by Jodi Taylor
‘I knew you’d be back,’ he said, and from the way he said it I knew he’d been worried I wouldn’t.
‘We’re over there,’ I said, pointing.
I had to help him a little, realising that if he was back in the brickyard, he’d have started work by now, his body functioning on automatic. But the unexpected hope of rescue at long last, along with this complete departure from the rigid structure of his day, had taken the last of his strength. We hobbled back to the pod. Rosie had the door open, which since I hadn’t shown her how to do that, gave an indication of how she’d been passing the time in my absence.
I helped Clerk inside. He caught sight of Rosie Lee and recoiled. Which, to be fair, was most people’s reaction even when she was in her proper time and place. ‘Good God.’
She glared. ‘And hello to you too.’
He stared at me, probably trying to envisage the magnitude of the catastrophe that had wiped out all life at St Mary’s leaving only Rosie Lee available for rescue duties.
She grinned evilly and passed him some water. He reached for it greedily. He’d obviously eaten and drunk everything I’d left him.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just a little at a time. You know the drill.’ Three sips. Wait a minute. Three more sips. And so on.
He nodded. ‘Where are the other teams?’
I honestly didn’t know what to say. How do you tell someone their boss hadn’t authorised their rescue? That under our new regime, St Mary’s did, in fact, leave their people behind.
I thought quickly. ‘It was felt, given Miss Prentiss’s probable position as a house slave, that an all-female team would stand a greater chance of success. Should that prove not to be the case, greater forces will be deployed. They are currently in reserve.’
Impressive – and every word of it a lie. God, I’m good.
I could see him wanting to ask why not Van Owen, or Sykes, or even Lingoss or Kalinda, but, in the face of Rosie Lee’s unspoken hostility – understandably bottling out.
He turned to me. ‘Is there any chance of a shower? I can’t wait to get these rags off.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘In you go and then I’ll check over your wounds.’
‘Don’t drink your shower water,’ said Rosie and she wasn’t joking.
‘We’ll wait outside,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve been paraded naked through the slave markets. I’ve been handled, poked, pulled about, had my teeth looked at. I’ve been bent over and had my anus inspected. After a while, you really don’t care. No offence, ladies, but I don’t think either of you could top that.’
I didn’t really know what to say.
‘Did it pass?’ said Rosie, suddenly.
He stared at her, completely bewildered. Welcome to my world, Mr Clerk. ‘What?’
‘Your anus? Was it acceptable?’
He grinned – a white crack in his brown face. ‘As far as I know.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘And now the two of us, together with Mr Clerk and his world-class anus, can turn our attention to Miss Prentiss. Did you go back to try and identify the shop?’
I already knew the answer to that one. Of course he had. At first light, probably. His need to find her would overcome his need to remain hidden. They were on the verge of being rescued. She’d have to be warned to stay around the house and be ready for anything.
He nodded, but for the first time he couldn’t meet my eye.
‘What did you do?’ said Rosie Lee, well versed in the ways of guilty historians.
‘Well . . . I . . . um . . .’ He stuck his chin in the air. ‘Well, if you must know,’ he said defiantly, ‘I wasn’t sure which building it was . . .’
‘Yes . . . and . . .’ demanded Rosie Lee.
‘Well, I sort of . . . sang at her. From behind the wall.’
There was a bit of a pause. No one made any Blondel jokes.
‘Well,’ said Miss Lee, eventually. ‘I should imagine she found that very helpful.’
I had to ask. ‘What exactly did you sing?’
‘Well, something like –’ He raised a cracked voice in what he liked to think was song.
Don’t worry, Paula.
They’re on their way.
Just hang in there.
It won’t be long now.
‘Did she hear you?’ demanded Rosie Lee. ‘Because I’d be halfway to Nineveh if I’d heard that racket. Do not give up the day job.’
He said quietly, ‘I don’t know,’ and hung his head.
I imagined him, dirty and exhausted, raising his cracked voice in song just on the off-chance that Paula Prentiss might be on the other side of the wall. Neither of them able to see or touch the other. Clerk taking comfort from imagining she was close enough to hear him and her taking comfort from knowing she wasn’t alone. That help – finally – was here.
‘It doesn’t rhyme,’ said Rosie, critically.
He refocused on her. ‘Why are you even here?’
‘I’m your rescuer,’ she said. ‘Because let’s face it, if you relied on the History Department, you’d be spending the rest of your lives singing to each other over the walls. Like those people.’
He stared, mystified. ‘What people?’
‘When I’m calling you-ooeeoo-ooeeoo . . .’
She sang slightly less well than she PA’ed.
‘That’s terrible,’ said Clerk. ‘You can’t make that sort of noise here. This is a respectable city and I’ve already been arrested for blasphemy once . . .’
‘You say you didn’t see or hear Prentiss,’ I said. ‘So you don’t know if she’s actually there.’
He lifted his head. ‘I heard a baby crying.’
That was good enough for me. Babylonian law protected slave families from being split up so if the baby was there then Prentiss was there.
