Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery
Page 22
“Where to now?” asked Hathor, looking around at the almost identical five-and six-story red brick apartment buildings filled with noisy, squalling humanity that surrounded them.
“Follow me,” Hesperian answered.
Their horses’ hooves clattered on the paving stones as they set off, Hesperian in the lead.
A few minutes later they had left Ostia behind them and were pounding down the Ostian Way. It was almost like open country here, with the straight lines of willows spaced evenly along the road’s edge, the occasional clump of umbrella pines, and the little farmhouses set back from the road, with their white walls and red tile roofs.
The highway was divided into three lanes: the center lane was wide enough for oxcarts and donkeys and horses to move past each other in both directions; then, separated by a footwalk on either side, there were two narrow lanes for rapid one-way traffic, and it was down one of these outside lanes that Hesperian and Hathor were riding.
Hesperian slowed slightly to allow Hathor to come up beside him. Above the drumming of the hoofbeats, Hathor called over, “You’ve been so kind, Gaius. I’m afraid I must have bored you with my weeping and hysterics at the Festival of the Ship of Isis.”
Not looking at her, he answered, “You made up for it later.”
“And now all the questions are answered, eh, Gaius?”
“There’s one thing. Tell me, when did you learn that Serapion…?”
“Killed my father? I thought you knew. It was when I was eavesdropping on you the first time you questioned him. You knew too, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but then you threw me off, you little fox.”
They laughed.
On their left the Tiber River came into view and began running parallel to the highway. It was flat country along here, flat as a tabletop.
After a pause Hesperian began. “I’m glad you can laugh now. I was afraid…”
“That I’d pine away for love?” On the ship she’d gotten into the habit of finishing his sentences for him. “Oh Gaius, you’re so old-fashioned. Women may have done things like that in the days of the Roman Republic, but not any more. Besides, now that I look back on it, I’m not sure I really loved Serapion after all.”
“What?” Hesperian was surprised and slightly scandalized.
“I think if I’d really loved him I could have turned him in. It was because I didn’t love him, only wished to believe I did, that I was ready to sacrifice my life. I wanted—you know—to prove a beautiful lie, a lie that was like poetry. Beware, Gaius, anyone who has something to prove!”
After another silence, Hesperian said uncertainly, “When you asked me if I was married…?”
“Oh Gaius, not now. I’ve lost my taste for poetry. I can see things more clearly now. For instance, you’re awfully old, you know.”
“That’s true.” This time his laugh was nervous, forced.
They rode on in silence for a long time.
The buildings along the road were taller and closer together. That was Rome up ahead, spots of white marble showing in a mass of green trees. Rome could be seen from some distance away, as the famous seven hills on which it was built were almost the only hills in the area.
And now they were entering the outskirts.
The streets were still wide, but so crowded they had to slow their horses to a walk.
They passed under a towering two-tiered aqueduct, passed alongside the vast bulk of the Circus Maximus, and heard the cheering crowds. All around them the sweating mobs milled and pushed, heedless of anything but their own immediate business. Hesperian, who knew his way, rode in the lead; Hathor rode behind him, too far away for conversation.
The crowds thinned.
Ahead of them lay the gates of a sumptuous villa protected by high walls. Hesperian reined up before its heavy wooden gate and dismounted. Hathor sprang off her horse and followed him.
He spoke briefly to a slave who peered out at him through a little window in the door, then waited in the sun and buzzing flies.
She took his hand.
“Gaius, won’t you stay for supper? I’m sure my mother would be honored.”
He turned away. “What would be the point?”
She was about to answer when the villa gate burst open and an older woman ran out; she was not beautiful, but very slender and dignified, a woman who looked like Hathor would look some day.
“It’s been so long,” murmured Octavia Memnon.
She looked at Hathor for a moment, as if afraid someone was playing a cruel joke on her; then the two women embraced. There were tears in Octavia Memnon’s eyes.
Hathor pulled free saying, “Mother…” The word sounded awkward on her lips. “Mother, I want you to meet…”
But Hesperian had stepped quickly away and now sprang into the saddle of the stallion and, clutching the bridle of the brown mare, thumped his heels into the ribs of his horse and galloped away, head down, shoulders hunched.
Octavia said, “Well, he’s certainly very rude!”
Hathor answered defensively, “You just don’t understand him!”
The women talked together in low voices for a while before going into the house.
Late that summer the garden party to celebrate Hathor’s debut in Roman society was the event of the season, but Centurion Hesperian did not attend.