Read Online Wolf Whistle by Marilyn Todd - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marilyn Todd
Tags: Mystery
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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.
Here, on his lands below the Sabine Hills, Arbil was surrounded by all manner of dismal trees, home to all manner of verminous creatures, and he mourned the vast unbroken flatness that was Babylonia. Except Babylon was dying. The great metropolis sat back while other cities sniped at its trade, and found the price for complacency was slow obliteration. Soon it would be nothing but a ghost town, a shadow of its mighty past, and a man with sons must change or shrivel with it. Arbil was not a surrenderer. That gutless peacock, the self-styled Augustus, now there’s a defeatist, he thought, and he might fool Romans with his tales of his glory, but by Marduk he did not fool Arbil. He called it an empire, yet would not fight wars. What a prick. He fobbed his people off with temples paid for by other mens’ campaigns and sold it back to them as a ‘Golden Age of Peace’. He was nothing but a conman.
Which was all to Arbil’s good. As a result of those pacifist policies, the first thing to dry up was the hitherto steady stream of prisoners of war, the traditional source of slave labour upon which the Roman economy depended. When Arbil heard about the practice of leaving babies on midden heaps, he knew at once he had a goldmine on his hands, a perpetual source of income, and he’d hardly have to work at it. He’d chosen a site not too close to Rome, yet private enough, from which to operate, and naturally this was subject to Babylonian law and none of that namby-pamby stuff the Romans professed to enforce. If a wife kills her husband, she is impaled. If a son strikes his father, his hand is cut off. If a couple commit adultery, they are tied up and thrown in the river. Simple, but effective. There was never any trouble on Arbil’s property.
Even from a distance, a stranger approaching would see that this was not the standard design of four wings round a central courtyard. A short-toed eagle for instance, cruising for snakes and frogs and lizards, would have a better view, and he would see a shape not dissimilar to his own silhouette. A stubby head, the remains of the original building, with a garden as its eye, and beyond, a broad stocky body, the earliest of the many extensions. Splayed from the middle, he would see eight long blocks, huge ‘wings’ of wings either side and, finally, a splayed tail block at the end. However, there would be too many people milling around, quite literally hundreds, for the short-toed eagle’s
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.
Here, on his lands below the Sabine Hills, Arbil was surrounded by all manner of dismal trees, home to all manner of verminous creatures, and he mourned the vast unbroken flatness that was Babylonia. Except Babylon was dying. The great metropolis sat back while other cities sniped at its trade, and found the price for complacency was slow obliteration. Soon it would be nothing but a ghost town, a shadow of its mighty past, and a man with sons must change or shrivel with it. Arbil was not a surrenderer. That gutless peacock, the self-styled Augustus, now there’s a defeatist, he thought, and he might fool Romans with his tales of his glory, but by Marduk he did not fool Arbil. He called it an empire, yet would not fight wars. What a prick. He fobbed his people off with temples paid for by other mens’ campaigns and sold it back to them as a ‘Golden Age of Peace’. He was nothing but a conman.
Which was all to Arbil’s good. As a result of those pacifist policies, the first thing to dry up was the hitherto steady stream of prisoners of war, the traditional source of slave labour upon which the Roman economy depended. When Arbil heard about the practice of leaving babies on midden heaps, he knew at once he had a goldmine on his hands, a perpetual source of income, and he’d hardly have to work at it. He’d chosen a site not too close to Rome, yet private enough, from which to operate, and naturally this was subject to Babylonian law and none of that namby-pamby stuff the Romans professed to enforce. If a wife kills her husband, she is impaled. If a son strikes his father, his hand is cut off. If a couple commit adultery, they are tied up and thrown in the river. Simple, but effective. There was never any trouble on Arbil’s property.
Even from a distance, a stranger approaching would see that this was not the standard design of four wings round a central courtyard. A short-toed eagle for instance, cruising for snakes and frogs and lizards, would have a better view, and he would see a shape not dissimilar to his own silhouette. A stubby head, the remains of the original building, with a garden as its eye, and beyond, a broad stocky body, the earliest of the many extensions. Splayed from the middle, he would see eight long blocks, huge ‘wings’ of wings either side and, finally, a splayed tail block at the end. However, there would be too many people milling around, quite literally hundreds, for the short-toed eagle’s
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