Wolf Whistle (6 page)

For Arbil the Babylonian, and to a lesser extent, for Arbil’s son, Sargon, the death of Agrippa was purely nuisance value. A disruption of routine, a complete re-scheduling. No grief, no sadness. Dino often wondered what it must be like for them, so far from the motherland and with no loyalties to Rome, which invariably set him questioning his own identity. For an orphan from Chios who’d been raised under Babylonian law, why this strong pull towards Rome and the Romans? Dino was heartily glad when the fourth henchman arrived.

‘What sex is it?’ he enquired, as they pushed through the oncoming traffic towards the post house where they’d arranged to meet Sargon.

‘What?’

‘The child we picked up tonight.’

‘Male,’ confirmed Vibio.

‘That’s some consolation for Arbil,’ said the Captain. ‘It’s tough these days to offload the girls.’

Vibio’s brow furrowed. ‘Yeah?’

‘Regrettably so.’ Pulling his cloak tight round his shoulders, Dino answered for the Captain. ‘With the size of country estates on the increase, landowners need more and more muscle to dig over their fields, tread their grapes, pick their olives. There’s only so many manicurists required on the open market.’

‘I can think of a use for the girlies,’ leered Vibio, rounding the corner of the posting station. Horses snickered, wheelwrights hammered out repairs by the light of bright torches.

Dino spun round, grabbed the man by the scruff of his tunic and pressed him hard against the buckboard of a two-wheeled cart. In the glare from the yard, the lackey could see the young man’s features clearly. Darkly handsome, tanned, oiled and athletic, right now his face was twisted with menace.

‘Don’t you ever, not once, make that filthy suggestion again.’ Dinocrates released the tunic, but the flare in his eyes didn’t lessen. ‘What we do is both legal and honest, we train these children, give them a craft if they’re able, ensure they have a roof over their heads and a full belly for life, even if they only end up as labourers.’

‘I didn’t mean nothing by it, Dino—’ The midden hunter rubbed where the wood had dug into his backbone.

‘I don’t care whether you did or you didn’t, the fact is you thought it. Just remember one thing, my friend. These babies might grow up slaves, but they grow up respected. And think, before you open your big mouth again, where
you
came from.’

‘I—’ He was floundering, and he knew it. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead, because he didn’t understand what was happening. Dinocrates never lost his rag over something so trivial. ‘Honest, Dino, I didn’t mean—’

‘He rescued you, he rescued me, he rescued Tryphon here.’

The Captain looked up from where he was checking the infant in its tiny basket and nodded solemnly. It wasn’t often Dino referred to him by anything other than his nickname. ‘Right,’ he growled. ‘So remember where your allegiance lies, lad.’

‘I do, I swear.’ It had been meant as a throwaway quip, the sort of joke men always make when they’re together, like it’s expected or something.

‘Then you show the ladies respect,’ pressed Dinocrates. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Now let’s hope Sargon’s early so we can get moving. This bloody damp’s right in my bones.’

A man, this side of thirty, stepped from the shadows with a swirl of his long, flowing cloak. ‘Did somebody mention my name?’

‘By Janus, lad, you gave me a bloody fright.’ The Captain had nearly dropped his precious basket. ‘What the hell are you doing out in the yard?’

Post houses were primitive, by and large, but there was always a waiting room where a large, open fire would crackle and spit and keep a man of standing safe from the elements, and there was no mistaking Sargon for a beggar. Not with wool that fine, or gems like those in his rings.

The Babylonian grinned. ‘It wasn’t me they objected to, Tryphon. It was Silverstreak here.’

At the mention of its name, a rangy canine loped to his side, yawned then casually licked its chops. Tawny coloured with a black tip to its long bushy tail, Silverstreak had acquired his name from the broad stripe of white fur which ran down his backbone. It was not that he was bad-tempered which people found so intimidating, it was more the fact that Silverstreak was a fully-grown wolf.

