The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Nineteen

The third hour of the night

“Come on, Agathon, don’t hold out on your friends. What’s she like, this Roman bitch of yours?” The girl, naked to the waist, laughed and leaned across to refill his wine cup, brushing his face with her breasts.

The three young men and their hetaeras reclined around a table strewn with the wreckage of an expensive meal. They had been there all evening and were quite drunk.

“You’re a naughty boy, Agathon.” One of the youths, whose flowered wreath had slipped over one eye, punched his shoulder. “You’d best take care. Trifling with their women? You could end up food for the lions.”

“Come on, then,” the girl insisted. “Don’t be mysterious, what’s she like? Has she got a pair like these?” She pushed her breasts in his face again. “How is she in bed, or haven’t you got that far?”

Agathon put his finger to his lips. “Locked behin’ th’ hedge of my teeth, as th’ poet says.” His tongue was thick with drink. “Said too much already. Anyway, ’s all over. Over an’ done with. But since you asked, darling”—he held his cupped hands to his chest—“they’re this big!” A laugh started in his throat and then died. With a sudden lunge he grabbed the girl and buried his face against her. “Don’t wan’ him to see me!” he mumbled into her shoulder.

All around the room conversation died.

How is it, Suetonius reflected, as he stepped through the door and handed his outdoor cloak to a boy, that they recognize a Roman before I even open my mouth? Something noble in the visage, no doubt. He was dressed elegantly in the Greek fashion, a short pleated tunic of lime green and a purple chlamys of fine linen draped over one shoulder; a wreath strategically placed to cover his bald spot, as Julius Caesar used to do. His working clothes, as he like to think of them.

Suetonius paused to take in his surroundings; he was impressed. Elysium’s exterior, the blank wall it turned to the street, gave no hint of what lay within. The air was heavy with perfume. The flickering light of lamps on ornate stands, artfully placed and trimmed, gave just enough, but not too much, illumination. In the center of the spacious interior a fountain splashed—a gilded Triton pouring water from his conch into the mouths of dolphins. Around the walls, paintings depicted the amours of the gods: Leda opening her luscious pink thighs to a Zeus-embodied swan, Aphrodite admiring Ares’ heroic cock, painted an angry red. Others illustrated all the positions and techniques of love which could be had for a price. At a score of gilded tables groups of revelers reclined on silk-draped couches: the men of all sorts—young, old, thin, fat, bearded, bald; the hetaeras who shared their couches, all of one sort—young and beautiful. In one corner, a pair of musicians played on the drum and double flute as a lithe African girl, clad only in a golden belt around her hips, her skin black and lustrous as jet, performed sinuous turns and pirouettes, holding saucers of flame in the palms of her hands, bending backwards until her head touched the floor. Some in the audience threw coins at her feet.

A young slave wearing Persian tunic and trousers approached and gestured that Suetonius should follow him. He had sent word ahead asking for an appointment with Sophronia.

He felt the eyes that followed him as they mounted the stairway to the mezzanine of private rooms. Behind him, laughter and conversation resumed.

She sat behind a desk in a small, bare office; on a stool beside her, a watery-eyed little man bent over an abacus. The desk top was covered with papers. She waved Suetonius to a chair. “Thank you, Byzus. We’ll finish later.” The accountant gathered his scrolls and crept out of the room, ducking his head at the Roman guest.

“Wine?”

“Thank you.”

The wine service, heavy chased silver and rose crystal, sat on a sideboard. Suetonius estimated it was worth half a million at least. She filled his goblet but took nothing for herself. He rolled the wine in his mouth—an excellent Chian.

She fixed him with a level gaze. “To what do I owe the attention of a Roman official? I can spare you a quarter of an hour, no more.”

Her skin was a rich olive, her hair, pulled back and coiled on the nape of her neck, was thick and black. She was in her forties, he supposed, still beautiful, though the corners of her mouth were beginning to set in hard lines. She wore a simple white gown, belted under the bosom. Gold bracelets set with rubies circled her wrists. Suetonius, who had made some inquiries about her, had been told of her exotic beauty. He wasn’t prepared for how tiny she was; not even five feet, he guessed. What an incongruous pair she and Balbus must have made! He inhaled her scent—myrrh and roses, he thought, and hints of other things he couldn’t put a name to.

He had joked with Pliny about interviewing her for his monograph on famous whores but one minute in her presence told him that she would not be amused. She was a whore with the bearing of an empress. And the empresses of his acquaintance were not noted for their sense of humor.

He found himself uncharacteristically stammering. “I, ah, understand that you were a particular friend of the late procurator.”

“You come here to pry into my private affairs? So like a Roman, you nation of moralists!”

