Murranus edged round these and down a side street where he had once taken lodgings. The place hadn’t changed. The stench of the latrine, cesspit and midden heap mingled with the smell of herbal oil, sizzling sausages, coarse bread and stewed vegetables. They crossed a dusty square, where a ragged schoolmaster declaimed a poem; a host of children grouped round him under a tree echoed back, shouting above the hammering and the clattering from their fathers’ workshops around the square. The beggars, genuine and false, swarmed like flies over a turd. Drunkards and roisterers from the previous night, holding aching heads and queasy stomachs, lurked about looking for shade and some water. A few recognised the gladiators. Murranus was happy to ignore them by standing aside to let an expensive funeral cortège go by, with its flute players, horn blowers, actors in their masks, professional mourners and a gaggle of shaven-haired priests who chanted so fast no one knew what they were saying. Two funeral processions of the poorer sort hurried along behind, the corpses resting on tawdry wheelbarrows, the mourners eager to share the free pomp of the wealthier procession.
Murranus and Spicerius were now in the slums, where the streets and alleyways spread out like tunnels in a rabbit warren. Shadows lurked in doorways, prostitutes whispered for custom; pimps, fingering their knives, gestured them over. Fights and squabbles were commonplace; men and women armed with skillets, ladles, hammers and clubs brawled in doorways or rolled across the street pummelling each other. The hubbub fell silent as an execution group, led by an officer with medals gleaming on his chest, escorted four prisoners, murderers and housebreakers, to the Place of Slaughter beyond the gates. The prisoners, stripped naked except for a breech-clout, carried their own crossbeam against which they would be crucified, to hang and die under the sun.
Once this grim procession had passed, the tumult recommenced, with tanners and fullers offering free drinks of water to those who would piss in their pots so the urine could be used in the treatment of leather. Many of these petty tradesmen were keen supporters of the games and were quick to recognise Murranus and Spicerius, although their cheers were muted by shouts of ‘Fix!’ and ‘Coward!’. Thankfully the insults were shouted in a number of tongues and dialects; the slums held every type of inhabitant of the Empire, from Britain in the far west to the Caspian Sea in the east. Now and again Murranus glanced at Spicerius, who still looked troubled and anxious. Murranus too felt uneasy. Spicerius was usually arrogant and distant, full of himself, boasting of his own powers; and yet since the notorious incident, he had become quiet and withdrawn. He would actively seek Murranus out, and was obviously grateful that Murranus had not exploited his weakness in the arena. Protection, Murranus thought; that was what Spicerius seemed to want, as if he had been secretly threatened and menaced and believed Murranus could shelter him. Spicerius was now a frequent visitor to the She-Asses, and the only people from his own entourage whom he seemed pleased to see were the old military doctor Valens and the boisterous, ever-colourful Agrippina.
As they reached the end of a narrow street, a flash of colour caught Murranus’s eye, and he glanced at a shadowy doorway to his right. A warlock and his witch stood there, faces painted, necklaces and bones around their necks. Squatting between them was an ugly Egyptian baboon on a silver chain, while a trained crow, with gleaming eye and sharp beak, rested on the warlock’s shoulder. They looked like macabre statues, with yellow rings round their eyes and blue paint on their cheeks. The man lifted a small black flabellum, a fan made out of raven wing, beckoning them across. Murranus spat in their direction and moved on.
He was relieved to reach the She-Asses tavern, with its cheery-faced Hermes and its small votive statue to the god Priapus just inside the doorway. Polybius, followed by Poppaoe, bustled out of the kitchen to welcome them. The rest of the customers greeted them with shouts and cheery toasts. They had all gathered from their various trades to quench their thirst and feed their hunger. Simon the Stoic sat perched on a stool chattering to a dusty-garbed wandering scholar. Simon had, apparently, bought him a drink, and was now busy boring him to death. Petronius the Pimp was informing the rest of the customers, to hoots of laughter, that if they had hairy arses he could sell them a powder which would get rid of the excess hair, as well as a polish to wax their bottoms. Of course no one believed him, so Petronius explained to his disbelieving audience that he had found the cure whilst serving in the ranks, where he had won the Hasta Pura for distinguished service. This second revelation was greeted with ‘Prove it!’ and ‘Where is the little silver spear?’ Draco, a grizzled veteran from an apartment three storeys above, led the attack. The old man always carried a draconarius, an imitation feather-tailed standard, maintaining that he had carried such an insignia across the Danube and could list all the tribes on its southern bank, if anyone cared to listen — which very few did.
Murranus, chatting to Polybius and shouting out greetings, deliberately delayed in the eating hall. He wanted Spicerius to feel at home, to be cheered and comforted by this motley collection of rogues and eccentrics. Januaria came sidling up, hips swaying, forcing her way through, glancing moon-eyed at Spicerius. Murranus asked Polybius if he had heard from Claudia. The landlord shook his head and replied that he had heard rumours, some sort of trouble, but didn’t know any details, and would Murranus like to come through to the garden? Polybius kept this privilege for what he called his ‘treasured guests’, as well as those individuals, such as the local police, whom he wanted to talk to well away from keen eyes and sharp ears.
He led them through the eating hall and out past the kitchens. Murranus’s mouth watered at the smell of savoury meat and onion sizzling in a spiced sauce. They were taken across the grass, past the small dovecote, to what Polybius grandly called his orchard, a shady nook with stone benches and a small carp pond. For the umpteenth time, and Murranus hadn’t the heart to stop him, Polybius described his vegetable garden and herb plots, rich with lettuce and onions, chervil, coriander, fennel and parsley, and talked expansively of deepening the orchard so that he could produce quinces and damsons. He offered to show them around his small vineyard, but Murranus laughed, slapped him on the shoulder and said they would be satisfied with a platter of meat and a jug of wine. The two gladiators sat in the shade whilst Polybius served them, still chattering about his wine, swearing by his penis that it was the best in Rome. Once he had gone, Murranus lifted his goblet in toast.
‘Peace,’ he whispered. ‘At least until we meet.’
Spicerius drank deep. ‘I saw them,’ he murmured. ‘You know what I’m talking about, the warlock and his witch.’ He suppressed a shiver. ‘I made a hex against them.’
‘Stop thinking such black thoughts,’ Murranus teased. ‘Save yourself for the fight.’
‘One of us will die there.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Murranus answered cheerfully.
Spicerius glanced away. ‘I want to tell you something, Murranus.’ He put down his wine goblet and stretched out his right arm. ‘You see this tattoo, the purple chalice? I told you it was worn by members of a drinking club.’
‘And I believed you.’
‘And so you should. I’m going to have this washed off — I will not wear it again. You see, Murranus, beneath the chalice some men wear a circle that denotes something else: these men attend special brothels where they can be violent with children.’
Murranus stared in disbelief.