Wolf Whistle

XXV

The landscape opened up. There were shrines at crossroad junctions, picnickers by the roadside, and musicians on the move, making it easy not to think of Magic. Soon the hillsides would be swathed in drifts of blossoms from the blackthorn and the pear. Isn’t that this year’s first swallowtail, fluttering drunkenly across the clearing? Watch the baby bunnies scatter at the clip-clop of the wheels.

Forget the gush of blood upon the flagstones of the granary.

Forget the rancid stench of his clothing and his breath.

Forget his slithering pursuit. His filthy, ugly hands upon your flesh.

Let the warble of the skylark mask the screeching of his threats. Pray the sight of bounding deer smothers the obscene intimacy of his touch…

‘I think that’s it, there.’

Claudia was jolted out of her nightmare when Junius tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed to a narrow turning on the right. The rich brown soil had become thinner, she noticed, and less fertile, being mostly olive groves; and the incline had grown markedly sharper. About half a mile along they passed a sign.

THESE LANDS BELONG TO ARBIL. THEY ARE SUBJECT TO BABYLONIAN LAW.

A few minutes later they caught up with a cart, its axle low from charcoal and logs, fresh rushes and grass. Cabbages and parsnips bulged out of sacks, there were red beets and white, rhubarb and carrots. Coneys, pheasant and teal hung from rings around their broken necks and joggled with the bumps of the wheels. Then the wagon turned into a shed where a gang of youths dispensed pulses, dried fruit and grain. Each had a blue tattoo on his arm, and Claudia shivered. These then, were the Children of Arbil. The enormity of the complex was breathtaking. And the noise! Even prepared for Arbil raising kids as cash crops, Claudia hadn’t quite grasped the immensity of his task. The profusion of workers tilling, hoeing, irrigating and manuring the light, dry soil, called to one another as they worked. Oxen bent to the plough lowed mournfully. Chickens clucked, donkeys brayed, pigs, sheep and goats put in their own oars. Babies bawled, children squealed, there was singing, chanting, hammering and sawing from a constant throb of people. Hundreds of children live here, she thought, her eyes brimming with tears. Hundreds of children, for whom this was their only home, Arbil their only parent. Hundreds of them. Unwanted-and unloved.

Her car rumbled through an imposing marble gateway into a courtyard ringed with fountains and shaded with plane trees and shrubs. Statues of strange gods bearing even stranger symbols stood guard. Her eye caught an eight-point star beside one, bulls by another. And there was no mistaking that dragon! Waiting in the cool of a colonnade scented with pots of hothouse lilies, Claudia noticed movement behind the terracotta grid which bisected the garden and on the pretext of sniffing the oleanders which grew against the screen, put her eye to the diamond aperture. Three men huddled round the wicket gate, talking in tones too low to make out. One, she could see clearly. Dressed foppishly, with hair half-way down his shoulders, he bore the hook nose that betrayed his ancestry. That would be Sargon, the son, but there was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar. Where the devil had she seen him before? And what made her think of music? Of trumpets and drums?

The second of the trio was visible to her only in profile, but his distinctive Greekness stood out. Handsome, strong, he, too, had a sharp taste in dress-look at those fancy fringed boots. But…wasn’t he also familiar? For a moment she couldn’t place him, then, with a shudder, Claudia recognized the lush embroidery on his cuffs. Jupiter, Juno and Mars, this was one of the Midden Hunters who had passed her the night she found Jovi. The cultured one who’d been taking the bet.

Pushing the bush aside for a better view of the third man, Claudia’s heart skipped a beat. He wore a simple belted tunic and high riding boots, but unlike his companions, there were no rings on his fingers, no gold torque hung round his neck. He was nodding, this third man. Making his mane of hair unmistakable.

Now what, Claudia frowned, brings Kaeso out here?

‘Yes?’ The hostility of the voice could have cracked ice.

Claudia plucked a pink oleander and buried her nose in its perfume before answering. The questioner’s raven black hair was knotted loosely at the back, bracelets jangled from ankles and wrists and a turquoise robe set off her Indus beauty to perfection. Only two things marred the girl’s loveliness. Her cold, narrowed eyes and the bruise on the side of her face.

In explaining the reason for her visit, Claudia expected to encounter resistance, disbelief even. A woman in business? With a proposition for Arbil? Instead the stiffness in the girl’s shoulders lessened. ‘Come inside.’ The lips were no longer pursed.

Surreptitiously Claudia wiped the milky juice which oozed from the plant’s leathery leaves down the back of her gown. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait here. In the cool.’

Instantly the rancour was back. ‘As you wish.’ Malevolent eyes swivelled to the terracotta grid and back to Claudia. ‘But beware,’ she hissed. ‘The man’s a degenerate.’

Curious, Claudia watched her stomp away, the bangles jarring with every angry stride, then she pulled the oleander bush aside and put her eye to the grid. The gate was closed now. Sargon leaned with his hand on the hasp and laughed as the good looking Greek cracked a joke. Of Kaeso there wasn’t a sign.

