Time to Depart Page 12

  ‘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.

  XX

  ‘Will this take long?’ Her voice had all the fluting charm of pebbles in vinegar cleaning out a blackened skillet. ‘We’re expecting guests.’

  ‘Lycians, maybe?’ asked Petronius.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve.’ She was still pinning folds of her dress, more interested in how it draped than in dealing with us. ‘This had better be good,’ she snapped, looking up abruptly. ‘Luckily we’d finished, or I’d kill you for interrupting that customer. He’s my best client.’

  ‘Who gets a personal service,’ Petro commented.

  ‘He knows this is where he’ll receive the best!’ smirked Lalage. I noticed her giving us a thorough squint: Petronius solid, tough and hostile; me less tall, but just as tough and even more disparaging.

  ‘Left his lictors at home, did he?’ I asked, in an offensive tone. I was referring to the mighty man’s state-employed bodyguard; they were supposed to escort him everywhere, showing the axes and rods that symbolised his power to chastise. Or as Petro used to say, symbolising what a big donkey he was.

  ‘We’re looking after the lictors.’

  ‘I bet! Lictors usually know how to park their rods,’ I said.

  ‘A man should always take his lictors, Marcus Didius,’ Petro reproved me gravely.

  ‘Oh true, Lucius Petronius,’ I corrected myself formally. ‘Leaving your lictors at home is the right way to make the wife suspicious.’

  ‘And he’s a magistrate, so he must be a clever man! He’ll know how to bluff the old broomstick he left at home in his atrium. Besides, I expect the lictors only keep quiet about his habits, provided they get theirs –’

  ‘Spare me the comedy!’ Lalage interrupted. She swung her bare feet to the floor and sat up on the edge of her couch, an ornate affair with bronze curlicues all over it, dripping with cushions of the type that are described as ‘feminine’. I could think of several women who would shove Lalage out of a window and fling her tasselled and pleated pink fripperies after her – not so much for moral reasons, but in disgust at her decor.

  With a shimmer and tinkle of jewellery, she folded her fine arms and waited.

  Petronius and I had deliberately stood at opposite ends of the room so she had to turn her head to face whoever was speaking. In more fragile company it was a tactic to cause alarm. I suspected Lalage had had plenty of practice in dealing with two men at once. Still, we went through the routine, and she let us play.

  ‘We need to ask you some questions,’ Petro began.

  ‘Don’t you mean more questions? I thought the damned business with the Lycians was all sorted out.’ She assumed we had come about the murdered tourist whose death had f
ormed the basis of the Balbinus trial.

  ‘This is not about the Lycians.’

  ‘Afraid I can’t help you then.’

  ‘Afraid you’d better. Do you want a raid?’ Petronius asked. ‘I dare say we could find a few kidnapped minors working your cubicles. Or unlicensed freeborns. Are you absolutely certain you comply scrupulously with the hygiene regulations? Is any food being supplied on the premises? If so, are you licensed for hot meals? Who exactly were those shady characters Falco and I saw huddled downstairs?’

  Petronius tended to stick stolidly to his remit, but this could take poking with a fancier baton. ‘How about a scandal?’ I chimed in. ‘Senior magistrate named; society divorce ensues; shocked officials say they have seen nothing like it since Caligula’s excesses. That should make a few entries in the Daily Gazette!’

  ‘Good for trade,’ Lalage shrugged. Annoyingly, she was right. Such a story might limit her upper-class clients for a while but others would flock. She decided to defy Petro. ‘Anyway, you work in the Thirteenth. This is the Eleventh; it’s out of your jurisdiction. I’m not going to be raided,’ she assured him serenely. ‘The Bower of Venus has an excellent relationship with the local boys.’

  Petro’s voice grated. ‘Excellent as tar!’

  ‘They look after us very prettily.’

