Orbilio's humour faded. He for one had never believed Mentu harmless, even though the enterprise had been the subject of official investigation. In the end, the Treasury line was that as long as Mentu paid his taxes and endowed a college or two, what was the problem? Mentu, whether he liked to call himself Pharaoh, Osiris, Ra or Slinky Sue was not committing any crime. No fraud, no forgery, no theft, no plots against the State. Oh, sure, one or two families complained about their (mostly) daughters running away, that they were allowed no physical contact and that the few short notes received didn't come across like the children they'd raised, but so what? These 'runaways' were, in legal terms, adult, and while theoretically their absconding might be against the law, inasmuch as children remain the property of their fathers until marriage (and, for women, their husbands thereafter), everyone felt that those who chose commune life were either unstable, unloved, unwanted, immature or simply inadequate.
Or, to put it another way, no one really wanted these people back.
And to some extent, Marcus sympathised with that view. If human beings are stupid enough to give up everything to follow some quasi-religious nut, then that's their choice. What worried him was that, of all the people who'd joined, none — not a single one — had ever returned! Twice he'd pressed for a closer investigation into the activities of the cult — indeed he'd even volunteered to go undercover himself — but the official line held firm. Don't rock the boat. Which had culminated in yet another clash with his superior.
'Even if Mentu is operating a swindle,' his boss had said, 'this is not a job for the Security Police, whose role, as you obviously need reminding, is to oversee the security of Rome by rooting out forgers, conspirators and the like. So get your arse out of my office and start bloody rooting!'
When the barber moved to rinse Orbillio's face with clean water, he pushed him away. Everything in Claudia's letter underlined his suspicions about the self-styled Pharaoh Mentu. Members had been targeted with cold-blooded precision, picked because no one would press too hard for their return while at the same time ensuring that not so much money changed hands that it warranted making a fuss. Sisters/brothers/friends might show concern, but what the hell? They have no clout in law.
The Brothers of Horus, as Claudia's letter told him only too clearly, were in the business of mind control. They brainwashed the 'faithful' with new names and new rituals as a means of keeping them focussed on Ra and off their money, although until now the cult had been nothing more than a vague and nagging worry niggling away at the back of Orbilio's mind and, like the buzz of a wasp trapped in a room, annoying, though hardly a major cause for concern.
Until now.
The words echoed round his empty bed chamber.
Until now.
Never had Marcus felt more paralysed than by this damned house arrest. Soldiers at every entrance. Vigilantes posted outside.
Until now. Until Claudia joined up with the cult…
Marcus dabbed at the nicks on his chin with a spider's web soaked in vinegar. He didn't imagine for one second that the headstrong widow would be swayed by the Brothers' mind games (in fact, he almost pitied them), but surely over the past year or two, one of the faithful would have wanted to leave?
Immediately, the wasp became a whole swarm.
Exactly what did happen when you tried to leave the cult? Why had no one ever come home? Suddenly, looking into the mirror, Marcus realised it was not Claudia's sanity he feared for.
Marcus feared for her life.
Chapter Eighteen
Several things happened that Friday afternoon.
First, the clouds descended lower and lower, trapping the heat, funnelling the breeze and making the rancid air fouler yet.
The weather was showing signs of breaking at last.
In a wooden amphitheatre on the Field of Mars, the pallid Prefect failed to notice the perspiration which slowly weighted his elegant tunic. Transfixed, he watched his troupe of male actors rehearse a centuries-old drama and, to his utter astonishment, such was their professionalism that none of the audience noticed the wonky scenery and dodgy props, or even that the Serving Women lit their signal to the Romans from a crab apple tree not a fig.
Indeed, computing on a wax tablet during the intermission the cost of his production, the Prefect found the enterprise pleasantly profitable on all counts.
The same could not be said of the girl who had misled her foster parents into believing she was taking a starring role in the show. As rumbles of thunder rolled in the distance, Flavia leaned over the stoneblock latrine and was comprehensively sick. Why? she wailed. Why did they make her do that? Help out in the kitchens, they said, and she thought maybe peeling root vegetables, shucking peas, it sounded romantic, and besides, she rather liked the look of the boy who fetched hot loaves from the bakery.
Instead, they made her…
At the memory of the stinking, steaming, purple viscera spilling over the yard, Flavia vomited again, and wanted to die. It wouldn't be like this, she sobbed, if I'd had those two thousand gold pieces. Two thousand gold pieces buys you cushy jobs like potting honey, mixing perfumes, making sweet music on the strings of a lyre. Not gutting a..
At the very thought of the mess on the cobbles, she retched a third time, then a fourth, more noisily still. She hated it here. She wanted to go home. Nothing was at all like Zer had promised.
Zer had promised a new life, a world filled with happiness, where brother loves brother and the Pharaoh is father to all. He had said nothing about disembowelling a pig! Come to that, she thought gasping for air, he'd said nothing about everyone wearing identical workclothes, or attending prayers twice a day, or communal eating, or wearing these itchy reed sandals. He hadn't said she couldn't choose her new Egyptian name, either. She'd earmarked Nefertiti (for preference), Cleopatra as second choice — instead they addressed her as Magas. Ugh. She shuddered at the ugliness of the name. And why did women have to wear these horrid shift dresses, which only flattered the thin?
'Magas!' The voice was harsh and insistent. 'Magas, stop babying around. It's a pig! We need to eat, and you must pull your weight in the commune. Remember, child, we are all sisters of Ra.'
Flavia-Magas wiped her mouth with a sponge. 'I can't,' she wailed. 'I can't face that disgusting stench, I can't!'
'There's no such word,' snapped the voice. 'Now clean yourself up, flush out the latrines, and hurry back to your work. This is not the weather for guts to be lying out in the yard!'
'This ain't no weather to be outdoors in.'
The party was making excellent progress in the four-horse trap, the roads being quiet, the hills relatively gentle, when Flea blurted out her sulky protest. Claudia flashed a radiant smile at
Zer, which also encompassed his two mooning acolytes, and hissed under her breath to the thief, 'One more squeak and you'll be picking teeth from your tonsils.' Aloud, she said, 'Sweet child. So concerned for our health and well being.' She shrugged helplessly at the priest, whose shaven head ran with beads of perspiration. 'Wouldn't leave me, you know. I did try…'
Zer smiled his oily smile at the girl with the puppy sprawled across her skinny legs. 'We have no servants where we are going, but love and loyalty transcend all emotion. Ra will richly reward you.'
Translated, of course, as meaning Ra will richly reward olive groves in Campania and vines stretching across three hills of Frascati, and should the new recruit wish to bring her maid and a fat, un-house-trained puppy along, Zer would most certainly raise no objection, she could bring a troupe of dwarves and dancing elephants for all he cared. Zer's job was to ensure financial transitions flowed smoothly.