Wolf Whistle

XX

Can you see it? There, in the shadows of the great striding aqueduct which ferries water from the Arno, that low brick building which looks like a cattle shed? Inside it reeks of cheap wine, stale sweat and the blood of thousands of fighting cocks who have laid down their lives in that deep central pit, yet despite the lateness of the hour, its walls are still threatening to burst. Coins change hands swifter than lightning, tempers flare faster and should proof be needed that Rome is a melting pot, look around. Dark-skinned Numidians, hook-nosed Parthians, moustachioed Celts, the blond men of Belgica. One night you’ll see Teutonic tribesmen with horns sticking out of their helmets; another, Lycians snuggled deep inside fur-collared coats. There’ll be masons, paviors, magistrates and tax collectors, Cypriots, Indians, Jews.

Dinocrates pushed his way to the front, where Sargon seemed to be having difficulty getting his point across.

‘The black fucker, you moron,’ he shouted, then turned to his friend. ‘I gave that arsehole fifty sesterces, and with only two birds to bet on, he still put our money on the wrong bloody one.’

The bookie in question, a squat Cappadocian with four chins but precious little Latin, was shrugging and pointing to the larger of the two cockerels, which had pheasant-type plumage and a much thinner neck.

‘I know that’s the favourite,’ Sargon mouthed. ‘Just back the black bugger, will you!’

‘ Our money?’ queried Dino, retrieving his embroidered cuff from the gesticulating fingers of a Spaniard beside him.

‘The praetor’s wife finally dropped her calf,’ his friend grinned. ‘So while the Captain plays nursemaid, I set about doubling our remuneration.’

‘Call me short-sighted, but your purse seems a trifle unfurnished.’

‘My accumulator went down in that last fight, but we still have fifty sesterces.’

‘Which rides on that scrawny bag of feathers over there?’

Sargon laughed. ‘Your face won’t be so sour when we pick up our winnings, Dino, we’ll need a handcart to carry them home in. Look at that spur, sharp as a dagger. How come you’re so late?’

‘Things.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing special.’

The young Babylonian pushed his rich, red cloak back from his shoulders as the black cock was shown its opponent at close quarters. A vicious beak lashed out, but the trainer pulled the bird back, a ritual which would be repeated several more times, to wind the cockerels into a frenzy. ‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’ he asked slowly. ‘I mean, you’d say if it wasn’t?’

Dinocrates bridled. ‘Everything’s fine. Why shouldn’t it be?’

‘No reason.’ Sargon’s eyes remained fixed on the fighting cocks as they lunged at one other in their owners’ strong grip. ‘Only you absent yourself rather a lot when we come into Rome these days.’

The two angry birds were released into the pit. The roar from the punters was deafening.

‘Can you blame me,’ Dino said at length. ‘Seeing your ugly mug all the time-and anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. Where do you sneak off to, may I ask?’

‘That,’ Sargon pulled one eyelid down with his finger, ‘would be telling. Oh, is my black cockerel a winner or not? Come on, boy! Get him! ’

Whistles and stamping and roars of encouragement nearly shook the gutterspouts loose from the roof as the birds attacked in murderous frenzy. Arcs of blood spurted as they dived, pecking and gouging and spearing with deadly sharpened spurs. Flaps of comb and wattle spat across the pit as they screamed and tore and stabbed, the men around them hoarse from bawling. For several minutes the contest remained equal, then slowly the squall of feathers subsided as the weaker of the two moved on to a defence that was merely a question of time.

‘I tell you him de best, Sargon. I tell you, not de black one!’ The Cappadocian’s downturned mouth disappeared into copious rolls of flesh. ‘I pick you bird for next bout, yes?’

‘Fucking loser.’ Sargon kicked the pit rail, where, below, the carcass of the black cockerel had been removed and fresh sand thrown over the carnage.

‘You or the chicken?’ laughed Dino.

‘Ha, ha, very funny.’ The long-haired Babylonian aimed a mock punch.

‘Never mind,’ Dino gave him a consolatory pat on the back. ‘I reckon we can still run to a wineskin between us.’

Outside, Sargon let out three short whistles and Silverstreak trotted over, nuzzling the palm of his master’s hand. A long pink tongue rasped against the skin and the three of them set off down the hill, where ghostly figures loomed in and out of the mist, reeling, stumbling, skulking in doorways. The air here was sour from the tanner’s yard, and an owl hooted from an arch in the aqueduct. As they passed, a chink of light revealed a soot-blackened tavern, mine host’s customers slumped over their goblets as a one-eyed mongrel lapped at the dregs of spilled liquor. Silverstreak sniffed twice and loped on.

‘Know what I think?’ Sargon clapped his arm round Dinocrates’ shoulder. ‘I think we ought to rear our own bloody fighting cocks. Breed ourselves tough little bastards who could make us a fortune.’

‘We’re hardly on the skids,’ Dino said drily. ‘Tonight excepting, my friend, these upper-class by-blows thread gold through our tunics, set precious stones in our cloak-pins-’

‘Lesson one, Dino. A man can never have too much hair or too much money.’ Still grinning, Sargon rapped at a lion’s head knocker, where they were swallowed up by a throng of music and dancing, lamplight and laughter. Scantily clad girls came to pat Silverstreak, who rolled on to his back in delight.

