Authors: Marilyn Todd
Claudia used the opportunity to glance over her shoulder, and nobody noticed her backwards inspection, because five, maybe six hundred pairs of eyes were entranced by the theatricals (sorry, religious observances). Goddammit, which one was Flavia among this herd? Her eyes swivelled round. The girl was shorter than Claudia, but then so, it appeared,
were three-quarters of the women gathered here. She was fatter than Claudia, but then so, it appeared, were three-quarters of the women here . . . Claudia let out an impatient sigh. With their regulation frocks and regulation eyes, it would be easier to tell sheep apart! Somewhere, she imagined, Flea would be snaking her way through the crowd, pocketing fistfuls of blue scarab amulets, although quite how a dungbeetle was supposed to protect a person from harm, Claudia had no idea.
'Hear me, for I am Osiris!' The rich tones of Mentu carried over the lashing rain. 'Tonight my holy father, Ra, departs to do battle with the Serpent and traverse the Realm of the Dead.'
The High Priest stepped forward. 'Hail to thee, Ra, in thy departing.'
Around Claudia, hands clamped together and a reverential chorus rang out. 'Mine eyes adore thee.'
'May thou cross in peace the Underworld in thy glorious Boat of the Evening.'
'Beautiful art thou.'
'And may thou rise in the horizon of heaven to give life to all that thou hast made, those who worship when they behold thee and sleep when thou dost depart.'
'For the joy thou bringest, O Lord, we adore thee.'
Two drumsticks now feathered the shell of the tortoise, faster but softer, and as the priestesses rattled their silver bells and showered the barque with rose petals, ten white-robed acolytes, five on either side of the boat, hauled the vessel back inside the temple buildings, the silver, lapis, amethysts and emeralds flickering wildly in the torchlight. The door closed behind them, but before the crowd could disperse, Osiris held up his hand.
'Brethren,' he said, and all eyes were upon him. 'You all know me, for I am Mentu, father to the fatherless, husband to the widow, protector of the poor. Through me, and my holy father, Ra, we bring you goodness, peace and harmony, that when the Day of Judgement comes, your hearts may weigh true at the Balance. And yet.' He paused for a count of three. 'There are those among us who do not believe.' This time the
pause was longer, to take account of the astonished gasps, the shuffles. 'There are those among us who wish to destroy what we have created!'
Expressions of disbelief rippled round the horrified crowd, and Claudia thought, so this is Mentu, the man who controls this herd of mindless peabrains. She squinted across the dancing lamplight to get a better view of the Egyptian who sold himself as a Pharaoh, as Osiris incarnate, son of Ra -and no doubt many other things besides! Min and Mentu, the Brothers of Horus? More like two barrow boys from Memphis with an eye to the main chance - an eye that most certainly did not belong to Horus!
Impossible to see much under the blue paint, the mask and the voluminous floor-sweeping cloak, except that, unless Mentu had exceptionally long legs or disproportionately short arms, the people's beloved Pharaoh wore built-up heels to compensate for a distinct lack of height.
Bored with the liturgy, Claudia had daydreamed her way through much of his monologue, but her attention was drawn back by a young man being escorted up the temple steps to stand before Mentu on the platform. He was a handsome enough lad, eighteen and muscular in his linen loin cloth, but what made her sit up sharp was that, flanking him, stood two guards armed with scimitars.
The storm's vicious scything of the sky mirrored the contours of their weapons. Claudia's blood ran chill. Armed guards. Tall double gates. Fences. Claudia swallowed. She was glad, now, she'd hired those henchmen. The first sign of trouble, and they'd swoop down like a shot at her signal.
'How will we know it?' one of them had asked.
Inspired by the
Serving Women
re-enactment, Claudia had said simply, 'I'll light a fire, of course.' (Although, unlike the pallid Prefect, she would not pedantically insist on a fig tree!) Absently, she wondered how she'd manage to kindle one in such a tempest, and reassured herself that any storm would have burned itself out by then. Not, she added hastily, that she imagined there would
be
a problem.
