An office. Full of scrolls and counters, money boxes, chests and desks, the smell of ink and parchment stamping their own scent above the aromatic resins and wild-flower garlands. Hmm. Nothing here to vandalise; trashing records wouldn't mean a thing. The damage had to be something personal which would strike deep into Mentu's heart, as well as spike his guns.
She moved on. Smaller chambers, elegant and expensive. A woman's room, decorated with cat paintings, cat statuettes, even (yuk!) a cat mummy. Bast's room, obviously, and Thoth's was next door — a stuffed ibis in the corner proved it. Watery scenes around the walls of the room opposite betrayed the bearer of the crocodile mask and — Ah. This is interesting.
Claudia listened. Only a lazy bee, buzzing round the garlands, disturbed the hush. She slipped into the room. Talk about repression! Whoever slept here was so withdrawn, you could mistake him for a tortoise. She lifted the lid of the clothes chest. As expected, creases you could cut yourself on, sandals scrubbed so clean they might be new. Nothing out of place. A tidy mind to reflect an ordered personality? Or the room of a martinet who never let himself go? The name, Neco, inscribed on the cover of a wax tablet told her nothing, except this was the room of the commune's Chief Scribe, responsible for overseeing the members' correspondence and 'Uh. Uh. Uh-uh-uh.'
Amid the graveyard silence, the grunting put Claudia on instant alert. She froze, straining in the stillness of the hall.
'Uh-uh. Uh-uh. Uh-uh.'
Sweet Janus! Someone's in trouble! Her thoughts flew to the boy, Sorrel, who'd been caught by the guards last night trying to escape. They were keeping him here, then, a prisoner. She tiptoed down the corridor, careful lest the boy was guarded. She was no match for a scimitar… Four doors down she stopped. The grunts came from here.
'Uh. Uh. Uh.'
Now she listened carefully, there seemed to be a second sound. A mewing…
Quietly, Claudia eased open the door.
Whoops!
Not the boy from last night. Not a guard. Not, in fact, anyone in trouble at all. And the naked man pumping away at the girl who knelt face down on his crumpled couch with her skirt up around her waist probably wouldn't thank Claudia for rescuing him, either.
Beating a silent retreat, she identified the man as Min. Apart from the distinctive curly-toed sandals, his room was larger, more spacious, the decor more elaborate than the others she'd seen, except one. Mentu's. Whose couch was buried under a mountain of iridescent pillows, and where the gold was only marginally more dazzling.
Min and Mentu, the Egyptian siblings behind this elaborate scam.
Min and Mentu, lovers of fine arts.
Strange how their footwear was really all she knew about the brothers: one wore built-up shoes to disguise his lack of height; the other was in such a hurry to consummate his lust that he hadn't bothered to untie the sandal straps which were wound halfway up his calves.
The majestically titled Grand Vizier, Second-in-Command, Min would be responsible for overseeing the commune's finances, for booking in the contributions to the Solar Fund and salting them away. How did he feel, taking orders from his brother — occasionally, as Mercy pointed, being overruled? Min's unprepossessing back view had given her few clues about his personality, only his appearance. He was older than she'd imagined — early sixties — with what was left of his hair wiry and grey. Min, like his brother, though, was short and he was also stocky with it, plus A scraping sound from his room sent her ducking behind a gilded statue. For six or seven heartbeats nothing happened. Then the door opened and the girl came scurrying out, tears streaking her cheeks, her face crumpled in anguish.
A battering ram hammered into Claudia's heart.
Rape.
'I could have stopped it,' she whispered. 'Dear sweet Jupiter, I could have helped that poor girl.'
She replayed the scene, and saw it from its genuine angle. Min: his sandals still tied. The girclass="underline" skirt round her waist. No foreplay, no lust, no mutual passion.
What Min wanted, Min took.
Claudia's weight could not support her, she slid to the floor, her heart crashing wildly in her chest.
I could have prevented that attack.
Could you? a little voice asked. The violation was already under way, the bastard had nearly finished. All you'd have done was shout and scream and raise the roof, and who the hell would take your word over his?
Huddled in the corner, Claudia's teeth began to chatter. Who indeed? Two silly girls would have been hauled up before the Holy Council. Raped by Mentu's Grand Vizier? Slander! Defamation! Spiteful, vicious smears! One branded jealous because she hadn't been the chosen lover, the other branded bitter because she'd been cast over. No one would listen. No one would believe.
Croesus! Was that what had happened to the six missing girls? Claudia buried her head in her hands. Had Min raped them as well, forcing them, in anguish and despair, to kill themselves? It would explain Berenice's strange behaviour, certainly, because her baby had died a truly horrible death. Hemlock would have paralysed his lungs, his limbs, every tiny muscle in his tiny body, and no mother whose mind was running lucidly would choose to kill her child in such a manner when she could have smothered him painlessly in his sleep. But poison him she had. To spare him the indignity and shame of growing up to believe his mother had spread malicious allegations?
Assuming, though, the six girls had committed suicide, why had no one found their bodies? Surely one of them would have wanted to make a statement with her death, perhaps drowning herself in the ceremonial pool or hanging herself from the gateway? Or was this yet another angle to Min and Mentu's cover up?
'What are you doing here?' The voice was openly antagonistic and carried a slight whistle. 'This wing's out of bounds.'
The curly-toed open sandals were familiar. But not the skinny legs which they encased.
Claudia said nothing. Still shaking from shock, she simply couldn't. Dammit, she hadn't heard him sneak up! Frantically, she reassembled her composure as a bony hand gripped her arm and hauled her to her feet. The light which flickered in his eyes told her that he enjoyed feeling her wince.
'What's going on, Neco?'
Min, spruce in white clinging shirt and pleated kilt, came striding out of his bedroom. His whole mien was military, his voice clipped, and Min, she realised at once, was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.
'I found this bitch snooping around.' Neco's whistle was the result of two front teeth which stuck out and crossed.
Claudia blasted him with a glare that could have uncurled his sandalled toes. ''I'll have you know, you imbecile, that I contributed an olive grove in Campania and vineyards which stretch across three hills of Frascati to this organisation. I've come to see exactly where my money's going!'
There was something reptilian, repellent, about the Chief Scribe, even more than his nauseating master. Repressed, undoubtedly. A martinet, no question. But with Min, one suspected the battle lines would be drawn up from the beginning. With Neco, you would never see the blow which felled you.