Lindsey Davis - Time to Depart

We crossed the street, and glanced at one another. We had a justifiable job to do, but inevitably felt like conspirators. 'If my mother gets to hear of this, I'm blaming you.'

'Falco, it's not your mother you should be worried about.' He was wrong about that, but it was no time to block the entrance arguing. We went in.

A flaunty piece in the scarlet toga that was the strict legal badge of her trade was taking the money and fixing the arrangements. It was not a requirement that the toga should be vermilion and make her blaze like a corn poppy, nor that she wear it within the brothel; this lady liked to defy the law by obeying it with too much flourish. None of the other girls we glimpsed inside were in togas, though in fact most of them were not wearing many of their clothes – if they possessed any. The doorkeeper was watched over by a hound-dog male whom she sensibly ignored. He couldn't have bounced a feather ball, let alone a determined rioter. Having a dozy protector did not seem to cause her much anxiety. She looked like a girl with a good uppercut.

'Afternoon, boys. I haven't seen you before. I'm Macra and I'm here to see you enjoy yourselves.' It was the kind of aggressive sales talk I dread.

'He's Falco, I'm Petronius, and we're with the vigiles,' announced Petronius immediately. I had been wondering how he would handle that aspect.

'We're always pleased to see the hornets…' She must have been chosen for her manners, though her tone managed a sneer. Her eyes sharpened slightly as she weighed up what we expected. We could see her deciding we were definitely not foot patrol. Nor were we Sixth Cohort, the regulars for this district, whom she was bound to know. She had soon worked out Prefect's office, or tribunal staff, from which she made the inevitable smooth transferral to troublemakers. Clearly a young lady of some initiative, her reaction was: Find out what they want, and humour them. 'This is a decent house, with all clean young girls. I can choose you something a bit special,' she offered. 'We like to do business with the forces of law and order.' Her gaze flickered to the hound dog. Even we could see he was supposed to run for reinforcements at this point, but he was no help.

'Something special,' repeated Petronius thoughtfully.

On the assumption he was welcoming the offer, Macra cheered up. 'As it is your first time being entertained here, it will be on the house. May I recommend Itia. She's a lovely creature, a freeborn girl who normally only works on private hire. One at a time suit you? For both together we would have to make a small charge, I'm afraid.'

'Freeborn?' asked Petro. 'So you can tell me which aedile she's listed with, and her registration number?' Any freeborn woman who wished to shed her reputation could work as a prostitute, so long as she formally declared her profession and put herself outside the reach of the adultery laws.

As soon as Petro's attitude became clearer, Macra kicked the sleepy bouncer, who condescended to show an interest. He stood up.

'Sit down,' said Petronius pleasantly. The man sat down again.

Macra took a very deep breath. 'If you scream I'll knock your head off,' said Petro, still in a level tone. 'I can't abide loud noises. We're here to see Lalage.'

Macra managed to defer screaming. 'Lalage is engaged at the moment.' It would be her stock rejoinder. The madam is never available.

'Don't panic. We're not asking to query a bill.'

'Very funny! Is she expecting you?' Another tactic.

'She's a brothel-keeper,' said Petro. 'Her whole life must be spent expecting questions from the law! Do you want fish piokle on it? Stop stalling. There's no point.'

'I shall go and enquire,' the girl informed him pompously. 'Kindly wait just here.'

'No. You'll take us,' Petronius corrected. 'Hit the grit.' She pretended not to know the expression. 'Walk, Madame.'

With a curse she didn't much bother to muffle the girl led us in, swinging her hips in a parody of a seductive dance. Artfully untidy tangles of black hair swished on her bare shoulders. Her heels clattered loudly. She was grimy, and not very pretty, though she did have a certain style.

We passed a series of dim cubicles. Crudely obscene pictures above the doors made a feeble attempt at suggesting erotic art. The grunts we overheard were far from high culture. One customer was washing himself from a ewer, so minimal hygiene must be provided for. There were cloak pegs and a sign to the latrine.

A small slave boy with a trayful of flagons dashed past us and dived into a room like an inn's refectory, where low-class men were crouched about tables either gambling or conspiring. Petro half-heartedly started to investigate, but the door swung across behind the slave-and he gave up. Maybe it was just the weekly meeting of the chicken-feed suppliers' guild.

Up narrow steps we found a corridor with doors to larger rooms for higher-paying customers. We could hear a tabor being thumped, and smell insidious smoke. By now we had realised that Plato's was much more extensive than its street frontage suggested. It also provided for a varied clientele. I reckoned there were probably other ways in and out of it too.

The odour of burning bay leaves gave way to imitation frankincense. I coughed slightly, and Petronius grimaced. Further on Macra led us through a veritable banqueting hall. It had a sunken floor; Jove knows what orgies were carried out there. Tired flower petals still lay squashed on the steps. There was a statue of two entwined figures who appeared to have more than two full sets of procreative organs, though as we said afterwards, we might have been misled by some scraps of left over garland and the fact that a stone goat was also participating.

The corridor grew darker. From a room at what must have been the farthermost end of the building came sounds of an unexpectedly professional flute. Macro knocked, then kept the half-open door against her hip so we could not see past her. With a rapid apology she relayed who we were. A woman's voice swore briefly, then said, 'I'm sorry for the intrusion. Look after him nicely please, Macro.'

There was an angry movement. A half-naked teenage-girl flautist pushed past Macro and vanished. Then a magistrate we could not fail to recognise walked out.

He did not deign to greet us. Petronius gave an ironic salute, and I squeezed against the wall so as not to dirty His Honour's purple stripes as he rushed by. The Very Important Patrician ignored these courtesies. Maybe that was because he was famous for his devotion to a cultured; highly connected, slightly older (but immensely wealthy) wife.

Macra sneered at us and flung open the door, releasing natural daylight amid curious wafts of violets and hydromel. She twirled off after the magistrate. We walked in to meet Lalage.

She had the face of a once very beautiful woman, painted so thickly you could hardly detect the sweetness it still carried. She wore a yellow silk gown, which she was casually readjusting after most of it had been removed to allow access to an oiled and perfumed body that made two honest citizens gulp. Her headdress contained Oriental pearls an empress would die for; her necklace was of mixed sapphires and amethysts; her arms were sheathed in bracelets of Greek gold filigree. Her eyes were angry. She did not welcome us to her establishment, or offer us a glass of the strong honeyed wine.

The notorious Lalage had a scar on her delicate left ear. It brought back nostalgic memories. She was pretending to be an elegant Oriental courtesan, but I knew exactly where this precious pullet came from. I had met her before.

Will this take long?' Her voice had all the fluting charm of pebbles in vinegar cleaning out a blackened skillet. We're expecting guests.'

'Lycians, maybe?' asked Petronius.