No one mentioned that it might be some other baby and we were on completely the wrong track. We didn’t have anywhere else to look. If she wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have a clue what to do next. None of us would.
‘Right,’ I said, briskly. ‘You get yourself properly showered and tidied up. Scrape off all that dirt. Scrub your fingernails. Cut your toenails. We’ll comb your hair and have a go at your beard. I want you clean and respectable. There’s a decent tunic for you here and some sandals. You’re a trusted family servant and I want you looking the part. Ready in one hour, please, Mr Clerk.’
Rosie and I sat outside in the shade, quietly watching the morning progress. Around us, street life was getting going. Men emerged and stood in the street, scratching and yawning. Children and dogs scuttled out of doorways, either to perform household tasks, or more likely, getting out from under everyone’s feet and being told to push off somewhere else. I could see wooden shutters being thrown open, and women on the roofs, shaking out sleeping mats and hanging them in the sun to air. Aromatic smoke from cooking fires wafted over the walls.
I asked her what she thought of the fabled city of Babylon.
‘I’ve got sand in my bra.’
We sat a while longer and then she said, ‘It’s never good when men spend a long time in the bathroom. Do you think he’s all right in there?’
‘Go and tap on the door,’ I said. ‘I’m his boss. It would be weird. See if he needs any help.’
She disappeared into the pod. I don’t know what she said or did but it worked. Clerk emerged looking quite like his old self. Well, half his old self, anyway. He’d lost an enormous amount of body weight and he hadn’t been hefty to begin with. Rosie Lee had combed and trimmed his hair and beard and made a reasonable job of it. He reeked of hair conditioner and talcum powder. His blue tunic hung off him but the quality was good. And he looked respectable. Even his feet were clean. God knows what sort of state the bathroom was in. I’d think about that later.
I asked him
how his Babylonian was.
‘I’ve got a few words. I can get us by. It’s very like modern Hebrew, you know.’
We ran over the plan a few times. It wasn’t much of one. We’d be winging it most of the time. The History Department motto. Eventually there was nothing left to discuss. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
It was approaching noon when we set out. Clerk walked slightly ahead in his smart new clothes, carrying the closed basket in which we would supposedly put our purchases. The trusted family retainer clearing the way and ensuring no riff-raff troubled his exquisite mistress. For anyone who isn’t clear – that would be me. I wore dark blue, embroidered in gold, and had swathed myself from head to toe in fine Babylonian shawls. I was even wearing make-up, although in these temperatures, probably not for very long.
For the first time ever on an assignment, I wore jewellery. Apart from my wedding ring it was all fake, but I glittered and tinkled impressively. Tiara, pretty amber necklace and whole armfuls and anklefuls of bracelets.
Rosie Lee walked at my shoulder, holding an embroidered parasol over my head and complaining about it every inch of the way. But the effect was perfect. I was rich. A little bit exotic – foreign and eccentric as well – but mostly rich.
We strolled through the streets, taking our time. There was plenty to look at. Most shops in this area were simple – the goods piled up on a carpet against a wall outside while the vendor sat cross-legged in the shade, swatting the flies.
The larger shops were indoor affairs. A let-down front gave a taster of the goods inside – where the better-quality goods would be away from the sun and dust and leg-cocking dogs.
We would pause occasionally outside a shop and Clerk would gently fend off the opportunity-scenting vendor. Setting the scene. Getting the message across. Not just anyone could approach his mistress.
We stationed ourselves at the corner of a short street. ‘I think it’s that one,’ said Clerk, taking care not to point. ‘With the blue awning. He’s not a silk merchant as we would think of him – you know, upmarket shop and posh customers. This isn’t a prosperous area and I think he sells anything from rough canvas to medium-priced silks. He’s probably just clinging on by his fingertips and desperate to break into a better market.’
‘Useful,’ I said and took a moment to have a bit of a think. We were supposed to be posh. He’d probably welcome us with open arms.
Clerk nudged me. ‘Max?’
‘Yes, ready when you are.’
We set off, strolling slowly down the street, stopping at every shop to examine the goods offered. This time Clerk followed on behind us. I could hear him telling kids and dogs to push off.
‘She won’t be in the shop,’ he said from behind us. He was casting nervous glances up and down the street. I didn’t blame him. We weren’t that far from the brickyard. I honestly didn’t think we’d meet anyone likely to recognise him as their former runaway slave but he was understandably uneasy.
I noticed a public well at the end of the street. There must have been something wrong with it the day that Prentiss had gone to the canal for water. A stroke of luck. Just the one but one is usually all St Mary’s needs.
‘He’ll have boys to assist him in the shop,’ he continued. ‘Female slaves – Paula – will be round the back, working in the house or the courtyard.’
Rosie Lee and I lingered at the entrance to the shop. Just far enough away to indicate we didn’t expect to be served because we were just looking. I’ve noticed this on several assignments. I don’t know if it’s a cultural thing or a temporal thing but shopping habits vary considerably in different times and places.
These days, we like to walk into a shop and have a bit of a browse. We wander vaguely around until we see something we like the look of and then look round for someone to serve us. The ever-vigilant shop assistant – who probably hasn’t taken her eyes off us since we strolled in – then moves forwards, all smiles and helpfulness and things move on from there.