A second youth had jumped on to the stage (Claudia! it's a religious platform, behave yourself!). An unprepossessing creature, being podgy and sallow and prone to spots, but dazzled by piety, this second youth had sunk to his knees, sobbing, saying that he, too, once believed he would be better off back in the old world. He, too, had wanted to leave. Mentu floated over to him and placed his hand upon the fat boy's head. The boy was blubbering in earnest, telling everyone he'd been a fool, a narrow-minded fool, because
this
is his family,
these
are his friends,
these
are the people who love him.
The crowd, gripped by the boy's penitence, were surging forward, urging him on with avowals of love, and a flock of bats fluttered beneath Claudia's ribcage. Like the first youth, hauled up half-naked before them by the guards, she was less than convinced.
She had not realised how deep the indoctrination was planted.
Oh, shit. It was something she hadn't considered - the fact that leaving might not be an option. This boy had obviously tried and had been carted back under armed guard to be put on show for everyone to gawp at.
Something happened.
For a moment, Claudia did not understand its significance, this subtle movement of the animal gods. One moment they were standing in a V formation behind Osiris, now they had surrounded the youth who'd tried to escape. Their voices were soothing, almost cooing, but when the V fanned out again, the boy - and the armed guards - had disappeared.
Every hair on Claudia's body stood on end.
'It saddens me,' Mentu said, 'whenever a brother or a sister leaves us. What saddens me more, however,' and he brushed at his face, as though wiping away a tear, 'is that our brother Sorrel here sought to sneak away like a common burglar. He is free to depart, you all are - no!' He held up his hand. 'Anyone who wishes to leave is free to do so with the blessing of Ra, only come to me, first, I beseech you.
Seek the wisdom of Ra, through his son, Osiris, for outside this valley our enemies surround us. It is not purely the soul which imperils itself beyond these hills.' He voice rose a pitch. 'Rome seeks to destroy us, brothers.' The volume rose, too. 'To cast down Ra and the Ten True Gods, to smash what we have built.'
The baying of the crowd made Claudia's flesh crimple.
'But we shall resist! We shall fight to the very last breath for the right to resurrection, to eternal blessedness,
they shall not deny us!'
The howling grew louder.
'I say, our enemies must perish!' Mentu was bellowing to make himself heard. 'They have no hope of salvation. If they attack us, we -' he made stabbing signs in the air - 'must -fight - back.'
'Fight!'
'Kill!'
'Die for the cause!'
'Brothers!' With a cutting gesture, Mentu held up both arms and silence descended at once.
Claudia, terrified, had never experienced anything like it. Her breathing had stopped. Her heart was hammering. She had never been more alone in a crowd.
'Sisters.' His voice was mellow once more, almost coaxing. 'If Rome breaches our defences, we will meet the enemy head on and gladly. That's why we have men in the hills, to protect us, to give us advance warning of hostile attacks.' The gold mask shook sadly. 'If you want to leave, brothers, I beg you to leave openly through the gates. These men are mercenaries. Trained fighters. They cannot see in the dark and we do not want to suffer,' there was a catch in his voice, 'any more grievous accidents.'
The silence which followed was almost as frightening as the animal sounds the herd had made before, when it had risen to the mood of its leader.
'Accidents?' Claudia turned to Mercy, who was gazing enraptured at the speaker on the platform.
'Tch. Terrible, it was. Terrible.' Her eyes focussed again. 'One, gored right through by a rutting boar, poor soul. Another tripped and fell and impaled himself on the very stakes designed to keep the enemy out, while the third lad our noble watchmen mistook for an assassin, poor lamb was cut to pieces. Terrible. Such a waste of young lives.'
'But people do leave, right?' Claudia was not sure her voice was as obedient as she had hoped.
'There's been a spate of silly geese,' Mercy admitted, 'who've taken to stealing away in the night as though it's fashionable or something, although for the life of me I cannot see why. This is paradise on earth, is it not? Mind, they were young, the girls, and who knows what goes through empty heads at that age? Not that I'm suggesting they were touched like Berenice, you understand! To be sure, I'm not.'
