Roman Blood (18 page)

" Y e s . "

"Are you a friend of that man? What is his name, Sextus?"

" Y e s , that was his name. No, I was not his friend."

" Y o u speak as if he's dead."

" H e is."

She put the comb and mirror in her lap. " A n d Elena? Was she with him when he died? Do you know where she is n o w ? "

"I know nothing at all about her, except what you can tell m e . "

"She was a lovely girl. So delicate." Electra looked suddenly very sad, and very beautiful. After a moment she took up the comb and the mirror again. "She was not here for that long a time. A year, I think. The master bought her at auction at the temple of Castor, along with a half-dozen other girls, all the same age and color. But she was the special one, even though he never saw it."

"But Sextus saw it."

" T h e old man? Oh, yes. After the first time, he came at least once every five or six days. Toward the end he sometimes came every other day."

" T h e end?"

"After she became pregnant. Before she left."

"Pregnant? Who was the father?"

Electra laughed. "This is a brothel, in case you had forgotten. Not every client is satisfied simply to watch a woman comb her hair." She shrugged. " I n a place like this a girl never really knows which man it might have been, though some girls like to have fantasies. It was Elena's first time. I told her how to get rid of it, but she wouldn't. By rights I should have told the master."

"But you didn't. Why n o t ? "

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"I told you, Elena was so lovely, so delicate. She wanted the baby very much. I thought to myself, if she can hide it from the master long enough, he'll have to let her have it, even if he won't let her keep it."

"But Elena told someone besides you. Some girls have fantasies, you say. What was her fantasy?"

Her eyes flashed with anger. " Y o u know already. I can tell by the way you ask."

"I know only what you tell m e . "

"All right. She told the old man, Sextus, that she was pregnant. She told him that the baby was his. And the fool believed her. Men that age sometimes want to make a child very badly. He had lost his son, you know; he talked to her about it constantly. Perhaps that's why she knew he would believe her. Who knows, perhaps it really was his child."

" A n d how would this help Elena?"

" H o w do you think? It's what every girl in a house like this dreams of, at least until she learns better. A rich man falls in love with her, buys her from the master, takes her into his household. Or perhaps he even sets her free and settles her in her own apartment, where she can raise her baby as a citizen. In her wildest fantasies he might even recognize the bastard, make it an heir. One hears of such miracles. Elena was still young enough to dream like that."

" A n d how did her dream e n d ? "

"Sextus promised he would buy her and set her free. He even spoke of marrying her. So she told me. I don't think she imagined it."

" A n d then?"

" H e simply stopped coming. Elena put on a face for a while, but she was beginning to show the child, and the days kept passing. I held her in my arms when she wept at night. The cruelty of men . . ."

"Where is she n o w ? "

" T h e master sold her."

" T o w h o m ? "

"I don't know. I thought perhaps it was Sextus who bought her, after all. But you say he's dead—and you know nothing of Elena."

I shook my head.

"They came for her, at the end of September. With no announcement, no preparation. Stabius came bursting in, saying she was to gather up her clothes. The master had sold her and she was to leave at once. She trembled like a kitten. She cried from happiness, and I cried with her.

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She didn't bother to take any of her things, she said that Sextus would buy her finer things. I followed her down the hall. They were waiting for her in the vestibule. I knew when I saw them that something was wrong.

I think she knew it too, but she tried to hide it. She gave me a kiss, and she smiled as she walked out the door with them."

" N o t Sextus," I said. "Sextus Roscius was dead by then."

" N o , not the old man. T w o men. I didn't like the looks of them.

Neither the big blond one nor the one with the limp."

I must have made some noise or sign without realizing it. Electra stopped brushing her hair and stared at me. "What's wrong? You know him—the man with the limp?"

" N o t yet."

She laid down her brush and stared at me with smoldering eyes. "What sort of puzzle is this? Do you know where Elena is or don't you? Do you know who bought her?"

"I told you before. All I know of Elena is what you tell m e . "

"That's a lie," she said.

