Time To Depart

XIX

WE HAD ENTERED the Eleventh region. It was outside Petro's area, although he said it was unnecessary to make a courtesy call on the Sixth Cohort, who patrolled here. His was the career in public service, so I let him decide. I could tell he didn't like the Sixth. He was enjoying the fact we had sneaked into their patch privately, on the excuse of our special task.

Most prostitutes around the Circus Maximus are pavement-crawlers and portico practitioners. They hang about during and after the races, preying on men whose appetites for excitement have been aroused by watching arena crashes. (Or men who have just come out hoping to waste money and don't fancy any of today's track runners.)_ Some of these women give themselves an air of moral rectitude by parading near temples, but the trade is the same: up against a wall, with the penalties of theft, a guilty conscience, and disease.

The brothel known as Plato's Academy offered a few advantages. At Plato's, unless you were a nice boy who liked clean bedding, you could at least do the deed horizontally. Theft and the scald were still hazards. Your conscience was your own affair.

Petronius and I carried out a reconnoitre of Plato's. I won't say we were nervous, but the place did have a lush reputation even by Roman standards. We wanted to be sure of ourselves. We walked to the Circus, scowled at the dark-eyed girls who hooted lewd suggestions after us from the colonnades, and ventured into a maze of lanes at the south end of the hippodrome. We stationed ourselves at a streetside drink stall opposite. While we decorated the marble with cups of the worst wine I had sunk in Rome for several years, I risked some chilled peas. Petro asked for brains; excitement had always made him go peculiar.

The peas were completely tasteless. The brains didn't look as if they had ever been up to much either, even allowing for the fact that calves don't devise encyclopedias. Whatever they tasted like, something made Petro say gloomily, `There's a rumour Vespasian wants to ban the sale of hot food in the streets.'

`Well that'll solve one of life's great dilemmas: to go hungry or get the runs.'

`The latrine-keepers are hopping with worry.' `Well they're always on the go.'

The chat was meant to divert the stallholder whilst we sized up our destination.

Officially Plato's appeared, from a very faint painted sign above the lintel, to be called the Bower of Venus. Depressed cherubs swinging on garlands at either end of the sign attempted to reinforce the dainty-sounding message. To reassure tourists who had been recommended in the vernacular, a larger chalked banner gave its common name at eye level, just alongside a stone Priapus with a horrible erection, for those who either could not read or were in too much of a hurry to stand about deciphering mere lettering. On the opposite side of the doorway another slogan announced, Come and Get What Every Man Wants, with a graphic doodle which made it plain that this did not mean a modest woman, an unexpected legacy, and a tranquil life. For all but the tragically short-sighted, there could be no doubt which trade was carried on within the drab-looking premises.

There was a lumbering oak door, propped open with two staves. It looked too slumped on its hinges to be closed. No doubt it never was.

This portal was barely a couple of yards from us, diagonally up the dirty street. Through it marched a regular line of last-time-before-recall soldiers, straight-off-the-ship sailors, slaves, freedmen, and small businessmen. Some of the sailors felt obliged to make a bit of noise. An occasional character who looked like an olive-oil salesman or corn chandler's understeward had the grace to appear furtive and only slipped inside at the last moment. Most men just strode in clinking their coins. Even while we were eating, one or two we already recognised strode back out and carried on in the same direction as if they had merely stepped inside to say hello to their old mothers. Business at Plato's must be matter-of-fact and brisk.

`I suppose there's a difference,' Petro commented in his dark, philosophical voice, `between men who come because it's not allowed, and those who come because it is.'

`I'm not with you.'

`One kind who buy it actually get a thrill from the guilt. That's not Plato's trade. Around here, you purchase a whore in between picking up a chicken for supper and putting your boots in at the cobbler's to have a strap mended.'

`Daily shopping!' I was feeling silly. `Do you think the madam lets you feel the girl first, to convince yourself she's ripe?'

He dug me in the ribs. `We're like recruits again, wondering what went on in the canabae outside Isca fort!'