Once as a boy he had surprised a mother lynx and her brood in their den when hiking in hills near his home. The animal was smaller than his dog, but he sensed that if he took another step forward she would slash him to ribbons. He felt that same premonitory chill now.

“Whoever told you that is lying.” She thrust out her chin, challenging him.

“According to our source”—speak softly, don’t threaten—“Balbus was going to leave his wife and marry you. His death must have been a shock and a deep disappointment. My sympathies.”

Her dark eyes searched his face. Would the lynx pounce? Finally, she gave a small shrug. “What difference can that possibly make now?”

“Because, lady, his death was no accident.”

She was a woman who knew how to control herself. Still, the eyes narrowed just perceptibly. A muscle twitched in her cheek.

“Murdered? And you don’t know by whom? And you think I do?”

“We’re hoping you might be able to help us.” Suetonius leaned forward in his chair and gave her his most confiding look; this was the moment where he would win her cooperation or fail. “Is it likely that Fabia knew about your affair with her husband?”

“I have not admitted to any affair.”

“Could she have known?” he repeated.

“That stupid cow!” Her voice rose a pitch. “If she did she’s a better actress than I give her credit for!”

Ah, the mask has dropped! And there’s real feeling there. Use it. He leaned back, giving her space. “How did you two meet?” A sympathetic friend.

She allowed herself a smile. “He was a customer. He would come in the daytime, never at night, so his wife wouldn’t suspect. He would go through three or four girls in an afternoon. Most of the girls sleep during the day. I had to keep a few on call just for him. At first it was the girls, then it was me.”

“You won his heart?”

“I’m not such an old woman yet.” She lowered her eyes.

“Indeed not.” She wasn’t above fishing for a compliment.

“He hated his wife and talked about divorcing her and making me his concubine. He said he could obtain Roman citizenship for me and my son, said he had friends who were close to the emperor. And then he promised to marry me.”

Exactly as we’d thought! Suetonius reflected with deep satisfaction. Now try a different tack, circle around. “Tell me something about yourself, Sophronia. How do you come by—all this? His gesture took in the room and what lay beyond.

She went to the sideboard now and poured herself a goblet of wine, then poured more for him. “My father was a successful merchant. My late husband, not so successful. He went down with his ship in a storm five years ago, leaving me with a load of debts and a young son, who is now twelve years old and wants to be a Roman legionary when he grows up! Can you believe it?”

“And you found it necessary to go into this particular line of business?”

“Whoring? It’s a good deal less risky than shipping. Respectability doesn’t interest me, profit does. I discovered I had a talent for business. I’ve taken something sordid and made it elegant. It isn’t about sex, you know, it’s about theater. Sex is only the last act. If you don’t approve you can leave.”

Angry again, I’ve touched a sore spot. “On the contrary, lady, I’m filled with admiration. Anyone who commands a fortune like yours—”

“If only I did command it.” She set her goblet down hard, splashing some of the wine. “I have a brother, a half brother actually, Argyrus. My father’s first wife was a Greek woman. After her death, he married again, this time a Persian—you may know there is a sizeable Persian enclave here—she was my mother.”

Half barbarian, Suetonius thought, I could almost have guessed. “And so Argyrus is older than you are and pure Greek and—”

“And my oldest living male relative, yes. Your Roman women enjoy an enviable freedom. It’s not the same with us. He controls my fortune and does nothing but waste it, sucks my blood like a leech.”

“But if you had married Balbus, Argyrus would have lost control over your money.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

“And where might I find this brother of yours?”

“Here, as often as not, helping himself to the merchandize free of charge.”

“Would you object if I interviewed him?”

“Why should I?” she murmured.

“Thank you, Sophronia, you’ve been very helpful. The governor and I appreciate it.”

Perhaps it was the wine; the frown lines were softening, there was almost a wistfulness in her gaze. “I hope you catch whoever did it,” she said. “Balbus was not—not an easy man to like. What can I say, he was a Roman. But he meant something to me.”

“I’m sure he did.”

She squared her shoulders. “So. Have I answered all your questions? Then let me ask you some.”

For the next few minutes he opened himself to her—not everything, naturally, but more than he had planned; perhaps more than was wise. He had no children, he told her. His wife was in Italy. It was a marriage of convenience. He talked about his boyhood in North Africa, about his ambition to make his mark in literature. Finally, he even told her about his monograph. She laughed and made him promise to send her a copy when it was done.

They had far exceeded the quarter of an hour she had said she would allow him.

“I’ve taken enough of your time, Sophronia,” he said at last. He made to get up. “Thank you again for seeing me. I can find my way out.”

She looked at him under her heavy lashes. “You needn’t go,” she said.