by Marilyn Todd
It was with Dino and Sargon, and Dino was pouring out the ale and teasing me, asking when I planned to abandon the Babylonian practice of eating upright in favour of reclining on couches and I pretended to cuff him round the ear. I remember that quite clearly. We ate stuffed turbot and sucking pig, and Sargon was slipping titbits to Silverstreak under the table, and don’t think your father hasn’t noticed, I joked.
Then what?
Then—Arbil scratched his head. Yes, then I took a pee.
After that?
I went into the office, like I always do. Poured myself a date liqueur, picked up the ledgers and sent for Tryphon, now what was it I had to speak to him about? No, no, no. I’ve got it the wrong way round. Tryphon came to see me. That’s right, there was an outbreak of fever in the seventh block, the Captain said, nothing to worry about, though.
Can you remember your reply?
Absolutely. Keep them quarantined for a week, I told him, we don’t want any more going down—or you either, come to that. Tryphon’s been looking decidedly peaky of late, so I said, take the rest of the day off, man. Go to Rome. Have some fun.
Did he?
Have fun? Tryphon? No idea. But he thanked me and said in that case, he’d tag along with Dino and Sargon.
Then what? What did you do after the Captain left you?
Nausea swamped Arbil again. He didn’t know. That was the problem. He didn’t fucking know.
Naked, Arbil waddled into his bedroom, where Marduk’s golden image with its bejewelled crown and feathers gave his servant strength. He could feel it seep through his skin and into his muscles until it reached his very bone marrow. His reflection stared back from a sheet of polished copper on the wall. Plump, he decided. Not fat. Definitely not fat. And still able to go like a stallion. Arbil pumped up his biceps. Perhaps the problem was not him, but Angel. Maybe she was boring him? He rummaged around in his chest and brought out a batch of drawings sent from a man in North Africa who specialized in the refinements of love-making. Yes, yes. He looked at the drawings, one after the other, but his loins didn’t stir. He closed his eyes and imagined Angel doing that to him. And still his lingham didn’t move.
‘Angel,’ he bawled. ‘Angel, come here!’
Briefly he wondered whether he ought to make her coax it into life, but his vision was still funny round the edges and his head was swimming, and let’s face it, even stallions have their off days. He glanced at the eight-point star across his bedhead. Ishtar wouldn’t let him down. She’d see him right. But soon, he prayed. Please, Ishtar. Make it soon, eh?
The fabulous creature with the blue-black hair and doe-like eyes called Angel came running. ‘What is it, Arbil? What’s the matter?’
His answer died in his throat. She was dressed as he insisted a wife of his should dress for dinner. A tight gown of pure white linen to show off her perfect, nutbrown skin, with bangles round her wrists and round her ankles. Her small tight breasts thrust forward, and they were not false nipples that she wore. Her lips and cheeks were carmined. Kohl smudges lined her eyes. He had forgotten quite how beautiful she was.
‘What the hell are you all tarted up for?’ he snapped.
‘Dinner’s almost ready.’
Arbil felt himself reel. ‘Dinner?’ It can’t be. It bloody can’t be. Not already. He stumbled to the window and pulled open the shutter. It was dark. Panic rose in his throat. Not an hour this time. Not even two. He’d lost a whole fucking afternoon…
‘W-where’s my orange robe?’ he asked. It was his favourite, and he couldn’t find it anywhere.
‘I don’t know. Where did you put it?’
Arbil slapped her with the back of his hand. ‘If I knew that, you stupid cow, I wouldn’t have to ask.’
Angel rubbed her throbbing cheek. ‘Maybe you left it in Rome this afternoon.’
‘Rome!’ His sarcasm cut through the air.
‘Well, you went there, didn’t you?’
This time it was the flat of his hand which connected with her face, sending Angel reeling to the floor. ‘Don’t get fresh with me, you uppity bitch. You know damn well, I never go to Rome. Now find that robe, you lazy slag.’
Angel staggered to her feet. ‘You did too go—’ She never finished her statement of defiance. Arbil’s fist saw to that.
Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘If you don’t believe me,’ she blubbered through the blood, ‘ask Lugal. He drives you every week!’