I could not quite tell whether my old comrade Lucius Petronius thought this comparison was reprehensible, or a positive.hoot. `I think I know what went on in the canabae,' I said gravely. `I'll explain it to you some day, when you've got a lot of listening time.' This time I sidestepped and managed to avoid his elbow before it had a chance to cause a bruise.

We were so near to the open doorway we could hear the bargaining as customers arranged their treats. The bug-eyed foreigners were obvious. So were the Roman goldfinches, men with too many sesterces in their purses, picked like flowers in the Forum by affable pimps; they had been lured here to be gulled, fleeced, and if possible heavily blackmailed. Otherwise it was impossible to tell which of the crumpled tunics who entered were straightforward customers, which wanted to defy the antigambling laws with a few games of soldiers, and which were small-time members of the criminal underworld gathering to exchange news of likely homes to burgle.

Not many women were visible in the vicinity.

`Too busy?' I speculated.

`Their conditions of employment don't encourage popping out for a length of hair-ribbon.' Petro meant the prostitutes at Plato's were slaves.

We had finished our lunch. We paid, leaving a meagre tip. It was what the barman expected, but he roused himself to spit with disgust after us. Petro said over his shoulder, `Do that again, and you'll lose your food licence.' The man retorted something we could not quite catch.

We crossed the street, and glanced at one another. We had a justifiable job to do, but inevitably felt like conspirators.

`If my mother gets to hear of this, I'm blaming you.' `Falco, it's not your mother you should be worried about.'

He was wrong about that, but it was no time to block the entrance arguing. We went in.

A flaunty piece in the scarlet toga that was the strict legal badge of her trade was taking the money and fixing the arrangements. It was not a requirement that the toga should be vermilion and make her blaze like a corn poppy, nor that she wear it within the brothel; this lady liked to defy the law by obeying it with too much flourish. None of the other girls we glimpsed inside were in togas, though in fact most of them were not wearing many of their clothes – if they possessed any. The doorkeeper was watched over by a hound-dog male whom she sensibly ignored. He couldn't have bounced a feather ball, let alone a determined rioter. Having a dozy protector did not seem to cause her much anxiety. She looked like a girl with a good uppercut.

`Afternoon, boys. I haven't seen you before. I'm Macra and I'm here to see you enjoy yourselves.' It was the kind of aggressive sales talk I dread.

`He's Falco, I'm Petronius, and we're with the vigiles,' announced Petronius immediately. I had been wondering how he would handle that aspect.

`We're always pleased to see the hornets…' She must have been chosen for her manners, though her tone managed a sneer. Her eyes sharpened slightly as she weighed up what we expected. We could see her deciding we were definitely not foot patrol. Nor were we Sixth Cohort, the regulars for this district, whom she was bound to know. She had soon worked out Prefect's office, or tribunal staff, from which she made the inevitable smooth transferral to troublemakers. Clearly a young lady of some initiative, her reaction was: Find out what they want, and humour them. `This is a decent house, with all clean young girls. I can choose you something a bit special,' she offered. `We like to do business with the forces of law and order.' Her gaze flickered to the hound dog. Even we could, see he was supposed to run for reinforcements at this point, but he was no help.

`Something special,' repeated Petronius thoughtfully.

On the assumption he was welcoming the offer, Macra cheered up. `As it's your first time being entertained here, it will be on the house. May I recommend Itia. She's a lovely creature, a freeborn girl who normally only works on private hire. One at a time suit you? For both together we would have to make a small charge, I'm afraid.'

`Freeborn?' asked Petro. `So you can tell me which aedile she's listed with, and her registration number?' Any freeborn woman who wished to shed her reputation could work as a prostitute, so long as she formally declared her profession and put herself outside the reach of the adultery laws.

As soon as Petro's attitude became clearer, Macra kicked the sleepy bouncer, who condescended to show an interest. He stood up.

`Sit down,' said Petronius pleasantly. The man sat down again.

