Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (13 page)

 
          
‘To
what do I owe the pleasure? Far too soon, you know, to have solved our little
puzzle - which calls for extreme discretion. And isn’t it indiscreet to arrive
here without warning during business hours?’

 
          
‘Perhaps;
but there’s something you should know.’

 
          
And
Alex expounded a version of events which linked the ‘little scroll’ and Deborah
and the man he had seen at the
temple
of
Ishtar
.

           
Moriel caressed his eunuch-smooth
chin. ‘Hmm. Interesting.’

 
          
‘You
probably saw that man. You were there too.’

 
          
‘Ah
no, I fancy not. I was distracted much of the time. A veil was drawn over me.’

 
          
‘Think!’

 
          
Moriel
recollected. ‘How could I ever forget such an outstanding priestess of Ishtar
as you describe? My fingers would have positively itched to do her hair for her
.. . unless of course I was besotted at the time through inhaling some exotic
powder.’

 
          
‘Did
you see her or not?’

 
          
‘Alas.
Incidentally, whom are you more concerned about: him, or her?’

 
          
‘Both,’
said Alex hastily, ‘in case she tells him.’

 
          
‘Ah
yes, during pillow talk what secrets spill out! So I’m told; and so I know,
from experience.You might suppose that those who share
my
pillow are too green and unripe to spill much; at least by way
of tasty secrets. But ah, theirs are often the most delicious little cherry
secrets. I love to pluck the first secret of all; and sometimes, to my
astonishment, I open a juvenile snake pit where all manner of corrupt - and
would-be so - fruits lurk, fermenting; to mix one’s metaphors.’

 
          
‘Do
I have to listen to all this? If we only have five teeny minutes!’

 
          
‘Oh,
but you should. Perhaps Thessany is - was - one such snake pit; and perhaps, on
the other hand, not... I have only the merest clues as to who the man you
describe might have been. I shall pursue those clues assiduously. I find myself
intrigued - as our mutual friend would say. Now, kindly be off with you. Await
a message.’

 
          
*
* *

 
 
         
When Alex returned to the inn from the
theatre Hummum the serving woman handed him a letter: two hinged beeswaxed
boards sealed with a blob of wax which was stamped with what he took at first
to be a tiny picture of ram’s horns. Or cuckold’s.

 
          
‘Who
delivered this?’

 
          
‘Mum-um!
UM!’ responded Hummum vigorously.

 
          
On
closer inspection he concluded that the seal imprint was a stylized head of
hair. Hastily he returned to his room, broke the seal, opened the boards. The
message, scribed in Greek capitals, ran as follows:

 
          
dear boy!

 
          
I SHALL NEED TO PAY SOME BRIBES TO SECURE
INFORMATION. CREDITORS BOTHER ME, FOR PERFUMES AND COSTLY UNGUENTS RENDERED,
TILL MY NOBLEST CUSTOMERS SETTLE THEIR ACCOUNTS. SUCH IS THE WAY OF THE NOBLE,
ALAS
¹
.
MY
BARBERS DEMAND
THEIR SALARIES, NONE THE LESS. I ALSO NEED TO PAY AN OUTRAGEOUS FINE ON ACCOUNT
OF A TRUMPED-UP CHARGE. OUR MUTUAL FRIEND IS AWAY FROM TOWN VISITING HER

 
          
aunt’s lands at borsippa. She will surely
reimburse you,

 
          
SINCE OUR MUTUAL INTERESTS ARE INVOLVED. A
MESSENGER WILL CALL AT BREAKFAST TIME TOMORROW. HE MAY BRING NEWS ABOUT THE
OTHER MATTER. GIVE HIM SEVEN SILVER SHEKELS.

 
          
YOUR FRIEND, M.

 
          
Which
‘other matter’ did Moriel mean? The cassette? Or Deborah? Which? It was
unclear.

 
          
Seven
silver shekels. Alex had arrived in
Babylon
with twenty shekels in his purse. Twenty
shekels was the cost of a cheap, decrepit slave; so he’d heard. (A strong,
young, handsome slave could cost ninety.) The poorest-paid labourer earned ten
shekels a year. Already Alex had spent a couple of shekels, and given one to
Thessany at the temple. Presumably he owed Kamberchanian a shekel or more for
lodgings. If he paid Moriel seven more . . . Momentarily the cold hollow clutch
of impending poverty gripped his guts.

 
          
Was
he being diddled? He had already parted with the ‘little scroll’. He decided
not to hand over any money.

 
          
Next
morning he gobbled his porridge quickly, then loitered in the courtyard
pretending to admire the lone date palm, on which perched a couple of pigeons.
A scraggy black cat admired the pigeons, too, from its hiding place behind a
wooden water-butt. Hoping that the birds might descend into its jaws, it darted
aggrieved glances at Alex.

 
          
A
boy hesitated in the entrance; headed for Alex. He was barefoot, and otherwise
bare apart from a brief raggy kilt. Ten or eleven years old, black-mop-headed,
cooked brown by the sun and basted with dirt streaks as though he had been
rolling sweatily in dust.