Other cultures don’t work like that. People expect to be served. From the moment they walk into the shop they expect instant service. A shop assistant will walk at their elbow at all times, showing them around, answering questions, passing them items of interest to examine and so on. At some point he’ll offer refreshment and everyone will sit down. Nothing so vulgar as a transaction will occur. There will be lots of talk of the weather, the war – there’s always a war – or the idiot government – there’s always an idiot government – their health, their children, every subject under the sun except commerce.
Eventually, quite casually, the shopkeeper will murmur a price. There will be consternation and horror from the prospective customer. An alternative price is offered – usually about a third of the shopkeeper’s recommended retail price. He will then reel back in horror, demand to know how he can be expected to remain in business in the face of such a catastrophic loss, that he has an aged mother to support and so on. He will then lower his price a fraction. The customer mentions that times are hard and the merchant around the corner is doing a BOGOF, the merchant cries that he is ruined, the customer offers fractionally more, and eventually a price is agreed. Everyone smiles at everyone else and the customer departs for the next shop to do it all over again.
We couldn’t do that – no time and no money. So we stayed well back, for the time being, ostensibly looking at the merchandise on offer but actually getting the lie of the land.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Everyone set? In your own time, Mr Clerk.’
He nodded, looked carefully around and began to ease his way past a small group of men standing in the shade of an awning, passing the time of day. Past children playing a game with small stones and lines drawn in the dust, laughing and shouting at each other. And then he turned off the street and trotted down a space too narrow even to be dignified as an alleyway, and out of sight.
A few seconds later, a voice rose over all the street clamour. To the tune of ‘Glory, Glory, Hallelujah’, he sang,
Paula, Paula, can you hear me?
We are here. Be ready.
Paula, Paula, can you hear me?
Get ready to go now . . .
. . . Rumpty tumpty tum.
Rosie Lee rolled her eyes. ‘I cannot understand how you people get through the day.’
‘I hope she heard him.’
‘All of Babylon heard him. People are laughing at us.’
‘Get used to it,’ I said. ‘Occupational hazard.’
‘Not for me.’
Clerk rejoined us. ‘What did you think?’
‘Again – don’t give up the day job,’ she said.
We turned our attention to the shop. Clerk had been right. The owner wasn’t a high-class silk merchant. The outside of his shop displayed rolls of canvas, linen and ordinary, day-to-day fabrics. Such good stuff as he had would be carefully displayed inside.
We paused, all ready to be tempted.
As if by magic, the vendor appeared in the doorway, sizing us up at a glance. A bit odd. Not local. Jewellery. Good materials. A woman, but accompanied, so not a street-slut. I adjusted my shawls. He bowed and then stepped back and turned slightly to one side. A polite gesture invited us to enter.
Rosie Lee gusted another sigh and in we went. The interior was very dim after the brilliant sunshine outside. Rosie Lee furled my parasol.
‘He’s greeting you,’ said Clerk quietly, as the shopkeeper launched into a torrent of words.
I didn’t allow myself to be rushed, staring around the shop and very careful not to let any hint of enthusiasm show. I wanted to give the impression I’d been visiting high-class silk establishments all week and his was at the end of a very long list.
A cushion-covered divan was propped against one wall. Carpets covered the floor. Rolls of silk stood against the walls, crammed on to shelves, or swirling across a low
table giving tantalising glimpses. Some were plain, some embellished. They weren’t top-quality silks but he’d made every effort, placing them carefully to show each other off and tempt prospective customers. A brilliant cerise tumbled across an acid green. The favourite cobalt blue was displayed alongside an orange terracotta. They might not be high end but he’d done his best and it looked good.
I allowed myself to be seated on the divan. Rosie stood at my shoulder. Clerk moved to the back wall out of the way, unobtrusively setting down his basket. Drinks were brought by a female slave. I very carefully didn’t look at her but Rosie Lee shook her head slightly. Not Prentiss.
I took a tiny sip of something fruity and set it down as if I wasn’t impressed. Rosie Lee immediately waved it away.
As well as the owner, there were assistants everywhere – two outside and another inside, all male. I tried to listen over the merchant’s gabble but I couldn’t hear any women’s voices or a crying baby anywhere.
The merchant was about my own age. Stout but not yet fat, although I reckoned it wouldn’t be long. His liquid brown eyes were heavily lidded and gave nothing away. He didn’t look brutish. Prentiss might have been well treated although he’d obviously exercised the traditional slave owner’s privilege. He’d oiled his locks and beard as all fashionable men did here and he was elaborately dressed in his own fabrics. A walking advertisement for the quality of his wares.
He and Clerk exchanged a few words and then we began. Roll after roll was pulled down off the shelves and tossed across the floor for my inspection, one on top of the other. They watched my face carefully – no language was needed. If I showed interest in something blue then other blues were unrolled and displayed. This was easier than I had thought it would be. There was no need for me to say a word. He was an expert at reading faces and body language so I made sure I remained impassive at all times.
