merest moment. He then grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, pushing her roughly onto the bed.
“Quintus!” she protested. “Such things take preparation.”
“And there is nobody here to prepare you.”
“Remember when we were young, and we would prepare each other?” She smiled at him teasingly.
“I do,” he sighed. “But that is what slaves are for.”
“Then begin,” Lucretia said, her face turned away from him. “Or occupy yourself elsewhere until we are returned to our Capuan comforts.”
Verres dozed alone. He dreamed of quivering slave girls and fountains of wine. He dreamed of Sicilian riches and the plunder due a governor. The shutters to his room hung partly open to let in the night breeze, which blew unheeded through his hair.
“Verres!” came a stage whisper from the window.
Verres sat up, confused, and banished thoughts from his mind of the warm, wet and willing.
“Who is there?”
“Timarchides. I desire only to talk.”
“Can this not wait until the morning? It is but a time for wolves and whores, and guards with poor luck.”
“This cannot wait.”
“We have the magistrate tomorrow morning. You will be a man of means. Wait until then.”
“It concerns the magistrate,” Timarchides said. “We are undone.”
Rubbing his eyes, Verres climbed unsteadily to his feet, willing them to manoeuvre him to the window. He allowed his gaze to settle, with errant unsteadiness, on the face of Timarchides.
“What is it, then? Timarchides, you bring all the fretting of a wife, absent her amatory benefits.”
“The quaestor moves against us.”
“Whatever for?”
“In the name of Batiatus. He suspects us.”
“I care not if he
“Testimonies of slaves. The ingenuities of Cicero as lawyer. Those windows in our scheme that are as yet unshuttered.”
“Then it is time to shutter them.”
“And risk further investigation?”
“We sail shortly, and I am untouchable in Sicilia. Remove obstacles and see targets hit. Batiatus, Successa, and the Getae witch. It will ease our arguments tomorrow.”
“And Cicero?”
Verres thought long and hard.
“As an inquisitor, he seems like an unruly dog that will not give up a bone once proffered.”
“Then him, too?”
“Not in this house. Outside. Make him
XV
He banged on the door, not ceasing long enough for a reasonable reply before banging on it again.
“Open your doors!” he bellowed. “And then open your legs!”
Welcome silence briefly reigned, before he reached to hammer his fist on the door again, only to find it opening before him.
A woman’s bright eyes peered at him over the top of her veil.
He stood, a wiry Roman in his toga, a hulking Carthaginian by his side.
“The hour is late,” the veiled woman said.
“It is! What kind of brothel is this place?”
“One whose staff sometimes needs sleep,” she said firmly.
“My cock knows not night or day,” he boasted, snickering alone at his own wit.
“Do you have coin?” she asked, businesslike and brisk.
“Of course.” He seemed insulted at the implication that he did not.
“Then I am sure we can accommodate you… Batiatus?”
“Apologies, lady, you have me at a disadvantage. It is the veil.”
“As well it should. I am Successa and the veil does me no credit by its removal.”
“Of course, the funeral! My mind recalls.”
She beckoned him into a courtyard illuminated only by the barest, dying flickers of red lanterns. He raised his hand behind him, signaling to Barca the bodyguard to wait outside.
Barca looked about him on the veranda, found a bench on which to recline, and wrapped himself in a discarded blanket, expecting no trouble till dawn. He shifted a couple of times for comfort, and then began to snore.
Within, a lone figure, stout and heavy-set, mopped the floor without looking up. Batiatus wondered if the janitrix was on the menu, and hoped the establishment had better merchandise. He stared instead at the rear of Successa as she led the way.
“What brings you here tonight?” Successa asked.
“Cunt,” Batiatus grunted.
“I see I need not offer you any more wine. Any particular kind?”
“A willing one, requiring no maintenance. There was a dancing girl, at the cena libera yesterday’s eve.”
“We sent several dancing girls. All from Pompeii, all equipped with the organ you so delicately describe.”
“Golden hair. White skin. Lips like she could suck the face off a denarius.”
“That would be Valeria. So different in appearance from your good wife.”
“Let me have her, and taste youth once more.”
“I shall have her brought to you, as the villa of Pelorus is so close at hand.”
“No, here, here.”
“That is no cheaper.”
“I shall have the coin. I shall have the coin soon enough, once the magistrate has had his say.”
“How so?”
“The House of Pelorus shall be mine.”
“The House of Pelorus is cursed.”
“We have expelled those demons.”
“Not I. They haunt me in every mirror.”
Lacking windows except at the topmost edges of the cells, the corridor of the ludus sleeping quarters was black with the night. Occasional moonbeams shone through the dust, between the bars, stretching their dim light into the corridor. But the torches were dead and the lanterns dismounted.
Most of the cells were deserted, emptied by the catastrophe of the Neapolis games. A blond Roman snored in one, lost in dreams of freedom, not hearing the light footfalls that approached.
A figure peered into Varro’s cell, and then moved on, its steps creeping with careful deliberation, barely rustling the rushes, barely scuffing the sand.
Somewhere, a female moaned in her sleep. The figure sped up its movements, darting toward the far end of the corridor, where the woman Medea lay chained on the floor of her cell.
The key did not jangle, as it had no fellows. It was a single large slab of iron, designed to open the simple locks of any of the cells. He fumbled at the lock, seemingly no longer caring about the noise.
