‘Twenty thousand sesterces,’ she replied. ‘Possibly more, if conditions are favourable, and to ascertain that I would need to inspect the premises.’
‘Naturally,’ he said, and his mind seemed to have focused. ‘Feel free to ask questions, my dear, I’ll get my son, Sargon to show you around.’
He left her studying the bronze tablets inscribed with the fundamentals of Babylonian law which hung between the paintings and shone like a hundred suns in the brilliant lamplight. There were two sets, one in Latin and one comprising squiggles she’d never seen before, and the rules were both harsh and bizarre. Take the penalty for adultery, for instance. The guilty couple to be tied face to face and thrown in the river to drown. Charming. What about this one? Should a son strike his father, let the offending hand be chopped off. Perfect way to mend the family rift. Oh, my goodness. If a wife kills her husband, she must be impaled—
‘Hello, I’m Sargon.’ The dandy swept into the room, flanked by two men, who he proceeded to introduce. Dinocrates she recognized as his Greek companion in the garden. ‘And Tryphon, who we call the Captain.’ Thin, wiry, Claudia doubted whether she’d have recognized him had it not been for the horseshoe-shaped scar on his face. Her nails bit deep into the flesh of her clenched fists.
‘Finally, we have Silverstreak.’ He looked round, but there were just the four of them alone in the atrium. ‘Silverstreak,’ he called. ‘Here, boy.’
Nothing. Then he whistled. Three short notes in succession. ‘Silverstreak!’
The wolf came loping into the room, tail wagging, and Sargon patted his head. He seemed to be telling Claudia there was nothing to worry about, the wolf was a proper softie underneath, but her blood had run cold and she could no longer hear him. That whistle. Whit-whit-whit. That was what Zosi the speech seller described hearing in the Argiletum last week. And then when Zygia died, people reported a man calling his dog. His wolf? My god, Zygia was killed in the Wolf Grotto…
‘Quick!’
All three rushed forward as Claudia’s knees buckled—Dino to catch her, Sargon to fetch a chair, Tryphon to thrust a glass in her hand.
‘Ugh.’ Claudia jerked back to consciousness. ‘What on earth’s this?’
Tryphon grinned, and the scar bunched out one cheek. ‘Date liqueur, which is not to everyone’s palate.’
‘Does the average palate survive?’ she asked, checking the roof of her mouth hadn’t dissolved. ‘This stuff’s lethal.’
Claudia’s tour was as exhaustive as it was comprehensive. She was shown dormitories, workshops, training rooms and classrooms, nurseries and playgrounds and kitchens, her guides veering between professional detachment and personal pride in the smooth running of this huge complex.
There
was no corner, no cupboard which they did not show, each taking turns to expand upon the management. Babies raised in this wing, toddlers in that. Many boys are apprenticed here, there’s the mosaic-laying class in session now, that’s the music room over there, and the weaving shed’s just across the yard.
Claudia listened, made mental notes, and all the while, Silverstreak trotted behind them.
‘This is the carpentry block.’ The Captain had to shout above the whirr of hand drills and the scrape of metal-faced planes. ‘The lads turn out everything from yokes to flutes to plough staffs.’
‘And the girls?’ Claudia asked, pretending to sneeze from the sawdust in order to cover the flush of excitement which had risen to her cheeks. ‘What happens to girls who reach puberty?’
‘Strict segregation.’ Dino pointed to the southernmost wing of the complex, wider at its base end than the part which abutted the house. ‘Women and eunuchs only.’
‘Yourselves excepting, of course?’
‘Us?’ sneered Sargon. ‘Here, my lovely, a rule is a rule and there is never an exception.’
He exchanged a sharp glance with the Captain, who said grimly: ‘Arbil does not tolerate laxity in any form.’
‘Which is why the organization runs so smoothly,’ Sargon added.
Admittedly he oiled his hair just a little too much, wore one ring too many, perfumed his body rather too heavily, but Claudia’s overall impression of Sargon was that of a tireless workaholic loyal to his father’s cause who was backed by a trusted, solid team.
Bugger.
