The professionals lived in brothels of various sizes, some of them rooms in otherwise normal properties. Perfectly respectable people would hire out a space on an hourly basis and think nothing of it. Prostitutes had pimps or they had mothers-who were not maternal according to high Roman ideals and, in fact, were rarely related to them at all. The girls’ work was organized by these people, who treated them ruthlessly. They either suffered long, soulless hours in cubicles, or they could be sent out to cruise the streets.
They were slaves. They were constantly watched, frequently beaten, brutalized by their pimps, poorly clad, poorly fed, given no relief from misery. Most of the money they earned was immediately taken away from them by their pimps or brothel mothers. They would work until their dingy charms no longer attracted clients, or until they died. If they managed to stay alive but were no use, they would be cast out like so many enfeebled slaves and would die anyway, on the street or under a bridge or beaten up by louts. Even the hospital of Aesculapius on Tiber Island, which generally gave a refuge to old, dying slaves, tended to reject prostitutes.
“You will never earn enough to buy your freedom and give up this life?”
They stared at me as if I was mad for even suggesting it.
XXXIV
Now they were talking freely, at my urging they revealed more about how brothels like those in the White Chickens operated. Some were directly owned by a pimp or procuress, who installed girls to work there, and occasionally boys too. Others were owned by property agents who hired out rooms to independent workers as direct subtenants. As we discussed more details, there was giggling about the kinds of men who paid for sex, which led to variants-for instance, fine Roman ladies visiting incognito for a thrash with a gigolo. Further laughter followed, as the Macedonians harped on about such women coming back for more.
We all chortled at the thought of Roman fathers not knowing that their children had been sired in the stews, then the talk swung to the risk that women thrill-seekers might afterward find themselves in trouble; a pregnancy meant their adventures would become public knowledge. They would have to get rid of it. At least the well-to-do could afford a quick solution, we agreed.
One of the girls, Chia, went rather quiet at this point.
I made a face at a girl with a mole sitting near me, who replied behind her hand that I was right; Chia could be expecting. She looked to be the youngest. I could see she was extremely anxious. She frowned a lot, moved jerkily, picked at her cuticles.
It would be her first time. That was bad enough for most women. But the worst problem for Chia was that soon it would prevent her from working. The pimp would beat her and give her no pocket money, so she was liable to starve. Even if she came through and managed to produce a child, there was nowhere to keep it, no one to look after it. The poor mite would be a slave anyway, probably taken away by the pimp as soon as it was saleable. Masters of that type don’t hesitate to separate mothers and babies-and they do not sell slave babies to be nicely taught to read and write as docket clerks or secretaries. Girl or boy, it faced abuse.
None of us spoke to Chia about her predicament. That did not make us unsympathetic. I picked up a silent understanding that first she had to be sure she was pregnant, then she must face up to it and decide what she wanted to do. After that, if she wanted help, she could ask.
Finally, I tackled my reason for approaching them. “You know that some bodies have been found at the Garden of the Hesperides. One is a woman.”
They all nodded. “Rufia.”
Rufia’s story had reached even women who were too young to have known her.
“It must have been before your time, but have you heard anything about her? Why I am asking is because everyone calls Rufia a barmaid, but I am starting to wonder. I certainly have the impression most people were in awe of her, and she kept the Hesperides running her own way. I know there are women who organize and control other working girls. They tend to be powerful characters. I am trying to find out if she ran things.”
The Macedonians listened. They considered. They said they had never heard of Rufia being that kind of barmaid, although of course it was possible.
Then I asked, “There is another woman now, once connected with her. Do any of you know Menendra?”
Brighter than I expected, the one with the oddly placed mole on her cheek asked, “Do you think she does that?”
“Organizes girls?”
“So you think she runs a racket.”
“Am I wrong then?”
Several of them shrugged. If Menendra did control a vice ring, it did not include these young women. They had a pimp. They admitted as much, pointing him out. He was a lean dandy with a slick hairdo, sitting outside the Romulus with one knee elegantly crossed over the other, holding a small cup between three fingers, enjoying a tisane. Watching whatever they did.
I loathed him on sight, but he was theirs. In a grim way they accepted him. I daresay they knew worse men.
I had a cold feeling that later that vermin over there would batter every one of them because they had been talking to me. They were risking it. Maybe he would have battered them all anyway. I wanted to hope our conversation was an act of defiance on their part, but I did not wish it to cause them harm.
“So how do you girls know Menendra?”
A glance passed among them, which I could not interpret. “She lives in the White Chickens.”
“In a brothel?”
They sniggered. In their world any house might be used for sexual commerce, any room was a potential location for trade. If it had a bed, that clinched it.
Menendra rented a place of her own over a cookshop. They had never seen her take men there-or women, giggled the one with the uncombed goat-girl curls. But that meant little. There were plenty of nooks for assignations. What they seemed sure of was that Menendra did not have other prostitutes using her own premises.
I believed that. Any woman of business needs her private place for after work. So Menendra kept a room that was her personal retreat, just as I had my apartment.
I asked where exactly hers was. They told me an address. I asked where they themselves lived. They were cagier. I did not press them.
With a decent meal inside them, the girls were reluctant to resume working. As we sat there at the Brown Toad, out of habit one or two made desultory attempts to lure men off the street, but they were half-hearted. Their pimp had left the Romulus. Speculating among themselves, they reckoned he had gone off to a dice game. They were obliged to work that evening, but decided to take time off this afternoon, behind his back.
We drew our conversation to a close. I thanked them, and that was when I told them I came from Britain. We laughed; it made them feel they were the high and mighty ones. Well, I was used to that.
On the verge of parting, the one with the wild curls gave me a narrow look. “What we’ve been talking about didn’t seem to surprise you.”
Another backed her up. “Is it from personal experience?”
I gave them a wan smile. “Close.” I took a deep breath. “I escaped. But I do know what it feels like to be fourteen, hungry and worthless in your own eyes, then some filthy brute picks you up, calls himself your friend, promises kindness-but curses and kicks are all you get as he grooms you. You soon become too scared to refuse to work for him.”
“And all the time he’s telling you, this is what you deserve,” said the one with the mole.
I nodded.
“So what happened to you, Albia?” asked the curly one, in a hard voice.
“Luck. Some rich people saw me and thought I would make a cheap nurse for their babies.” Better to put it that way. “I just want to tell you-if I could get out, you can too.”