On the platform, as though nothing unusual had occurred (perhaps it hadn't), the High Priest began to intone his thanks to Ra for the prosperous past month, the bounteous harvest, the plump cattle and ripening fruits. The figure wearing the crocodile mask stepped forward, to be garlanded with flowers by the ten white-robed priestesses and sprinkled with incense by the High Priest.
'Berenice?' Claudia prompted. Her voice was a rasp.
'Let's be charitable and say the heat got to her and she couldn't cope,' Mercy said, lowering her voice. 'He'd been running a temperature and grizzling, poor wee mite, so to shut him up, Berenice poisoned her baby. Aye. Fed him hemlock and left his wee body on the temple steps to stiffen, then -' she snapped her fingers - 'off she swanned. Not a word, the irresponsible besom. You're beginning to get the drift of this, aren't you?'
For a wild moment, Claudia wondered what the hell she meant, then she realised Mercy was talking, incredibly, about the ceremony taking place under the lights. The tragedy - the breathtaking horror - of Berenice, her poisoned baby, the fate of the boy, Sorrel (Sorrel? who dished out these weird names?), who'd tried to walk out, none of these things had
actually touched Mersyankh. This worldly, stoic creature had merely been saddened by what had happened.
'That's the end of the crocodile,' said the woman whose husband used to beat her. 'Tomorrow we greet the new month of Ibis.'
Oh, Mercy! Won't you ever learn? First your husband, now Mentu, they've taken out your spirit and you've just rolled over and allowed them to do it. Like a rag mopping up a spill, they've sucked up all your spunk - and along with it, your ability to question!
'Not difficult once you get the hang,' Mercy continued cheerfully. 'And because it's a special occasion, tonight we get palm wine with our supper.'
Claudia reeled. She pictured the guards. Noble watchmen, my armpits! Those were mercenaries, trained killers, Mentu openly admitted it. She thought of the scimitars. The double perimeter fence. Stakes to repel the enemy. High gates. And she thought, if three well-built young men can't escape this ring of steel, what chance has a girl?
Stranger still, what chance have several girls?
And at night?
Moreover, why would a young mother, even under pressure, kill her own baby? Why wouldn't she simply abandon him? He'd be in good hands, for heaven's sake!
A hymn had broken out, with clapping and much waving of arms, and despite the throbbing heat and torrential warm rain, gooseflesh rose on Claudia's arms.
The sooner she got Flavia out of here the better, but the sky was black as night and only the temple platform was lit. Under this awning, she couldn't see diddly, let alone Flavia. She'd have to wait until supper.
But time was fast running out.
This is Friday night. Junius will die tomorrow afternoon.
And suddenly Claudia knew she'd need something stronger than palm wine to sustain her through the next few hours. She'd need courage, she'd need strength, she'd need all her wits about her, because this wasn't going to be as straightforward as she'd
hoped. But more than that, Claudia felt that what she really needed was a scimitar like the guards carried.
Because right now six henchmen stationed on the far side of the hills didn't seem like any protection at all.
An eagle owl, swooping over the seven hills of Rome, had a clear view of the wreckage left behind by the midsummer storm. Flash floods. Clogged and overflowing drains. A tenement struck by lightning, palls of smoke and flames ripping through the night along with the sickly stench of burning flesh from those trapped inside.
The owl did not wish to singe its feathers. It moved on. Soaring above streets whose stinking, rotting refuse had been flushed downhill by the torrential rains, piling the debris against buildings and in the doorways of those not privileged enough to live higher up on the bluffs, the owl's penetrating amber scrutiny picked out some interesting enough titbits in the wreckage - a drowned kitten, several live rats - but the bird was a creature of the open woods and forests and in any case of a size more attracted to fawns and wolf cubs. It was simply passing through.
Northwards it swept, on silent, eerie wings, over the shrine tended by the Vestal Virgins, above the coins twinkling at the bottom of Juturna's healing pool, above dungeons awash under two finger widths of filthy water. The owl could not see, even if it wanted to, the small phalanx of soldiers splashing their blood-stained prisoner through the foetid underground chambers of this former stone quarry. The prisoner was a slave, an Armenian, who'd stabbed his master twenty-seven times in the chest and neck and stomach. His only regret was being captured before he'd been able to stab him another twenty-seven.