  ‘I’m not the Sixth Cohort. I don’t take oily handshakes, and I don’t want half an hour with a dubious haybag on one of your flea-ridden blankets –’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You’re a hero and your cohort’s incorruptible! Something more select?’ Lalage then rasped at Petro, with an affected attitude. ‘Does the most excellent sir have interesting tastes?’

  ‘Shut it, Lalage!’

  ‘Juno! Have I just met the one and only member of the vigiles who’s not on the take?’

  Petro ignored it. We were not investigating graft. If anyone tackled that problem, it would need more than two agents, and they would want to be wearing Scythian chain mail. ‘Hear my words. I’m not touting for a free tickle, and you’re in danger of finding the brothel closed down and yourself back as a paviour again.’

  ‘I was never a streetwalker!’ the madam exclaimed with true horror.

  I took a turn in the conversation. ‘This is the real business,’ I warned her. ‘Unless we get co-operation, you’ll find yourself making an appearance before the eagle’s beak!’

  ‘Nice oratory. So what’s the catch?’

  ‘Be clever. My colleague’s easily upset.’

  She turned lustrous eyes on me. Her manner altered. She had had fifteen years of practice and I felt my breath falter. ‘So what about you?’ she murmured.

  ‘He has a very respectable girlfriend,’ Petronius shot in rapidly.

  ‘Oh I see! Why keep a pig and honk yourself?’ Her eyes never left me. If I looked at her, the pressure was serious, and if I stared back, I could no longer see Petro. This was where separating ourselves at two ends of the room could leave one of us vulnerable. Lalage knew how to make feeling vulnerable seem exciting. She was still relaying the promising smile, and I was freely admiring the act. She had once been a genuine looker. She was soiled, but still attractive. Well-worn glory has its own allure. Virginity’s a bland commodity.

  The skirmish was brief, however. ‘You seem to be a man of taste,’ she said.

  ‘I like to bask at my own fire.’ I liked rather more than that, and what suited my taste was not sold by the hour. My girl could never be bought.

  Lalage dropped the subject, though not without a sneer. ‘Well thanks for making it sound like an apology!’

  ‘Aventine etiquette.’

  She gave me a sharper look, but I chose to pretend I had said nothing significant. She still did not know what I was hinting; she had seen too many men to remember who I was. I felt her lose interest – leaving me with a strong sense of unfinished business.

  Unexpectedly she spun back to Petro: ‘I haven’t got all day! What do you want?’

  She was using our own separation routine; letting one relax, then trying to catch him off guard. Petro managed to avoid being thrown. His chin came up, but he turned it into a surly gesture by sweeping back his straight hair with one hand, like a dandy who didn’t reckon on letting a mere woman make him jump. ‘To discuss the Emporium heist.’

  ‘Oh that was a loud one!’ She rolled her eyes. They were still very beautiful: wide-set, large, dark as a winter evening, and melting with suggestiveness. Personally, I liked eyes with a more subtle challenge. But Lalage had nice eyes.

  Petronius had noticed them, though only a close friend would know it. ‘Yes, they’re talking about it everywhere – but nobody’s whispering who did the dirty deed.’

  ‘Who do you think did it?’ Lalage asked, pretending to flatter him.

  ‘I haven’t time to waste thinking. I want names.’

  She tried the innocent-little-woman trick: ‘Well what makes you believe I might know anything about thieves?’

  Petro’s temper was running short now. His teeth had locked. ‘You mean, apart from the fact that your downstairs parlour is full of sneaks who follow funerals to rob the mourners, door-knock thieves who work the rush-the-porter game, balcony-crawlers, basement rats, and that little runt who hangs the fake fly in people’s faces, then slits their purse thongs while they’re brushing it away?’

  I was impressed. We had only glimpsed the trading room for a moment. Petro must have sharp eyes. He certainly knew the streets.