‘Liar,’ he said, although there was less conviction in his voice than he’d intended. ‘Dirty, lying bitch.’ A strand of hair had blown across her face and was sticking to the blood. ‘Clean yourself up, you’re a mess.’ Her blood was on his knuckles, too. ‘Go on. Get out of my sight.’
For several minutes Arbil stood staring at the blue dragons which writhed over his walls. Marduk gave him strength, but it was to Shamash, the sun god that he should turn now. Shamash, seeker of truth. Shamash, dispenser of justice. Because if that long-legged bitch was winding him up, he’d give her a scar to match Tryphon’s. She could whine and wail and plead all she liked, by the time he’d finished with her, no man would want her. As Sargon had said only recently, you don’t mess with us Babylonians.
Arbil dressed with care, although his hands were shaking badly as he rubbed the cedarwood oil into his hair and beard to make them shine. She was making it up. Of course she was making it up. He hated the city, and the pigs who lived in it. Why would he go there? What did she mean, every week? The bitch was winding him up, that was all.
‘Lugal.’
‘Sir?’ A young groom looked up from where he was straddled across an ass’s hind leg, gouging a stone from its hoof. The stables smelled of acid manure and damp mule hair, of clover feed and polished leather.
‘Come here, boy.’
What did Arbil know of Lugal? Not much, except that like Dino and the Captain and a score of others he could name, the boy had shown promise in his field. Which meant Lugal was trustworthy.
‘Is something wrong, sir?’ He patted the donkey’s flank and walked to where Arbil was standing.
‘No. No, of course not.’ The slave master studied the boy’s face carefully. ‘I was looking for an old orange robe of mine. Have you seen it?’
Lugal shrugged. ‘No, sir. Do you want me to check the gig?’
In what he hoped would be interpreted as a casual gesture, Arbil leaned against the stable door as the strength drained from his knees. ‘Gig?’
‘I’ve not had time to clean up, yet. Nubu there,’ he indicated the donkey he’d been attending, ‘he’s been limping, so I thought I’d see to him first.’
He disappeared round the stable door, and after a count of ten, Arbil followed him. There was mud caked on the spokes, and splatters all over the buckboard.
‘Is this what you’re after, sir?’ Lugal was pulling his favourite orange robe from under the passenger seat.
Arbil cleared his throat. ‘Yes. You can…you can keep it, if you like, Lugal. It’s just an old thing.’ He’d never wear it again, that was sure. ‘Tell me, when we went into Rome this afternoon…’ He waited to be contradicted.
‘Yes?’
Shit. ‘When we went to Rome, what did I do there?’ Lugal shrugged and look blank. ‘I don’t rightly know, sir. I dropped you off at the usual place—’
‘The what?’
‘The Collina Gate, sir. Where I always drop you before I call you a litter and return to the post house to wait. Have…have I done something wrong?’
Arbil took a deep, deep breath. ‘No. No, Lugal, you’ve done nothing wrong. I’m…I’m just checking you get all your facts straight, lad. You need that, if you’re to stay long-term with me.’ There was another awkward silence, then he said. ‘How often do I go into Rome?’
No need to question Lugal further to see he had his facts at his fingertips. ‘Always on a market day,’ he said proudly, ‘and lately sometimes in between. Can I go now, sir? Nabu’s in a bit of pain.’
XVII
‘Claudia! We were just saying, weren’t we, Fannia, what a wonderful concert this afternoon. Such a pity you missed the finale.’
‘And the Bull Dance was breathtaking, such mastery of horseflesh.’
‘So generous of you, Cousin, to lay on not only a banquet for us later, but to treat us to apperitifs of rose wine now, before we get changed.’
The Dragon From Hell sidled up. ‘I must say, daughter-in-law, you have done us proud.’
That was the plan. ‘Thank you, Larentia.’
‘I speak for us all, when I say we’ve enjoyed every minute.’
Oh, me too. ‘I’m so pleased.’
‘You’ve spared no expense—’
Tell me about it!
‘—and I want you to know we appreciate the effort you’ve put in on our behalf, don’t we, ladies?’
Was there no end to deafening choruses?
