by Marilyn Todd
Since kohl around the eyes wouldn't last a minute in this vaporous atmosphere, faces were scrubbed and clean and
clothes were comfy tunics. Claudia would have picked Flavia out at once.
If she 'd been here.
Big cats keep quiet at night. The night is for listening. For waiting, for sleeping, for hiding. The night is for keeping your own counsel and your own silence. The night means not giving yourself away.
Different codes applied to those caged up inside the dark caverns under the arena. They had not been fed for a week and they were mad with starvation, with anger, with fear and with loathing. They did not know when they would eat, indeed, if they would eat. They roared their resentment at the whole human race, and few in Rome failed to hear it.
For those humans chained in underground chambers nearby, the echoing rage was especially bloodcurdling.
In his shackles, the Armenian who'd been brought in earlier sat in a pool of filthy sludge which showed no signs of draining away and listened to the angry beasts roaring their hatred into the hot summer night. He had no fear of death, not after the cruelty his master had put him through these past seven years, and was merely glad that, in killing him, he had spared others a similar ordeal.
Aye, he thought, flexing his stiffening muscles. It's a strange thing, life. Never how you plan it. Subservient by nature, the Armenian had only ever wanted to serve others. Finally, in his last act on earth, it looked as though he had. But in a manner more intricate than he could have imagined.
He was not afraid of death, or what lay beyond it. Once Saturday was over, the real adventure would begin.
So while the prisoners around him cursed and prayed and sobbed and raged, the Armenian closed his ears to the big cats' savage growls and plaintive roars which echoed into these subterranean chambers and set his mind to wondering what crime the prisoner who'd occupied these chains before him had committed.
And what sort of adventure he was having now.
Chapter Twenty-one
Did you know, ears never stop growing? Everything else - lungs, bones, lips, veins - reaches a certain stage and then cuts out. Ears, it seems, were never given guidelines. Or maybe they're programmed to quit at the age of 125, only no one lived long enough to find out.
Quite what the individual facing Claudia would look like when he clocked up his century, she couldn't imagine, but elephants sprang to mind. As did rabbits, and not necessarily because bunnies have big ears. His whole face was rabbity. That sort of softened wedge shape which, while attractive in small children, becomes off-putting in an adult.
'. . . feeling unwell, I can take you to Shabak.'
'What?' Mesmerised by the length and breadth of the ear flaps, and intent on rattling the gates to the temple compound, Claudia had paid scant attention to his wittering. He seemed to be concerned for her health. 'No, I'm fine, I'm looking for my puppy.'
'He won't be in there.' Long, twig-like fingers pulled her away. 'I'm Penno, the Temple Warden and Chief Petitioner, Servant of the High Priest, and unless they're for sacrificial purposes, beasts are forbidden to set foot on sacred territory.'
You aren't.
Maybe it was the ceremony earlier, with those realistic animal masks flickering in the torchlight, but all the men Claudia had encountered tonight conjured up images of beasts. For if Geb was the Barbary ape on two legs, then surely Shabak, with his narrow waist, narrow hips and (alas) narrow shoulders was
the monkey - and now she had Penno's coneylike features to contend with!
It's this place, she thought. It's overloading my imagination, I'll be hallucinating next.
The rain had eased off temporarily, but the storm still cloaked the hills, sending out brilliant splashes of white and ominous rumbles of thunder. And the heat throbbed like a kettledrum, and the cicadas rasped in the waterlogged grass, and dolphins leaped through hoops in Claudia's stomach.
She shook herself free of Penno's grip and hoped it was the lightning which twisted his face into a sinister leer. 'The storm will frighten him,' she said, 'I need to check for myself.'
Dammit, I'm down to a few hours.
'Sister.' There was an edge to the temple warden's voice. 'Only initiates are allowed inside these walls outside of the times of prayer and petition, that's why the gates remain locked. Your dog's not in there, believe me, and even if he was, you wouldn't be.' The tone softened, became almost wheedling. 'It's late, my child. You'll be tired. I'm sure he'll come home in the morning.'
It was late. Without a herald to call out the hour or stars to check the time by, Claudia could not be certain, but she imagined it was more than two hours past midnight. Only one window in Mentu's wing showed a light, otherwise the whole commune slept, and the temple warden had every right to be suspicious of a member wandering around at this time of night. The question is, what was he doing prowling about on his own?
