Wolf Whistle

‘That,’ Sargon pulled one eyelid down with his finger, ‘would be telling. Oh, is my black cockerel a winner or not? Come on, boy! Get him! ’

Whistles and stamping and roars of encouragement nearly shook the gutterspouts loose from the roof as the birds attacked in murderous frenzy. Arcs of blood spurted as they dived, pecking and gouging and spearing with deadly sharpened spurs. Flaps of comb and wattle spat across the pit as they screamed and tore and stabbed, the men around them hoarse from bawling. For several minutes the contest remained equal, then slowly the squall of feathers subsided as the weaker of the two moved on to a defence that was merely a question of time.

‘I tell you him de best, Sargon. I tell you, not de black one!’ The Cappadocian’s downturned mouth disappeared into copious rolls of flesh. ‘I pick you bird for next bout, yes?’

‘Fucking loser.’ Sargon kicked the pit rail, where, below, the carcass of the black cockerel had been removed and fresh sand thrown over the carnage.

‘You or the chicken?’ laughed Dino.

‘Ha, ha, very funny.’ The long-haired Babylonian aimed a mock punch.

‘Never mind,’ Dino gave him a consolatory pat on the back. ‘I reckon we can still run to a wineskin between us.’

Outside, Sargon let out three short whistles and Silverstreak trotted over, nuzzling the palm of his master’s hand. A long pink tongue rasped against the skin and the three of them set off down the hill, where ghostly figures loomed in and out of the mist, reeling, stumbling, skulking in doorways. The air here was sour from the tanner’s yard, and an owl hooted from an arch in the aqueduct. As they passed, a chink of light revealed a soot-blackened tavern, mine host’s customers slumped over their goblets as a one-eyed mongrel lapped at the dregs of spilled liquor. Silverstreak sniffed twice and loped on.

‘Know what I think?’ Sargon clapped his arm round Dinocrates’ shoulder. ‘I think we ought to rear our own bloody fighting cocks. Breed ourselves tough little bastards who could make us a fortune.’

‘We’re hardly on the skids,’ Dino said drily. ‘Tonight excepting, my friend, these upper-class by-blows thread gold through our tunics, set precious stones in our cloak-pins-’

‘Lesson one, Dino. A man can never have too much hair or too much money.’ Still grinning, Sargon rapped at a lion’s head knocker, where they were swallowed up by a throng of music and dancing, lamplight and laughter. Scantily clad girls came to pat Silverstreak, who rolled on to his back in delight.

‘I’m trying to picture Arbil’s face,’ said Dino, yanking off his fringed boots, ‘when he hears you propose to farm chickens.’

A Nubian slave, naked and shaved, washed their feet in scented water while another thrust goblets of wine into their hands. The wolf followed his nose to the kitchens, knowing he’d be slipped titbits of goose and mutton before stretching out in front of an open log fire on which a whole pig would be roasting.

‘By Marduk,’ said Sargon, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘This is an improvement on my father’s gnat’s pee.’

Dino spluttered, laughing, into his glass. ‘Arbil will have you strung up by your balls, insulting his ale. But I have to confess, I’m with you on this, my friend. I much prefer the Roman ways.’ He smiled into the middle distance. ‘Much prefer,’ he repeated softly.

The crooking of one Babylonian finger brought two lissom young girls running over. One had gold dust painted on her naked nipples, the other wore a transparent tunic and only perfume underneath.

‘The attractions are more readily available, that’s for sure.’ A blind balladeer began to strum a haunting lovesong as Sargon ran his hand absently up and down a shapely oiled thigh. ‘Tell me, Dino.’ He paused. ‘Seeing as how you and I are so attached to the city, how do you feel about transferring here permanently?’

The Greek’s head came up sharply. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Perfectly.’ Sargon moved the girl on to his knee, where she proceeded to run expert hands through his long, jet-black hair.

‘What about Arbil? He’ll-’

‘Uh-uh. I’m talking about you and me, Dino. We set our headquarters in Rome and run the whole shooting match from here. What do you say?’

‘Go behind Arbil’s back?’ hissed Dinocrates. ‘Croesus, man, we’ll end up staked out as jackal meat, the crows pecking our eyes and our livers.’

Sargon slipped his hand under the whore’s flimsy tunic. ‘I’m not talking about going into opposition, I’m talking about when I take over.’ He leaned closer towards Dino. ‘You’ve seen him these past few weeks. Can’t remember his own fucking name half the time, babbles to himself, I tell you, the old man’s falling apart. Angel says he can’t even get it up any more.’

A youth on the pan pipes took over from the blind balladeer, more wine was brought round, and on a nod from the management, the second girl rippled her fingers over Dinocrates’ chest. Without thinking, he pushed her away and a flutter of gold dust danced through the air.