Wolf Whistle

Claudia positioned herself at the back of the small crowd which had gathered, anonymous under her cloak. She could still turn away. Cypassis sat on a three-legged stool outside the vellum maker’s, she had Jovi on her knee and was recounting how the raven had been turned from silver into black for telling tales. Jovi, unaware, chuckled merrily.

‘More, Passi. Tell me more!’

The crowd had been denied a view of the grisly crime in the alley, yet they chewed on every lurid detail.

‘Who raised the alarm, was it Zosi?’

‘That’s right, the speech seller. He said finding that corpse made him sick to his stomach.’

‘Slashed to ribbons, so they say.’

‘Just like the others.’

Speculation, embellishment and innuendo rippled round the swelling horde and when Claudia shivered it was not from the cold. Try as she might, she couldn’t escape the bitter comparisons between the horror on the Argiletum and the dignified ritual on the Palatine. There, the Priest of Luna would be inspecting the sacrificial sow for blemishes, assuring the worshippers who had gathered at the shrine that the beast was as close to perfection as was possible, a worthy sacrifice for the goddess. He would then wash his hands, for he too had to be pure.

Whether or not he had yet called for silence, it was not too late for Claudia to join in, because here, on the Argiletum, a solemn-faced Orbilio was busy wiping dark stains from his hands. He had not seen her. Sorry, Marcus. Another time, huh?

One eyebrow twitched slightly as Claudia threw back her hood and stepped forward. ‘Is this the place where you found Jovi?’ There was nothing in his voice to suggest he’d ever doubted she would not honour the bargain. ‘The boy doesn’t remember.’

The investigator’s voice did not carry as far as the gawpers and they shuffled their feet in noticeable disappointment.

Claudia cleared her throat. ‘Yes.’ Even in daylight you could barely make out the narrow cul-de-sac between the bookseller’s and the satchel shop, much less by night. ‘Is that where…?’

As her voice trailed off, she considered the worshippers and the temple attendants, duly hushed, heads bowed low. With street sounds drowned by the sacred flutes, the Priest of Luna would sprinkle holy salt on the pig’s head to purify the sacrifice. There would be no smells of turnip stalks and piss up there, no buzzing flies or scuttlebugs. From the hurly-burly of the street, Claudia’s ears picked out only Cypassis relating the bitter-sweet story of Echo and Narcissus and how poor, pining Echo was reduced to hiding in caves. And darkened alleyways, Claudia added silently. With heavy feet and a heavier heart, she approached the pitch-black tunnel. From a million miles away, a man’s voice was urging her for gods’ sake, don’t go down there, but Claudia heard only her maidservant’s crooning, growing fainter as it became muffled by the high walls of the passageway.

The priest would be finishing his solemn intonation. One of his attendants would purify the sacred hammer and he would ask, is this the right moment to strike, my lord?

Someone had snatched a torch from its bracket on the bookshop wall and was running after her. He was calling out her name and shouting, come back, but Claudia was mesmerized by the figure in the alley. White? Dark? No, it was parti-coloured. Part light. Part dark. That was the effect of the blood.

The pig would now be stunned with the sacred hammer. A second attendant would then turn to the priest, who would gravely nod his assent.

The figure was seated. Back to the wall. Facing forward.

The second attendant would turn the dazed animal’s head to the heavens and the Priest of Luna would speak words of reverence.

The figure was naked. Her hair had been hacked off and laid in her lap. Dark, limp, it resembled a cheap and shaggy blanket.

Luna’s second attendant would turn the pig’s head towards the hallowed earth and the Priest would utter prayers.

The figure’s wrists had been bound behind her back. Her legs had been bound at the ankles.

Lest the sacrificial beast recover from the blow which had stunned it, the Priest of Luna would draw the consecrated blade clean across its throat.

At least it was quick.

Which was more than you could say for this poor cow in the alleyway.

VII

Rome isn’t Babylon. No swaying date palms, no native willow, no light Euphrates poplar. No great wide streets to face the winds and blow the smells away, no glistening whitewashed houses. No scorching sun, no private bathtubs, no jugs fetched home on heads. No ale. No lard. No harems.