A celestial rumble broke overhead, signalling the storm's intention to return. Back in Rome, there'd be brawls and barter, the lowing of oxen pulling the delivery drays, wheels clattering, crates banging, shouts, ribald laughter, singing from the taverns, creaks from overburdened axles. Thunder would not get a look in!
'Ordinarily,' Penno said, 'I'd be a gentleman and escort you back to your quarters. Unfortunately -' he jangled a set of keys,
- 'Ra will return to us in less than three hours and there is much work to be done. Excuse me.'
With a curt nod he disappeared behind the wicker gate, and at least that answered her question. Tomorrow (today!) was the start of the month of Ibis. There'd be another festival to prepare for. A public holiday to organise. More prayers. More ritual. More opportunity to befuddle brains and step up the mental treadmill so that people became too scared to come off.
Mentu's scam might be earning him a packet, but the number of people he was damaging was growing by the day. Zer canvassed Rome, but there would be other Zers dotted around, bringing in members from Naples, Ancona and, like Mercy, from Brindisi. Damaged individuals, who Mentu and his money-grubbing cronies sought to damage further.
Damage . . . and possibly worse.
Six girls, Mercy reckoned. Six girls aged between fifteen (Donata) and twenty-two (Berenice) had skipped this valley without trace and, if gossip was to be believed, Berenice had deliberately poisoned her five-month-old son before leaving.
Leaning her back against the high temple compound wall, Claudia felt something lumpy dig into her flesh. What the . . . ? It was an ear. Glory be, it was a pottery ear stuck on the wall. How very odd. Her hand followed the contour of the wall at the same level, until she'd counted ten cemented at regular intervals on to the stonework. Ears? At first, she couldn't believe it, but yes. Human ears made of terracotta . . . and as she walked the perimeter, she cast her mind back to dinner. To something Mercy had said about the wall needing to be high to keep evil and impurity from Ra's holy place of worship. And since mortals were only allowed to worship Ra through an intermediary god, there was the facility for them to come at any time when access to the temple was barred to whisper their hopes and prayers (and indeed worries, should they have them!) to any one of the Ten True Gods who would always be on hand to listen to their pleas and pass the message on to Ra, through his holy son, Osiris.
Meaning, Claudia assumed, this was some form of spying!
She wriggled her finger deep into an earhole and was not surprised to find it wasn't stopped by masonry, only by the fact that her finger wouldn't reach that far. She plucked a scabious, growing underneath the wall. Well, well, well. Wouldn't you know, that stem just kept on going! He was a wily old bugger, Mentu. What odds that behind each ear would be one of his cronies, writing down everything the petitioner said? Reporting back.
Claudia's thoughts returned to the six missing girls as she stared up at the sky. Heavy clouds, black as Hades, hung over the valley, muting the zigzag flashes. Mercy's explanation didn't make sense. Tonight's charade showed that young men in their muscular prime don't make it through the double
barriers. What chance had pampered young women? And the Berenice business bothered her. 'Touched' had been Mercy's description, but to feed hemlock to your baby and simply walk off was way, way beyond 'touched'.
The rain began to fall again. Chip. Chip. Chip-chip-chip. What was Claudia to make of the so-called tragic accident, in which a boy who'd tried to escape had been cut to pieces by Mentu's thugs? Was it truly an accident? Or an convenient way to dispose of a problem?
As the hot raindrops hammered down, Claudia began to have a very bad feeling about Mentu's paradise valley.
And it didn't help that she could not locate Flavia.
Chapter Twenty-two
Morning.
Prayers were over. Petitions were over. Ra had been duly venerated, despite today's Boat of the Morning docking more like a humble fishing vessel than blasting in, a trireme in full sail, all trumpets blazing. But at least the storm had abated, the rain temporarily holding off, and who really cared whether dawn burst in on a rip tide or simply sidled into its berth and dropped anchor? The Great God had returned, he had battled the serpent of the night and traversed the twelve realms of the underworld, let us be thankful. Praise be to Ra.