Except, in the spot where he’d stood, a wolf with a streak of silver down its back lay panting in the sunshine.

And then she remembered. That’s where the trumpets and drums fitted in. The two dandies, arriving separately and late-at the Bull Dance.

The afternoon Zygia died…

Claudia-let’s be clear about this-did not believe in Shape Shifters. Like demons and vampires, these were creatures of legend, and that’s where they belonged. Not in modern day Rome. In broad daylight. Kaeso’s a natural hunter, she reminded herself. He wears camouflage colours. His movements by definition are lithe and athletic. But if Kaeso wasn’t a werewolf, she knew from experience that he was a highly theatrical animal. The magic tricks, the silent house, his standing in shadows, even Tucca the mute were all carefully choreographed. Props to disorientate. A means to control…

That he saw her arrive went without question.

That he crept up on her in the courtyard ought not have surprised her.

‘I did not expect to find you visiting Arbil,’ he remarked. Loosely tethered to a hook on the entrance arch stood a beautifully groomed horse, its chestnut hide glistening under the mid-morning sun.

‘I could say the same for you.’ Claudia decided her own voice failed to match Kaeso’s for casualness.

‘Me?’ Muscular shoulders lifted and fell. ‘I was raised here, grew up with Sargon and Dino.’ He nodded to where the dandy patted his wolf’s black-tipped shoulderblades and where the Greek stood, hands on hips, gazing up at the clouds. ‘I like to keep in touch.’

The hell you do. ‘Is that often?’

‘When I’m passing.’

‘Then I wished you’d been passing the Collina Gate around dawn,’ she flashed back. ‘Magic dropped in for iced wine and cakes.’

His expression hardened. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

And she did, adding, ‘It was all pretty straightforward. He tried to rape me, so I stabbed him.’ The usual.

There was a swift intake of breath. ‘Dead?’

‘Alas, it was only a flesh wound.’

‘Magic,’ Kaeso swung into the saddle and kicked his horse into a canter, ‘has performed his very last trick, I assure you.’

Now there, Kaeso, I am inclined to believe you. But I’m still interested to know what brings you out here the day before Market Day. Claudia recalled the ritual murders. They, too, were all about control…

Shit, this is madness, she thought irritably. I don’t know what I’m doing in this Babylonian wilderness. What the hell did Supersnoop think I could achieve from one short visit? She was on the point of leaving when a thick, gutteral brogue apologized for keeping her waiting and, not for the first time, Claudia’s curiosity got the upper hand. So this was Arbil? She took in the crimped hair and curled beard (both suspiciously black), and the ankle-length robes which strained over his stomach as he led her to a seat beneath a plane tree.

‘What can I do for you, my dear?’

For a man in his fifties, she’d expected the slave trader to have weathered well under his immense cushion of wealth, but he hadn’t. Those pouchy eyes, the skin hanging in flaps from his cheeks, the discoloured whites of his eyes screamed a legacy of drink and debauchery. Had he not been so podgy, she’d have described him as raddled, and it was with the Indian girl’s words ringing in her ears that Claudia invented a business proposal which was vague but sufficiently plausible to engage Arbil’s interest. Or so she hoped. All the time she’d been presenting her case, he’d been nodding intently. Had it worked? Had he swallowed the bait?

‘Come indoors, my dear, come indoors.’

Beware, those bitter lips had said. Beware. But what choice did Claudia have, other than to follow? The atrium resembled no atrium she had ever seen before, and it took her breath away. Winged cherubs set with precious gems guarded the doorways and clusters of statues, part-men and part-beasts, huddled in groups, but where were the friendly centaurs, the silly, daft satyrs? The faces of these creatures were twisted in leers, some had three toes and thick horns, others were more reptilian in appearance and one had the body of a scorpion. Claudia shivered. Strange paintings covered the walls, dragons and vipers and whirlwinds, their colours dark and menacing, but dwarfing it all stood a giant bronze female, nude and aggressively provocative.

‘Ishtar,’ explained Arbil. ‘Queen of all heaven, mother of life, goddess of love and of war. Ishtar is both morning and evening star, she protects us one and all. Come.’ He took her elbow and introduced her to some of the other barbarian divinities. Shamash, deliverer of justice. Gira the fire god. Adad the storm god, Nabu the scribal god and Nergal, king of the underworld.

‘Also there’s Ea,’ he said thickly. ‘One never sees Ea, one only feels him.’ He blew softly down Claudia’s neck. ‘Ea’s the South wind. Ouch!’

‘Just blocking up the draught,’ she said sweetly, as Arbil rubbed his cheek where her hand had slapped it. ‘Now are you interested in my prospectus, or shall I take it elsewhere?’

‘Of course I’m interested.’ Arbil’s face coloured from a rush of blood which far exceeded the area Claudia had slapped. ‘I-’ He frowned, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. He blinked twice, then he forced a smile. ‘I shall have to think it over rather more carefully, you understand, but-’ Again his mind wandered, and she didn’t think it was because he’d been rebuffed or offended. ‘But the, er, fundamentals seem sound. How much did you say you’d be prepared to invest?’

‘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.