He shuffled his stool closer and topped up her beer.
'Under Egyptian law,' he smiled oilily, 'men and women share equal rights and since we have abolished slavery in our commune, there are no constraints on who one might marry, a craftsman, a dentist, a poet, if that's who takes your fancy. Alternatively, should you wish, my child, there's no pressure to re-marry at all. Indeed, most of the ladies who join us do not take a husband, while others — ' he paused, assessing again the jewels and the gemstones. 'Others might be chosen by Mentu to become his wife.'
'He has more than one?'
'The Pharaoh can take a hundred wives, if he so desires. It is the supreme honour, my dear, afforded to very few, to become a true bride of Ra.'
Claudia's heart began to pound. Assuming her suppositions were on target, any minute now and he'd broach the subject of money.
'There is, of course, the little matter of the Solar Fund.'
Good boy! 'The Solar Fund?' she asked guilelessly.
'The community is self-contained,' Zer explained. 'It is the temple which requires upkeep and naturally the greater one's contribution, the more favourably Ra smiles upon his servant.'
Naturally, indeed!
'This is entirely a voluntary contribution, you understand.' The smile became more unctuous still. 'New members are under no obligation to make a donation, although if they do, it is wise to remember that the sacred metal of Ra is gold.'
Another brick fell into place: the reason why the ransom had to be paid in gold.
'Oh, dear.' Claudia placed her hands together, the way the acolytes had done earlier. 'I have precious little by way of liquid assets — my stepfather, you know… Spent it all.' Careful, now. Don't overdo it. 'On the other hand, I have an olive grove in Campania and vineyards which stretch across three hills in Frascati. Would they be acceptable, do you think?'
The priest all but licked his lips. 'More than,' he said, adding with a reassuring pat on her hand, 'Ra's gratitude will be warmly rewarding, I assure you.'
Believe me, Zer, I am assured! Men and women might have equal rights in the land of Mentu and the commune might be self-sufficient, but a girl doesn't need to be a Socrates to work out that those who contributed handsomely to the Solar Fund were not the ones who worked the fields and toiled all night kneading dough in the bake house!
Claudia's thoughts flickered towards her wilful stepdaughter. Without her precious gold pieces, Flavia's contribution was the jewellery she had been wearing. Quite a haul under ordinary circumstances, a street thief's for example, but you had to remember Mentu was not about spiritual comfort. There were no slaves in his commune, because no slave could enter without the consent of their master — and, dear me, the Brothers of Horus were not targeting the poor! Mentu was on a simple get-rich-quick scam and with her paltry contribution, Flavia would be way down the line when it came to dishing out Ra's sunny favours.
Hey ho, Claudia thought happily. A few days scrubbing floors and mopping out latrines will make her view her ideals rather differently. In fact, had Junius not been facing the fangs of a ravenous tiger, she'd have left Flavia to rot for a month!
'This.' She stood up and hugged the priest. 'Is the happiest day of my life. You don't know how much this means to me, being free of my tyrannical stepfather.'
'It means a lot to us, too.' Zer beamed back, and she knew he was already calculating the value of her mythical olive groves and Frascati vines.
'I shall have the contracts drawn up immediately,' she said breathlessly, 'they'll be with you tomorrow, Sunday at the latest.'
She moved across to the window. In the street below, six hired henchmen filled up shopfronts and doorways and tossed dice on the pavement, one always keeping a tight grip on an gamine creature with green eyes whose puppy happily chewed the end of its leash.
'How soon can we leave?' Claudia asked, with a commendable catch in her voice. 'I'm desperate to get away, to begin a new life, and I don't want my stepfather to find me.'
'Can you be ready to travel within the hour?' the priest suggested, because he didn't want the stepfather finding her, either!
When the latest recruit's handkerchief fluttered out of the window to be carried away on the malarial breeze, the priest was not aware of any redistribution of pedestrian activity below. He simply sketched a blessing in the air and assured her — in his gravest manner — that her lost kerchief was an augur. A symbol that her old life was discarded. On and on, his solemn tones droned in an effort to convince her that the Pharaoh Mentu was the only true bridge between heaven and earth and that now their sister had chosen the path of peace and harmony, immortality in the Fields of the Blessed was assured.
Silly sod.
Chapter Seventeen
For the second day running, the sticky breeze throbbed and pulsed like some invisible vampire, sucking energy from whoever it touched, and the breeze was unforgiving. It made sweat run in torrents down the necks of the fully armoured legionaries guarding Marcus. It trickled down their legs, their arms, their foreheads, their bronze plating, causing it to boil beneath their vests and sizzle against their cheekpieces and greaves. The scarves around their throats to prevent the armour chafing were dark with perspiration, their skins darker still from the heroic effort of standing guard in this crushing killer heat. The triumphal breeze blew gently in their faces, breathing lethargy, marsh sickness and mocking human fallibility.
Despite the eight unhappy men stationed round his house and the platoon of slaves cleaning up the house, Marcus was alone. Isolated in an emotional, rather than a physical sense.
There was no Claudia breaking her nails as she pulled at the plaster to remove the bones of the murder victim, whose ribs, even when they'd pulled the body out, still bore the instrument of the crime. No Claudia, weeping silently at the tiny skeleton lodged within the larger frame. No Claudia, white with cement dust and wearing a tiara of brick chippings in her hair.
No Claudia, being bodily evicted from his house, yet still managing to re-shackle Flea, down a libation for the family gods, curse Orbilio's boss to Hades and scoop up a squirming Doodlebug all at once!
Orbilio looked out upon the building site that was his garden and missed them all.
He missed Doodlebug, gnawing on the chair legs, ploughing up the dust and — may the gods forgive the little sod! — running off with the skeleton's kneecap. He even missed that outrageous street thief, Flea, with her wide green eyes and tawny hair and language which would make any self-respecting sailor blush. And he missed Claudia.
Especially Claudia. Propounding theories as she spat out chunks of plaster. Sprawling backwards over the rubble when her claw hammer jammed. Accusing him of showing off because he'd ripped away more of the wall than she had. It was, he thought, as the morning sun beat mercilessly upon his back, the closest thing he'd had to a family. The warmth, the banter, the pulling together, like oarsmen on a trireme. It had felt right, somehow. Natural.
So different from his own family, who were cold and clever and distantly proficient in everything they put their mind to. Laughter did not figure in an Orbilio family childhood. Just the brisk snap of efficiency, extending even to play, which took the form of music, poetry and painting. He'd never known a father who wrestled with him on the atrium floor, played a game of hide-and-seek, or the family banding together to play 'sardines'.
And yet, he reflected wryly, one member of that callous crew had sufficient passion to drive a knife deep into another's ribcage.
The heat was unbearable and, with no desire to retire to the office adjacent to the cause of his grief, Marcus crossed the courtyard to the atrium, whose honeycomb screen neutralised the sun's scorching rays. One day. Twenty-four hours since he'd first been confined to house arrest and already he was bridling like an incarcerated felon. The baths were out of bounds, and that was a bugger, too, particularly in this stinking heat, because it wasn't the same, splashing around in a tub. He needed a good soak, a massage in the steam room, a deep-cleansing scrape with the strigil. Dammit, he'd get spots on his back at this rate!