Claudia pressed her hands over her eyes and tried to control the churning within. Executions commenced in nine hours' time. She could not let Junius die.
Her skin was clammy, her mouth dry, her stomach sick with anxiety. This was her fault. She should never have made him don that toga in the first place, she should have foreseen the problems.
The knot inside tightened. She could not even pin this one on Flavia! True, the wretched girl had set the train in motion with her phoney kidnap and her demands, but it was Claudia who had given her bodyguard his orders. It was she who shouldered the blame. He was a slave, a Gaul, a foreigner, with no option but to do as he was commanded by his mistress. Claudia's eyes misted. She'd lost count of the times Junius's pained look of protest had returned to haunt her.
'Madam! I'm a slave! If I'm caught wearing the toga . . .' She remembered laying down that bowl of dates, fresh
and sticky from their oasis homeland, and suggesting Junius consider the matter from a counter position.
'Not what might happen if you're caught. What I'll do to you if you don't.'
The threat had been issued light-heartedly and Junius, used to her ways, would have taken it as such.
Junius.
She would never nibble another date again! The very thought made her stomach heave.
How old was he? Twenty? Twenty-one? He'd hardly lived! He should be looking towards raising a family, to rafting his way through the white waters of life. He did not deserve to die because he'd been found draped in a piece of white wool. He did not deserve to die simply because some silly bitch told him to wear it.
Intense blue eyes swam before her, the sandy coloured hair, strong hands which hovered like hawks over his dagger. Oh, shit . . .
He's not going to die, stop thinking like that. You can save him. Find Flavia, get that oath sworn.
You can.
You can save him. There's still time . . .just.
Around her, the commune laughed and babbled and acted as though this was another normal day. Better than a normal day, in fact, because this was the first day of Ibis, a day for rejoicing. A holiday. Sacrifices, hymns, dancing and music, wrestling, feasting and fun. Bitterness rose in Claudia's throat. These people, jigging around in their festive wigs and blue scarab amulets, were not touched by tragedy, impending or otherwise. Misfortune was a thing of the past, because in this valley life was fresh and new and you didn't have to watch ageing parents die a painful, lingering death or worry about unfaithful spouses, wayward kids, politics, jobs, the threat of war. Moneylenders, debt collectors, robbers, muggers might as well belong to another world, strange and mythical creatures with horns, wings and claws - for Mentu's cult members had left their financial burdens behind at the gate.
Someone else had taken over their problems. Someone else was in control of their lives. Here existed only a simple pecking order, safe boundaries behind which they could hide. These people - these happy, clapping, dancing people - had relinquished reality along with their responsibilities. Nothing could shock them. Nothing could touch on a nerve. They had abdicated. Real life no longer happened.
But you can't leave behind your own shortcomings.
Look at them! Dressed up in their best bib and tucker, in thick plaited wigs which had been handed out for the occasion, every one identical, irrespective of the wearer's sex. Women gyrated, in sharply pleated shifts with straps which passed over their shoulders, garlands round their necks and kohl around their eyes, with men who wore white ankle-length kilts fastened with a broad sash round the waist. They couldn't give a toss whether their brothers or sisters were sick or miserable, how their pet rabbit was faring, whether Cousin Lucia had bowed to pressure from her family to marry that gap-toothed old widower, or found happiness with the man she loved.
And suddenly Claudia realised they were not harmless, gormless Pyramidiots buffered by the rigid conformity of commune life. These were hard, self-centred, selfish scum who'd absconded with the family silver and - like Flavia -had thought only of themselves, and to buggery with everyone else. They could not be touched, because they were incapable of making deep emotional attachments for the simple reason that they did not have the equipment in the first place. These miserable sons of bitches damned well deserved each other and Mentu - may the gods smile on him - was welcome to feast off their selfish inadequacies.
She hauled off the heavy, black wig, running the myriad plaits between her fingers. Reality would catch up with them soon enough, of course. They'd become ill. Some would die. They would tire of the brewing, the baking, the slogging in the fields, simply because they hailed from soft, middle-class families with soft, middle-class values. But in the meantime, this was the day of the Ibis and the day was all that they lived
for! For them, there was no yesterday, not even any tomorrow. They certainly wouldn't lose sleep about nebulous concerns, such as the welfare of a few retainers: whether they were well, being schooled, actually receiving the bonuses they'd been promised. That was not their affair any more. Physical and moral welfare was someone else's responsibility, they'd left all that behind, and who cares whether one more poor sod ends being torn apart by a pack of ravenous dogs?