‘I’m trying to picture Arbil’s face,’ said Dino, yanking off his fringed boots, ‘when he hears you propose to farm chickens.’

A Nubian slave, naked and shaved, washed their feet in scented water while another thrust goblets of wine into their hands. The wolf followed his nose to the kitchens, knowing he’d be slipped titbits of goose and mutton before stretching out in front of an open log fire on which a whole pig would be roasting.

‘By Marduk,’ said Sargon, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘This is an improvement on my father’s gnat’s pee.’

Dino spluttered, laughing, into his glass. ‘Arbil will have you strung up by your balls, insulting his ale. But I have to confess, I’m with you on this, my friend. I much prefer the Roman ways.’ He smiled into the middle distance. ‘Much prefer,’ he repeated softly.

The crooking of one Babylonian finger brought two lissom young girls running over. One had gold dust painted on her naked nipples, the other wore a transparent tunic and only perfume underneath.

‘The attractions are more readily available, that’s for sure.’ A blind balladeer began to strum a haunting lovesong as Sargon ran his hand absently up and down a shapely oiled thigh. ‘Tell me, Dino.’ He paused. ‘Seeing as how you and I are so attached to the city, how do you feel about transferring here permanently?’

The Greek’s head came up sharply. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Perfectly.’ Sargon moved the girl on to his knee, where she proceeded to run expert hands through his long, jet-black hair.

‘What about Arbil? He’ll-’

‘Uh-uh. I’m talking about you and me, Dino. We set our headquarters in Rome and run the whole shooting match from here. What do you say?’

‘Go behind Arbil’s back?’ hissed Dinocrates. ‘Croesus, man, we’ll end up staked out as jackal meat, the crows pecking our eyes and our livers.’

Sargon slipped his hand under the whore’s flimsy tunic. ‘I’m not talking about going into opposition, I’m talking about when I take over.’ He leaned closer towards Dino. ‘You’ve seen him these past few weeks. Can’t remember his own fucking name half the time, babbles to himself, I tell you, the old man’s falling apart. Angel says he can’t even get it up any more.’

A youth on the pan pipes took over from the blind balladeer, more wine was brought round, and on a nod from the management, the second girl rippled her fingers over Dinocrates’ chest. Without thinking, he pushed her away and a flutter of gold dust danced through the air.

‘Yes, piss off, you two.’ Sargon unceremoniously dumped his girl on to the floor, where she promptly demanded her money. The Babylonian ignored her. ‘Whichever way you look at it,’ he said to Dino, ‘my father is not a well man.’ He grabbed the whingeing whore by her arm and thrust his face into hers. ‘You’ve earned nowt, you’ll get nowt,’ he snarled. ‘So shut the fuck up.’

‘I let you have a feel, didn’t I?’

Exasperated, Sargon fished into his purse. ‘Yes, madam, you did. Here’s what it was worth.’ He spun a copper quadran, the lowest denomination, into her lap. ‘Now sod off and leave us alone.’

Humiliated and outraged, she flounced away to complain to the management. The management laughed.

‘We’d better go,’ Dino said, pointing out that it was time to link up with Tryphon. ‘It’s already past midnight.’ Neither he nor Sargon had enquired what the Captain planned to do with his day off, he was quite an enigma, was Tryphon, he’d only have growled that it was none of their business. Which was true. So long as he was back in time to collect the child of the praetor’s wife (which he had been), what he did in his own time was his affair. Yet it was strange, Dinocrates thought, that he never mentioned the one subject which had set the city alight this afternoon. The girl they’d found up in the Lupercal. They weaved their way through the convoluted maze of lanes towards the Collina Gate. Maybe he and Sargon ought to have a word with the Captain? Make sure they got their stories straight before reporting to Arbil? Yes, indeed, a quiet word would do no harm. He was always reliable, was Tryphon.

‘That’s another thing,’ Sargon said, stepping aside to let a wagon piled with bales and fleeces lumber past. Silverstreak, grumpy at leaving the fire, bared his fangs at the mules. ‘When I’m in charge, we’ll send some other bugger to go searching the middens. It’s no job for you and me.’

‘We’re the only ones your father trusts to do it properly, you know that, but we’re slipping from the point, are we not? Granted your father’s had a bad run of late, but he’s hardly dying, Sargon. There’s nothing wrong with his…his physical health.’

‘Ah, Dino, we grew up together, remember? Shannu might be my baby brother, but,’ Sargon grimaced, ‘no amount of dancing round the subject can alter the fact.’ His voice took on a harsh note. ‘Shannu is insane.’

The Greek sighed. No beating about the bush, then. ‘You fear Arbil’s treading the same path?’

Calling for a torch bearer, Sargon shrugged. ‘He’s deteriorating fast, you’ve seen it yourself.’

‘Are you not worried for him?’

