Seth had pulled on his clothes and was holding up a mask which had lain on the table in front of Donata, a mask identical in every respect to that worn by Hathor at the ceremony: the soft cow's mouth, the big, round ears below the arching horns. He stroked the long black lashes which surrounded the painted glass of the eye and tenderly planted a kiss on the broad snout between the gaping nostrils.
'Oh, Hathor, your time of destiny has come.'
He placed a thong around Donata's throat, similar to the one he'd used to subdue her earlier, and tied his special knot.
'Seth is not a beast, he does not kill,' he whispered. 'The choice of life or death is yours, sweet cow, mother of the falcon. Seth will return, to see which path Hathor has chosen.' He placed the heavy mask over Donata's head and watched her shoulders sag under the colossal weight. 'To continue with this life, knowing your heart will fail the Scales of Truth and sentence you to eternal desolation? Or to accept my gift of everlasting life by passing through the gate of death, like the others here?'
His hand swept around the table, to where the bodies of Thoth and Horus, Bast and Isis sat embalmed in eternal obedience to him. Which path would Hathor take? So far, none of his previous conquests had failed him, and four from ten leaves six. Hathor, should she choose to follow Seth, would bring the total up to five.
'Mmfffff. Mmfffff!'
Carefully he fingered the unfilled replica masks, perfect to the feather, to the whisker, to the scale. Halfway. This was a confirmation of his power, of his domination over the other, lesser, gods. Soon his tableau would be complete and the Dark Destroyer could commence his eternal jurisdiction. But he must move fast. Despite the unguents and the heavy linen bandages, the four corpses seated round Seth's table were already demonstrating certain effects of this wearisome heat.
In the meantime, though, he must continue to move among the weaklings and the cowards of the commune, and this he could achieve, because, in their fools' eyes, they believed him to be one of them. They trusted him. Indeed, because of his position in the hierarchy, they actively sought out his advice and fulfilled his instructions to the letter.
Soon — oh, very soon — these idiots would see the Sorcerer for what he was. His power and his true identity would shine through. Their knees would knock. Voices would tremble at Seth's omnipotence. And they would see that Mentu was nothing more substantial than the King of Clowns, a Pharaoh ruling over fools.
True mastery and dominion belonged to Seth.
With conscientious thoroughness, he replaced the branches of the scrambling fig to conceal once more the mouth of his secret cavern.
Oblivious to Donata's strangled, helpless sobs.
Chapter Nine
There's something wrong here, Claudia thought, her long legs scissoring across the Forum. Very wrong! Four men don't just disappear into thin air. Junius would never bunk off without leaving word.
'Almond buns? Hot pastries, lady?'
Claudia's glare told the vendor what he could do with his delights, and the huckster melted back into the crowd.
Goddammit, there's a real smell of fish surrounding this affair, but I have an idea, a theory about this abduction, and I need to test it.
Claudia glanced at the angle of the sun, now over the Aventine and sliding fast. With her bodyguard missing and the threat as to what would befall Flavia, were the authorities to become involved, sour in her mouth, Claudia had had little choice other than to station untrained reinforcements in the form of slaves from her own household around the Camensis and to hell if they were spotted, she'd done her best, given the taxing circumstances. Verres the cook had taken two kitchen hands, ostensibly to collect herbs for the table. Leonides, her steward, had settled down beside the spring with a good book. Two beefy labourers chopped back shrubs and trusted to Jupiter that the kidnappers knew sod all about pruning techniques.
Barging through a group of acrobats, Claudia recalled something Julia had said when she'd delivered the first note from the kidnappers. One little clue, which Claudia should have picked up on earlier. Whose ramifications, if her suspicions were on target, would be momentous.
Behind her, the tumblers untangled themselves from the pavement and called a warning to the tightrope walker up ahead. Too late. With a startled yell, he went pinging off his wire, straight into the bosom of a fat patrician wife.
But where did Junius fit in? she wondered, stepping over a small dog snoozing in the shade of an ivory carver's stall. Around her, hammers from a cobbler's last tap-tap-tapped its repetitious call. Bronze workers chipped out a hollow echo. And over the whole expanse of Rome, hot air from the marshes trapped everything from bread smells to fried fish, from the sulphur of the fuller's to the pungent stench of sweat. If Claudia's burgeoning hypothesis was correct, it would take one hell of a diversion to distract her bodyguard, who was by no means gullible nor stupid, from the task in hand 'Out of my way, you!'
Claudia's hand flipped up the tray of oysters, raining crinkly grey shells on the travertine flags. She didn't wait to hear what the oyster-seller called her, ducking instead into the cramped premises of a basket weaver's. She tossed him a silver coin and put her finger to her lips as she ran up the wooden ladder to his attic. Here, the garret window gave a clear view across the Forum: the acrobats, the tightrope walker, the oyster man, on his hands and knees as he scrabbled to retrieve his lumpy cargo. Every colour of the rainbow swarmed beneath the basket weaver's window: scarlet shot with gold or silver thread in the rich robes of merchants; the white togas of patricians; the blue pantaloons the Persians wore; yellow shawls favoured by the Syrians; green turbans from the east. There were skins of every hue, mahogany and fair, ebony and olive; bald heads, veiled heads, goatee beards and sweatbands.
However, none of this swirling tide of humanity seemed lost. No one stood scratching his or her head in perplexity, looking this way and that, shielding their eyes or jumping over the heads of the crowd to see which way their quarry had gone. No one stood still. No one frowned.
One question answered, then. The dusty smell of willows prickled Claudia's nostrils. I'm not being followed. Dear me, a blind man couldn't miss that trail of destruction in the Forum. Her pulse raced that little bit harder. She was sure, now, she was on the right scent.
Outside the shop, she hailed a passing litter. The Field of Mars, she told the bearers, and could they run? Could they hell! Dispatch runners might learn a thing or two from these chaps as, panting heavily, they set her down outside the wooden amphitheatre. Around the makeshift seats, sawdust lay in heaps made soggy in the muggy heat. Bare-backed carpenters sawed and hammered, chipped and planed as the shadows lengthened. The killer breeze kept up its stealthy whisper. Wooden boards were hauled into place with the aid of ropes and ladders and suddenly the swirling waters of the River Tiber became hidden behind a painted backdrop of green rolling hills taken over by a hostile army encampment, while in the orchestra pit, a cacophony of drums and cymbals clashed, and horns blared out in uncoordinated practice.
Ordinarily, since it fell on the second day of Apollo's Games and was therefore eclipsed by the pageants and processions of the opening ceremonies, the Festival of the Serving Women was one on which every expense would be spared. Indeed, of the half-million sesterces which the Treasury poured into the Games as a whole, it was doubtful whether one hundredth made their way to this paltry, low-key celebration, such was the lure of the larger stage productions. Comedies by Terence, tragedies and epics — burglars were spoiled for choice, with every household in the city emptied for the shows.