Wolf Whistle

The smell of roast meat squeezed through the floorboards-wild boar and venison, hazel hens and goose. They would be served up with pastries moulded like artichokes and coarse brown bread to mop up the juices. Then, while the meat course settled, a group of fire-eaters would come in, and there would be blond-haired, blue-eyed Porsenna on call to pay her court and compliments. Claudia picked up a gold bangle and turned it slowly, like a wheel, between her two outstretched index fingers.

‘Yesterday you talked about this being, what was the phrase-ritual murder? Bodies arranged in certain positions, the symbolism of the hair in the lap-’

Orbilio stroked his hand along Claudia’s damasked sheet. ‘Call it a hunch, call it instinct, call it pig-headed stubbornness,’ he said. ‘But this is the work of the same man, I can smell it.’

Claudia studied the investigator as he lay on the counterpane, eyes closed and his wavy hair tousled. In stark contrast to the gales of laughter rising from below, his voice sounded drained to the marrow and she noticed the first smudge of stubble on his jaw and dark circles beneath his long lashes.

‘I’ve missed something,’ he added wearily. ‘Somewhere along the line, I’ve missed a clue, but for the life of me, I can’t think where.’

Claudia felt a pounding in her ribcage, a tightness in her throat. He had no right to be here. No right to be lying white with fatigue on her bed, scenting her room with his sandalwood.

‘Then perhaps you should not spread yourself so thinly,’ she replied tartly, clipping on ear studs fashioned like seahorses. It was definitely time to join Porsenna and the aunts. ‘Decide which case needs priority and concentrate on solving one of them properly instead of three not at all.’ She shook out the flounces on her brightly coloured gown. ‘Orbilio, are you listening to me?’

Soft snores rising from the bed answered for him.

XX

Can you see it? There, in the shadows of the great striding aqueduct which ferries water from the Arno, that low brick building which looks like a cattle shed? Inside it reeks of cheap wine, stale sweat and the blood of thousands of fighting cocks who have laid down their lives in that deep central pit, yet despite the lateness of the hour, its walls are still threatening to burst. Coins change hands swifter than lightning, tempers flare faster and should proof be needed that Rome is a melting pot, look around. Dark-skinned Numidians, hook-nosed Parthians, moustachioed Celts, the blond men of Belgica. One night you’ll see Teutonic tribesmen with horns sticking out of their helmets; another, Lycians snuggled deep inside fur-collared coats. There’ll be masons, paviors, magistrates and tax collectors, Cypriots, Indians, Jews.

Dinocrates pushed his way to the front, where Sargon seemed to be having difficulty getting his point across.

‘The black fucker, you moron,’ he shouted, then turned to his friend. ‘I gave that arsehole fifty sesterces, and with only two birds to bet on, he still put our money on the wrong bloody one.’

The bookie in question, a squat Cappadocian with four chins but precious little Latin, was shrugging and pointing to the larger of the two cockerels, which had pheasant-type plumage and a much thinner neck.

‘I know that’s the favourite,’ Sargon mouthed. ‘Just back the black bugger, will you!’

‘ Our money?’ queried Dino, retrieving his embroidered cuff from the gesticulating fingers of a Spaniard beside him.

‘The praetor’s wife finally dropped her calf,’ his friend grinned. ‘So while the Captain plays nursemaid, I set about doubling our remuneration.’

‘Call me short-sighted, but your purse seems a trifle unfurnished.’

‘My accumulator went down in that last fight, but we still have fifty sesterces.’

‘Which rides on that scrawny bag of feathers over there?’

Sargon laughed. ‘Your face won’t be so sour when we pick up our winnings, Dino, we’ll need a handcart to carry them home in. Look at that spur, sharp as a dagger. How come you’re so late?’

‘Things.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing special.’

The young Babylonian pushed his rich, red cloak back from his shoulders as the black cock was shown its opponent at close quarters. A vicious beak lashed out, but the trainer pulled the bird back, a ritual which would be repeated several more times, to wind the cockerels into a frenzy. ‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’ he asked slowly. ‘I mean, you’d say if it wasn’t?’

Dinocrates bridled. ‘Everything’s fine. Why shouldn’t it be?’

‘No reason.’ Sargon’s eyes remained fixed on the fighting cocks as they lunged at one other in their owners’ strong grip. ‘Only you absent yourself rather a lot when we come into Rome these days.’

The two angry birds were released into the pit. The roar from the punters was deafening.

‘Can you blame me,’ Dino said at length. ‘Seeing your ugly mug all the time-and anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. Where do you sneak off to, may I ask?’