Tiro squirmed in his chair. I think he had never heard a slave talk in such a way to a citizen.

" Y e s . " I nodded. " I t is a lie. There is one thing I know about Elena; it's why I'm here. I'll tell you. On the night that Sextus Roscius was killed—not far from here, Electra, only a few steps up the street—on that night he was at a dinner party in the house of a great noblewoman.

Caecilia Metella: Have you ever heard the name? Did Elena ever mention i t ? "

" N o . "

" I t was after dark when a messenger came. He brought a written message for Sextus. It was from Elena, urging him to come at once to the House of Swans."

"Impossible."

" W h y ? "

"Elena couldn't write."

" B u t perhaps someone else in the house could."

"Stabius can, a little. And the clerks, but we never see them. It doesn't matter. Sending a message to a wealthy man, fetching him like a dog from a great matron's house—Elena was a dreamer, but she wasn't mad. She would never have done such a thing, certainly not without asking my advice."

"You're certain?"

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"Absolutely."

I nodded. I looked at the hourglass. There was a considerable amount of sand remaining. "I think we've talked enough," I said.

It was Electra's turn to check the hourglass. She closed her eyes for a moment. The agitation and anxiety slowly vanished from her face. She stood and unbelted the sash at her waist. "Only one other thing," she said softly. " I f you should hear news of Elena and the baby, would you let me know? Even if the news is bad. You wouldn't need to see me again if you didn't want to. You could simply have a slave leave word with Stabius. He would see that I received the message."

" I f I discover anything, I'll make sure that you know."

She nodded in gratitude, and let the gown fall from her hips.

I gazed at her for a long time. She stood motionless, her head bowed, with one foot slightly before the other and her hands at her sides, allowing me to study the lines of her body, to breath in the alluring odor of her flesh.

" Y o u are a beautiful woman, Electra."

"Some men have thought so."

"But I didn't come here because I needed a woman. I came looking for Elena."

"I understand."

" A n d though I paid your master, it wasn't your body I wanted."

"I know." She looked up at me. "But there is plenty of time remaining."

" N o . Not for me. Not today. But there is a gift you can give me. A favor."

" Y e s . "

" T h e b o y . " I gestured to Tiro, who stared back at me with a look of mingled lust and stupefaction. His face was quite red.

" O f course," Electra said. " Y o u want to watch us?"

" N o . "

" Y o u want to take us both together?" She inclined her head and gave me a wry smile. "I suppose I could share y o u . "

" Y o u misunderstand. I'll wait in the vestibule. This would be strictly for the boy's pleasure, not for mine. And perhaps for your pleasure, as well."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. What sort of man, after all, would pay good money to have his slave entertained by a whore?

I turned to leave. Tiro started up from his chair. " B u t , sir—"

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"Quiet, Tiro. Stay. A gift. Accept it graciously."

I left, closing the door behind me. I lingered in the hall for a long moment, half-expecting Tiro to follow me. He didn't.

In the vestibule, business had begun to pick up. The proprietor greeted new guests; Stabius and another slave paraded the merchandise. All the seats were taken and some of the clients had to stand. I stood among them, out of the way and out of sight. It was not long before Tiro came walking rapidly down the hall, awkwardly adjusting his tunic about his shoulders. His face was damp with sweat, his hair tousled. He had not even bothered to straighten his clothes before fleeing the room.

"Finished?" I said.

I expected a grin, but he barely glanced at me before he plunged into the small crowd and headed relentlessly for the door. I followed after him, glancing over my shoulder at the latest selection of girls. Young Talia was among them. Her owner had pulled the robe back from her shoulder and was gently fondling her breasts. "See how she blushes?" I heard him say. "What a color it gives her cheeks. She blushes in other places as well, too delicate to mention . . . ."

In the street Tiro walked so fast I had to run to catch up. "I shouldn't have done it," he said, shaking his head and staring straight ahead.

