Everyone has secrets. Most people write them down. Not necessarily directly, although some do like to keep a diary, but they retain mementoes which, in isolation, mean precious little, but which — when put together — carry a great deal of significance. Like Min's collection of pornographic sketches, for instance, in which women were uniformly humiliated and abused. She skimmed through the illustrations and concluded that, in Min's eyes, women were born for man's use and his pleasure. No doubt he also kicked his brother's tomcat, should it ever venture into this room!
The only other papers hidden in his strongbox were accounts and, judging from his ticks and comments in the margins, Min worshipped money even over Ra. Women might not be respected. Gold was. He was salting stashes of it away in secret — and, according to these records, in places Mentu didn't know about. Oh dear, oh dear. You naughty boy. You're out to double-cross your younger brother.
Well, that was their affair, perhaps they'd come to blows when it came to light and kill each other in the process. But certainly any receipt for the sale of young girls to brothels would be lodged among these papers. And, dammit, there were none She backtracked to the office, where the papers were in neat order, and could tell from the registry that Neco was obviously right at home overseeing a large number of clerks and scribes, secretaries and accountants. As she had suspected, records were kept of every confessional heard at the terracotta ears — time, date, confidante's name, all listed alongside — but there was nothing suggestive of sales to Oriental brothels.
Penno's room was decorated with hieroglyphics depicting the Day of Judgement — Anubis, weighing out some poor sod's heart, with Osiris set to lead him to the Underworld should the feather in the jackal's hand balance on the scales. Below the scales, there squatted a hideously misshapen monster licking its chops. Seth, of course. The Devourer of Souls. She peered closer at the long, curved snout and stiffly tufted tail. No wonder the dead man was looking worried!
Laid out on Penno's long low table was a hand-sized replica of Ra's famous barque, a bowl of holy water, a set of ten carved priestesses, two ivory musicians and two carved horn dancers. Puzzled, Claudia considered the arrangement as she dripped the irritant juices on his bed and rubbed petals, leaves and sap into the temple warden's mattress. Then she saw! Old Loppylugs here conducted his own religious ceremonies in the privacy of his room, inevitably acting out the role of High
Priest himself, and no doubt Penno made several changes — improvements! — in his little dramas. What other fantasies did he harbour? Men who are addicted to rites and rituals make ruthless killers. Like Min, they have a need to control.
Each of the superintendents here thrives on control — terrorising, intimidating, bullying, even prescribing drugs to keep the commune pliable. That's their job. It's why they were given these commands.
Claudia gazed round the bedroom of the Keeper of the Store. Give him one thing, she thought. He's a stickler for his own rules, the room was barren. No paintings on the walls. No tasselled drapes. A couple of spare tunics, nothing fancy. No jewels. Not even a razor for Geb! It therefore did not take her long to find his secret cache of letters, and there were only two.
You bastard. You killed her, and you didn't even bother coming to her funeral. You are no father of mine.
The second one was clearly a response to Geb's reply.
You are more evil than I thought. You killed my mother and now you lay the blame on her, you say she drove you to it. I hope you rot in hell, you vicious bastard.
The raw emotion was too much for Claudia. She felt the child's pain (instinctively she knew it was a son's), sensed the anguish in his heart. Mercy's feminine intuition had not been wrong. Geb was the type to beat his wife and he'd beaten her once too often, so it seemed. No, wait! Claudia was jumping to conclusions here. She only had Mercy's gut feeling that Geb had used his fists. There are many other ways to die…
But the son's suffering embedded itself like a fish hook as Claudia continued to doctor the clothes and bedlinens of the remaining members of the Holy Council and she could not dislodge the barb. Was it possible, she wondered, that Geb had joined the Brothers of Horus to clear his conscience through their rigid, self-imposed regime of abstinence and penance? It might explain his violent temper and the punishment he inflicted cold. Through suffering, was he saying, you too can achieve blessedness? The notion did not sit well with his loutish behaviour.
Blast! Zigzagging back and forth, she realised she'd missed a room. Neco's! Bugger, she'd used up all her irritants, as well! She imagined the Chief Scribe's superior air when it became obvious he'd escaped the mass contagion. By heaven, he was a smug bastard now, he'd be bloody unbearable then! Stupid cow, how could you have overlooked him? Neco, of all people, would keep his documentation neat and tidy. Any sales slips would not be hard to find — Claudia's hand was on the door when she realised someone was already in the room. She put her ear to the woodwork and heard a thwack, followed by a whistle, followed by a groan. Thwack, whistle, groan. Thwack, whistle, groan.
Her immediate thoughts were of Min, and the girl whose rape she had not prevented. She'd not fail another girl, whatever the consequences. Without hesitating, Claudia burst in.
She had indeed interrupted something nasty. The whistle was caused by the breath being expelled through the scribe's crossed teeth. The groan was pain. But the cause of the groan was a three-tailed knotted rawhide lash with which a kneeling, naked Neco thrashed himself.
Chapter Thirty-one
No light, no sound, no scent ever penetrated the charcoal shed, except when the hatch was opened either to fling in new supplies or shovel out existing stocks. Flavia, curled foetus-like in the corner, wanted to die.
She was hungry, weary, dirty, hot and thirsty — yes, above all, she was thirsty. Merciful Minerva, help me, she pleaded in her dark and silent tomb. I didn't mean any of this to happen.
She was beyond tears now.
Curled up in a ball, staring into blackness, she had no concept of time. It seemed like days had passed, and her throat was dry and dusty from the coals, the thirst was killing her. What's happening to me? she cried. Why hasn't anyone come to open up the hatch? They need coals for cooking, for the bakehouse, for hot water for the Pharaoh's bath house. Why has no one come to take the charcoal? How much longer must I wait?
Her nails were split and broken from picking at the wood, her knuckles and her shoulders were raw, but the bolt on the outside of the hatch stayed fast. She had cursed it, pleaded with it, prayed to every god and nymph, but nothing changed. What had started out as Flavia's refuge had become her prison.
She daren't think about what would happen to her, once they found her. Geb would ridicule her in public, black and drenched with her own sweat, her hair plastered to her body. Then he'd beat her. He had promised her a hiding for that scald, even though it had been an accident. After this, he'd thrash her for everything from insolence and disobedience to throwing his horrid schedule out of kilter. She began to tremble. She'd seen the lash he used. Three strips of rawhide knotted at the tips.
Someone said that he once used so much force that the knots became embedded in the victim's flesh and that he'd had to hook them out with his little finger. She shuddered in the dark. Please spare me that.
Memories of Marcellus flooded in. Julia. Suddenly Flavia didn't hate them any more. She wanted them to take her home.
None of this would have happened, she sniffed, if only they'd sent those two thousand gold pieces like I asked. With collateral behind me, I wouldn't be in this mess, cowering like a common criminal, a cornered rat. I wouldn't have to gut pigs and slave in the hot kitchens. Oh, no — a thought occurred to her — after this, Geb would not allow her back inside the kitchens! Sweet Janus, he'll send me to the fields. I want to go home. Please. She clamped her hands together and squeezed up her eyes. Please let me go home… I'll be good, I promise. I'll marry whoever you want me to, I won't run away again, I swear upon my father's grave.