Wolf Whistle

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!’

Marilyn Todd

Wolf Whistle

V

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.

Which hill is closest to your home, Jovi? Dunno.

Are you near the river? Dunno.

What about a temple? Dunno.

Are there tall buildings round where you live? Nod. (To him, all buildings would be tall, they could be tenements, storehouses, just about anything). So what’s the strongest thing you smell from your room? Wine.

(Aha! Could it be that wine warehouse down by the Aventine?) Tell me, Jovi, do you see lots of men coming and going? Yeah. They visit me ma.