and now my god is rewarding me. Success is the sign of the favor of the gods. So the gods approve all I’ve done! They approve the way I saved my father from the Second Death. They approve the way I love my sister, so like the way the god Osiris-Serapis loves his sister, Isis. They approve the way I rid myself of this Roman pig, Hesperian! He and his kind should never have come to Egypt! My ways may not please the Romans, with their rigid and alien morality, but the ancient gods of Egypt not only forgive me, they applaud!

  He could almost hear the gods cheering, like the mob in an arena at a gladiatorial spectacle, cheering Serapion the Victor and turning thumbs down on Hesperian the Vanquished.

  Serapion glanced around, and frowned. The crew was hanging back. Were they afraid to attack a helpless, unarmed man?

  He glared at them. What a mixed, ragtag crew they were, but he’d made real sailors, real fighting men, of them… blue-eyed, yellow-bearded Northerners, giant black Africans, tough, wiry, brown little Jews and Arabs, tall native Egyptians, stocky brown-bearded Britons… he’d melded them all together into a fighting machine that could beat, it seemed, even the much-feared Praetorian Guard.

  “What’s wrong?” he shouted at them. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “He’s an important Roman official,” said one of the big Greeks apologetically.

  “This could mean trouble…” added one of the giant black tiller-men.

  Serapion shouted: “A hundred drachmas to the first man who gets in a cut!”

  Before any of the slaves could respond, Hesperian, still flat on the deck, called out, “Is that all he’ll bid for the life of a Centurion of the Imperial Praetorian Guard? I can top that!”

  The slaves hesitated.

  Some lowered their weapons: knives, short swords, clubs, boat hooks.

  Jeeringly, Bubo, the dwarf piped: “Make your bid, Roman!”

  “Give me my life,” shouted Hesperian, “and I’ll give you your freedom… every one of you!”

  “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” shrieked Serapion, as he saw them glancing at each other curiously, considering Hesperian’s offer. “Two hundred drachmas!” screamed Serapion. “Three!”

  But it was too late.

  The slaves were turning away from Hesperian and advancing on Serapion.

  Serapion drew his short sword, went into a fighting crouch. There were so many, and he was only one.

  He retreated a step, then another.

  Hathor screamed.

  He half-turned, but the attack came low, lower than he had any reason to expect. Bubo hurled himself at the back of Serapion’s legs, knocking his feet from under him.

  Serapion thought, I don’t understand.

  The foot of a Nubian giant stepped on his sword hand. He could feel the crunch of broken bones. His sword tumbled on the deck. Hands ripped away his dagger. Knives and short swords penetrated his flesh in a dozen places at once. There was pain, but it was not unbearable. He looked past the snarling faces that pressed in on him, looked into the eyes of his sister Hathor, and in the midst of the pain a part of him, which did not share the agony of the body, savored the love and concern he saw there.

  He thought, It will only be a little while before we meet again. But in what different time and place? In what different bodies? And will we remember? A little, yes. You always remember a little… a feeling, when you see someone for the first time, that you have known her for centuries.

  Serapion was not yet dead, but his body no longer obeyed him. They were dragging him along the deck, lifting him into the air, and now he was falling. The water, when he struck it, was cool and good.

  He went down, down, and it seemed…

  It seemed someone, a dark man with the head of a dog, was waiting there under the sea to take him somewhere.

  Coda

  In the harbor of Ostia the Ra-Harakhti dropped anchor one hot summer morning, under a cloudless sapphire sky filled with wheeling squadrons of white seagulls.

  A small boat rowed out to meet the bireme, threading its way among the other ships that lay at anchor there, rocking gently on the swells.

  A naked Greek slave held the small boat as steady as he could while a small group of friends, laughing and joking together, transferred one at a time from the larger vessel to the smaller.

  In the lead was Centurion Gaius Hesperian, limping slightly. He jumped down from the Ra-Harakhti quickly and easily, like a man who’d spent his life at sea. His wounds were almost healed; soon they would be no more than a few more old scars, a few more fading memories of pain. He wore a short red tunic and sandals, a dagger and a sword.

