Jupiter Myth

XXIII

The moment I set foot across the threshold, I knew what the house was. The entrance corridor was still empty. A small shabby side table, holding the door open, impeded my path. Somewhere to leave your hat-if you wanted it stolen. On it a cracked and filthy dish dared to request gratuities. There were none. Not even the usual broken quadrans to give people the right idea. Only some joker's present of a rusty nail.

The front of the house must have been designed as a shop, but the Roman-style folding doors on the frontage were jammed closed and seized up. I glanced in through an archway. It was untenanted and used only for storage of rubble and old horse bedding. Whatever went on here would go on upstairs. Cautiously I moved down the interior passage toward a shadowy stair flight going up into darkness. Underfoot was a pressed-earth floor. I knocked into a piece of broken furniture. Part of a cupboard. I was treading slowly, so I had time to steady it at the cost of a wood splinter in my right palm. I managed to muffle the noise. Above, there must be at least a couple of rooms. That would be standard for a live-in shop. Though I listened, I could gain no sense of how many occupants might be there.

The stairs were wooden. As I climbed, they swayed and creaked as if the house was unsound. Dirt made this ramshackle property seem old, though it could not predate the Rebellion. Good going: derelict after ten years. The roofspace must be low; heat had been absorbed all day through the building fabric, so I moved upward into a stifling, airless atmosphere. The first loft-like space formed an antechamber, definitely used for the purposes I feared. Though the pallets on the floor were unoccupied, a faint sexual smell told its story. I tripped over a lamp, unlit of course. Anyone who wanted to inspect his bedmate would have to pay for extras. I bet no one bothered. The only light filtered up from the stairs; there were no windows.

I could hardly breathe. Commerce here must be rapid. To call it a brothel would be linguistic outrage. This was a doss to which rank street-whores brought their undiscriminating marks. It was a toss-up which party in the grim couplings would be the rougher character, and who cheated whom the most. I knew there would be violence. I could believe there had been deaths. I had to pray there was no pimp asleep now, with his arms around an amphora and a large knife to hand. He would see me before I was aware of him.

By feel, I discovered two doorways. I worked out which one gave onto the room with the window where I had glimpsed Albia. The door had been wedged on the outside, locking her in. I was not surprised.

Quietly I removed the heavy wooden stave that held the door closed. Even more gently, I pushed my way in. Light filtered through the window, but I could hardly see where she was. She had cowered in a tiny ball, even though she knew I was coming. I assumed she trusted me, yet terror had her paralyzed.

I gave a low whistle. "Come on. You're safe. Be quick." It was like freeing a trapped sparrow. First the creature froze, then it made a desperate bolt for the light. "Shh!"

The girl had fled right past, barging her way between me and the doorpost. She had already spirited herself down the stairs. I let her go. As I turned to follow, the other door burst open. There was suddenly more light, a frightfully smoldering lamp, held aloft by a three-foot-high old baggage with ferocious bad breath and a vicious snarl. I think it was female, but I felt like a hero who had woken some foul mythical beast. "What do you want?"

"I came for a girl," I answered honestly. I pulled the door closed behind me, as if Albia might still be inside. "I saw her looking through the window."

"Not that one."

"I like them young."

"Not her!"

"Why not?"

"She's not trained." Well, that was a relief, mainly. "I can handle her."

"I said no!"

The old woman was ghastly. A huge round face with features slammed on as if by a bad potter after he'd had too much to drink with his lunch. Flabby white arms, tremulous fat in the body, oily gray hair. Her flat dirty feet were bare. On a cord at her waist hung a bulging purse. She was wrapped in layers of grimy rags, their stiffened cloth twisted like cheese wrappings all around her body. This swaddling seemed to have trapped in the dirt, flea droppings, and smells. She was marinated in filth. And the evil madam oozed with redolence of her foul trade.

"Why not?" I insisted. "What's so special about that one?"

"The Collector only brought her in today."

"Who's the Collector? I'm sure he's reasonable. Can I speak to him?"