  And I knew him. I recognised the signs: he felt uneasy with the location and was working up to dragging Lalage over to his station house. If she had been a well-bred schoolgirl who had never spoken to a public official he might have stood a chance. But he ought to realise what a fool he would look, trying to put an arm lock on a glittering saffron butterfly who would shriek abuse at him all the way to the Aventine. Arresting a brothel madam is never discreet.

  ‘Are you talking raids again?’ Lalage laughed. She knew he had lost his grip enough to give her the upper hand.

  ‘He knows better,’ I assured her. ‘By the time we can bring the espartos in, the joint will be clean. Macra probably gave the word straight after she finished massaging your magistrate.’

  ‘Well I do hope she was thorough,’ grinned the madam shamelessly. ‘A person of his status doesn’t expect to be hustled!’

  It seemed to me it was time the man was hustled out of office. Rome would never be cleaned up if every time Petronius brought a mugger to court the bad character could smile at a judge who had shared the ewer where he washed his privates after his Tuesday-afternoon binge. The fellowship of Plato’s had insidious tentacles. In fact that was only one aspect of our visit today that had an aura of ambidextrous ethics. The smack of sticky payments seemed to be lurking everywhere.

  Lalage’s diversion failed. Petronius Longus was strictly unamused. ‘Who’s your landlord now?’ he sprang on her. ‘Who runs this place since Nonnius did his singing from the high twig and Balbinus Pius took a sail?’

  ‘What sort of a question’s that?’

  ‘Well it’s not about who has decorating rights under your building tenancy. Who’s the mighty man behind you, Lalage?’

  ‘I don’t go in for boys’ stuff.’

  ‘Stifle the innuendo! Who’s giving Plato protection? We proved in court that Balbinus used to cream off his percentage, so who skims Plato’s now?’

  ‘Nobody. Who needs it? I’m running everything myself.’

  It was what we already suspected. Petronius screwed the corner of his mouth. ‘This had better be honest gen.’

  ‘Who needs a man?’ scoffed Lalage lightly. ‘I had it up to here with the old system. Balbinus demanded an exorbitant cut, then I was constantly giving presents to Nonnius to stop him breaking up the furniture – all in return for a supposed service we never saw. Any trouble had to be sorted out by my own staff. What happened when the Lycian blew away was typical – we tried to clear up ourselves. I was doing the hard work, and B
albinus was just milking the business. That’s over. The only commerce I’m interested in now is when men are paying me!’

  ‘Someone will try to take over his position,’ Petronius insisted.

  ‘Let them try!’

  ‘If it hasn’t happened yet, now Balbinus has left Rome you’ll meet with pressure eventually. When it happens, I want to know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she answered acidly. ‘You’re in the same bumboat as all my customers: you’ll get what you pay for – and no more!’

  ‘That’s closer to what I call a bargain,’ Petronius responded, in his normal, level tone. ‘For the big item, I’ll be buying.’

  She heaved her bosom, setting up ripples of light from the jewellery. The effect was less worrying than the eye trick, but highly professional. ‘How much?’

  ‘What it’s worth. But I don’t want shoddy goods or fakes.’

  ‘You don’t want much.’ The last comment was amiable bluster. They had reached the real centre of the discussion; the terms were understood and more or less accepted by both sides. Whether that meant Lalage would ever produce any information was another matter.

  ‘Bring me the name I need, and you won’t regret it. You’ll find me at the station house in the Thirteenth,’ Petro announced politely.

  ‘Oh go away,’ she sneered, addressing me as if her patience with him had run out. ‘And take the Big Unsusceptible with you!’

  We were leaving. I turned back at the last moment to add a courtesy of my own. Giving the famous whore a generous smile, I said, ‘I’m glad to see your ear healed up!’

  While she and Petronius were thinking about it, I grabbed him by the elbow and we fled.

  XXI

  We emerged unscathed, though I for one wanted to head for the nearest respectable bathhouse.

  ‘What was the crack about the lug, Falco?’

  I just grinned and looked mysterious.

  * * *