"Was that a waste of time, Marcus?" Helena asked demurely. "I don't know." Probably.
"So what shall we do now?"
"Use a trick of the trade."
"Like what?" asked Helena.
"When you learn nothing in the first wine bar, try another one."
X
Finding another was difficult. As a kindness to my lady I tried working back uphill, toward what passed for better parts of town. No luck. "Better" was a misnomer anyway.
We were forced to head back down toward the river, at one point even emerging onto a planked wharf. Nothing was moving on the water; we were right by a ferry landing point, yet it seemed a lonely spot. We retreated hastily. Up the next steep entry we hit a row of shops. Most seemed to sell either pottery or olive oil, the oil in the great round-bottomed Spanish amphorae Helena and I knew well from a trip we had made to Baetica. Wine seemed a scarcer commodity on public sale, but there was evidence that everyone in Londinium had access to the fine golden oil from Corduba and Hispalis. If everyone had it, presumably the stuff was sold at a reasonable price. Then from a street corner we spotted a small brown-tinged bay tree; half its leaves had been shredded by moths and its lead shoot was broken, but it seemed to serve the same advertising purpose as greenery outside any foodshop in the Mediterranean.
As we arrived, a waiter or the proprietor stepped outdoors and spoke to a bundle who was scavenging on his frontage. He was not abusive, but she scuttled off. I took it as a good sign that he repelled vagrants. We went inside.
Warmth hit us: bodies and lamps. It was much bigger and better lit than our first venue. A wine list had been chalked up on a wall, though there was nothing I recognized. The man who served us made no reference to the list, just offered red or white, with the extra option of beer. Helena, still in character, thought it would be fun to try British beer. Petro and I had done that in our youth; I asked for red. I wanted a water jug as well. With a head still sore from this afternoon, I was going gently. The waiter managed not to sneer. Roman habits were clearly not new to him.
This time we sat quietly, relaxed as we waited for our drinks. We gazed around. Both waiters here were thin, slight, hollow-cheeked, hardworking types with balding crowns, glossy black face hair, and lugubrious eyes. They did not look British, more likely from Spain or the East. So here was another establishment staffed by migrants. Who knows how many miles they had traveled, humping their possessions, their hopes, and their past history, to end up running a cheap bar that lay on the other side of everywhere. Their customers represented a shifting population too. Some were traders by their appearance: tanned, competent businessmen locked in conversations in twos and threes. None looked like Britons. The locals skulked at home. Places of entertainment in this town were catering for outsiders. As long as that continued, the province could hardly be civilized. It would just be a trading post.
Nearest to us was a man who reminded me of Silvanus' claim that Londinium was attracting oddballs. He was wrapped in many layers, with old rope for a belt around coarse trews, his skin ingrained with dirt, his hair lank and straggly.
"Want a doggie?" he demanded, as Helena made the mistake of Watching him feed tidbits to a lean cur at his feet. The dog looked disgusting and whined unhappily.
"No, we have one already, thanks." I was relieved that we had locked Nux in the bedroom before we came out. Pupped in an alley, Nux had moved up in the world when she adopted me, but she still liked making playmates of mongrels with bad characters.
"This boy's very smart."
"No, really. Ours is already a handful."
He dragged his stool nearer, scraping it sideways on two legs. A leech who had found new victims. "British dogs are magic," this dire parasite claimed proudly. Was he British, or just loyal to the commodity he hawked? Unlike other customers here, I thought he could be genuine. Which poor tribe did he belong to? Was he some unwanted lag kicked out of the enclosure by the Trinovantes or a reprobate shoved off a hill-fort by fastidious Dubonni? In any culture, he would be the long-lost grisly uncle, the one everybody dreads. At Saturnalia, or the tribes' equivalent, they no doubt spoke of him and shuddered, looking quickly over their shoulders in case he came limping home up the trail sucking grass in the huge gap between those awful teeth… "I sell as many as I can get, easy. Marvels. If you, fine lady, bought one of these-" A clawlike hand crept into the neck of his lowest undertunic, then scratched slowly. The dog at his feet, raddled with sarcoptic mange, joined in. Most of the fur was gone from its haunches; you could see every rib. For both of them the scratching was unconscious and continual. "I guarantee you'd get your money back four or five times over, selling it again in Rome or some big place."
"That's wonderful. Still, no thank you."
He paused. Then tried again gamely. "He'll be perfect if your husband hunts."
"No, he doesn't hunt, I'm afraid."
"Sure?" She was sure. So was I, damn it. A city boy, I would rather go to the races any day.
The filthy salesman nodded at me secretly. I was being blamed for Helena's resistance. "Bit of a tight-arse, is he?"
Helena smiled at me, considering. I smiled back. Then she told her new friend, "Maybe. But I love him. He thinks he's a man of the streets; don't disillusion him."
"Illusions!" warbled the dogman loudly. "We all need illusions, don't we?" Other customers glanced our way, pitied us for being trapped, then buried their snouts in their beakers. "Cherish your illusions, queenly one-lest the dark gods steal you to Hades unfulfilled!"
He was crazy. On the other hand, he could deal in abstract concepts and multisyllable definitions. I groaned. Did we have that gruesome icon, a man once wealthy, a man of intellect and background, who had fallen on hard times? Had he and his poetic soul been brought low by inadequacy of character, bad financial luck-or drink?
No, he was low-grade; he just liked selling dogs. He thought he would make a fortune passing off his lame, wormy hounds to dumb Romans. He hoped he might even sell one to Helena and me. Tough luck, dog-sharp.
Two men came in. The one in front was short and solid, the other was leaner and kept looking around. They were known to the proprietors. They disappeared with the senior waiter through a curtain to some inner recess. I heard raised voices. A short time afterward the two men emerged and left, unsmiling, walking rapidly. The waiter came out. He muttered briefly to his companion. Both looked hot and angry.
Most customers failed to notice. It was all quite discreet.
Helena had watched me watching them. "What do you think that was?"
"Market gardeners selling parsley."
"Protection rackets? Moneylenders?" Helena thought along the same lines as me. "Do you think the owner paid them?"
"Difficult to tell."
"If he did, he did not want to-and he made his feelings known."
"If he paid up, fruit, those bagman won't care about his attitude."
"And if not?"
"Presumably they will be back-to ensure he changes his mind."
We were speaking in low voices, ignoring the dogman. He knew enough to leave us to our confidential talk. Maybe he listened. It made no difference to me. If there were heavies leaning on shop owners, the sooner the better for them to learn that someone was checking up on them.
The waiters went around the tables, busying themselves. They served the dogman and several others automatically, so those must be regulars. This seemed a place to pick up local atmosphere, so we lingered. I accepted a refill and snacks. Helena was still progressing slowly through her beer; she would not admit to a mistake, though my guess was she did not care for it. The waiter expected her to leave half the beaker, but she would finish. Then she would say thank you very nicely when she left.
Helena Justina might be a senator's daughter, but she was my kind of girl. I grinned and winked at her. She belched modestly.