“So? What do you say, Savius?” asked Gaius Apulet as he leaned against the column.
“Slow day. Not much stuff has come in, and what has is all of poor quality.”
Dressed in scruffy clothes, his interlocutor was a man of medium height who had last tussled with a razor at least a couple of days previously. The slave market was his world, and he knew all the sellers and the needs of most of the buyers. For news on the morning auction there was no better informant than him. He had only one flaw. He was expensive.
“Are you absolutely sure there isn’t anything interesting? Don’t tell me that I got up early for nothing…”
Apulet stood on tiptoe to better see what was happening on the catasta, the revolving stage which displayed the wares. He saw some gigantic Dalmatians who would be sold as a group to be lecticarii who would transport their masters, as well as some pretty young boys surely destined to become cupbearers at banquets.
The auctioneer had put three males with slim bodies and whitish skin who looked like studies in disease in the front row. Their feet had been daubed with white chalk to indicate their origin from overseas territories. Around their necks, each of them wore a titulus, the sign which provided information for the buyer: nationality, attitudes, qualities, defects and, of course, price. Making a racket like that at the gladiatorial games, the potential buyers crowded around the raised stage as though it were a golden calf which was for sale.
“Have I ever disappointed you, Apuletus?” Savius looked at the three emaciated slaves. “A week ago, they captured two pirate ships off the coast of Africa and these are the first fruits of what they found in the holds. I admit that it’s hard to look one’s best after spending a few months in chains,” he chuckled, “but that lot will be belching cockroaches and saltwater for the rest of their days.”
“Perhaps. But the only certainty today is that I will be going home empty-handed and only the gods know how difficult thing are right now.”
Apulet was the best-known brothel owner in the Suburra: eight out of every ten girls working in the Roman citadel of prostitution belonged to his stable. He had built his fortune on continuously changing what he offered, but the sudden reduction in the number of military campaigns in recent times had meant that the raw material was growing scarce.
Savius massaged his jaw as though to test the length of his unkempt beard.
“Are you in such a hurry?”
“It’s not a question of being in a hurry. The average age of my girls is starting to get too high, and when you get older your imagination starts to get a little dull. And what’s more, it seems that both the patricians and the freedmen of this damn city have lost the desire to transgress. I need new merchandise and I need it immediately.”
“Even at the price of a little risk?”
“What kind of risk are we talking about?”
Savius lowered his voice and looked around him. The market was a cacophony of voices: the benches were filled with patrons of every kind and confusion reigned supreme, the voice of the slave auctioneer shouting out names and figures drowning out all the others. No one seemed interested in the talk of the prince of pimps and his informant.
“Come with me,” said Savius, inviting Apulet to follow him into one of the alleys that led off from the square.
The two walked a long way along streets, across squares and down stinking alleys that Apuletus had never seen before until the cries of the slave market became a distant buzz.
Suddenly Savius stopped. “Follow me but don’t ask questions. Let me do the talking.” And without waiting for a reply, he disappeared through a half-open door. The brothel keeper followed him without a word.
After passing through a covered courtyard, they found themselves in a corridor that ended at a short flight of stairs, beyond which, as if waiting for them, stood two bare-chested men with muscular bodies. When they saw Savius approaching, they ordered him to stop. The man whispered a couple of words and the two stepped aside to let him pass. And once they had entered through the curtained portal, Apuletus realised that the two guardians marked the boundary between silence and delirium.
The voices, noise and aroma of spices mixed with sweat hit him full in the face, almost taking his breath away. The walls of the long corridor which they had just entered opened onto rooms without doors from which bizarre-looking characters came and went.
“Come on,” said Savius, dragging him along. Each area seemed to be an independent microcosm, where goods of all kinds, both human and animal, were sold, and possible buyers, called upon repeatedly to raise their offers, declared them by banging coins on the tables. Apuletus saw a couple of familiar faces who pretended not to recognise him, but he paid them scant attention. It was the kind of thing that happened occurred frequently during the night in the Suburra.
“Here we are,” said Savius, entering the last room to the right of the corridor. The room was slightly bigger than the others and the walls were hand painted with fancy floral motifs, but no one in there paid much attention to the decoration. All eyes were on the four slaves tied with ropes and chains in the middle of the room. Two males and two females.
