Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

Chia led me upstairs to her cubicle. On the way we passed other rooms, some with closed doors as they were in use, some open so visitors could see the wares on offer. Half-naked women were visible inside, most looking far from erotic, more like schoolgirls lolling in their bedrooms. I almost expected to see dolls and miniature farms on show, but I was a realist; these young people had probably never owned playthings as children. All they knew now were sex toys.

House-proud whores had draped curtains across their doorways, some looped up with string tie-backs while they were waiting for a customer. Each had a painted sign above the door showing a couple (well it was usually a couple) engaged in whatever sexual position that woman performed. The variety made me blink. Each room had a sign dangling from a hook, giving the occupant’s name and price, then “engaged” when she turned the tablet over. It was lunchtime now, so quite a few rooms had closed doors. I heard few cries of pleasure from within. Trade here must be a mechanical, laconic business.

Chia’s little cubicle was dark, mean and as smelly as the rest. I suppose after a time the women got used to that notorious brothel odor. Inside, she had a basic single bed, covered with a threadbare blanket and graced with a lifeless pillow in a striped case. When she was in, the room was lit by one pottery oil lamp. Chia took it in order to light it from another in the dark corridor.

I could then see that unlike my room or my sisters, this was not littered with clothes, shoes, scarves, cosmetics, jewelry boxes, pink glass perfume bottles shaped like birds, miniature statuette collections, musical instruments on which somebody had once had three lessons, scroll sets or vases. Chia’s cubicle had no clutter at all. At least that saved her being nagged to tidy it. I saw no evidence that this building was ever subjected to housework. The crud on the floors and door frames looked prehistoric.

“So this is your little nest, Chia!”

Again, she gave me that sad, wan smile. She had dark hair and soft eyes; the customers probably thought her a pretty one, though she was simply young. The skinny mite had tiny hands and baby fingers; she looked no more than fifteen, unformed and a little backward with it. I think she could see she broke my heart.

“It’s all right,” she urged, as if reassuring me. “I’m used to it. They give me food and clothes. I have a job. The other girls are like a big family.”

She spoke as if she thought herself lucky; she just had to stick with it.

I sat beside her on her bed, trying not to imagine who else had been there or to notice what traces they had left behind. How could any man with self-respect come to a place like this-let alone carry out what ought to be an intimate act among such public squalor? “Do you do well, Chia?”

“Oh yes,” she agreed seriously. “I look young. A lot of the men ask for that.”

At this rate she would soon look older. Then how would she fare? “So do they treat you nicely?”

“Some.”

“And the rest?”

She pulled a face, though seemed acquiescent. “They want to call me a naughty girl and punish me.” She saw my look. “Oh, it’s just a game, Flavia Albia. Close your eyes and forget it. Soon be over.” That must be what the pimp had told her.

“So,” I said gently, “I am wondering about you. I am thinking, can you manage to escape being downtrodden? Will you one day grow into a force to be reckoned with, like Rufia at the Hesperides?” It was a ridiculous thought. She was so pallid, I knew the answer.

“Or Menendra?” Giving me a sly look, Chia knew what my interest really was.

“The elusive Lycian? Apart from issuing threats to all and sundry, I am still not clear what Menendra does. According to her she supplies bars, but it’s very vague what she supplies them with.”

Chia seemed to be considering. We were friends now, special cronies for the moment. I did not trust it to last, but I might as well exploit it. “They didn’t want to tell you,” she said.

Ah. One of those moments. An informer lives for this.

“Your Macedonian friends? Didn’t want to tell me what, Chia darling?”

“Menendra does go round and sells stuff to the cookshops. But I told you.” I raised my brows, puzzled. “She’s that one I said about.” Chia seemed surprised I had failed to grasp this. “She’s horrid. She scares me. That’s why I don’t want to go to her for help. It’s her this place uses for the girls-” She spelled it out for me, almost exasperated I was being dense about it. “Albia-she gets rid of babies.”

Chia was wanted. A large tanner came to her door. He seemed diffident, asking politely if she was busy at the moment or could she could “do” him? He was ordinary, almost likeable, though he did stink of his work.

I left.

Before I thanked her for our chat and freed her to ply her trade with the tanner, the girl had told me how to find the cookshop where Menendra lodged. I came upon it easily enough, but when I went up the stairs at the side of the building, her door was firmly locked. She had a name sign on a hook, like those I had seen in the brothel, but when I turned it, the back was blank, no “engaged” notice. So people came to find her here, but not to fornicate.

Retreating, I bought a pie from the busy cookshop. It was surprisingly good, given the area. That’s Rome for you.

I walked slowly back to the Garden of the Hesperides, eating as I went. I could not help thinking what a wondrous treat it would once have been for me to eat a warm pie in the street. Once, when I was homeless in dreary Londinium.

Today the weather was mixed, with small clouds scudding in between gladdening bursts of sunlight. The temperature was cooler than earlier in the week, so walking about was more comfortable. Still, this was the Golden City, with its climate so different from the one I grew up with: Rome, where you could go bare-armed even while the sun was hidden. Rome, where my family all laughed at me because if the sun peeked out in December, I would throw off my cloak, raise my face to the warmth and start smiling …

Tiberius, still at the bar, caught me brushing pastry crumbs from my lips. Since he looked envious, I walked over to the Brown Toad to ask if they could supply a bowl of their stew for him. Nobody was about. People could walk past and not be accosted by the transvestites. Any lunchtime clientele had gone. I went inside, looking for the lethargic waitress. She wasn’t there, but I found an aged woman washing out food bowls; she must be the granny who cooked up the daily cauldron.

“Where is the girl?”

“Having a lie-down.” I interpreted that the lewd way. Maybe I had spent too much time investigating bars.

“Any of your meaty hot pot left? I have a hungry man to feed over the road.” I did not mention that he was an aedile who ought to enforce the pulses-only rule. Not knowing who I wanted it for, she obligingly scraped the last of it out of her cauldron.

I grinned. “If you’re like my old gran on the Aventine, you’re pleased to see the clean bottom of the pot.”

She was like my old gran all right. Beaming, she let me run a finger around the inside of the cauldron, cleaning up the last of the gravy. I thought I had better try some, since I had not tasted this famous broth when the Macedonians had lunch on me. Anyway, I had a long history of licking out cooking pots. All my family liked to do it; when a bunch of us gathered in a kitchen, there could be squabbles.

I congratulated her on the flavor. I was polite; besides, it really was good. I liked remembering that eating places were supposed to be for eating in.

She had a small bowlful set aside under a cover, put away for herself, but she was eager to see her labor being enjoyed by someone else; she pushed me onto a stool, insisting I have it. Despite my pie, I downed the stew as well. Brides need nourishment. Both my own grandmothers would have said that. At the moment, I was feeling nostalgic for them.