12

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.'