Blood and Steel

Chapter 14

Rome

The Subura,

Six Days before the Ides of March, AD238

Caenis woke softly. Rain pattered on the roof of the attic in the tenement. She yawned and stretched. It was a luxury to be able to sleep in the early afternoon, in her own room, her own bed, alone. She had been dreaming of the voyage from Ephesus. A long time ago now, but it was still fresh in her memory; the strange smells and motion of the ship, the flying spray as it shouldered the waves, the towns and islands shining in the sun, Samos, the Cyclades, Zakynthos, Corcyra, names like poetry. It had been a good time. She had raised enough money to pay for her passage and food. The sailors and the other passengers had left her alone. Superstitious to a man, they held it was unlucky enough to have a woman on board, let alone bother her for sex.

Five years since she had left Ephesus; what would have happened to Rhodope? She would be married, Caenis was certain. Her husband would be the son of a member of the Boule. They would live in a grand house with servants. No, that was wrong. Rhodope had never wanted wealth. She would have married a potter, a neighbour from the quarter by the Magnesian Gate. The house would smell of wet clay. It would be under his nails, engrained in the pores of his skin. Perhaps she would have caught the eye of a farmer come to market. In his unsophisticated way, he might have thrown an apple at her. When it came time to talk to her father, he would have brought a cheese, a kid. The wedding would have been on his smallholding on the slopes of Mount Prion, with rustic dancing, roast suckling pig. Or he might have been a blacksmith, like her father. Their home would be warm, ringing with the clangour of his trade. She would worry about the little ones getting too near to the forge. In the evenings she would rub salve into the burns on her man’s strong arms.

A raised voice in the street brought her back to the Subura. She would not let it depress her. Things could be much worse. She could have a Leno, who would take her earnings, beat her, use her, pass her around among his friends. Girls confined in a Lupanar had a harder time; even those who were not slaves were hardly ever allowed out. The other day she had seen a poor slave girl in the street, a collar forged around her neck: This is a cheating whore! Seize her, she has escaped!

The bar was not a bad place to work in the evenings. The patrons might be rough, but Ascyltos allowed little rowdiness, and he took no more than half of what she made. During the day she only needed to entertain a few clients in her own room, mostly regulars from the neighbourhood. There was the old die-cutter across the hall. He had grown odder after his wife died. He had turned to the worship of Dionysus, joining a cell of Iobacchi. That had not lasted. Since then he had taken to slipping out of his room, down the creaking stairs, long before it was light. He came back late at night, sober. He would not say where he went, who he saw. Whatever he did, it was not within the law. Doubtless the authorities would reward an informer who discovered his furtive activities.

Caenis did not mind the die-cutter. He made no unusual demands. But she preferred the visits of Castricius. The young cut-purse was generous. Often he brought wine and a handful of delicacies. Thin and wiry, when he had finished, he told jokes. Her laughter was not feigned. He spoke educated Greek, and always left a tip.

There were heavy footsteps on the stairs, the rap of hobnails, the jingling of the ornaments on a military belt.

‘Open.’

‘A moment.’ Caenis slipped naked from the bed. She pulled on a tunic, before unlatching the door.

‘A modest whore.’ The Centurion filled the doorway. There was an air of harmfulness about him. In the room even the inanimate objects — the bed, the one chair, the chest, the chipped bowl and jug — seemed to shrink from him.

‘I was not expecting you. With the rioting, I thought the Praetorians would be on duty.’

‘Emperors come and go, whores still have to pay the tax.’

Caenis did not like having to prize up the floorboard with him watching. She counted out thirty-one denarii, one for each day of the month.

The Centurion put them into a wallet on his belt. ‘Two short.’

There was nothing to be gained by arguing. Caenis handed over another two coins. He slid them into a different wallet. The chair creaked as he sat to write the official receipt.

‘A denarius a fuck.’ He shook his head in mock wonder. ‘Hardly seems worth it.’

Caenis remained very still. Perhaps he would just leave.

‘On your knees.’

He got up, and stood in front of her. ‘Get my prick out.’

She pushed up his tunic, unbuckled the belt that held up his breeches.

His penis hung flaccid. She took it in her mouth. It was unwashed, tasted of urine.

‘Look me in the eye.’

She did as she was told.

‘If only your father could see you now.’

His penis stiffened.

‘Over the bed.’

She leant on the covers, as he hauled her tunic up around her waist. He spat on his fingers, pushed them between her legs. She felt him bend his knees to guide himself inside her. Her mind went blank, her thoughts unfocused.

Down in the street someone was singing. Somewhere in the tenement the sounds of furniture being moved. He gripped her hips, grunting as he thrust.

When he was done, he left without speaking.

Caenis tugged the tunic over her head. She squatted over the bowl, washed herself, tried to sneeze. There were some hours before she had to go to the bar.