 
          
‘You’re
from Moriel?’

 
          
The
boy nodded.

 
          
‘You
have some news for me?’

 
          
Another
nod.

 
          
‘So
tell me.’

 
          
‘Master
Moriel said you must first give me some money.’ The boy skipped back a pace as
though he suspected that Alex, hearing this, might grab him by the arm.

 
          
Alex
shrugged. ‘First tell me the news.’

 
          
‘Master
Moriel said: when you give me the money, that will prove who you are. He told
me how much. You pay me, and we will see if it is the same sum. Otherwise you
might be anybody.’

 
          
‘The
landlord can easily assure you who I am. Shall I summon him?’

 
          
The
boy shook his head. ‘Master Kamberchanian is well known for his fantasies,
sir.’

           
One of the pigeons flapped down. The
cat wriggled a while, then made an abortive rush. The bird clattered aloft
unscathed, and shat from on high.

 
          
‘I
have to hurry back,’ said the boy. T
do
have important news, which might soon be too late. But who is it for?’

 
          
‘It’s
for me.’ Alex began to sidle around in the hope of blocking the boy’s exit; the
boy glanced behind him and retreated.

 
          
‘This
news will not wait, sir.’

 
          
‘Seven
silver shekels. That was how much.’

 
          
‘But
where are they? I don’t see seven shekels.’

 
          
Exasperated,
Alex counted out the money, which the boy accepted with cautious, outstretched
palm. As soon as he had all seven coins they vanished up and under his kilt.

 
          
‘You
must hasten, sir, to the
Festival
Temple
outside the north wall. There you will see
the Greek woman and find out who the man is. The matter of the scroll is being
pursued. Seven shekels will unlock a secret door. That’s all.’ And before Alex
could question him, the boy fled.

 
          
‘Wait!’

 
          
From
the doorway to the dining room Gupta eyed Alex with interest. He clapped his
hands. ‘You have made a boy disappear! Taking your money with him. That’s a
good trick.’

 
          
‘Now
I’m disappearing too.’ Alex headed for the entrance, but then slowed his steps.
The doorkeeper had gone off somewhere. Time was of the essence; and what was
the quickest route? Much as he loathed to involve the Indian in this affair,
Gupta would probably tell him the truth; whereas casual strangers might
misdirect!

 
          
‘Gupta!
I’m not inviting you to accompany me, do you understand?’

           
‘Impeccably, sahib.’

 
          
‘Can
you tell me the quickest way to the
Festival
Temple
? Please?’

 
          
‘Easy.
Cut along
Sin Street
all the way. Pass through Sin Gate. A bridge crosses the moat. A road
leads north-west to the temple. You can’t miss it.’

 
          
Nodding
his thanks, Alex hurried off.

 
          
Sin,
of course, was the moon-god; just as Shamash was the sun, and Ishtar, Venus.
Sin was supposedly a wise old man with a lapis lazuli beard who wore an
enormous turban. Sin also measured time, and since time maps out history Sin
was a repository of wisdom whom other gods consulted once a month when Sin was
at his brightest. The moon-god was also the enemy of night-time criminality.

 
          
As
Alex hastened northwards along the street he noted signs of other sins. Early
though it was, several fellows squatted or wandered vacantly, looking drugged.
Was hereabouts where Moriel obtained illicit pharmaceutical exotica such as
aphrodisiacs? Nor was Kamberchanian’s the only striptease parlour in the
vicinity. Yet might it not be that such establishments were located here under
the aegis of Sin’s watchful moon-eye as a way of emphasizing that in
Babylon
there was nothing evil about them whatsoever?

 
          
At
Sin Gate a spear-toting guard halted Alex.

 
          
‘Where
are you going, Greek?’

 
          
‘Just
to the
Festival
Temple
.’

 
          
‘You
aren’t a citizen.’

 
          
‘No,
not yet.’

 
          
‘Quarter
of a shekel exit tax.’

 
          
Angrily
Alex paid over the bronze coin. The guard produced a waxed tablet from a
leather pocket.

 
          
‘Name?
Date of entry? Address of lodgings?’

 
          
Fretting,
Alex told him. Curling one arm round his spear for balance, the guard
painstakingly inscribed the information in the wax with a bronze nib.

           
‘Can I go through? I’m in a hurry,
man.’

 
          
‘Wait.’
The guard inscribed a copy below, then snapped the tablet in half. He handed
the lower part to Alex. ‘Present this on your return. Don’t lose it or you’ll
have to pay tax again.’

 
          
‘Great.
Thanks.’ Alex sped through the gate, which was decorated with green rosettes
and white sickle moons bobbing like boats on wavy blue water.

 
          
Sin
Bridge
led to a Y-fork of dusty roads, both
stretching away through patchwork fields of vegetables. The temple was obvious
a quarter of a mile down the left-hand road: a ziggurat glazed green like a
great artichoke. A small crowd bustled about the entrance, where several
chariots were parked.