Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (21 page)

 
          
‘I
assume, by the way, that the packet which she snatched from you
does
contain what it contained
originally. As the intention was to murder, the cloth wrapping may have
concealed no more than a block of wood!

 
          
‘Another
point: did the mage know that the woman would be a witness? If so, was the
intention to warn her off brutally? The plan couldn’t have been to murder both
of them, otherwise the mage would have contrived that fop and woman were closer
together. Perhaps that young woman is of too much consequence to murder idly .
.

 
          
Alex
felt that he was being spun into a tight cocoon. No doubt Thessany would have
twitched a few strands loose and darted clear.

 
          
Maybe
challenge was the best defence? ‘Do you seriously pretend you don’t know what’s
in the packet?’

 
          
Gupta’s
dark eyes twinkled. ‘Just because I come from an elder civilization, please
don’t assume that I’m omniscient or telepathic! Your response casts a sad light
on your attitude to me. I am wounded. You probably imagine that
I
stole your shekels to play a game of
hide-and-seek. Much more likely, in retrospect, is another explanation. Your
impoverishment wasn’t due to some opportunistic pickpocket who haunts parlours
where men’s attention is compulsively distracted; nor was it due to mischievous
me. It was deliberately engineered, by someone you have intrigued with
unbeknownst to Uncle Gupta. By the fop who died? Perhaps he played a part in
it. By the young woman who robbed you
once
again
, as easily as snatching barley-cake from a baby? Undoubtedly!’

 
          
‘I
meant,’ lied Alex, ‘that you likely knew at a glance what was in the packet
because you’re so damn clever.’

 
          
‘Oh,
forgive yourself! You meant nothing of the sort. Why ignore what I just said?
That young woman robbed you a few minutes ago. She probably robbed you at the
inn, using that boy messenger - and again at the strip show by proxy. But what
has
she
to do with the real object of
your obsession: namely Deborah, soon to be the bride of Marduk? How did you
and she become acquainted if she occupies some exalted social position, way out
of reach of a newly arrived Greek?’

           
‘You tell me.’

 
          
Gupta
thumped his forehead. ‘How slow I am. Of course! That morning when you followed
Deborah to the temple of Ishtar . . .
that’s
where.’

 
          
Alex
groaned. ‘Her name’s Thessany. The dead man’s name was Moriel.’

 
          
But
Gupta gripped Alex’s elbow, sending a shaft of pain shooting up arm and
shoulder, paralysing his tongue. ‘That same mage - and three brown persons.
Let’s go!’

 
          
The
two hastened across unduly bright flagstones, heading for the nearest
donkey-clogged gateway into Esagila. Which they reached, unpursued.

 
          
At
the far side of the gate, a burly red-headed man stepped forward: bare-chested,
kilted, wearing a short sword. It was Thessany’s chauffeur and bodyguard.
Another armed man accompanied him.

 
          
Praxis;
that was the chauffeur’s name. Thessany must have left him here to wait for
her. Therefore she hadn’t yet emerged. Had she been hiding in the Sumerian
market? Had she rushed up the ramp to lose herself for a while in Little
Akkadia or Little Assyria?

 
          
Wrong.

 
          
‘Greetings!’
said Praxis. He produced a clay tablet; his companion stroked the hilt of his
own sword meaningfully. ‘Alex, you have been acquired as a slave by my
mistress.’

 
          
'What?’

           
‘Innkeeper Kamberchanian sued for
default on your unpaid bill before a magistrate three days ago. My mistress
generously settled your debt, reasoning that you would hardly wish to become a
slave at a second- rate inn, emptying slops and paid a pittance which might
only cover the interest on your debt. The magistrate consigned you to her.
Here is the notarized transaction.’

           
Alex seized the clay tablet and
scanned the cuneiform signs, understanding them now.

 
          
Gupta
peered over his shoulder. ‘Oh, Alex, this is why you were robbed. I should have
foreseen it.’

 
          
‘You
told me that Kamberchanian is your partner!’

 
          
‘So
he is. So he will be soon. This occurred while you and I were both becoming
citizens. Obviously old Kamber was persuaded to take this action, and now it’s
out of the good fellow’s hands, so my influence would be in vain.’

 
          
Praxis
grinned. ‘Come along, slave. The tattoo artist awaits.’

 
          
Alex
drew his arm back to hurl the offending tablet at the gatepost to smash it into
shards. Praxis made no move to stop him, but Gupta snatched the tablet away.

 
          
‘No,
Alex. Foolish! At least this shows exactly how much you owe, with a
magistrate’s seal on it.’ Gupta thrust the tablet at the chauffeur, who
pocketed it grudgingly in his kilt.

 
          
‘Gupta!
You have money - enough to redeem me.’

 
          
Gupta
seemed to suffer a few moments of inner conflict. ‘I rather wish you had not
said that, Alex. My money is pledged to partnership with Kamber. Believe me, I
will help in every other way possible. Excuse me now, excuse me.’ And away he
went.

 
          
‘We
go the other way,’ said Praxis.

 
          
‘With
no fuss,’ added his companion. ‘Nice and obedient.’

 
          
At
least now, thought Alex sourly, he would find out where Thessany lived and who
her father was.

