Wolf Whistle

Claudia plucked a pink oleander and buried her nose in its perfume before answering. The questioner’s raven black hair was knotted loosely at the back, bracelets jangled from ankles and wrists and a turquoise robe set off her Indus beauty to perfection. Only two things marred the girl’s loveliness. Her cold, narrowed eyes and the bruise on the side of her face.

In explaining the reason for her visit, Claudia expected to encounter resistance, disbelief even. A woman in business? With a proposition for Arbil? Instead the stiffness in the girl’s shoulders lessened. ‘Come inside.’ The lips were no longer pursed.

Surreptitiously Claudia wiped the milky juice which oozed from the plant’s leathery leaves down the back of her gown. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait here. In the cool.’

Instantly the rancour was back. ‘As you wish.’ Malevolent eyes swivelled to the terracotta grid and back to Claudia. ‘But beware,’ she hissed. ‘The man’s a degenerate.’

Curious, Claudia watched her stomp away, the bangles jarring with every angry stride, then she pulled the oleander bush aside and put her eye to the grid. The gate was closed now. Sargon leaned with his hand on the hasp and laughed as the good looking Greek cracked a joke. Of Kaeso there wasn’t a sign.

Except, in the spot where he’d stood, a wolf with a streak of silver down its back lay panting in the sunshine.

And then she remembered. That’s where the trumpets and drums fitted in. The two dandies, arriving separately and late-at the Bull Dance.

The afternoon Zygia died…

Claudia-let’s be clear about this-did not believe in Shape Shifters. Like demons and vampires, these were creatures of legend, and that’s where they belonged. Not in modern day Rome. In broad daylight. Kaeso’s a natural hunter, she reminded herself. He wears camouflage colours. His movements by definition are lithe and athletic. But if Kaeso wasn’t a werewolf, she knew from experience that he was a highly theatrical animal. The magic tricks, the silent house, his standing in shadows, even Tucca the mute were all carefully choreographed. Props to disorientate. A means to control…

That he saw her arrive went without question.

That he crept up on her in the courtyard ought not have surprised her.

‘I did not expect to find you visiting Arbil,’ he remarked. Loosely tethered to a hook on the entrance arch stood a beautifully groomed horse, its chestnut hide glistening under the mid-morning sun.

‘I could say the same for you.’ Claudia decided her own voice failed to match Kaeso’s for casualness.

‘Me?’ Muscular shoulders lifted and fell. ‘I was raised here, grew up with Sargon and Dino.’ He nodded to where the dandy patted his wolf’s black-tipped shoulderblades and where the Greek stood, hands on hips, gazing up at the clouds. ‘I like to keep in touch.’

The hell you do. ‘Is that often?’

‘When I’m passing.’

‘Then I wished you’d been passing the Collina Gate around dawn,’ she flashed back. ‘Magic dropped in for iced wine and cakes.’

His expression hardened. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

And she did, adding, ‘It was all pretty straightforward. He tried to rape me, so I stabbed him.’ The usual.

There was a swift intake of breath. ‘Dead?’

‘Alas, it was only a flesh wound.’

‘Magic,’ Kaeso swung into the saddle and kicked his horse into a canter, ‘has performed his very last trick, I assure you.’

Now there, Kaeso, I am inclined to believe you. But I’m still interested to know what brings you out here the day before Market Day. Claudia recalled the ritual murders. They, too, were all about control…

Shit, this is madness, she thought irritably. I don’t know what I’m doing in this Babylonian wilderness. What the hell did Supersnoop think I could achieve from one short visit? She was on the point of leaving when a thick, gutteral brogue apologized for keeping her waiting and, not for the first time, Claudia’s curiosity got the upper hand. So this was Arbil? She took in the crimped hair and curled beard (both suspiciously black), and the ankle-length robes which strained over his stomach as he led her to a seat beneath a plane tree.

‘What can I do for you, my dear?’

For a man in his fifties, she’d expected the slave trader to have weathered well under his immense cushion of wealth, but he hadn’t. Those pouchy eyes, the skin hanging in flaps from his cheeks, the discoloured whites of his eyes screamed a legacy of drink and debauchery. Had he not been so podgy, she’d have described him as raddled, and it was with the Indian girl’s words ringing in her ears that Claudia invented a business proposal which was vague but sufficiently plausible to engage Arbil’s interest. Or so she hoped. All the time she’d been presenting her case, he’d been nodding intently. Had it worked? Had he swallowed the bait?

‘Come indoors, my dear, come indoors.’