Wolf Whistle

As they waited for the fourth member of the party to join up, Dino reflected on the Emperor’s reaction to the tragedy. He’d coped well, he thought, with the death of a man closer to him than a brother and his eulogy had left strong men weeping fountains. He had lit the pyre himself, declared public mourning, read Agrippa’s will aloud to the people and when he’d reached the part where his friend bequeathed his aqueduct slaves to Augustus, the Emperor once more proved his worth by turning these twelve score men over to the Senate as public servants. Furthermore, he had promised not only to continue Agrippa’s civil engineering programme, by the gods he would extend it, creating the brand new post of Water Commissioner for a start. Afterwards he had personally supervised the interring of the Great Man’s ashes in that tall, cylindrical structure faced with travertine down on the Field of Mars, the Emperor’s very own mausoleum. What a man!

For Arbil the Babylonian, and to a lesser extent, for Arbil’s son, Sargon, the death of Agrippa was purely nuisance value. A disruption of routine, a complete re-scheduling. No grief, no sadness. Dino often wondered what it must be like for them, so far from the motherland and with no loyalties to Rome, which invariably set him questioning his own identity. For an orphan from Chios who’d been raised under Babylonian law, why this strong pull towards Rome and the Romans? Dino was heartily glad when the fourth henchman arrived.

‘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.’