‘I’m more worried for me,’ he said sharply. ‘That it’s hereditary, and who knows when it might strike. That’s why I live life for today, Dino. You never know what lurks around the next corner.’ They ducked to avoid a cartload of cedars. ‘So what do you say? You and me, running the business side by side? Your expertise on the sales side combined with my-’

‘Expertise on backing chickens?’

‘Ability to increase our income,’ he corrected. ‘Oh, that makes your eyes light up. Well, Arbil thinks he knows the slave trade, my friend, but I’ve discovered a way of doubling our turnover. No extra work. No risks. Just this.’ He tapped his head. ‘Brainwork.’

The Collina Gate loomed out of the swirling mist. The cries of the alms-seekers grew closer, the shouts from the toll booth, the stink of the hovels beyond. Over to the west, the sky danced orange from a tenement which had caught fire, but the screams did not carry this far, there was no indication of the devastation and bereavement it would leave in its wake. Instead, the smell of salt fish mingled with freshly sawn timber, and with dung and hot pies and hemp.

‘Are you in, Dino?’ Sargon persisted. ‘We’ve grown up like brothers, trust each other, know one another inside out-’

‘Apart from the fact you sneak off now and again,’ Dino said amiably. ‘Are we talking a fifty-fifty split?’

‘Sixty-forty, you greedy bastard. But I need to know. Are you with me on this?’

By “this” Dino assumed Sargon meant the silent takeover of Arbil’s empire. Evidently he was planning to have his father restrained as insane sooner rather than later, and now he was being asked to join the connivance. Dionocrates thought of Rome, and what impelled him to come with such regularity, and that thought stirred his loins as well as his young blood. Rescued from Chios, all he’d known was the slave farm up in the hills.

Until recently.

What he’d found here went beyond his wildest fantasies, and the funny thing was, for all the wealth that had been showered upon him, the pleasure he’d discovered in the city came for free…

He weighed up the risks of plotting against the powerful Babylonian versus what he’d discovered in Rome. Risk he enjoyed, though. He ran his hand over the stubble which was forming on his chin. No doubt there was a flaw in Sargon’s arguments, one which could ultimately prove fatal, but for the life of him, Dino couldn’t think of what that flaw might be.

‘You know bloody well I am, Sargon.’ He wagged a playful finger. ‘Provided you let me pick the cockerels in future.’

*

As nightwatchmen patrolled the warehouses and wharves and scavengers cruised the riverbanks for carrion, the light in Magic’s head grew stronger. Like a bright, white ball of lightning, it hurtled relentlessly towards his brain. He could see it, he could feel it, he could even fucking hear it. It was a loud light, screaming, flashing, bursting his skull open.

He tried hiding. Under the table. Under the bedcover. Inside the cupboard. But the light followed, screeching inside his head.

This time it would not go away.

This time there was no voice to comfort him.

Tears coursed down his cheeks, he tasted their salt on his tongue and, far beyond the boundaries of the light, he heard keening.

Time passed.

Manure carts and the shovellers who followed clattered on the cobbles far below. Downstairs, an old man snored loud enough to shake the lichens from the rooftiles, but Magic couldn’t hear for the serrated ball of flame inside his skull. He could feel it attacking his flesh from within. White hot. Burning. And this time there were no gentle whispers, no soft, sweet songs to stop the light from pressing on his eyeballs.

‘Bitch,’ he screamed. ‘Filthy, treacherous bitch!’

His fingers fumbled for the woollen doll. He’d stolen it this morning, from a child in the Cattle Market, and she’d cried when he snatched it from her hands.

‘Bitch!’

With a sharp peeling knife, he hacked and hacked at the doll.

‘Take that! And that! And that!’

As the first tinge of dawn reddened the sky above the Esquiline Hill, the baying inside Magic’s head began to subside and the hideous light slithered away. He watched a piece of his paper patchwork peel from the wall, touched the globs of fat where his tallow had guttered. Crawling out from under his bed, he stared at the doll in his hands.

At Claudia.

Her shredded tunic hung by a thread on one shoulder. Magic ripped it off and began to keen again, rocking back and forth upon his heels as he pressed the frock over his eyes.

‘No one could care for you the way I could,’ he wailed. ‘No one.’

He picked up the doll and examined the deep gouges on its back and its thighs and its breasts. Not its. Hers. Her back, and her thighs, and her breasts. Claudia’s breasts. Shaking fingers probed the rip marks in the wool. Claudia’s proud, generous breasts which she offered him every night, here in his room, when she came to him alone and in secret. Magic’s breathing became ragged. Last night, though, she hadn’t come. She had sent the light instead, and the light was evil. She had tricked him. The treacherous bitch had betrayed him.

He shook the doll. ‘I’ll teach you.’ His voice rose. ‘This is Magic you’re dealing with. Magic, you hear?’

Lighting the wick of another stinking tallow, he picked up his reed, sharpened the point and dipped it in ink.

‘don’t think you can deceive me you bitch’, Magic paused and looked up at the welter of copies round his bedroom walls, ‘ your mine understand you are mine and the next time we meet it shall be for eternity ’.