‘I trust you had a more successful evening than the rest of us,’ grumbled the Captain, although in all the years he’d worked the middens for Arbil, he still didn’t know what role Sargon played when they came into Rome and he envied Dinocrates for being privy to such secrets.

‘So-so.’ Sargon moved across to Dino and spoke so only the two of them could hear. ‘Remember the praetor’s wife, the one who’s right up the duff and her poor old husband stuck in Iberia this past twelvemonth?’

‘Indeed.’

‘The deal’s on. She’s due any time and when it’s born, we’re to relieve her of the brat and she’ll hand over the cash.’

It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Wealthy wives paid fortunes to maintain the illusion of virtue, and so long as men and women found one another attractive, it would remain a profitable sideline.

‘You’ve got to hand it to her, Sargon, she’s hidden it well.’ The number of women who took to their beds with mysterious illnesses while their husbands were absent beggared belief.

The Babylonian laughed. ‘So did the censor’s wife, Dino, and remember how that one turned out?’

The poor cow had been mortified at finding herself pregnant, and at one stage wondered whether to pass the baby off as her husband’s. However, unable to remember who she had slept with, in the end she let prudence take precedence and handed the child over to Sargon.

‘No mistaking him for the censor’s,’ laughed Sargon. ‘That kid was as black as Nile mud!’

V

The last day of the month protected by Mars dawned (if that wasn’t too strong a description) dull and grey and drizzly. Roof tiles darkened to the colour of blood, hides across windows hung shiny like satin, doors swelled and got stuck. In the homes of the better-off, Spanish oil topped up lanterns lit more for comfort than necessity as a swarm of industrious hands took oiled cloths to metalwork to ward off the rust.

To celebrate the passing of the month, a year-old sow was to be led through the streets to the goddess Luna’s shrine up on the Palatine where, to the sound of flutes, she would lay down her life, and may Luna’s powers be great from her sacrifice. Claudia checked the level on her water clock. Two more hours before the festivities kicked off. Sailing over the windowsill, Drusilla left daisies of mud on the tessellated stag-hunt before pushing her chiselled features into Claudia’s breakfast. She did not take kindly to the feast being interrupted by Leonides, flattening her ears and hissing pointedly before returning the way she came in.

‘You clash,’ Claudia told her steward, indicating the purple shadows circling red-rimmed eyes. ‘Is anything wrong?’

He checked Drusilla’s departure was permanent before venturing further into the room. ‘Perhaps a little lack of sleep, that is all.’

Oh-oh! She’d forgotten she’d left him waiting in the peristyle. Time, methinks, to change the subject.

‘I presume you’ve reunited Jovi with the bosom of his family?’ Claudia toyed with a pancake, gave up and pushed back the plate.

‘N-n-not exactly.’ Leonides scrunched up one side of his face. ‘Junius carried out your instructions. He posted a Message…’

She had to prompt him. ‘Yes?’

‘No word came back.’

Claudia practically rolled off the dining couch. She’d expected at least a dozen mothers queueing at her door, frantic to claim their misplaced rug-rat. ‘What about the military? Has Junius enquired?’

‘He has, and they have not received a visit, either.’

‘I see.’ Claudia tapped the side of her mouth with her forefinger. ‘What about Jovi?’ Dammit, she’d given him her oath. ‘Have you questioned him?’

‘The little chap has latched on to Cypassis and although she has tried repeatedly to coax clues out of him, I regret we are no closer to identifying even so much as his district, madam, let alone the address.’ He relayed the gist of Cypassis’ probing.

Which hill is closest to your home, Jovi?
Dunno.

Are you near the river?
Dunno.

What about a temple?
Dunno.

Are there tall buildings round where you live?
Nod.
(To him, all buildings would be tall, they could be tenements, storehouses, just about anything). So what’s the strongest thing you smell from your room?
Wine.

(Aha! Could it be that wine warehouse down by the Aventine?) Tell me, Jovi, do you see lots of men coming and going?
Yeah. They visit me ma.

