He fondled the wooden handle of the mighty iron paddle on which the loaves were pushed into the oven, and thought it wasn't all a lie. That bit about reporting to Geb, for instance — that was true. One of the security guards had told him. He'd also told him that sentries weren't allowed down here, not unless they'd captured someone, otherwise they were not permitted past the inner fence, which, like the outer barrier, ringed the far side of the hills. No, the guard had admitted, neither he nor his fellow mercenaries knew much about what went on here, it meant certain death to even gossip or conjecture, and since they were paid such bloody good wages, he for one wasn't prepared to piss into his own honey pot. Their job, he added firmly, was to patrol the perimeters — to keep outsiders out and to keep insiders in and yes, that included women, although to his certain knowledge no girl had escaped, much less half a dozen.
Nevertheless, under pressure, he did admit that, despite the restrictions placed upon his movements and his lips, he'd picked up enough about this mongrel organisation to know that the Brothers were packaging Egypt more as untutored Romans imagined it, than a true reflection of real life in the province. Orbilio tended to agree. From regular dinner parties with a man who had served under the Governor of Egypt he'd learned that the genuine culture, with its religious beliefs and laws, daily practices, had little in common with this bastardised society. This valley here was way off key. A distinct duff note in the music of the Nile.
Checking that the coast was clear, he closed the bakery door quietly behind him and, keeping to the shadows, crossed over to the brew house. Hm. The door was locked. He rattled the handle twice, put his shoulder to the woodwork and, when it wouldn't budge, moved on, the sour smell of barley beer clinging like a leech.
It had bothered him, at first, that people were prepared to follow Mentu blindly like they did. Then he realised that the trick was to make them believe something which, on the surface, was so utterly unbelievable that then they'd' swallow anything, no matter how incredible it seemed. Two years experience in the Security Police suggested that Mentu would need to pull a pretty fancy stunt to have them swallow the bullshit that he fed them, and the guard had pretty much confirmed this. Something to do with a padded vest, an archer and a pig's heart, he had said.
Next on the right stood the granary. In the doorway, Marcus paused. Not a whisper. He slipped inside. The threshing floor had been swept so thoroughly there was not a single ear of wheat or barley to be seen, not even wedged down in the gaps between the paving slabs. Winnowing fans hung from hooks and an upper gallery ran along one wall overhead. He sniffed and recognised the aromatic scent of tansy. Useful herb, he thought. Its jagged leaves add a bit of pep to stews and sausages, its yellow button flowerheads brighten wreaths and garlands, and — according to the mystics — tansy wine can make a man immortal. (Or so Jupiter told Ganymede, and look what happened there!) Tansy, however, is also effective at keeping mice at bay and that's why he smelled it here, inside the threshing house.
Soft of tread, he climbed the wooden steps. A field mouse, had it not been deterred by the liberal sprinkling of herbs, could not have moved more quietly. A pulley mechanism operated up here, cranking up baskets of wheat and barley fresh from the threshing floor which were then swung through this hatch here (he squeezed his own body through the narrow doorway) and emptied into the corn bins for storing until the following harvest. Gazing down on to the soft golden hills below, Orbilio felt the chill contrast between the gentle art of reaping grain and his own chosen occupation.
Sometimes, he thought, his hand automatically closing round the scimitar which hung around his waist, sometimes his work was bloody hard.
Take that guard, for instance. The one who'd told him so much about the commune and its security arrangements. The bastard had actually boasted about how he'd impaled 'some stupid little jerk' to make his death appear accidental, even to stuffing a gag in his mouth, and laughed when he said it took the kid fourteen hours to die. Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose to quell the nausea. No matter how many times he re-lived that episode where the mercenary bragged about his killing skills, the edge was never blunted. Each time it made his skin go clammy, hurt his head and made his stomach churn.
Almost as much as it had when he brought the rock down hard upon the braggart's head.
Orbilio shuddered. He was not sorry the man was dead, the bastard had been a sadist and a thug who had enjoyed killing for its own sake, but he himself felt only sadness and revulsion when he was forced to take a life — and make no mistake, he'd had no option with the guard. To leave the man unconscious was too risky. Apart from his own life, there was Claudia's to consider, also Flea's and Flavia's, plus — although he had to admit he didn't give a toss here either way — Junius as well. Therefore, it was with a clear conscience, if not exactly a light one, that Orbilio had slipped into the dead man's clothes, buckled on his weapons and concealed his body in the undergrowth.
And it was precisely because the taking of a human life, however necessary, did not lie easy with him, that Orbilio did not hear at first the footsteps on the gallery outside. He turned. Saw a lump of wood swinging violently towards him.
Smelled something which was neither corn nor tansy.
Then his world turned black.
Claudia found it easier than she'd envisaged to give her female minder the slip.
She waited until after Mentu 'swallowed' the deadly poison but, while biding her time, found nothing but admiration for the theatrical skills of the Holy Council. The way Isis gasped and Thoth dropped his scrolls of wisdom, you'd think the High Priest had slipped up and given Mentu the stuff he'd fed the goat! That was the clever bit, she decided. The High Priest, with his bare arms and shaven chest, could not possibly conceal a second potion on his person, therefore the crowd would readily accept that Mentu drank the same draught as the goat. They would not suspect that, concealed inside the goblet, might be a tiny phial of foxglove, henbane, celandine or belladonna, which would have been rammed down the poor animal's gullet.
However, if the Holy Council were born thespians, Mentu took the laurel crown. Claudia almost applauded as the fat Pharaoh's twitches mirrored that of the dying goat. The cramps, the rigidity, the ghastly noises in the back of the throat. Well done, Shabak! Her eyes had flickered across to old Bluejaw over there, a walking testimony of apothecary skills! He daren't dose the goat with cowbane, spurge or fool's parsley which induced a messy death by vomiting (and worse!). He'd picked a 'clean' quick poison which attacked the heart.
Ah, yes, the heart! That same dripping lump which the black jackal, Anubis, placed upon the Sacred Scales of Truth and which — surprise, surprise — balanced perfectly with the ostrich feather on the other side. What is it, Mentu? A block of gold, fashioned as a feather? Or won't you waste your precious metal, are we looking at a lump of painted lead?
Reverently, the cow and the falcon bent over the corpse, their floating robes conveniently blocking the view as Anubis replaced the heart into the Pharaoh's bloody, lifeless body. Not too fast, now. Don't let the punters think it's easy. A few more rites and rituals, let's string it out a bit — that's the stuff! A spot of handwashing, some mumbled prayers, a splash or two of holy water on the 'corpse'. Well done. Keep the audience on tenterhooks! Taking advantage of Mercy's absorption with the resurrection drama, Claudia slipped away.
'Behold your son, O Lord of the West.' The voice of Anubis rang out smooth and harmonious, as the voice of every conman should. 'Behold Osiris, whose heart has been found to be without evil, and whose virtue Thoth has recorded, Thoth from whom no secret can be hid.'