Wolf Whistle

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?’