If Venus Street ever had an official name, nobody knows it anymore… maybe the Greeks called it Aphrodite Street before the Romans arrived? Latticed shutters open wide where women sit, boobs out, heckling after no one in particular:
‘One silika, all night.’
‘Make you a happy man.’
I stir beneath my tunic. Venus Street ain’t as cheap as it looks. One silver coin! No wonder Dad told me to stay clear of it.
Drunk men loll outside bars under red canopies on oversized cushions, tunics hitched up to their bollocks, and grope women in colourful togas who whoop and shriek.
‘Keep up, Aeson!’ Croc knocks my elbow and grins.
Music, singing, grunts of pleasure louder than the muffled moans of the brickie-wives come from inside buildings. Is Croc a virgin? Nah, can’t be. He’s so cocky.
‘Man, stop gawping.’
Boys position themselves along the street at intervals and pose like statues of the gods set into the alcoves of the stadium. Turk’s talking to a tall, fat man at the other end of the street.
‘Man, this is my spot. Turk’s waiting for you. By the look of the gold dripping off that old Roman, your ship’s come in tonight.’ Why’s Croc winking at me?
When I’m close enough to hear their conversation, I hover behind Turk.
‘New in town, sir?’
‘Ha! Some assistance at last! Show me your trade, dear.’
The fat Roman has a cinaedus’ lisp, but his voice is deep, not high like a woman. Hand on his hip… he must be the cinaedus Lanky mentioned. A Latin word, but it’s the same in Greek. Romans pinch all our words. Usual curled hair and eyebrows painted on like a eunuch, but there’s something different about him…
Turk points at the gang posing along the street.
‘That’s Patch, the one with the eye-patch.’
‘I can work that out for myself, dear.’ He adds impatiently, ‘Show me a boy in good condition.’
‘A man of fine taste. In that case let’s start top end, eh?’
‘I’ll see for myself.’ The cinaedus sweeps past Turk like a senator; he doesn’t flounce like a woman. That’s what sets him apart: his walk, his Roman determination. It’s the most impatient walk I’ve ever seen.
‘Come on, cinaedus, Show us what you’ve got.’ A woman hangs out of a first floor window and heckles like she’s at the theatre.
The cinaedus pouts his lips, puts his hand on his hip and lisps, ‘At least I don’t look like Venus after a night on the town with Bacchus, dear.’
She laughs and blows him a kiss. I can never work out if people love or hate the cinaedi.
As the fat Roman glides past the row of boys, Croc puts his hand down his trousers, pulls out his empty purse and laughs his hiccup giggle. The Roman laughs too.
‘Rubbish! This is the scrawniest, most diseased bunch of street urchins I’ve ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. Most of them are too butch for my liking. I may be a cinaedus, dear, but I don’t like my boys too old. I like them young, but not too young. On the cusp.’
‘On the cusp, eh?’ Turk looks at me.
The Roman walks over to Croc.
‘This one at the end’s passable. Clean set of teeth, but what’s wrong with his skin? He might be fun for a night if you can’t show me anything better…’
He’s spotted me. The Roman gasps like an actor, a kohl eyebrow rises: he’s a cinaedus alright.
‘… and who’s this lovely creature…’ He trails off when his eyes meet mine. Makes my skin prick like it’s alive the way he looks at me, but I’m not being his bit of rough trade.
Turk slings an arm round my shoulder. ‘New boy… on the cusp… but Pretty’s not trained up yet, sir.’
‘I’m a man, I am. Thirteen. Aeson, sir.’
I clasp the man’s wrist with the same force Croc clenched mine. His hand’s soft as a woman’s.
‘Oooo, what a manly introduction, dear!’ He stares at me like he wants to eat me. ‘Olympian eyes… and the grip of a gladiator.’
I’m used to people being put into a kind of trance by my eyes. I like it, makes me feel powerful.
He turns to Turk. ‘I’ll take him.’
‘I’m not his. I’m me own man.’ Not going to be pimped by Turk, I’m not.
‘Ha! You cheeky Siren, playing with an old man’s feelings.’
Turk frowns and points back down Venus Street. ‘Pretty, wait at the end of the street, eh.’
‘I’m talking to the boy, dear.’ The Roman doesn’t look at Turk. He’s focused on me. ‘I do hope you reconsider. My name is Rufius. It’s a pleasure to meet you. When we meet again, perhaps I’ll have my slave give you a Roman shave.’
Knew I should get rid of this bum fluff.
‘All deals go through me,’ Turk butts in, and clicks his fingers for Croc who runs straight over. ‘Take Crocodile, sir. He’ll show you a good time. Pretty can entertain you when he’s trained up…’
My face is burning up I’m so angry. He takes my money and now he acts like I’m some slave at the Emporium. My teeth clench.
‘Don’t… Call… Me… Pretty!’
Rufius’ eyelashes flutter as he looks at me, shy like a young girl… like I’m the man.
‘It doesn’t suit you, dear. Beautiful, a tad androgynous, but not pretty.’
‘Like I said, eh, he’s not trained up.’
Turk ushers Rufius and Croc to the end of Venus Street, where they get into a sedan carried by four exhausted-looking boys.
Patch looks disappointed as the sedan turns the corner. ‘Croc’ll get a more comfy sleep than the rest of us.’