 
          
Then
he thought: surely he had told Aristander of his pressing money problems? He
had, hadn’t he? Why the hell didn’t Aristander warn him that his debt could
result in enslavement? Why didn’t Aristander offer to settle the hotel bill?

           
Had Aristander hoped for some such
outcome - with a potential informer, Alex, planted in Thessany’s home? If so,
why had the ruffian told Alex to present himself at the palace?

 
          
Because
the more likely option was that Alex would remain free? But at the same time
there was that other wild card up Aristander’s sleeve . . .

 
          
Unfortunately
Alex hadn’t got round to telling
Gupta
about the visit to Aristander. Ignorant of all that palace business, how could
Gupta help?

 
          
Another
possibility occurred: if Aristander hadn’t in fact dreamed of any such wild
card, how would he take the news that Alex had gone straight from Babel to
Thessany’s home, to stay there? (If he
did
learn of this!) Might he suspect that Alex’s tale of the tape was all part of
an intricate prank designed by Thessany?

 
          
Hardly,
when there had been four bloody deaths! Not unless knifings of the minor actors
were an acceptable part of a good Babylonian intrigue.

 
          
Moriel
hadn’t been minor, had he? Certainly not to himself. To Thessany, maybe;
Thessany, whom Moriel had described as a snake pit.. .

 
          
‘Clever
lad!’ said Praxis’s sidekick. ‘Be demure. Come to terms. No use protesting.
Curse not the gods. Save and be diligent. Keep your nose clean. Don’t pick your
teeth in public.’

 
          
The
two servants hustled Alex along.

 
          
It
was only a fifteen-minute walk to the house at the north end of Scribe Street,
close by the compound wall of Marduk’s temple - Scribe Street being the noble
avenue which led to the Borsippa Gate. If there were numbers on houses, this
house would be number one.

 
          
Its
great notched windowless walls rose up three or four storeys high. Several
subsequent houses on both sides of
Scribe Street
were also huge but then sizes diminished,
with the street gradually tapering roof by roof down to smaller business
residences in the distance. This produced a curious perspective effect, as
though the street was very much longer than it actually was. The Borsippa Gate
at the end of the avenue dwarfed the most distant buildings, yet seemed also to
be set at a vanishing point somewhere near to infinity.

 
          
An
imposing residence indeed was number one. ‘Who
is
Thessany’s father?’ Alex asked.

           
‘Who is “my mistress’s father”,’
Praxis corrected him. ‘Go on: get used to saying “mistress”.’

 
          
‘All
right. Who is my mistress’s father?’

 
          
They
passed inside, nodded through the portal by a black doorkeeper.

 
          
‘He
doesn’t live here in the flesh,’ Praxis said. ‘You needn’t concern yourself.’

 
          
‘Doesn’t
live here? In the flesh? Is he dead?’

 
          
The
two men laughed.

 
          
As
usual there was a courtyard, overlooked on all sides by windows. Whereas curtains
of loose reeds had hung in windows at the inn, here the wood-framed holes in
the walls were screened by Babylonian blinds of waxed reeds strung together so
that they could concertina up and down. The sizable yard contained a fish pond,
three date palms and a fig tree; also an espaliered quince and many pots of red
and damask roses, which a servant was busy watering. At this hour, since the
house stood on the west side of the street, the nearer right-hand portion of
the yard was sun-drenched but most was still in shade; and in the shade, on a
stone bench, an elderly man sat snoozing, with an open box beside him.

 
          
The
servants led Alex over to this man, whom Praxis nudged awake. The box contained
little rolls of papyrus, pens, bottles of coloured dyes, and a range of
needles.

 
          
Alex
grew aware of spectators at windows. A couple of whispering women who giggled
when he stared at them. A girl on her own, peeping out. Maids, servants. And
Thessany - watching intently from a third-storey window. Alex waved urgently to
her, and Praxis slapped his hand. Thessany merely continued looking down at
him.

 
          
Th?
What? Ah,’ said the elderly man. ‘Here at last. Kneel down, fellow? Reluctantly
Alex did so. ‘Shuffle a bit closer! I’ve no wish to stretch?

 
          
‘What
are you going to do?’

 
          
‘Tattoo
you; what else? With a fine lion’s head in red and blue, the sign of this
house. Upon your left cheek?

 
          
‘My
cheek?’

 
          
‘Mistress
Thessany wishes it put there. To enhance your abrasive skin! The cheek may hurt
trivially more than the forehead, but I shall do my best to avoid the main
nerves. When you buy your freedom back, come to me to have the pigments pricked
out. Only a faint ghost of a lion will remain. Unless you run away, of course,
in which case when you’re caught you get branded there. No blacksmith can
unburn a branding?

 
          
The
tattooist sorted through his papyrus patterns till he found the lion’s head he
was seeking. Holding this by Alex’s cheek, he took up a charcoal stick.

 
          
‘An
hour, no more, to do a fine job?

 
          
‘Mind
you hold still now,’ growled Praxis. ‘I’ve other business, but Anshar here will
be keeping an eye on you?

 
          
‘The
pot obeys the potter,’ said the lanky, dark companion. ‘You don’t want a needle
in the eyeball?