“They sell rather special goods in here,” Savius explained. “The kind you wouldn’t normally find in the square for a series of reasons I won’t bother explaining to you now. Let’s just say that it is a place where lost objects or those objects that the legitimate owners would find inconvenient to sell in a public place are put back into circulation.”
“Stolen goods, you mean.”
“It is rather more complicated than that. Damaged goods, you might say.”
The taller woman was very old and a trickle of drool ran from her mouth. Her opaque, glassy eyes seemed to stare into space. One of the two males had a wooden prosthesis instead of his right leg.
“But I’d heard that today… ah, yes. There she is.”
Savius pointed to the other slave. It was a little girl who was peering about her in bewilderment, probably trying to figure out where she was.
“That little girl,” said Savius, “was thrown out of the house of an influential Roman businessman. Many things are rumoured about her – far too many. The most common is that the girl brings bad luck. For this reason, her master liberated himself of her as soon as he was able and her price, from what I have heard, is truly ridiculously low.”
At that moment the salesman grabbed the little girl by the hair and dragged her in front of a group of customers. She wriggled in his grip and gritted her teeth like a lion cub.
“Ten sesterces, gentlemen. A real bargain for this little flower still in bloom.”
“But I know her,” said one of the buyers. “That is the daughter of Mario Laconico’s slave.”
“Who?” said another. “The one who lives near the Sublicio bridge?”
“No, you’re wrong,” replied the embarrassed salesman, “and she’s a bargain. Only ten sesterces and you can take her home with you this very morning. Let’s call it eight.”
“I don’t want her in my house,” replied the first man to have spoken, “I already have enough problems with my wife.”
In a few moments the room had emptied. The salesman stood looking at the grimy face of the girl from which two large blue eyes stared back.
“Have you seen those eyes?” asked Savius.
“Yes, but what if the rumours about her are true?”
“Oh come – do you really believe that a little girl can bring bad luck? And anyway, didn’t you say you wanted to lower the average age of your girls?”
“Eight sesterces and she’s yours,” repeated the salesman to Apuletus.
“And I don’t even want a penny,” insisted Savius. “I’d consider it a favour for an old customer.”
Apuletus reached into the folds of his overcoat and pulled out a clinking leather bag.
“She’ll need a good talking to but I think I’ll already be able to put her to work tonight.”
*
“Why do they say she brings bad luck?”
Apuletus looked at the girl in the torchlight. He’d had his most experienced matrons to work cleaning the dirt from her all afternoon. They’d brought her a dress that made her look like a vestal and now that her face was clean she looked even younger than her actual age, which was good because the most demanding customers were willing to pay plenty for little girls. Almost as much as for little boys.
“I don’t want to talk to you, you’re bad!”
Apuletus gave her a slap that made her lip bleed.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, you little slut. You concentrate on using that big mouth of yours to earn me some sesterces.” He took her by the arm. “And remember – if you try and run away, I’ll chase you down, to the far side of the world if needs be, and then I’ll give you one of those lovely hot metal gowns that are so fashionable for you slaves these days.”
The child shivered. Apuletus’ anger was one of the topics most discussed by the slaves of Rome. There were rumours that one day one of his vulgares had dropped a brazier during a dinner he had organised in honour of a senator. Apuletus had had him first whipped until he bled and then taken to his pond of carnivorous fish with the plan of offering his friends the spectacle of his death.
The servant had thrown himself at the feet of the senator, not to ask for clemency, but only to implore him to die in a less atrocious way. Moved to pity, the senator had at first solicited the clemency of Apuletus then, to show his anger at such barbaric cruelty, had knocked over all the braziers in the house to show his disapproval before finally indignantly storming out.
Naturally, Apuletus’ disappointment had subsequently been turned upon the servant, who had not been heard from in the days and moths which followed.
“Here we are. Now I’ll take you to Festia Curzia. If you obey her, you might live long enough that you can hope to meet some dribbling old fool who’ll fall in love with you and take you to live in a decent home.”
Apuletus stopped beside a fountain to cool his face. A woman of mighty size, dressed provocatively despite her advanced age, appeared to be waiting for him on the steps of a small arcade.
In the Suburra everything revolved around the two or three intersecting roads where most of the city’s brothels were concentrated.