I care. Oh, Junius, I care . . .
Eight hours and counting.
Fat tears trickled in black, kohly streaks down her cheeks. I shouldn't have made him wear Gaius's toga. I should not have left him alone in the Camensis. I certainly should not have come on this wild goose chase! All I've done is waste valuable time.
A vice clamped round Claudia's throat. Play fast and loose with your own life, if you must - but don't balls up anyone else's! Tears of self-pity pricked in her eyes. Conceited bitch. Miss Know-it-all! You think you can handle this stuff on your own, when the stark reality is you're nothing but a rank amateur and a bloody poor one at that. You bungle the kidnap, you get a loyal bodyguard thrown in the dungeons, and you can't even find a fifteen-year-old girl in an enclosed valley.
What shall I do? Someone help me. Someone tell me what I should do.
But as usual, Claudia Seferius was on her own.
The valley began to swim around her as she twisted the plaits of her wig into knots. Should she cut her losses and go back to Rome? If there had been anything Claudia could have done to bail out her bodyguard, she would have taken that action in the first place and not come swanning out here!
Yet it had seemed so right at the time. Grab Flavia, and carry the troublesome bitch back to Rome where the oath had already been drafted.
Seven hours and counting.
As the vice tightened round her windpipe and an eagle clawed at her heart, she pictured the dungeons. Dank, dark,
smelly at the finest of times, the heat and the deluge would have made them unbearable. The wardens were brutes - they had to be. She pictured
the Gaul, one side of his face battered, swollen and raw. So vivid was the image, that she could see clearly the contusions and cuts, matted hair, one eye almost closed, his face filthy.
No. Not filthy, the dark colour was from bruising. His skin was actually quite clean . . .
Claudia blinked. She'd eaten little last night and nothing this morning, dehydration and heat had finally got to her. She began to laugh. The picture was so bloody realistic! The laughter became manic and high.
'Ouch!' The slap to her face stung like hell.
'I'm sorry, but you were getting hysterical.'
Hysterical? Me? When my delusions slap me and then apologise? Claudia reeled. So this is what it's like. Cracking up. Losing your mind . . .
'Did I hurt you?' The phantasm was shaking her now! 'Madam, are you all right?'
'All right?' What sort of insanity is it, that lures people into conversations with apparitions? 'When I'm talking to someone who's locked up seventy miles south in jail. Of course I'm all bloody right.'
'Actually, it's sixty-four miles and I'm not in jail,' Junius grinned. 'Didn't you know, you can't chain a Gaul for long.' He shrugged his broad shoulders. 'It's our nature,' he said, 'we get restless.'
Chapter Twenty-three
There were many things Claudia did not understand. She did not understand how he'd escaped the inescapable. She did not understand how he'd discovered this beautiful valley of Ra. She did not understand how he'd been able to distinguish his mistress among the mass of identikit kits.
Most of all, though, she did not understand why Junius had never troubled to buy himself his freedom! Heaven knows, it was not from lack of funds or opportunity and while some foreigners might envisage Roman slaves as downtrodden drudges, reliant on meagre kitchen scraps and a blanket to wrap themselves in at night, the myth could not be further from reality. Many slaves were downright rich. Saving their salaries, they bought businesses such as hairdressers, wigmakers, tailoring, which they ran out of hours, while others, for instance, hired out their talents as artists, musicians, wrestlers. Indeed, more than one barbarian had learned his lesson the hard way, when he came face to face with the Emperor's administration and discovered a vast army of slaves beavering away inside the Imperial Palace, issuing mandates and supervising appointments, enforcing laws and implementing Senate initiatives on Augustus's behalf on everything from the judiciary to public roads to tax. Few governors and magistrates, provincial prefects and aediles dared look down their noses at the Emperor's vassal bureaucrats! However, Junius was no imperial civil servant in a cushy sinecure, he ran no business out of hours, which meant his wealth was simply clocking up. Why would he not wish to buy his independence?