Macra took a very deep breath. `If you scream I'll knock your head off,' said Petro, still in a level tone. `I can't abide loud noises. We're here to see Lalage.'

Macra managed to defer screaming. `Lalage is engaged at the moment.' It would be her stock rejoinder. The madam is never available.

.`Don't panic. We're not asking to query a bill.'

`Very funny! Is she expecting you?' Another tactic.

`She's a brothel-keeper,' said Petro. `Her whole life must be spent expecting questions from the law! Do you want fish pickle on it? Stop stalling. There's no point.'

`I shall go and enquire,' the girl informed him pompously. `Kindly wait just here.'

`No. You'll take us,' Petronius corrected. `Hit the grit.' She pretended not to know the expression. `Walk, Macra!'

With a curse she didn't much bother to muffle the girl led us in, swinging her hips in a parody of a seductive dance. Artfully untidy tangles of black hair swished on her bare shoulders. Her heels clattered loudly. She was grimy, and not very pretty, though she did have a certain style.

We passed a series of dim cubicles. Crudely obscene pictures above the doors made a feeble attempt at suggesting erotic art. The grunts we overheard were far from high culture. One customer

was washing himself from a ewer, so minimal hygiene must be provided for. There were cloak pegs and a sign to the latrine.

A small slave boy with a trayful of flagons dashed past us and dived into a room like an inn's refectory, where low-class men were crouched about tables either gambling or conspiring. Petro half-heartedly started to investigate, but the door swung across behind the slave and he gave up. Maybe it was just the weekly meeting of the chicken-feed suppliers' guild.

Up narrow steps we found a corridor with doors to larger rooms for higher-paying customers. We could hear a tabor being thumped, and smell insidious smoke. By now we had realised that Plato's was much more extensive than its street frontage suggested. It also provided for a varied clientele. I reckoned there were probably other ways in and out of it too.

The odour of burning bay leaves gave way to imitation frankincense. I coughed slightly, and Petronius grimaced. Further on Macra led us through a veritable banqueting hall. It had a sunken floor; Jove knows what orgies were carried out there. Tired flower petals still lay squashed on the steps. There was a statue of two entwined figures who appeared to have more than two full sets of procreative organs, though as we said afterwards, we might have been misled by some scraps of left over garland and the fact that a stone goat was also participating.

The corridor grew darker. From a room at what must have been the farthermost end of the building came sounds of an unexpectedly professional flute. Macra knocked, then kept the half-open door against her hip so we could not see past her. With a rapid apology she relayed who we were. A woman's voice swore briefly, then said, `I'm sorry for the intrusion. Look after him nicely please, Macra.'

There was an angry movement. A half-naked teenage-girl flautist pushed past Macra and vanished. Then a magistrate we could not fail to recognise walked out.

He did not deign to greet us. Petronius gave an ironic salute, and I squeezed against the wall so as not to dirty His Honour's purple stripes as he rushed by. The Very Important Patrician ignored these courtesies. Maybe that was because he was famous for his devotion to a cultured, highly connected, slightly older (but immensely wealthy) wife.

Macra sneered at us and flung open the door, releasing natural daylight amid curious wafts of violets and hydromel. She twirled off after the magistrate. We walked in to meet Lalage.

She had the face of a once very beautiful woman, painted so thickly you could hardly detect the sweetness it still carried. She wore a yellow silk gown, which she was casually readjusting after most of it had been removed to allow access to an oiled and perfumed body that made two honest citizens gulp. Her headdress contained Oriental pearls an empress would die for; her necklace was of mixed sapphires and amethysts; her arms were sheathed in bracelets of Greek gold filigree. Her eyes were angry. She did not welcome us to her establishment, or offer us a glass of the strong honeyed wine.

The notorious Lalage had a scar on her delicate left ear. It brought back nostalgic memories. She was pretending to be an elegant Oriental courtesan, but I knew exactly where this precious pullet came from. I had met her before.