Small one and two-story apartments hid modest alcoves behind curtains of garish colours, the scene of rapid encounters between professionals in the business of love and their clients.
“This must be your new purchase, Apuletus,” said the woman, looking at the girl from afar. “She’s not bad for her age.”
“I’m thirsty,” the girl complained, pulling Apuletus’s tunic. “I want something to drink.”
“Come here, darling,” the woman said, coming down the steps to meet her, “I’ll give you something better than water to drink. It’ll help give you the energy you need.”
She took the girl by the hand and walked towards the nearest of the entrances then held aside the red curtain that discreetly hid the entrance and pushed her inside.
“Apuletus,” he said, looking at her back, “I have the impression that training this little morsel won’t be easy. Where does she come from?”
“I’m not paying you to ask questions,” snapped Apuletus, and then took his leave with a distracted nod.
The little girl found herself in a square room that communicated an immediate sensation of griminess and where the air was almost unbreathable with the smoke from the lanterns. The walls were covered with the footprints of previous customers who had hastily satisfied their desires, alternated with their graffiti commenting on the quality of the girls with whom they’d lain. In a corner was a stone bed upon which a rudimentary mattress had been laid. The stains that could be seen on the surface were of varying colours and sizes. The scent of perfume smeared hastily over skin to hide the smell of sweat filled that miserable cubicle enclosed by four dirty walls.
“Come on, sit down,” Curzia invited her. “You know what you have to do, don’t you? The first vigil is about to begin. And then the customers will come.”
The little girl remained silent.
“Because you do know what you have to do, right?” asked the woman, going over to the little girl. “How long have you been doing this job?”
“What job?”
“You mean you’ve never…?”
“My owner is Marius Laconicus Vultio and he has a villa near the Sublicio bridge.”
“But Apuletus bought you at the market.”
“My master got angry at me. He had me whipped and then he kicked me out of the house and one of his personal servants sold me at the market.”
“And whatever could you have done to him that was so bad that he decided to rid himself of such a lovely little blossom?”
“I… I see bad things.”
“We all see bad things, little girl. Unfortunately, we can’t avoid it. And around here you’ll find all of the bad things in the world.”
“But I… I see them before they happen.”
“Of course you do, of course you do. I’ve realised beforehand myself that certain men would get me into trouble. But it’s part of human nature not to believe your own instincts.”
The little girl grimaced and bowed her head. “I’m hungry,” he said, “will you give me a piece of bread?”
“By Diana the huntress,” Curzia exclaimed after having observed her in silence, “you really haven’t ever done this before, haven’t you?” An expression of disappointment appeared on her face. “Well it doesn’t matter. Apuletus can’t expect me to be a wet nurse too. There are other girls waiting for me and the first customers will be here soon. You’ll get your experience the same way I did back when I was a girl. For this evening I’ll take care of managing your clients and collecting the fee, but tomorrow that’s your job. Make your customers feel like they’re the only men on the face of the earth. If you let them do it in silence, and you sigh and moan just enough to make them come, you will have done a good job. And remember,” she said, stopping in the doorway, “never speak about anything if they are not the ones asking you questions. In this place, you don’t use your mouth to make conversation. Have we understood each other?”
The girl looked at the woman without blinking, as if she had been speaking to her in an incomprehensible foreign language. She coughed a couple of times from the smoke and then sat sadly on the stone bed, letting her legs dangle over the side. Shaking her head, Curzia left the room.
A long time passed and the little girl didn’t move from the bed. From time to time, she heard confused voices coming from outside but they spoke about things she didn’t understand. She was hungry, and sleepy. And she was also afraid.
She sighed, and the first tears began to swell her eyes, but before she had time to weep, a short plump man suddenly appeared in the room, making her jump with surprise. He was dressed in an elegant tunic and clinking bracelets adorned his hairy wrists.
“By the gods,” he said, stopping to look at the girl, “Curzia told me you were young but she didn’t tell me you were still drinking your nurse’s milk.” He approached and passed a sweaty hand over her cheek. “You’ll see,” he remarked with a grin. “I won’t hurt you too much.”
The little girl tried to wriggle out of that unpleasant caress, and when it grew more insistent, she reached out and scratched at his face.
