Free Wolf Whistle by Marilyn Todd

people who had, like the Assyrians and the Macedonians before them, defiled his native city, it was in his interests to understand their hollow cults. Arbil knew about Luna. Crescent moons framed Luna’s face like horns, but Arbil would have no knee bent here to poor imitations. For his army of child slaves, it was Zin who governed their moons. Adad sent their thunderbolts. Ishtar was the true goddess of love. He sighed. Maybe it was not she who’d let him down this morning, maybe it was something he ate? He’d have to check his diet, call his physician. Normally he went like a stallion…
    Fuck these lapses.
    ‘Come in, boys, come in,’ he called.
    They made a good team, did Sargon and Dino. Both had shown an aptitude for business, Arbil trusted them implicitly. Sargon was his son, his firstborn, but not always do sons turn out as you’d hope (by Marduk, they do not!) and Dinocrates, the orphan he’d picked up on Chios and whose potential he had spotted, was—well, if not a son, damn close.
    ‘Shut the door, there’s a terrible damp in the air.’ He indicated chairs. ‘Now sit down, take the weight off.’
    The two young men exchanged glances of amusement.
    Every morning between November and May they lingered in the doorway as a means of admitting fresh air into a room which boasted many heavy unguents but not a single open window.
    His vision might have cleared, his mouth no longer felt dry, but until the shock of losing that hour had passed, Arbil was content to shuffle through his table deep in scrolls and tablets pretending to search for something.
    Sargon waited patiently. Unlike his father, worship played no part in his life, neither the old gods of home nor the newer gods of Rome. His devotions were of a more personal nature, and any spiritual fulfilment he might require he sought at the tailor’s, the dice table, the drinking den among men of his own ilk. To his father’s dismay, he also embraced modern art and Roman ways, wearing the toga and attending whichever ceremonies amused him—and, radically for a Babylonian, he shaved his face. It was vanity, as opposed to ancestry though, which kept his hair halfway down his back, because the combination of mane, wolf and wealth made him a magnet to ladies in every stratum of society. If he hadn’t made a living out of slavery, Sargon could have made a fortune as a gigolo.
    Arbil finally tapped the scroll he’d pretended to look for. ‘I have an approach here for thirty unskilled workers for a brickworks on the Via Tiburtina.’
    Dino’s breath came out in a whistle. ‘That’s over 10 per cent of our annual output,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a new money box for that lot, Arbil.’
    His employer nodded slowly several times, but his eyes remained fixed on his son.
    Sargon folded his arms and pulled at his lower lip. ‘I’d offer him ten at 2,000 sesterces,’ he said at length. ‘Then tell him that if he wants the other twenty, he’ll have to pay skilled rate.’
    Arbil’s eyes glittered.
    ‘But, Sargon,’ Dino protested. ‘We’ve got sixty unskilled boys for sale.’
    Sargon smiled knowingly. ‘If this brickmaker has approached us, not the other way round, you can bet your fancy fringed boots he knows about our training policy.’
    ‘But—’ A flick of Arbil’s wrist cut the Chian short. ‘My guess,’ Sargon continued thoughtfully, ‘is that once he’s handed over his silver, he plans to sell them on himself as trade apprentices, pick up his brickmakers at public auction and then, when he tallies up his accounts, he’ll expect to see a healthy profit.’
    Dino’s face creased into a slow smile. ‘You sly bastard! You’re planning to screw that old brickmaker?’
    ‘A matter of justice,’ put in Arbil. ‘Teach him not to go into business on his own.’ It was impossible to keep the smugness out of his voice. This was the first real test he’d been able to give Sargon, the boy came out with colours flying. Proof, if it was