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 formed 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.'