"Gods, where were you spawned? He won't see you. Get out," she ordered.

Pretending to be a polite innocent, I replaced the heavy wedge that had held the door. "Can I come back later?"

"No!" yelled the human fungus.

Knowing I still had to find the girl, I refrained from any retort and left quietly.

Albia was in fact waiting. As I came out half suffocated into the pleasant air, she whimpered. She had not been visibly beaten, though they had stripped her; she shivered in a torn undergarment, yet was clutching the blue dress the Hilaris children had found for her, now folded into a tight parcel that she gripped to her bony chest. Her only possession in the world. Her first decent experience. Maybe the sole reason why she did trust me.

I nodded at her to come with me. We moved to the porch of the bathhouse, where I paused to clear my lungs; I needed to cough heavily or I would retch.

"You stink, my girl." I had been in the brothel for only a moment, but I felt I stank myself. I could wait. There was a decent baths back at the residence, but I needed to make Albia presentable before I returned her to Helena's care. I had to do it for my own sake. "We're going home. It's over now Better get cleaned up first."

Petronius was lounging beside the attendant's booth. Since he was on watch, I ignored him; that was the rule.

It was men's hour at a one-sex-at-a-time baths. There was no way I could send Albia through, and I was certainly not taking her. I persuaded the attendant to give me sponges and a bucket of warm water, then we put the girl in the changing room to wash herself. There were no customers in there at the lockers and at least it saved me having to worry about her slipping through a back entrance.

"If she steals any clothes-"

"She won't." She had her prized blue dress.

A bench ran around the vestibule where tickets were sold. Two young women were seated there, massaging almond oil into their fingernails. They were respectably dressed, with shiny, well-turned-up hair and good postures, yet they gave the impression they were prostitutes. Girlfriends often sit around in pairs, dressed alike, of course, so maybe I slandered them. They seemed to be hanging around on spec, but did not make a pitch even while I was idly awaiting Albia. After watching my negotiations in silence, they both stood up and left.

I walked back out onto the porch again, giving Petro the chance to stroll quietly after me.

"What's going on?" he murmured.

"Helena's protegee." We stood side by side, looking at the street, and spoke matter-of-factly as if we were strangers exchanging polite words while one of us waited for a friend. "I have something to tell you, Lucius." I had to pretend not to know about Maia. "It's about your family-"

"Skip it. I know."

"Ah… We're heartbroken for you. They were lovely girls."

Petronius said nothing. I could feel him enforcing tight self-control. In the end he muttered, "So what brings you here?"

I could play it that way. I wanted his advice. "I think I've just barged into a child prostitute racket."

"You stole that girl out of the brothel, Falco? That could be foolish."

"Helena is sheltering that sad scrap. She was mine in the first place."

"Tell them that! Did they see you?"

"Afraid so. They call it the Old Neighbour. I just met the old neighbor's mummified grandmother."

"She'll make a vicious enemy," Petronius warned.

"I can handle it. You've noticed her?" His reply was a grunt. "Who's the Collector?" I asked.

Petronius gave me a sharp look. "Pimp who collects new bait." He paused. "Dangerous." After a moment, he told me the full rubric. "You know how it works. They prey on vulnerable girls. The Collector's on the streets picking them up. Takes them in, rapes and batters them, makes them believe they are worthless, pretends they have no opinion, fits them up in some drab hole and then works them to death. Only management profit. The punters are charged, overcharged, and robbed. The old bag keeps the new flesh in her filthy claws until it's submissive, then the pimp runs the girls until they drop."

I exclaimed angrily. I tried convincing myself Albia had not been part of this trade previously. When they kidnapped her she knew what was coming, but she took her chance to appeal for help and I got to her just in time.

"So," I demanded slowly. "Longus, my old mucker, are you on observation over the vice game?"

"I am on obbo," he agreed tersely.

"Vice?"

"Vice. And everything else."

"Do I dare ask how come?"

"No, Falco."

"Did you join the Ostia cohort?"

