TIME TO DEPART

XIX

WE HAD ENTERED the Eleventh region. It was outside Petro's area, although he said it was u

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 ru

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 reco

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 ba

There was a lumbering oak door, propped open with two staves. It looked too slumped on its hinges to be closed. 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, picked 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 antigambling 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.

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,' a

`We're always pleased to see the hornets…' She must have been chosen for her ma