  Next came Hathor, dark with the tan she had cultivated on the long Mediterranean cruise from Alexandria. She was barefoot and wore a pale blue linen shift that clung to her supple body with the dampness of sweat or sea spray; her light brown hair had grown long and tangled during the voyage, and it streamed out behind her as she leaped down into the small boat. Hesperian caught her and steadied her and they both laughed, but there was in the laughter an undertone of sadness.

  Third came Mannus, his short-cropped brown hair perhaps just a little grayer, his thick hard body perhaps a little more weary than it had been when he left for Alexandria. Like his commanding officer, he wore neither helmet nor armor, but a short black linen tunic, sandals, dagger and short sword. From his dagger-belt hung a small leather moneybag. And, like his commanding officer, he made the jump from the larger vessel with the careless ease of a true sailor.

  Last came the scribe, Librarius Daphnis, handsome, muscular, hawk-nosed and arrogant as ever, his clothing identical to Mannus. Daphnis’ leap was made self-consciously, as if showing off his gracefulness.

  When the four were seated, the Greek shoved off, and the little boat headed back toward the quays.

  Hesperian shaded his eyes with his hand and made out the figure of a Roman soldier, a Praetorian, waiting near the small-boat dock. The soldier had four horses with him, saddled and bridled. Hesperian’s message, sent ahead when he’d docked overnight at Neapolis, had apparently gotten through on time.

  “Ave Caesar!” snapped the soldier as they mounted the stone steps toward him, and the crispness of the straight-arm salute would have been in itself enough to tell them that they were home.

  Hesperian, Mannus and Daphnis returned the greeting and the salute with an unaccustomed precision. On the long sea voyage they had fallen into the habit of hardly saluting at all.

  “Your horses, sir,” barked the soldier.

  “Thank you, soldier,” answered the centurion.

  The soldier cupped his hands and Hesperian stepped into them and swung a leg over the nearest horse, as fine a black stallion as a man could want.

  When Mannus, Daphnis and Hathor had been similarly helped into the saddle, Hesperian told the soldier, “We’re riding to Rome. I should be back by nightfall.”

  “Yes, sir. Ave Caesar!” The soldier thumped his breast and once again gave the straight-arm salute.

  “Ave Caesar,” returned Hesperian gruffly, but as the four turned their horses and rode away, he asked Mannus, “Do you think you can get used to ‘Ave Caesar’ both
coming and going?”

  Mannus answered ruefully. “I suppose I’ll have to.” They rode at a brisk easy canter, past the long rectangular brick warehouses with the booths set into the walls behind mosaic walkways portraying grain ships, lighthouses, dolphins, gods—a maze of trademarks interspersed with the names, usually in Greek characters, of the distant ports with which the different corporations traded. There were merchants in those booths, standing behind tables and arguing—as they would spend the rest of their lives arguing—over prices.

  At the first cross-street they swung away from the waterfront and, slowing, picked their way through a crowd of slaves, merchants and seamen to the less commercial part of town.

  At one point Hathor’s horse—a powerful brown mare—reared up as a barking dog dashed across its path.

  “You’re all right there?” asked Hesperian with concern.

  She laughed and tossed her head. “I can ride as well as any man. You want to race?”

  Hesperian grinned and shook his head.

  “Sir,” called out Mannus.

  They reined up.

  “Yes, Mannus?”

  “With your permission, sir, Daphnis and I would like to leave you here. As I remember, there’s a certain inn not far away where they serve only the finest wines, including, so it’s said, the very best vintage Falernian. Daphnis has kindly volunteered to treat me.”

  Daphnis scowled, but it was obvious he wasn’t really angry.

  “Very well,” Hesperian said, giving Mannus a light, playful punch in the arm. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Mannus was puzzled. “Forgetting something?”

  “The salute.”

  Laughing, they exchanged salutes and Mannus and Daphnis galloped off.