"Doesn't work that way. The Ostia vigiles are not a separate cohort. Ostia is covered by outstationed members of the Rome regulars; the cohorts provide them on rotation. I'm still with the Fourth."

"So is it Rome or Ostia that has taken an interest in Britain?" I asked dryly.

"Both, Falco."

"And the governor does not know?"

"I believe not." Petro's note of uncertainty was rhetoric. He knew all right.

"You are not supposed to be here. What are the vigiles up to, stretching their arms overseas? And secretly?" It must be a secret. If the Prefect of Vigiles asked permission to send men here, the answer would be negative. The army dealt with everything in the provinces. The governor held sole authority; Frontinus would be outraged by this sly maneuver. Even supposing Petro's superiors had sent him-and I assumed they had, since they knew where to write him-if he were caught here working they would disclaim any knowledge of the mission. Arrest would be the least of his problems with Frontinus. "I'll ask again, you reprobate: how come?"

Petronius was standing with his arms folded. I could sense a new dark mood in him, yet he was still himself. Big, generally placid, shrewd, capable, dependable. A pity about his rebuff to my sister, in fact. A shame about her previous rebuffs to him.

"You're playing the muscle at this bathhouse?" I guessed. "But that's a cover?"

"I'm looking for someone," he admitted. "Maybe two men. We know one came out to Britain for sure, and the other's gone missing from Rome. There are henchman involved too, but the operation is to catch the big pair."

"You're talking about a major gang?"

"Yes, real bastards. They caught attention in Ostia, though Rome is their base. We think they have targeted Britain as a new regional market. They have put managers in place, a whole development team, and it looks as if the leaders are currently over here setting things up. So I'm here too."

"You and how many?"

"Me," he said. "Just me." I shivered; maybe he did too.

"Pigshit, Petro." At that point I did turn to look at him. "This is a doomed errand." Petronius Longus, a man of quiet intelligence, did not disagree. "I am with you if you want," I then commented. He could respond, or dump my offer.

"Your presence in this godforsaken province," Petronius confirmed ruefully, "was the sole benefit when I took the job."

"Thanks for that." I stared back at the street again. "I suppose I must not say you could have bloody well told me."

"That's right," returned Petro. "Don't say it."

Who knows what he was thinking, the rogue? At least he seemed pleased that we were now talking. I was pleased myself. "Why you, though?" I asked.

"I know Britain. And it's personal." I was surprised. Petronius Longus was more self-collected normally. "I want to get one of the principals." His voice was dark. "I've been watching him for a long time."

"And there's another out here?"

"New partner. A man we have never identified. We know he exists, but he has kept his face hidden. I'm hoping to put a name to him while I'm here. He should be visible-a Roman setting up an elaborate crime network of a type that never existed in Britain before."

"And what about the one you want?"

"He could be anywhere-but I believe he's here with his partner."

"And who is he?"

Petronius thought of telling me, then for some reason kept his own counsel. My work had rarely ventured into the gangland world; presumably the name would mean little. "So long as it's not bloody Florius this time."

"What a joker you are, Falco!" Petronius clapped my shoulder and then smiled sadly. Florius had been the useless husband of his ill-chosen young lover, Milvia. Milvia came from the worst background. Her dead father had been a major racketeer; her mother still was. If anything, she Was more criminal than the father. Florius, her pathetic husband, didn't count. For Petro, little Milvia was in the past-and we let the subject drop.

"Are you living here?" I asked, jerking my head at the baths. "No. Across the river. There's a mansio." An official travel lodge. "It's not bad. I can see who comes and goes into town."

"How do I find it?"

"Don't show yourself there, Falco."

"No, I won't-but tell me how to find it anyway." We were almost joshing in the old way.

"Go over by ferry and it's obvious."

"I'll remember not to do that."

"Good. I won't see you then!"

Albia came out. Her idea of cleaning up was feeble, but she had replaced her dress, which covered much of the grime. The brothel odors seemed to cling. There was nothing more I could do about that.

