David Wishart - The Lydian Baker

Probably the latter: right from the first view the Scallop had class written all over it. It was the biggest and neatest of a row of old two- storey courtyard houses sharp as a new set of pins. Above the freshly- whitewashed outer walls trees poked, and I could hear the sound of birds and splashing water.

We pulled up in front of the door. It was shut. Yeah, well, maybe we were a bit early: the sun wasn't properly down yet and the torch-cressets along the wall were still empty.

'You want to wait?' I said to Dida as I got out.

'Take your time, lord. I'll be in the alley round the corner. Go ahead, knock. The Scallop never closes.'

I walked over to the door. It could've belonged to an ordinary private house, except that there was a discreet plaque cemented into the embrasure with a relief of the naked goddess on her shell. Tasteful stuff. Good quality artwork, too, not all hips and boobs and horse-face like you usually get outside these places. No graffiti phalluses or crude comments scrawled by drunken punters, either. If first impressions were anything to go by it didn't surprise me that Melanthus was a regular here. Pre-Perilla, I'd've used it myself. I might have been tempted still, if I didn't know the lady would skin me for it when she found out. Not if. When.

I lifted the heavy dolphin door-knocker and let it drop.

No spyhole. Only, when the door opened, a guy so big he could've doubled for Hercules; a full head taller than I was, twice the width, and most of it hard muscle. Obviously the bouncer, and as such a man deserving of respect.

'The boss around, pal?' I said.

He stood aside, and the air shifted around him. 'Come in, sir. Welcome.'

Tasteful was right: the hall was light, airy and decorated with pictures: not murals, proper paintings on boards like you get in the Porches, hanging from the moulded cornice. No smut, either, even tasteful smut. The nearest they came to that was a six-by-four of Achilles hiding among the women, and there wasn't an unclad nipple in sight. One bronze centre stage, a beauty, of Venus braiding her hair: I was no expert, but it looked old, and original. Chips of sandalwood were smouldering in an alcove on an incense burner that Priscus would've gone into ecstasies over.

Classy. More than classy; the place had style. However, I wasn't here to gape. Or for anything else other than business, unfortunately. I tried the big guy again.

'The name's Marcus Valerius Corvinus,' I said. 'I was hoping to talk to the boss.'

'I'm afraid he isn't here at present, sir.' Cat-house bouncer or not, the guy could give Bathyllus lessons in buttling any day. 'However, the Lady Hermippe will be arriving shortly.'

'The Lady Hermippe?'

'She runs the house in his absence, sir.' He paused. 'Could I enquire what your business is exactly?'

Polite enough, sure, but an order all the same, and there was no way of getting round it. Not with a guy this size doing the asking.

'I was hoping to trace one of your clients.' I used my best patrician vowels. 'He was here a few nights ago and he seems to have disappeared.'

The guy's expression didn't change but I had the distinct feeling that little speech, patrician vowels or not, had gone down like a slug in a salad. Well, I wasn't surprised: brothel customers tend to insist on privacy. Also however delicately I'd phrased that last bit it was bound to seem like I thought they were running a catmeat factory in the basement and Melanthus had just gone through the mincer.

'I doubt very much if that will be possible.'

Perfectly polite, but final as a slammed door. I noticed the lack of the 'sir', too. Still, I couldn't afford to back down. I tried again.

'The gentleman's an associate of mine. Melanthus of Abdera. And like I say it's business.'

He was looking at me like I'd just crawled out of the woodwork, and I felt my ribs constrict. 'Bouncer' was the operative word for this guy: he could punt me off all four walls like a football if he wanted to without breaking sweat, and both of us knew it. That doesn't make for an easy relationship.

'Very well,' he said. 'When the Lady Hermippe arrives I'll tell her you're here. But you do understand the decision rests with her.' Another pause. 'And that there will be no further discussion of the matter. Absolutely none. You understand?'

'Yeah.' I swallowed. 'Yeah, thanks.'

'Meanwhile perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting in the salon. Cotile will look after you.'

He turned away, and I saw the girl.

She'd come out of the door next the Achilles painting. Small, dark haired, dark eyed, with curves under her silk mantle that would've made Pythagoras give up geometry.

Uh…no problem, friend,' I said. 'None at all.'

'Follow me, sir.' The girl smiled at me. 'In here.'

My eyes widened: she'd spoken Latin, not Greek. Good accent, too. I stepped past her into the room and got a whiff of her perfume on the way. Low-key, Alexandrian, and, cost-wise, the olfactory equivalent of a villa on the Janiculan. I was beginning to have a healthy respect for the Scallop's standards.

The salon was a big room opening on to the courtyard garden, complete with dining couches and a beaut of a table that had a polish on it that would've reduced Bathyllus to tears. The place was probably used for dinner parties and discreet private functions. I don't mean orgies or bachelor club nights, either; in my experience these little get-togethers tend to leave traces even the best housekeepers can't get rid of. Like teeth marks in the furniture and gravy on the ceiling, for example.

I took the couch with the best view of the flower beds and ornamental fountains. Jupiter! This place must've cost a bomb!

'Would you like some wine?' the girl said. There was a silver jug and matching set of cups on the table.

'Yeah. Thanks.' All this and wine too. Maybe I'd died and not noticed it.

'I'm Cotile.' She smiled and poured. The silk sleeve of her tunic slid up her arm and my heart lurched. Shit. This was going to be tricky.

'You speak Latin very well,' I said.

'I'm only half Greek.' She brought me the cup then sat demurely on the couch opposite. 'I was born in Tarentum, and my father was Italian. Cotile's just an adopted name. My real one's Pigrina.'

'Uh-huh.' I sipped the wine: Chian, and pure nectar. 'Good decision.'

'Changing my name?' She giggled. 'The clients expect it. And the Lady Hermippe said Cotile described me perfectly.'

Chatterbox . Well, even on this short acquaintance I'd believe it: you don't often meet someone who tells you their life history inside of two minutes. Maybe I'd struck even luckier than I'd thought. It was worth a try, anyway.

'You've been here long?' I said.

'No. About a year.'

Long enough. 'You know a guy called Melanthus?'

'I'm afraid we don't ask names unless they're offered, sir.' That came out prim as a dowager's put-down. 'It's one of the house rules.'

'Big guy. Philosopher type, comes here regularly. And forget the "sir". My name's Corvinus.'

'Corvinus. Perhaps, then. If it's the man I'm thinking of, yes, I've seen him, although we've never gone together.'

'Uh, yeah. Right.' I took a swig of the Chian. If she'd been a painted hag, or even a bit less like someone's kid sister, I wouldn't even have blinked. As it was I was almost blushing. 'The problem is, the guy's disappeared. I'm trying to trace him, and I need all the help I can get. You understand?'

'Disappeared?' Her beautiful eyes widened.

'The coachman who brought me says he dropped him here three nights ago, just before sunset. That was the last anyone saw of him.'

'Is he a middle-aged man? Interested in sculpture? Old sculpture?'

'Yeah.' My pulse quickened. 'Yeah, that's Melanthus.'

She bit her lip and glanced towards the door. Her voice dropped to hardly more than a whisper. 'I really shouldn't talk about one client to another. That's another house rule.'