‘Also.’ She tapped one claw against her jewelled goblet. ‘I fear I owe you an apology.’
Damn right. ‘Water under the Milvian Bridge, Larentia.’
‘No, no, credit where it’s due,’ the old woman said, and Claudia winced. That was the trouble. By noon tomorrow, credit would not be where it was due, and the moneylender seemed very preoccupied with kneecaps of late.
‘I refer, of course, to the urchin.’
‘Jovi?’ Claudia passed round a plate of raisin bread.
‘I was talking to him—’ Interrogating, more like. ‘—and I may have jumped to conclusions.’ Old Leatherchops began to pick plump yellow raisins from her chunk of bread. ‘What I mistook for a speech impediment appears to be the nasal twang of the slums.’
I know. Claudia nibbled at the sticky, warm dough. Mine took years to eradicate.
‘He told me what happened, and how you brought him back here—’
Oh, Jovi. Please don’t have mentioned the man in the frock.
‘—fed him honeyed apricots and pies, and I understand you’ve even posted a reward for his mother to come forward.’
None too successfully, either. Two women had turned up, neither of them the little chap’s ma. Claudia had doubled the reward to lure the money-grabbing bitch out of her hole. ‘Charity is my middle name.’
Since her bread now resembled a colander, Larentia began to plug the gaps with the raisins on her plate. ‘Moreover, you have managed my son’s business most admirably…from what you tell me, of course.’ At least the old fossil had the grace to blush. ‘I mean, it’s obvious the firm’s prospering.’ A crabbed hand swept through the air towards the bronze goddess in the corner and encompassed the lavish spread which the servants were still laying out.
It worked. The old harpy was finally won over. Claudia resisted the urge to shout ‘Yahoo’, and reached for the scented wine instead.
Larentia had replaced all the raisins in the bread, except for one, which appeared not to fit anywhere. Claudia raised her glass to her lips.
‘So.’ Larentia popped the spare raisin in her mouth. ‘As you’re doing so well for yourself, we’ve all decided to stay on.’
Wine sprayed all over Claudia’s gown.
*
‘Madam, please.’ Cypassis trotted behind her mistress as she marched up and down the bedroom floor. ‘That’s the third curl to break loose.’
Claudia threw her arms in the air. ‘You are out, do you hear me, o-u-t, out.’
‘But—’ The big-boned peasant girl lunged with the curling tongs and missed.
‘Thanks to your stupidity, my house has been turned into a trout farm and all you can say is stand-still-madam-there’s-three-ringlets-on-the-prowl—’
‘Four, actually.’
‘—when you should be prostrate on your knees, begging me not to sell you at auction. Why didn’t you tell me those trunks were coming in, not going out?’ She grabbed the handmirror. ‘What do you mean, four?’
‘Five, now,’ Cypassis puffed. ‘If you’d only keep still a second—’
‘How am I supposed to feed them?’ Moneylenders are not the only people who get the hump when you forget to settle up. The fowler was turning pretty nasty, too. ‘Not that you care. Or whether I end up with a bathsponge for a brain from endless bloody small talk.’ Small talk! Any smaller and it’ll be downright invisible. ‘Now, are you going to fix my hair or run up and down this room all night long? I can’t see a thing for curls in my eyes.’
Claudia plumped down in the chair. Why? Why, when right across the city you’ll hear nursemaids crooning lullabies and schoolboys stammering over homework, can I hear nothing but teeth grinding like pine nuts in a pestle? The mirror crashed against the wall and left a gouge in the plaster. What am I supposed to do about that bloody gold and silver plate?
‘Tomorrow you stay by the back door, and if anyone calls who looks like a debt collector, you’re to say,’ she put on a squeaky voice, ‘are you the doctor, come about the typhus? Practise.’
‘Are-you-the-doctor-come-about-the-typhus.’
‘Good. Now what about the wine stain, do you think it’ll come out? I’m very fond of that apricot tunic and—ye gods, what’s that?’
Screaming had broken out from the kitchens. Pans and plates clattered off the tiles, there were shouts, shrieks and curses, then a table overturned. Claudia rushed out of her room and leaned over the gallery.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Cypassis, but that—’ she pointed to a small creature with a long tail and a round black face, ‘—looks like a monkey shinning up the atrium drapes.’