‘Is there anywhere else you’d like to see?’ Dino asked, but he knew, and she knew, that she’d seen everything—and yet nothing. Now here they were, back in the atrium, under the watchful eye of Ishtar and her brood of gilded cherubs. Dammit, it was market day tomorrow and Claudia wasn’t a single step closer to preventing another grisly death. Instead, what had she proved? That Arbil brands his slaves with blue dragons, a fact they knew already? That Sargon whistled his wolf the way any man whistles his dog?
Admit it, you’ve failed. If only, perhaps, I had more time, a chance to get to know these people, find out how their minds work. The killings have to be linked with this place, they have to be…
‘My dear, my dear, won’t you please stay for dinner?’
Of all people, it was the barbarian, the peddlar of young flesh, who came to her rescue. The very man she had come to investigate.
‘Arbil, I should be delighted.’ Truly that was no lie. But first I’d like to snoop around your private quarters. ‘But first I’d like to freshen up.’
‘Be my guest, be my guest,’ he beamed back. ‘First left, second door down on the right is a bath room.’
Claudia followed his directions and put her head round the door to take note of the decor. Right. Now for the rest of the rooms.
The first was patently Arbil’s office, although how he could work in a room painted dark blue beat Claudia, and that ugly green zodiac, yeuk! But the gold she admired, and one thing was sure. Arbil was not stingy with the glittery stuff. It was plastered on the rafters, on the walls, over statues as though Midas himself had passed through. She leafed through Arbil’s documents, but they were recorded in incomprehensible squiggles, and there was also a lock on his moneybox.
Next door was decorated with dragons and an eight-point star which had been inlaid over a sinister contraption that seemed to pass as a bed. What strange habits these Babylonians have! She looked around. More gold, more statues, and on the wall were two portraits, one of Sargon, the other younger and with features similar enough to pass as a brother. But if this was the second son, Shannu, that Marcus had told her about, why had no one here mentioned him? Claudia continued her search. Arbil’s chests and trunks were made of terracotta as opposed to wood (an eccentricity which pervaded the entire complex), and revealed a strange taste in clothing and a clutch of pornographic pamphlets, but nothing, unfortunately, which suggested a propensity for slicing young women to ribbons.
Sargon’s room was light and bright and airy, and although there was the odd nod to Babylon, Sargon was not stuck in the past. Claudia whistled. He liked nice things, did Sargon. His jewel casket was the largest she’d ever seen, gold thread ran through his clothing, there was fine leather tooling on his sandals. He had scent bottles of onyx and fine alabaster, pillows stuffed with rose petals, and he owned more cloaks and tunics than you could buy in the Forum on market day. Right at the bottom of a trunk full of togas lay a soft leather satchel and Claudia unbuckled the straps. Scanning the documents it contained, she quickly selected two—one contract, one invoice and tucked them deep in the folds of her robe.
Oops. The next room was occupied.
‘So sorry,’ she breezed. ‘Thought this led back to the atrium.’
The girl from the courtyard had been changing her gown. Her long hair hung unbound to her waist. Now most women, when a door opens on their ablutions, jump, though usually they’ll relax at the sight of another female. Again, these eyes blazed hatred. And instead of reaching for a sheet, the raven-haired beauty thrust her hands behind her back, as though it was more important to conceal what was in them than to cover her nudity. Even more intriguing was that, before the hostility kicked in, Claudia witnessed something else in those eyes. Fear. That was one hell of a bruise on her face. Was it her attacker she hated and feared? And what had the girl tried to hide? White flower trumpets? Why whisk them out of sight? Nothing about this exotic creature made sense. Claudia didn’t even know who she was.
Dino’s room was her next port of call, a mix of Rome and Babylon and strangely homely. Another man who liked his home comforts, it appeared, but not a man who overdosed the way his employers appeared to—Sargon especially. Claudia searched the hidden corners of the room and found nothing, but all men have their secrets. Where’s yours, Dinocrates? Where is yours? She stepped back and surveyed the room. I wonder. I just wonder…
It wasn’t the first time correspondence had been inserted in the empty tube of a moulded bronze lampstand. She read, then re-read the letters before slowly replacing them.
This is proving to be one heck of an interesting household.
Right, then. One room left, the one at the end. Unlike the others, though, this did not open at a gentle tug on the latch. Claudia put her shoulder to the door, but it still didn’t budge. Then she noticed the bolt at the top. Reaching up, she gasped when a man’s hand covered hers.
‘Looking for something?’ The voice could not have been colder had it blown straight from the Arctic.