Petronius returned indoors. I led Albia back up the narrow street, ducking into the colonnade to be less noticeable. A mistake. Suddenly the witch from the Old Neighbour leaped out at us from a doorway. She had her talons into Albia before I could react.

The girl squealed. It was a scared noise, but filled with resignation. She had been a victim all her short life. Rescue had seemed too good to last.

Disgust thickened my throat again. As the old woman madly tried to drag the girl back to her stinking house, I grabbed some brooms from a besom stall. I don't normally attack grannies, but this hag was outrageous and I know when to break rules. I beat at the short, overweight figure, thrashing her furiously while I yelled for Albia to escape.

No good. She was too used to cringing, too used to taking punishment. The cathouse-keeper was hauling her along, partly by one arm, partly by her hair. At the same time, the old woman had managed to disarm me of my brooms. As they scrabbled on the pavement outside a vegetable shop, I began to pelt the kidnapper with anything I could grab: cabbages, carrots, neatly tied bundles of hard asparagus. Albia may have been struck by a flying brassica by accident; she was screaming much louder now.

Time to stop being squeamish. The madam snarled, showing rotten teeth and a wine-stained gullet. I've looked down prettier throats on blood-dripping boarhounds. I jumped on her, got my arm around her neck, and pulled her head back while I let her feel that I was now wielding my knife. She let go of Albia. Albia's screams only increased.

An elbow jammed me in the privates with the force of a demolition ram. Heels kicked backwards at me with agonizing power as the other elbow took my breath away in a vicious waistline battery. Both hands came back and tried to pull my ears off. Then she gripped me with both legs and fell forward, her great weight toppling me over too.

I tried to roll sideways. She had all the initiative. I was flummoxed by this huge bundle of stinking fat. My legs were pinioned together by her treetrunk thighs. The knife was somewhere under us, not achieving much. I wanted Albia to fetch Petro, but when in the company of racketeers I still had to pretend he and I were strangers. If the girl had only made a run for it I could have gone limp and wriggled free, but I knew she was still nearby, capering in distress. I could hear her strangled little cries.

Deadlocked, the woman and I struggled breathlessly. I had overcome my diffidence about her age and sex. It was like fighting a rank slug that had heaved up from some black lake at the gates of the Underworld. As we flailed, her rags loosened so odd ends hung off like long branches of a Stygian weed. She bucked and jerked. I was flung around, but clung to her, digging in my nails. I stabbed one boot into a calf, hard enough to break bone, but I met only flesh and she just growled angrily. Filthy hair strands were whipping in my eyes. I nutted her skull. I don't know what it did to her, but it hurt me.

Suddenly my right arm slipped free. I had lost my knife, but I grappled the woman harder. I pulled her up by her shoulders, then banged her face down on the ground, once, twice, and three times. We were lying in the gutter so I was bashing her against the curb. I could hear my own grunts of effort.

Without warning the situation changed. Other people had arrived. Abruptly I was pulled away, receiving a barrage of pummeling to subdue me. I saw the old woman being dragged backwards up the road, held by her splayed legs. It was her turn to scream; this was rough handling. After being hauled off her, I had been thrown headlong, though I had recaptured my knife. No use: a booted foot trod briskly on my wrist and pinned it down. There was another foot on my neck, applying just enough pressure to threaten breaking it. I lay still.

"Get up!" I can recognize female authority. I scrambled to my feet.

"What's happening?"

"Don't talk!" That old cliche.

I still had my knife; no attempt was made to remove it from me. No attempt was made by me to use the thing, either-not with a pair of swords pricking right through my torn tunic into my back and a third weapon glittering directly in front, aimed upward at my heart.

I already knew what to expect; I had heard the voices. A glance around confirmed the worst. Albia had vanished. The old woman was lying out cold, dumped near the brothel. And I was being captured by an efficient gang of well-dressed, dangerously armed young girls.

As they marched me away with them, I saw Petronius Longus on the bathhouse porch. He was watching my removal with a faint sardonic grin.