I laid my hand on his shoulder. Though he shrank away, he obeyed as a horse obeys, slowing his pace. " Y o u didn't find her desirable, T i r o ? "

" O f course I did. She's . . ." He searched for a word, and finding none adequate gave a despairing shrug.

" Y o u didn't enjoy yourself?"

" O f course I did."

"Then you might at least thank m e . "

" B u t I shouldn't have done it." He scowled. " I t was Cicero paying, not you. You'll charge him the expense. What do you think he would say if he knew? Using his money to buy a woman for me . . . "

"Then he needn't know. Anyway, I had paid for the whore already; it was a legitimate expense, you must admit that. It only made sense that one of us should use her."

" Y e s , when you put it that way. Even so . . ." He looked me straight in the eye, only for an instant, but long enough for me to see inside him.

The guilt he felt was not for abusing Cicero's trust, but for betraying another.

That was when I first knew just how badly Tiro had been smitten by the daughter of Sextus Roscius.

118

THIRTEEN

WE walked again past the widow Polia's tenement, past the bloodstain, past the old shopkeeper and his wife. Tiro was in a mood to walk fast; I matched him and then set a faster pace. I had had enough for one day of strangers and their tragedies. I longed to be home again.

We entered the square. The shops had reopened; the street vendors had returned. The sun was still high enough to reach over the rooftops and strike the public sundial. An hour of daylight remained.

Children were playing about the cistern; housewives and slaves stood waiting to fetch water for the evening meal. The square was alive with noise and movement, but something was amiss. Only gradually I realized that half of the crowd or more had their faces turned in the same direction. A number of them were pointing.

Rome is a city of fire and smoke. The people are sustained by bread, bread is baked in ovens, ovens release plumes of smoke. But the smoke of a tenement fire has an altogether different appearance. The smoke rises thick and black; on a clear and windless day it thrusts upward in a great column. Currents of ash roil and thrash against the sky, only to be sucked inward to the core, thrown higher and higher against the sky.

The fire lay directly in our path, somewhere between us and the Capitoline. Tiro, seeing it, seemed suddenly relieved of all anxieties. His face took on a smooth, healthy luster of excitement as he quickened his pace. Man's instinct is to flee from fire, but city life obliterates the animal 119

urges; indeed, we passed not a single person going in the opposite direction as we neared the fire, but instead found ourselves drawn into an ever-growing congestion of pedestrians and wagons as people from all about rushed to see the catastrophe at its peak.

The fire was near the foot of the Capitoline, just outside the Servian wall, in a block of fashionable apartments south of the Circus Flaminius.

A four-story tenement was almost completely engulfed. Flames belched from the windows and danced about the roof. If there had been a drama of the type the crowd so adores, we had missed it; there were no helpless victims screaming from the upper windows, no babies being thrown to the street. The inhabitants had already escaped or else were dead inside.

Here and there in the crowd I saw women tearing their hair, men weeping, families huddled together. The mourners and the destitute were swallowed up in the general mass of the crowd, who watched the flames with various expressions of awe and delight.

" T h e y say it started in midafternoon," said a man nearby, "and took all this time to swallow the whole building." His friend nodded gravely.

"Even so, I hear there were several families trapped on the upper floors, burned alive. You could hear them screaming. They say a flaming man came hurtling out of an upper window not more than an hour ago, landing in the midst of the crowd. If we move over that way, we might be able to see the spot where he landed . . . ."

In the open corridor between the crowd and the flames a gray-bearded man was running hectically to and fro, hiring strangers off the street to help contain the conflagration. The wage he offered was hardly more than a volunteer's honorarium, and not many took him up. On the northward side, looking up the hill, the fire seemed to pose little danger of spreading; there was no wind to carry the flames, and the wide space between the buildings was adequate protection. But on the southward side, toward the Circus, another, shorter tenement nearly adjoined the burning building, with only the width of a tall man's reach between them.

Already the facing wall was scorched, and as the burning building began to crumble, heaps of ash and debris tumbled into the gap between them, with some of the flaming material landing on the roof of the lower structure, where a team of slaves hastily shoveled it off.