Lindsey Davis - Time to Depart

'A brothel?'

'Not just any old brothel.'

'Ooh! A special brothel!'

'I do have my standards, Marcus Didius! You don't have to come with me – '

'True, you're a big lad.'

'If Helena wouldn't like it – '

I grinned gently. 'She'd probably want to come too. The first time I slept with Helena Justina we'd been to a brothel earlier that night.'

Petronius snorted disapprovingly. 'I didn't know Helena Justina was that kind of girl!' He thought I had been implying she had once been one of those senatorial stiffs who descend on bawdy-houses for a thrill.

'We were just passing through!' Calling his bluff could be easy. 'Oh get wise. Helena could have been a vestal virgin if she hadn't met her heart's delight in me.' I shook my head at him. He winced. I didn't worry him by mentioning the rest of the story. 'So where is this palace of delight you're luring me to? The dives in the Suburra where the practices are ancient and the whores positively mummified? The out-of-town cabins where runaway slaves solicit travellers for a bit of brass? Or the lousy dens of push-and-shove in the deeply plebeian Patrician Street?'

'Home ground, Down by the Circus.'

'Oh Jupiter! You can catch something just thinking about those filthy holes.'

'Shut your brain off then. You get by without thinking often enough… We've had a hard morning. I thought we deserved an afternoon of exotic entertainment with the exquisite Wage!'

'I'll buy you lunch first,' I offered promptly. Petro accepted, agreeing with me that we needed to build up our strength before we went.

We had entered the Eleventh region. It was outside Petro's area, although he said it was unnecessary to make a courtesy call on the Sixth Cohort, who patrolled here. His was the career in public-service, so I let him decide. I could tell he didn't like the Sixth. He was enjoying the fact we had sneaked into their patch privately, on the excuse of our special task.

Most prostitutes around the Circus Maximus are pavement-crawlers and portico practitioners. They hang about during and after the races, preying on men whose appetites for excitement have been aroused by watching arena crashes. (Or men who have just come out hoping to waste money and don't fancy any of today's track runners.) Some of these women give themselves an air of moral rectitude by parading near temples, but the trade is the same: up against a wall, with the penalties of theft, a guilty conscience, and disease.

The brothel known as Plato's Academy offered a few advantages. At Plato's, unless you were a nice boy who liked clean bedding, you could at least do the deed horizontally. Theft and the scald were still hazards. Your conscience was your own affair.

Petronius and I carried out a reconnoitre of Plato's. I won't say we were nervous, but the place did have a lush reputation even by Roman standards. We wanted to be sure of ourselves. We walked to the Circus, scowled at the dark-eyed girls who hooted lewd suggestions after us from the colonnades, and ventured into a maze of lanes at the south end of the hippodrome. We stationed ourselves at a streetside drink stall opposite. While we decorated the marble with cups of the worst wine I had drunk in Rome for several years, I risked some chilled peas. Petro asked for brains; excitement had always made him go peculiar.

The peas were completely tasteless. The brains didn't look as if they had ever been up to much either, even allowing for the fact that calves don't devise encyclopedias. Whatever they tasted like, something made Petro say gloomily, 'There's a rumour Vespasian wants to ban the sale of hot food in the streets.'

'Well that'll solve one of life's great dilemmas: to go hungry or get the runs.'

'The latrine-keepers are hopping with worry.'

'Well they're always on the go.'

The chat was meant to divert the stallholder whilst we sized up our destination.

Officially Plato's appeared, from a very faint painted sign above the lintel, to be called the Bower of Venus. Depressed cherubs swinging on garlands at either end of the sign attempted to reinforce the dainty-sounding message. To reassure tourists who had been recommended in the vernacular, a larger chalked banner gave its common name at eye level, just alongside a stone Priapus with a horrible erection, for those who either could not read or were in too much of a hurry to stand about deciphering mere lettering. On the opposite side of the doorway another slogan announced, Come and Get What Every Man Wants, with a graphic doodle which made it plain that this did not mean a modest woman, an unexpected legacy, and a tranquil life. For all but the tragically short-sighted, there could be no doubt which trade was carried on within the drab-looking premises.

There was a lumbering oak door, propped open with two staves. It looked too slumped on its hinges to be dosed. No doubt it never was.

This portal was barely a couple of yards from us, diagonally up the dirty street. Through it marched a regular line of last-time-before-recall soldiers, straight-off-the-ship sailors, slaves, freedmen, and small businessmen. Some of the sailors felt obliged to make a bit of noise. An occasional character who looked like an olive-oil salesman or corn chandler's understeward had the grace to appear furtive and only slipped inside at the last moment. Most men just strode in clinking their coins. Even while we were eating, one or two we already recognised strode back out and carried on in the same direction as if they had merely stepped inside to say hello to their old mothers. Business at Plato's must be matter-of-fact and brisk.

'I suppose there's a difference,' Petro commented in his dark, philosophical voice, 'between men who come because it's not allowed, and those who come because it is.'

'I'm not with you.'

'One kind who buy it actually get a thrill from the guilt. That's not Plato's trade. Around here, you purchase a whore in between picking up a chicken for supper and putting your boots in at the cobbler's to have a strap mended.'

'Daily shopping!' I was feeling silly. 'Do you think the madam lets you feel the girl first, to convince yourself she's ripe?'

He dug me in the ribs. 'We're like recruits again, wondering what went on in the canabae outside Isca fort!'

I could not quite tell whether my old comrade Lucius Petronius thought this comparison was reprehensible, or a positive hoot. 'I think I know what went on in the canabae ' I said gravely. 'I'll explain it to you some day, when you've got a lot of listening time.' This time I sidestepped and managed to avoid his elbow before it had a chance to cause a bruise

We were so near to the open doorway we could hear the bargaining as customers arranged their treats. The bug-eyed foreigners were obvious. So were the Roman goldfinches, men with too many sesterces in their purses, pioked like flowers in the Forum by affable pimps; they had been lured here to be gulled, fleeced, and if possible heavily blackmailed. Otherwise it was impossible to tell which of the crumpled tunics who entered were straightforward customers, which wanted to defy the anti-gambling laws with a few games of soldiers, and which were small-time members of the criminal underworld gathering to exchange news of likely homes to burgle.

Not many women were visible in the vicinity.

'Too busy?' I speculated.

'Their conditions of employment don't encourage popping out for a length of hair-ribbon.' Petro meant the prostitutes at Plato's were slaves.

We had finished our lunch. We paid, leaving a meagre tip. It was what the barman expected, but he roused himself to spit with disgust after us. Petro said over his shoulder, 'Do that again, and you'll lose your food licence.' The man retorted something we could not quite catch.