‘Ah.’ The broad-cheeked Thessalian scratched at her ear. ‘Jovi’s pet must have slipped its leash.’
‘Which auction block would you prefer to be sold at, Cypassis? The one in the Forum by the Arch of Augustus, or would you prefer to watch dead goats float down the Tiber as you stand by the Sublician Bridge?’
‘I thought it was one of your jokes, madam, honest I did. It came in a little brown sack with a note saying “With love from the man in the frock”.’
Wait till I get my hands on his windpipe!
‘Perhaps that’s what kept Miss Fortunata awake, the monkey?’
‘Fortunata is a silly, neurotic cow, that’s what kept her awake, Cypassis. Now show that simian the door.’
‘But Jovi loves it!’
‘NOW!’
Drusilla arrived to check out the kerfuffle, but Claudia scooped her up and shut the bedroom door, amid howling protests. ‘You’ve done enough damage, thank you, chasing Herky-Perky round the cellar.’ Her fingernails raked the cat’s upturned chin. ‘I say, it wasn’t you chasing mice in the night, giving the old ducks the idea that we’re haunted?’
‘Prrrrr.’
‘Ghoulies and ghosties, indeed.’ She set down the cat. ‘Wait a sec.’
‘Mrrr?’
‘Doesn’t Fannia sleep on the right of Gaius’ bedroom?’
‘Mrrow.’ Drusilla reared up to be cuddled.
‘And Fortunata on the left?’
‘Brrip, brrip.’
‘Sorry, poppet.’ She unhooked the cat’s claws from her lilac linen robe, and noticed six small snags remained as souvenirs. ‘It’s probably nothing more complicated than a hiccup in our chemistry experiments—some of the knockout drops stronger than others.’
Playing up their, shall we say, hallucinogenic properties? Claudia deposited a carmine outline of her lips between the cat’s crossed eyes and, checking the hall was clear of aunts and monkeys, ran lightly down the stairs. I know you,
Gaius Seferius. You’ll have far better ways of spending your afterlife than clumping around scaring your cousins. But all the same. It was no coincidence that the occupants of both rooms either side had heard noises. Best check it out.
‘Package for you, ma’am,’ called a bald Sarmatian slave, and handed across a small hide pouch sticky with mildew. ‘Left inside the vestibule.’
‘Inside?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He pointed to a mosaic fish. ‘Right there.’
Tentatively. Claudia opened the bag. Inside was a strip of peach-coloured linen, and a letter folded in four. Her stomach lurched at the familiar cramped writing…
‘so you will know i’ve not abandoned you i send this blindfold and when we fuck i’ll—’ The parchment trembled in her hands. By the gods, this man is sick! Where does he get these vicious, warped fantasies? She forced herself to read on, and the last line jarred her to the marrow, ‘and know i am watching you’.
Hugging her body, she scanned the busy street. Pack mules weighed down with panniers. Itinerant salt vendors. A young blade in his chariot. Early carousers heading for taverns. Nothing sinister. No one lurking in doorways. No suspicious characters loitering on corners. For the first time, Claudia wondered why he called himself Magic…
She ran up the stairs fishing Gaius’ key from the folds of her gown. Stupid, bloody thing. Wouldn’t stay still. Get in that lock, dammit. Now turn. Turn, I said! There was sweat on her forehead when she closed the door and leaned her weight against it.
The room had not changed since her husband had died here. Garish walls, loud textiles. Friezes where there ought to be frescoes, too much silver, too much marble, a leopardskin rug. To Gaius, these things spelled success, confirmation of his rise to equestrian status, but for now, the room was strangely comforting.
She gripped the bedrail for support. Her heart seemed to be playing kettledrums with her rib bones, and someone had stolen her lower limbs and filled the gap with aspic.
Why did he do this? Why did he write these reams of filth? What was he hoping to achieve? If it was a power trip this Magic character was on, he was out of luck. Any signs that he terrified her Claudia kept to herself, and if they were ‘genuine’ protestations of love, why didn’t he reveal himself? She did not have the answers, but one thing was certain. Magic was creeping closer and closer…
