Marilyn Todd - Wolf Whistle

‘What sex is it?’ he enquired, as they pushed through the oncoming traffic towards the post house where they’d arranged to meet Sargon.

‘What?’

‘The child we picked up tonight.’

‘Male,’ confirmed Vibio.

‘That’s some consolation for Arbil,’ said the Captain. ‘It’s tough these days to offload the girls.’

Vibio’s brow furrowed. ‘Yeah?’

‘Regrettably so.’ Pulling his cloak tight round his shoulders, Dino answered for the Captain. ‘With the size of country estates on the increase, landowners need more and more muscle to dig over their fields, tread their grapes, pick their olives. There’s only so many manicurists required on the open market.’

‘I can think of a use for the girlies,’ leered Vibio, rounding the corner of the posting station. Horses snickered, wheelwrights hammered out repairs by the light of bright torches.

Dino spun round, grabbed the man by the scruff of his tunic and pressed him hard against the buckboard of a two-wheeled cart. In the glare from the yard, the lackey could see the young man’s features clearly. Darkly handsome, tanned, oiled and athletic, right now his face was twisted with menace.

‘Don’t you ever, not once, make that filthy suggestion again.’ Dinocrates released the tunic, but the flare in his eyes didn’t lessen. ‘What we do is both legal and honest, we train these children, give them a craft if they’re able, ensure they have a roof over their heads and a full belly for life, even if they only end up as labourers.’

‘I didn’t mean nothing by it, Dino-’ The midden hunter rubbed where the wood had dug into his backbone.

‘I don’t care whether you did or you didn’t, the fact is you thought it. Just remember one thing, my friend. These babies might grow up slaves, but they grow up respected. And think, before you open your big mouth again, where you came from.’

‘I-’ He was floundering, and he knew it. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead, because he didn’t understand what was happening. Dinocrates never lost his rag over something so trivial. ‘Honest, Dino, I didn’t mean-’

‘He rescued you, he rescued me, he rescued Tryphon here.’

The Captain looked up from where he was checking the infant in its tiny basket and nodded solemnly. It wasn’t often Dino referred to him by anything other than his nickname. ‘Right,’ he growled. ‘So remember where your allegiance lies, lad.’

‘I do, I swear.’ It had been meant as a throwaway quip, the sort of joke men always make when they’re together, like it’s expected or something.

‘Then you show the ladies respect,’ pressed Dinocrates. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Now let’s hope Sargon’s early so we can get moving. This bloody damp’s right in my bones.’

A man, this side of thirty, stepped from the shadows with a swirl of his long, flowing cloak. ‘Did somebody mention my name?’

‘By Janus, lad, you gave me a bloody fright.’ The Captain had nearly dropped his precious basket. ‘What the hell are you doing out in the yard?’

Post houses were primitive, by and large, but there was always a waiting room where a large, open fire would crackle and spit and keep a man of standing safe from the elements, and there was no mistaking Sargon for a beggar. Not with wool that fine, or gems like those in his rings.

The Babylonian grinned. ‘It wasn’t me they objected to, Tryphon. It was Silverstreak here.’

At the mention of its name, a rangy canine loped to his side, yawned then casually licked its chops. Tawny coloured with a black tip to its long bushy tail, Silverstreak had acquired his name from the broad stripe of white fur which ran down his backbone. It was not that he was bad-tempered which people found so intimidating, it was more the fact that Silverstreak was a fully-grown wolf.

‘I trust you had a more successful evening than the rest of us,’ grumbled the Captain, although in all the years he’d worked the middens for Arbil, he still didn’t know what role Sargon played when they came into Rome and he envied Dinocrates for being privy to such secrets.

‘So-so.’ Sargon moved across to Dino and spoke so only the two of them could hear. ‘Remember the praetor’s wife, the one who’s right up the duff and her poor old husband stuck in Iberia this past twelvemonth?’

‘Indeed.’

‘The deal’s on. She’s due any time and when it’s born, we’re to relieve her of the brat and she’ll hand over the cash.’

It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Wealthy wives paid fortunes to maintain the illusion of virtue, and so long as men and women found one another attractive, it would remain a profitable sideline.

‘You’ve got to hand it to her, Sargon, she’s hidden it well.’ The number of women who took to their beds with mysterious illnesses while their husbands were absent beggared belief.

The Babylonian laughed. ‘So did the censor’s wife, Dino, and remember how that one turned out?’

The poor cow had been mortified at finding herself pregnant, and at one stage wondered whether to pass the baby off as her husband’s. However, unable to remember who she had slept with, in the end she let prudence take precedence and handed the child over to Sargon.

‘No mistaking him for the censor’s,’ laughed Sargon. ‘That kid was as black as Nile mud!’

The last day of the month protected by Mars dawned (if that wasn’t too strong a description) dull and grey and drizzly. Roof tiles darkened to the colour of blood, hides across windows hung shiny like satin, doors swelled and got stuck. In the homes of the better-off, Spanish oil topped up lanterns lit more for comfort than necessity as a swarm of industrious hands took oiled cloths to metalwork to ward off the rust.

To celebrate the passing of the month, a year-old sow was to be led through the streets to the goddess Luna’s shrine up on the Palatine where, to the sound of flutes, she would lay down her life, and may Luna’s powers be great from her sacrifice. Claudia checked the level on her water clock. Two more hours before the festivities kicked off. Sailing over the windowsill, Drusilla left daisies of mud on the tessellated stag-hunt before pushing her chiselled features into Claudia’s breakfast. She did not take kindly to the feast being interrupted by Leonides, flattening her ears and hissing pointedly before returning the way she came in.

‘You clash,’ Claudia told her steward, indicating the purple shadows circling red-rimmed eyes. ‘Is anything wrong?’

He checked Drusilla’s departure was permanent before venturing further into the room. ‘Perhaps a little lack of sleep, that is all.’

Oh-oh! She’d forgotten she’d left him waiting in the peristyle. Time, methinks, to change the subject.

‘I presume you’ve reunited Jovi with the bosom of his family?’ Claudia toyed with a pancake, gave up and pushed back the plate.

‘N-n-not exactly.’ Leonides scrunched up one side of his face. ‘Junius carried out your instructions. He posted a Message…’

She had to prompt him. ‘Yes?’

‘No word came back.’

Claudia practically rolled off the dining couch. She’d expected at least a dozen mothers queueing at her door, frantic to claim their misplaced rug-rat. ‘What about the military? Has Junius enquired?’

‘He has, and they have not received a visit, either.’

‘I see.’ Claudia tapped the side of her mouth with her forefinger. ‘What about Jovi?’ Dammit, she’d given him her oath. ‘Have you questioned him?’

‘The little chap has latched on to Cypassis and although she has tried repeatedly to coax clues out of him, I regret we are no closer to identifying even so much as his district, madam, let alone the address.’ He relayed the gist of Cypassis’ probing.