Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (19 page)

I began to feel remotely human, but still weak. I wanted only to be at rest in my own home, beneath the portico, gazing out at the sunshine in the garden, with Bast slinking against my feet and Bethesda bringing a cool cloth to soothe my forehead.

Instead I felt a tentative hand on my shoulder. It was Tiro.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

I drew in a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s the heat. This terrible, unnatural heat. Like a punishment. It dulls the brain, Cicero says, and parches the spirit.’

‘Here, Tiro, help me up.’

‘You should lie down. Sleep.’

‘No! Sleep is a man’s worst enemy in this kind of heat. Terrible dreams . . .’

‘Shall we go back to the tavern, then?’

‘No. Or yes; I suppose I owe the man something for the wine.’

‘No, I paid from your purse before I left. He was asleep, but I left the money on the counter.’

I shook my head. ‘And woke him up before you left, so that no thieves could step in on him?’

‘Of course.’

‘Tiro, you are a paragon of virtue. You are a rose among thorns. You are the sweet berry in the midst of brambles.’

‘I am merely the mirror of my master,’ he said, sounding proud rather than humble.

XII

For a while the sun, though still high, was concealed behind a mantle of white clouds which blossomed from nowhere. The worst of the heat had passed, but what the city had absorbed throughout the day it now gave back. The paving stones and the bricks were like the walls of an oven, radiating heat. Unless another thunderstorm came to quench them, the stones would give off warmth throughout the night, baking the city and all who lived in it.

Tiro urged me to turn back, to hire a litter to take me home or at least to return by foot to Cicero’s house on the Capitoline. But there was no point in coming so near the House of Swans without making a visit.

We walked down the narrow street again, past the little cul-de-sac where the assassins had hidden, now covered over by the open door of the food shop. From its dim recess came the too-sweet smell of rotted fruit; I did not look inside. We stepped around the bloodstain and walked by the door that led to the widow’s apartment. The gaunt watchman sat dozing on the steps. He opened his eyes as we passed and gave me a puzzled, disgruntled look, as if our interview had been so long ago he had forgotten our faces.

The House of Swans was even closer than I had thought. The street narrowed and veered to the left, closing off the view behind us. Abruptly, on our right, unmistakable in its gaudy attempt at opulence, was our destination.

How glamorous it must have appeared to men of modest means who made their way here by word of mouth, arriving by night, following the torches and the crude swan emblems that lined the street. How deliriously tawdry it must have appeared to a man of some refinement like old Sextus Roscius, how inviting to a man possessed of his overripe carnal appetites.

The facade stood out in sharp contrast to all around it. The surrounding buildings were plastered over and washed in quiet shades of saffron, rust, or mottled cream. The plastered front of the House of Swans was a bright, gaudy pink, embellished here and there, as about the window pediments, with red tiles. A semicircular portico intruded into the street. A statue of Venus was perched atop the half-dome, too small to match the space; the quality of the workmanship was truly painful to look at, almost blasphemous. Even Tiro snickered when he saw it. Within the portico a large lamp hung from the half-dome; one might charitably have said it was boat-shaped, though I suspect the gentle curvature and blunted tip were intended to suggest a human appendage rendered obscenely out of scale. How many nights had Sextus Roscius followed its light like a beacon, up the three marble steps to the black grille, where I now stood with Tiro, shamelessly knocking in broad daylight?

A slave answered the door, a tall, muscular young man who looked more like a bodyguard or gladiator than a doorkeeper. His manners were disgustingly servile. He never stopped smiling, bowing and nodding as he led us to a low divan in the gaudily appointed anteroom. We had to wait only a few moments before the proprietor himself arrived.

My host presented an appearance of roundness in all his aspects, from his belly to his nose to the balding crown of his head. What little hair remained had been industriously oiled and coiffed, and his jowls were grotesquely powdered and rouged. His taste in jewellery seemed as overwrought as his taste in furnishings. All in all he presented the spectacle of an Epicurean gone to seed, and his attempts to recreate the air of a Levantine brothel bordered on parody. When the Romans attempt to mimic the East, they seldom succeed. Grace and true luxury cannot be so easily copied, or purchased wholesale.

‘Citizen,’ he said, ‘you come at an unusual time of the day. Most of our clients arrive closer to sundown. But all the better for you – you shall have your choice of the girls, with no waiting. Most of them are sleeping now, but I shall happily rouse them from their beds. That’s how I find them most attractive myself, newly risen, still fresh and fragrant with sleep, like morning roses moist with dew.’

‘Actually, I had a specific girl in mind.’

‘Yes?’

‘She was recommended to me. A girl called Elena.’

The man stared at me blankly and took his time answering. When he spoke I detected no guile, only the sincere forgetfulness of a man who has bought and sold so many bodies over the years that he cannot be expected to remember them all. ‘Elena,’ he said, as if it were a foreign word whose definition he could not quite recall. ‘And was she recommended to you recently, sir?’

‘Yes. But it’s been some time since my friend last visited her. He’s away from Rome, busy at his country estates. Business affairs keep him from visiting the city, but he writes to me with fond memories of this Elena, saying he wishes he could find a country woman whose caresses could satisfy him even a fraction as well.’