The man screeched with pain and raised his hands to his eyes, then jumped to his feet and ran to the exit. But just as he was about to walk through the door, Curzia’s massive body appeared, blocking his way like a wall.
“What’s going on here?” she asked peremptorily.
“That… that damned little bitch,” the plump man shouted. “She stuck a finger in my eye!”
Curzia grabbed the girl by the arms and lifted her from the ground like a twig. “What did you do?”
The man, who in the meantime had managed to regain control of himself, joined her and snatched the little girl from her hands like an inanimate object. “Leave her to me,” he said, squeezing her by the neck, “I’ll call you when I’m done with this little animal.”
Curzia gave the man a slightly worried look and then shrugged.
“Very well – but don’t hurt her too much. It’s her first day on the job.”
“She won’t be complaining when I’m done with her,” the plump man replied, dragging the girl to the bed. He lifted her up and threw her onto the mattress. The girl’s eyes searched desperately for the woman’s, but Curzia only frowned.
“You be nice to the senator. Don’t make me regret welcoming you into my house.”
When they were alone, the man threw himself with all his weight on top of the body of the child, who felt as if she were about to suffocate. For long, awful moments, two rough hands pawed at her and the man brought his mouth close to her face, letting her smell the stench of his breath. The girl closed her eyes as drops of his sweat fell onto her face and tried to fight him off with her hands. And then suddenly her eyes snapped open and she screamed. A scream that came out of her mouth like a sob.
“What the…?” asked the surprised man. He saw himself reflected in two greyish eyes which until a moment before he remembered as being blue. The girl stared into space and her small fingers sank into the muscles of the senator’s arms.
“You are going to die.”
“We are all going to die,” the man replied with a grin, “and that is why I wish to indulge myself as completely as possible tonight.”
“You… you will die tonight.”
“And you think you can manage that by yourself do you?” asked the senator, who looked amused despite the fact that the little girl’s little fingers were beginning to feel like red-hot pins sticking into his body.
“Two men… knives.”
“Really? And tell me, then, when will this awful event happen?” The man slipped his hand between the girl’s legs and touched her hairless pubis. On his face there was an expression of satisfaction. “Before or after…?”
“Now.”
The plump man drew in a deep breath in preparation for a loud laugh that didn’t, however, have time to emerge, because in that moment, two hooded men burst into the brothel. The first one who entered tore the curtain away and the second grabbed the senator by the shoulders and threw him off the child.
“Who are you? What do you want?” stammered the plump man. “I paid for my turn.”
The two newcomers were wrapped in grey cloaks and their faces were rendered unrecognizable by clever use of dyes. The man backed away with his back to the wall as the girl sat up, rubbing her neck. “She’s your accomplice, isn’t she? It was all planned. You lured me in here to rob me. “
In response, one of the two men took a short butcher’s knife from the folds of his gown. The other pulled out a longer blade, like a military dagger.
“All right, take the money you want,” said the man rapidly as he tried to convince his attackers, “I promise you I won’t report you. I can’t afford scandals in my positions.”
The little girl tried to take advantage of the confusion to sneak out, but the plump man grabbed her. He straightened up, pulled a sharp hook from under his robe and held it to the girl’s throat then began backing away towards the door without losing sight of his two adversaries.
“You know how it is – I too take precautions when I come to places like this. “ He turned, peering towards the street. “Curzia! Curzia.” He received no reply. “That damn whore, she’s never there when she’s needed. But it doesn’t matter,” he said, pushing the tip of the hook against the girl’s throat. “I’ll be going now, and I’m taking your accomplice with me. Try and follow me and I’ll cut her throat.” And without waiting for a reply he left, followed by the startled eyes of the two assailants.
*
The only sound in the night was the rhythm of the man’s footsteps and that of the bare feet of the little girl he was dragging behind him slapping on the ground. They had left the street of brothels and the man was gloating over the quick reflexes that had saved his life.
“Move,” he said, tugging at the little girl. “I have no intention of arguing with your friends again. But when we are safe, I will make you pay for this.”
The girl gave a grimace of pain but increased her pace. Suddenly the man found himself in a dead end: behind him was the early evening gloom of Rome’s streets and the other end of the street was blocked by a cart with its wheels taken off outside a blacksmith’s shop which would open the next morning at the first light of day. He was undecided whether to turn back and take another route or to carry on and try to make his way past the part of the wagon. He paused to reflect and catch his breath without ever letting go of the little girl. From nearby came the sound of the lazy flow of the Tiber river, which was hidden from view by the high pier that overlooked the water.
