His boss had wasted no time. Marcus Cornelius Orbilio was to remain under house arrest until this murder was solved.
Chapter Twelve
Down in the Cradle of Ra, the communal prayers for the god's safe transport through the Realm of Darkness were long over. Dinner had been cleared away hours ago, a simple repast of bacon, onions and lentils washed down with barley beer, and soft snores emanated from the dormitory blocks. Berenice was not close to sleep.
She felt old.
Older than her two and twenty summers, older than the hills which surrounded this lush valley, older than the Mount of Osiris which watched over them. Tears welled in her eyes. She had missed both prayers and dinner, the first because she'd been banned from attending while her baby continued to cry (some bitch called it grizzling), and the latter because she had no appetite and was truly sick of bacon. Why couldn't they have fish for a change?
'We are self-contained,' the High Priest had replied, when she took him to task over the matter. 'Our valley sustains us with wheat and fruit and vegetables, we have a garden for our herbs, pastures for our cattle, sheep and pigs. Ducks and geese and chickens give us eggs, and Ra himself has favoured us with a spring of sweet water from which issues forth a stream to wash our linens and flush out our latrines and bath house, but there is no trout stream running through our valley. We have no salmon spawning. Are we therefore not prepared to live without fish, Berenice?'
She had felt her cheeks burn with shame, yet he pressed relentlessly on.
'Do you, Berenice, deny that this is Paradise and that we are the Children of the Blessed?'
'Blessed are we, thanks be to Ra.' The automatic chorus could hardly skip past her tongue, she felt selfish, mean and ungrateful. She had spoken to the High Priest as though this was some holiday retreat and, quite rightly, he had put her firmly in her place. This was her home. Did she not like it? The question was risible! It simply took some adjusting, that's all, and perhaps it was this contrast which spurred people — Romans, no less — to tear down what the Pharaoh Mentu had built. No matter how hard she tried, Berenice could not begin to guess at their motives. Jealousy? Spite? Revenge on those who'd turned their back on the Roman way of life?
'Beware the enemies of Ra!' Mentu, dressed as Osiris with his blue painted face and gold mask, repeated his warning every night as the Boat of a Million Years returned to the temple to make its voyage through the underworld. 'For they seek to destroy us!'
To destroy this idyll? Berenice would die — no, she would kill — to preserve what the Ten True Gods had founded in this valley. The High Priest, with his shining shaven head and low brow ridge, was right. This was Paradise. Ra had given her hope and love and self-respect, and if this meant spending her days pollinating fig trees, clipping fleeces or following the harvesters to glean the ears of barley left behind, so be it.
But for two days now her son had been fretting, his face was flushed and, as of this afternoon, a light purple rash had spread down his back. Berenice ran the back of her little finger across his burning forehead. He was only five months old and there had been moments, especially today, when she regretted leaving behind the squad of nurses and nannies she would have had fussing around him at home.
'Ssssh. Ssh, little one, you'll be all right in the morning.'
Berenice looked up at the silent, thickly wooded hills. She was tired, she thought. Overwrought and over-reacting. The very notion of leaving here, of returning to her former, pampered life, was disloyal both to Mentu and to Ra, and her cheeks flushed with contrition. Yet, as she rocked her infant son, the thought still niggled that a commune without slavery, with everybody equal, was all very well, but when one is used to having servants do this, servants do that, the days can be pretty exhausting.
Stop this, Berenice! Stop it at once. You're tired, worried and exhausted by the heat. Once the baby recovers, you'll be fine.
The pungent smell of chives and basil wafted from the herb garden. Suppose, though, her son had fallen ill, because its mother was unhappy? That had to be a possibility.
How she wished she had someone to talk to! Family, friends, someone to confide in, help her get a perspective. Dear me, they were friendly enough, the folk here, but they weren't the type one could indulge in with weighty, in-depth discussions, or have a laugh or a gossip. They were serious, pious and dedicated and, unlike Berenice, not stifled by the constant repetition. The endless succession of prayers, the repetitive rituals, the fact that one never thought for oneself, was even allotted the clothes on one's back — one set for work, the other for rest, and each set identical to his neighbour's, right down to the conformist jewellery and unguents. Weeks ago, Berenice had stopped using that sickly concoction of myrrh and cloves, it had started to make her feel queasy. What was wrong with using lemon balm on her skin? Or having fish for a change for her dinner!
'Sssh, darling, ssh. I'll make you better, Mummy promise.'
As the long night wore on, she tried to recall what might be happening back home, but because she'd abandoned the Roman calendar willingly in favour of the Pharaoh's ten-day weeks, his ten-month years, Berenice had lost track of 'proper' time. According to the High Priest, this was the Month of the Crocodile. Did that mean it was July already? Berenice could not remember, everything was the same every single day.
Why should this concept grate? she wondered. Why on her and her alone? The others were happy enough, why wasn't she? Tears welled in her eyes. Crumbs, this was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? Longed for? Her whole life orchestrated for her, removing the responsibility of thinking for herself? It had been worth every silver denarius she'd donated for a routine which had been soft and soothing on her mind, but today — why did she long for home all of a sudden?
'Come on, darling, take a drink.'
But the child refused her breast. It must be the baby. She sighed. This is so beautiful, this valley, so calm and peaceful. When he's better, I'll be better. She kissed his downy head. Or was he sick because of her? Picking up on her anxiety?
Spinning thoughts jumbled her mind as Berenice closed the door on her darkened bedroom. She laid the snuffling infant in his cradle, undid the straps of her gown and let it fall to the floor. Heavens, had she ever known such heat! She moved to the basin on the table to rinse her face and body, when she pulled up short. A goblet had appeared! Berenice sniffed. Wine!
'Will you look at that!' she whispered softly to the baby. She hadn't tasted wine since she had arrived here last autumn, pregnant with the child who was not her husband's. 'A gift from the gods!'
Only the Ten True Gods were allowed wine to drink, the faithful were given beer. Berenice gulped it down, savouring the richness as it trickled down her throat. Strange, not drinking it for so long, she'd forgotten what it tasted like. Far sweeter than she remembered.
'Oh!' The room began to spin. 'Silly Mummy.' She giggled. 'Drank too fast and feels all woozy.'
She slumped down on the bed, black waves sweeping over her. When she tried to move, she couldn't. The door to her bedroom opened, and misty eyes saw Hathor in the doorway, her coppery cloak sweeping the floor, the soft cow eyes turned on Berenice. She ought to be afraid, she thought, seeing visions in the early hours, but she wasn't. Hathor had come to help. Hathor had given her the wine.
'Hathor looks after mothers with their calves,' the vision said, and Berenice thought it odd, such a deep voice for a goddess. 'Hathor has seven of her own.'
I know, Berenice wanted to say. The Calves of Hathor weave the web of life. But her throat was paralysed, and she could say nothing as the goddess began to stroke her heavy, naked breasts.