She turned to find Sargon standing over her, and a shiver ran down her spine. Gone was the veneer of urbanity. Like the gargoyles in the atrium, his face was twisted, his eyes hard, and Claudia knew she was staring into undiluted hatred.
The hand over hers strengthened its grip.
XXVI
Surprise is the one emotion which cannot be wholly suppressed. He’d have heard her sharp intake of breath, felt the reflexive jump of her body, there was nothing Claudia could do about that. However, the very act of surprise, being so natural, in itself gives a person time to plan their next move. That the timespan might be a mere split-second didn’t matter. Claudia was a past master at disguising her emotions.
‘Didn’t you hear what my father said?’ Sargon growled, and she could smell his resinous unguent, felt the heat of his body close to hers. ‘Bath room is the second door on the right.’
Claudia tipped up her chin and looked him straight in the eye. ‘The only thing in that room, my friend, is some sawn-off barrel and a solid glob of fat.’
His own eyes held their ground for what seemed an eternity, then his lips stretched back and a bellow of a laugh rang round the corridor.
‘That’s good,’ he chortled. ‘That’s really good.’
Claudia was confused. Sargon was convulsing, clutching his stomach, tears squeezing out of his eyes, and still she did not see the joke.
‘Listen to this,’ he wheezed, repeating Claudia’s words in the atrium, and Arbil grinned, too. ‘That’s how we wash, we Babylonians. In bathtubs, with soap.’
Claudia’s nose wrinkled. Sit in a bowl of your own dirty water frothing fat over your skin? I don’t think so! But then the whole place was imbued with barbarism, as she found out when Arbil led her through to the dining hall. No reclining three to a couch here. One was expected to perch upright at a table on chairs made of rushes like a common workman, and even the food was inedible. Flat crispy discs, call that bread? And the meat, guess what it’s cooked in? More lumps of fat! Lard, Arbil called it, how disgusting, and no wine, either, only beer which swirls round your tummy and never stops gurgling.
For all she pushed her food around her plate, dinner was not dull. She’d seen enough of Sargon’s mood swings—quiet conspirator, detached professional, sinister threatener, teller of jokes—to understand that inside lay a deep and complex character, and the documents she’d found in his room told her this was a man without conscience. But the objective of trekking into the countryside was to find a link between four butchered women, not to pass judgement, so until she learned more about Silverstreak, far simpler to go with the flow.
‘What’s good in bed and winks?’ Sargon asked across the table.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she confessed.
To which he just winked, and even Claudia couldn’t help laughing along with the others.
Dinocrates she found herself liking. Intelligent, personable, dedicated and loyal, she remembered the letters hidden in his lampstand and wondered how far the Greek orphan would go to protect his secret…?
Tryphon, on the other hand, seemed to have no obvious personality. He was Dino’s lieutenant, gruff, capable and eminently trustworthy, but admirable though these characteristics might be, he appeared to lack the ability to think for himself. Say ‘Tryphon, do this’ and it’ll be done to perfection. Ask ‘Tryphon, what do you think about so-and-so?’ and his eyes will glaze over. With his firm and authoritative manner and ability to respond calmly in a crisis, it was easy to see how he came to be called Captain—yet, surely captains are expected to use their initiative? Moreover, she had not been able to establish where he acquired that livid red scar. Pity his quarters were in the staff block, beyond the scope of her search.
Arbil, squat and smug as he presided over his table, was unquestionably proud of his achievements. ‘Without men like me,’ he said, ‘unscrupulous brigands would snatch children from farms or from villages. I give life to babies left to perish on the middens. If you like, I am their deliverer.’
For that, Claudia understood, Arbil expected both gratitude and obedience, and strangely enough he was rarely disappointed.
The sixth member of the dinner party was the Indian girl who, Claudia was astonished to learn, was Arbil’s wife. Throughout the meal, Angel never spoke a word, merely nibbled at her food or fidgeted with the bangles at her wrist and kept her cold eyes cast downwards. Claudia’s mind ran over the dirty pictures in Arbil’s terracotta trunk. Is that what makes Angel so sour, the prospect of her husband’s demands? Possibly, but there was a hardness about the woman, a calculating awareness, that suggested Claudia needed to see more of husband and wife together before jumping to conclusions about this seemingly ill-matched pair.