‘Ah.’ The man touched his fingertips together, pursed his lips, and seemed to count the rings on each hand. I found myself staring at the painting on the opposite wall, in which Priapus paid court to a band of naked courtesans, all of whom seemed appropriately awed by the overgrown stalk that rose rampant from between the god’s legs.

‘Perhaps you could describe this Elena.’

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. ‘Alas, my friend makes no mention of her appearance, oddly enough. He only gives me her name, and a guarantee that I won’t be disappointed.’

My host brightened. ‘Ah, well, I assure you that I can make the same guarantee for any of my girls.’

‘Then you’re certain you have no Elena?’

‘Actually, the name is familiar. Yes, I seem to remember the girl, dimly. But I’m sure there’s been no Elena here for quite some time.’

‘But what could have happened to her? Surely your girls are healthy.’

‘Of course they are; I’ve never lost a girl to illness. She was sold, as I recall – to a private citizen, not to a rival house,’ he added, as if to forestall me from searching for her elsewhere.

‘A private citizen? My friend will be disappointed to hear it. I wonder if I know the buyer – perhaps there’s some joke afoot behind my back. You couldn’t tell me who the man was?’

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly recall any details without consulting my accountant. And I should tell you that as a matter of policy I never discuss the sale of slaves except with a prospective buyer.’

‘I understand.’

‘Ah, here, Stabius is bringing a selection now. Four beautiful girls. Your only problem will be deciding which you want most. Or perhaps you’ll insist on two at once. Or perhaps you’ll want to try all four, one after the other. My girls turn even ordinary men into satyrs, and you, sir, look like no ordinary man to me.’

Compared to the brothels of Antioch or Alexandria, my host’s initial offering was disappointingly humdrum. All four were brunettes. Two of them struck me as ordinary, almost homely, though for men who look only below the neck they possessed ample charms. The other two were attractive enough, though neither was as beautiful as the widow Polia, or at least as beautiful as the young widow must have been before her face was scarred by suffering. All four wore sleeveless coloured gowns of a fabric so clinging and sheer that only the finest details of their bodies remained a mystery. My host touched the youngest and prettiest on the shoulder and ushered her forward.

‘Here, sir, I offer you the tenderest bud in my garden, my newest, my freshest blossom: Talia. As pretty and playful as a child. But already a woman, have no doubt.’ He stood behind her and gently lifted the gown from her shoulders. It parted down the middle and for a brief moment she was displayed to me nude, her head bowed and her eyes averted. Behind me I heard Tiro gasp.

The brothel master gently fondled her breasts and ran his fingers down to her abdomen. I watched the gooseflesh rise from the downy skin below her navel. ‘She blushes, you see – what a colour it gives her cheeks. Talia blushes in other places as well, too delicate to mention.’ He covered her up. ‘But despite her girlish modesty, I assure you she is shameless in bed.’

‘How long has she been with you?’

‘Oh, not long at all, sir. Only a month. Almost a virgin still, and yet astonishingly skilled with every orifice. Her mouth is especially talented—’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘No?’

‘I had my heart set on Elena.’

My host clenched his teeth.

‘Still, if she isn’t here, then bring me your most experienced whore. I care nothing about looks. These girls are too young to know what they’re doing; I’ve no interest in children. Bring me your most veteran whore. Show me a fullblown woman, a hot-blooded woman, no stranger to every imaginable scheme of love. And she must speak passable Latin. Exchanging words is half my pleasure. Is there such a woman in the House of Swans?’

My host clapped his hands. The slave called Stabius ushered the girls out of the room. Talia, the young blossom whom our host had unveiled for us, who had blushed and looked away with such conviction, covered her mouth with her hand as she left, yawning.

‘Stabius!’

The slave turned back.

‘Stabius, bring us Electra.’

The woman called Electra took her time. When my host at last announced her, I knew at once that she was the woman I wanted.

Her hair was her most striking feature, a great mass of black tresses accented with a spray of white at each temple. She wore her makeup with a skill attainable only by years of practice; my host might have done well to take lessons from her. If her features were too bold to be called delicate, if her skin was no longer pristine, still, under the soft light of the atrium, one could say with complete conviction that she was beautiful. With age she had earned the dignity to wear a gown less revealing than those of the younger girls, a loose, long-sleeved white robe belted with a sash at the waist. The curves of her hips and breasts were alluring enough without being glimpsed through gossamer.

There is at least one such woman in every brothel, and in those cities dedicated to the specializations of pleasure one may find entire houses of them. Electra was the Great Mother. Not the mother of a grown man, but the mother one remembers from childhood; not old but wise, with a body neither lean and girlish nor old beyond beauty, but fulsome, primed, nourishing.

I glanced at Tiro and saw that he was quite astonished by her. She was not the type of woman he was likely to meet very often in the service of a master like Cicero.

I stepped aside with my host and negotiated. Naturally he wanted too much. I fretted again over the missing Elena. He grimaced and lowered his price. I demurred. He lowered his price again. I acquiesced. I instructed Tiro to pay him. He handed over the coins with a look of shock, whether because he thought the price extravagant (especially coming from his master’s account), or because he realized what a bargain I had made, I couldn’t tell.

Electra turned to lead the way to her room. I followed and gestured for Tiro to come along.

Tiro seemed startled. So did my host.

‘Citizen, citizen, I had no idea you intended to take the boy along with you. Of course there must be a surcharge.’

‘Nonsense. The slave goes where I go.’