“I don’t want to have to drag you around with me all night. You’re just a nuisance.” He walked towards the water and looked down. “You’ll see, it will only be a matter of a moment.”
“I don’t know those two men!”
“Of course you don’t,” said the man as he grabbed her by the hair and lifted her from the ground. “And I am the ghost of Julius Caesar.”
“But it’s true!” the child screamed. “It’s true I tell you!”
“Shut up!” said the man.
His eyes burned with hatred, but those of the little girl were cold with disdain.
“You are going to die tonight anyway.”
“Oh do shut up.”
The man did not see the approaching shadow – he only noticed the assassin when the dagger blade penetrated his back. He opened his mouth in surprise and released the girl then fell to his knees. He tried to turn around to see who had stabbed him but his life abandoned him first and he fell to the ground, revealing behind him the silhouettes of the two men who had attacked him at the brothel.
“And what do we do with her?” said the taller one.
“Let’s kill her. You never know.”
“She’ll never be able to recognise us. And anyway, who’s going to listen to a little whore in swaddling clothes?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s a precaution.”
The two assassins advanced towards the girl who slowly backed away and then stopped. The tall one grabbed her.
“Decided to give up, eh? You know you’ve got no chance.”
“Smart kid. Too bad you won’t survive the night.”
“No,” said the other one, pushing aside his tunic to show the flap of the breeches. “It’s what I’m about to do to her that she won’t survive.”
A grin on his face, he advanced towards the child but then, when he was right in front of her he stopped.
“What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you even going to shout? Don’t want to give me the satisfaction, eh?”
“You don’t scare me.”
“Because you don’t know what I’m planning on doing to you before I kill you.”
“No, I’m not going to die.”
“Oh really? And what makes you think that? “
A hiss, the snap of bones giving way and the tip of the blade of a sword emerged from the man’s chest, stopping very close to the girl’s face. The man collapsed to the ground, and when the other man realised what had happened he turned and tried to escape. But it was too late – two other blades flashed in the darkness and within a few moments the street had become an open grave for three corpses. The splash and gurgle of the river was the only audible sound.
“Did they hurt you?” said a shadow as it moved slowly toward the girl. When the soldier entered the light of the lanterns that dimly lit the road, she noticed the lorica that protected his chest. A helmet without a crest gleamed on his head, and a long cloak the colour of rainclouds covered his left side of the body. Behind him, two other soldiers who wore black tunics under their breastplates were silently cleaning their respective blades.
“I’m fine.”
“I saw that you weren’t in the least afraid of those two,” the soldier said, kneeling in front of the girl. His face conveyed a natural calm. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old.
“I was waiting for you. I knew you would come.”
“You knew it?”
“Yes, I knew it.”
“And how did you know?”
“I felt it.”
“And have you felt what was going to happen other times?”
“Yes.”
The soldier approached again and helped the girl to her feet.
“Would you like to come with us?”
“Are you going to take me back to my master? Or to that old shrew?”
“No,” the soldier smiled. “From today you will no longer have a master.”
He took off his helmet, revealing his calm eyes and sincere smile. The little girl was about to respond when two other individuals appeared. A very thin figure, wrapped in a black overcoat, advanced towards her. His guttural voice shattered the silence.
“Are you the escaped slave? The girl from the brothel?”
The hood pulled down to his nose and the shadows of the night concealed his features. It was he who had spoken, but it was on the face of the man standing beside him that the girl read interest in her reply. A soldier standing with folded arms and a peculiar light in his eyes. Green eyes that seemed almost to glow in the darkness.
“Yes. But who are you?” asked the child, dazzled by the brightness of the white breastplate. The visions in her mind had subsided. The white-armoured soldier then advanced towards her and slowly moved his fingers. She smiled because it looked as though he was kneading invisible dough.
“What’s your name?” said the man dressed in black, as though reacting to those movements.
“Dryantilla.” The girl quickly looked from one to the other. Although the two figures inspired a certain awe, for some reason she wasn’t afraid. “My name is Dryantilla.”