Claudia groaned. Warehouses. Whorehouses. What’s an ‘h’ and an ‘o’ between friends? ‘Sooner or later,’ she said, ‘some silly bitch is going to twig on that she’s a child short at dinner.’ But until then, guess who’s lumbered? She ran her hands through her hair. ‘Just keep him out the way when that pack of hyenas arrives.’

She had no intention of explaining to the aunts what she’d been doing, tattered and torn, on the Argiletum—in the dark—without her bodyguard. The old hags had already got wind of her flutter on the horses, any further misdemeanour would be more than sufficient for them to whisk her into court and have her discredited as unfit to manage Gaius’ business empire. However, provided she maintained a low profile for the next couple of days, that would not be a scenario she need worry about.

‘Tell me, Leonides, is my mother-in-law still coming? No heart attack, perchance, no nasty fall to immobilize the boot-faced old barnacle?’

The Macedonian was too slow for his smile. ‘Mistress Larentia is as fit as ever, madam.’

Shit. Jackals at a carcass, thought Claudia, the whole damned bunch. All winter long the jungle drums had been beating and now spring was here, the pack was on the move. Aunts, cousins, sisters, related by blood or marriage, what did it matter so long as they swelled the numbers. Led in the van by that septic old fossil, Larentia.

‘With regard to your correspondence—’

Claudia felt a chill wind blow through the dining room. ‘Those…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Those letters sealed with the cobra.’ The ones she made him intercept. ‘Do they still average two a day?’

In the bowels of the house, a pot crashed into smithereens unheard by either of them. The universe had shrunk to the walls of this room. The only sound was their breathing.

The steward stared intently at Drusilla’s daisychain of mud. ‘The frequency has increased a little lately.’

‘How many of these filthy letters does he send me now?’

‘Oh.’ Leonides scratched his ear. ‘Perhaps three.’

A knot tied itself round Claudia’s throat. ‘You’re holding out on me, I can tell.’ She was not sure the words came out as flippant as she’d hoped.

The Macedonian would not meet her eyes. ‘It’s the tone that bothers me. Each of these revolting notes gets more…’ He searched for the right word then replaced it with, ‘Aggressive.’

There was a loud drumming, which Claudia identified as her own blood pounding past her eardrums. These were dirty, dangerous letters at the best of times. And now the creep who wrote them was turning even nastier. ‘You burn them, though?’ It was the only way to eliminate the feeling of contamination they left behind.

‘Every one.’ The intensity receded. The icy breeze slithered away, the universe grew and familiar sounds intruded into the room. Whistling. A deliveryman’s banter. Amphorae being rolled over stone floors. Plus a clanking, which was not quite so familiar. ‘As to the rest of the correspondence—’

He stopped, because a man wearing a quantity of bruises and a long patrician tunic burst into the room. He was flanked by a soldier in uniform, hence the jangling. Claudia buried her head in her hands. One million people live in this city. Five hundred thousand, therefore, are male.

Why this one?

Why me?

She closed her eyes, counted to five then beckoned her steward. ‘Throw them out,’ she said. ‘Lock the door, bar it if necessary, but never, ever, on pain of your life, let
this
man,’ she pointed to Marcus, ‘into
this
house again.’

‘Sorry.’ Orbilio grinned like a cat with a quail. ‘Official business.’

‘Is it?’ Claudia addressed the legionary, who smiled wanly and thereby managed to avoid committing himself.

Leonides peered at the taller of the two visitors. ‘Are you all right, sir? Those cuts? Can I bring you—’

‘Leonides, you couldn’t even bring him to his senses, he’s so thick. You could, however, fetch Junius, if you will, plus a couple of other big, strong, muscular types. Our guests have stayed long enough.’

The soldier did his utmost to look invisible, which is not easy when you’ve bright red feathers in your helmet, so he settled for shuffling his feet and fixing his gaze at a set point on the mosaic. Claudia thought that, personally, the front end of that stag would be a more attractive bet. But then she wasn’t a soldier.

Orbilio advanced towards Claudia. ‘I shall need more time to consider your proposal of marriage—’