The Silver Pigs

XLV

There was a tip tilted head of Venus blowing her cheeks out beside a welcoming motto above the outside door, where a stupendous man extracted a stupendous entrance fee. It was a brothel. I couldn't help that. It took us off the streets; it was warm, dark, and no doubt confirmed her ladyship's abysmal opinion of me.

I would have to find the entrance money myself. Client or not, I could hardly ask the senator to excavate his bank box to pay for me taking his delicate daughter to a place as foul as this.

The proprietors here made a meagre living from the profits of fornication, and a small fortune from picking pockets and selling stolen clothes. There was one cavernous room, with hides hung on poles round the walls to form cubbyholes where fraud, theft or murder could take place in decent privacy. Other varieties of intercourse occurred in whatever patch of gloom the participants already occupied.

A torchlit floor show was in progress, enlivened by the clatter of fractured castanets. Three teenage girls with thin arms and amazing busts were cavorting together on a central mat wearing big fixed smiles and little leather thongs. Waiting on the sidelines they had a monkey; for what purpose, I refuse to speculate. At tables around the room dark figures with glassy faces drank overpriced liquor while they watched the show, from time to time exuding desultory cries.

A short stout hostess loomed at us in off-the-shoulder violet gauze, slashed from the waist to reveal a yard of varicose-veined leg. Her transparent attire made me long to see less of her not more, as she demanded with a remnant of tired allure, "Bang on my tambourine, centurion?"

Before I could stop her, the senator's daughter rapped briskly, "Don't cramp my style; his highness is with me!"

The woman revived at this exotic hint. (I revived slightly myself.)

"Ooh! It's two little gold pieces or four if you bring your own girl!" The man outside had charged me more than that, but I suppose both he and the monkey wanted a cut.

"Corkage!" marvelled Helena; I was shocked. Women exchanging ribaldry are so coarse.

"Don't be so unladylike! Hades, we were followed. Fine pickle you've lured me into here"

A phalanx of bulky shapes came sliding in through the entrance behind us with ominous intent. Protests from the doorman indicated they had not paid his fee; once they laid hands on us they were not intending to stay.

My companion muttered to her new friend, This clown's crossing his legs is there a…"

"Out the back, dear"

"Come on, Falco, I'll take you!"

She pulled me straight across the floor show. Hardly anyone noticed. Those that did, thought we were part of it as for one ludicrous moment we were. A writhing young amazon with no sense of direction backed into Helena's arms; she passed her to me like an unwanted bread roll. I gave the girl a smacking kiss, regretted it (she tasted of sweat and garlic only to be borne when you taste of the same), then I positioned her tidily on the nearest table where she disappeared under the lecherous clutch of a group of happy Corsicans who could not believe their luck. Rival foreign parties roared with jealousy. The table toppled over, pulling down a curtain to reveal some citizen's white backside rising like the Moon Goddess as he did his anxious duty by a maiden of the house; the poor rabbit froze in mid-thrust, then went into eclipse. A cheer went up. Helena giggled: "Hail and Farewell!"

By now outraged stokers and stevedores were swaying to their feet ready to spar with anyone, and not caring why. The monkey had been eating an apple while he waited until he was wanted. I clicked my fingers above his head, snatched his apple as he looked up, then drew back my arm like a javelin thrower to hurl the fruit at the gang who had followed us in. Baring his teeth, he leapt into their midst biting anyone whose face he could reach.

Helena Justina had found a low doorway; she ducked me out into the back alley before I could gasp. We never even had a drink.

Well, people don't go to a brothel for a drink.

The space between the buildings was half a yard at most. Dark balconies hung over our heads hiding the sky. There was a smell as strong as lion's piss and I banged my knee on an onion crate. Under my sandals I felt the soft slide of liquid mud which after a few steps welled up coldly between my naked toes.

As I limped bravely, the senator's daughter helped me to hurry with her sensible hand gripping my arm.

"Didius Falco, I didn't know you were shy!"

I glanced back over one shoulder, managing to mutter, "I didn't know you were not!" Our steps jarred on the lava blocks of a properly paved street. "Now that we've been to a brothel together, can I call you Helena?"

"No. The floor show looked amazing; I was sorry to miss that!"

"I thought we should leave; that mangy ape was giving you a funny look!"

"It was a chimpanzee," Helena Justina retorted pedantically. "And I thought he was rather taken with you!"

We slackened our pace but stumbled on until we came to a major street. Since we left the Palace the curfew had lifted and they were letting in the delivery carts. From all the gates of Rome ferocious vehicular activity converged on us; we covered our ears against the screeching of axles and cursing of carters. It was pitch dark, except where their lanterns bobbed. Suddenly there were shouts: we had been spotted. We were pursued by burly shapes. There was something about the way those shadows moved that convinced me they were soldiers. They came after us on unhurried feet, fanning down both sides of the highway, threading through the waggons like corks bobbing in a harbour, silently working their way through dark water into shore.

"More roughnecks! Better hitch a ride"

"Oh Juno!" Helena wailed in despair. "Falco, not a cart chase up and down the Seven Hills!"

The night came alive now. The streets clogged; queues; noise; spills and traffic jams. I put my foot on the back of a slow waggon, wriggled up then pulled Helena aboard. We cuddled a marble headstone for half a block, transferred to a manure cart, realized what it was, then stepped off hastily to share with some nets of cabbages instead.

I was trying to work south, where I knew the streets. The cabbage-carter stopped to exchange abuse with a competitor who had scraped into his cart, so we scrambled down.

"Mind your feet!"

I nipped backwards from a passing wheel. Thanks. In here We took advantage of a side less dray. "Try to look like an amphora of robust Latian wine"

I collapsed in mild hysterics as her sober ladyship obediently imitated a wine jar with her hands on her hips like handles and a face like a cracked chalk bung.

Six ox carts later the shadows were still gaining. It was quicker to walk. We slithered down again; my party sandals landed in something warm a donkey had left behind. I was still carrying mother's sack of swag from Titus, and worrying about not being able to concentrate on protecting Helena. I had been frightened of losing her: no chance of that! While I was exclaiming, she seized my free hand ready to run. In the light from a tavern, her eyes flashed. I had let myself enjoy the delusion that Helena Justina was a staid piece. That was nonsense. She was determined not to be beaten, yet chortling at herself as she caught my startled look. Equally exhilarated, I laughed and ran faster myself.

The waggons had carried us out of the Forum, across the Via Aurelia and further south. We dashed round the Circus Maximus at the starting gate end and scuttled east until we were level with the central Obelisk. When we approached the Twelfth Sector I drew to a halt, bolting into the shelter of an alley, as we both struggled for breath. I backed her ladyship against a windowless wall, flung one arm across in front of her, and stared about, frantically listening. After a time I let my arm drop and lowered my bag of gold silently to the ground. There was nothing but the low throb of general noise beyond the buildings round about. Where we were seemed suddenly peaceful. We stood in a discrete pool of quietness: me, the senator's daughter, the silhouette of an owl on a roof-tree, and the smell of old bean skins from a nearby rubbish dump. It might have seemed quite romantic to anyone with a passion for broad beans.

"Lost them!" I whispered. "Enjoying your trip out?"

She laughed, almost soundlessly in the back of her throat. "Beats sitting by a fountain watching slave girls sewing fringes onto frocks!"

I was about to do something well say something, anyway,

– when into the space where my words would have gone, some other villain spoke.

"Now there's a fine Etruscan necklace, lady! Dangerous running about the streets like that. Better hand your glitter over to me!"