“What do you think?” Menedemos asked, expecting his cousin to toss his head.
But Sostratos said, “Why not? Been awhile since I had a little fun.” He turned to the brothelkeeper. “The sun will probably have set by the time we have to go back to the harbor. Will you give us a torchbearer to light the way?”
“Certainly, best one,” the man said. “You’ll be a paying customer if you come for another go tomorrow, or I may want to buy something else from you. Either way, I can’t afford to have you knocked over the head.”
He sounded perfectly serious, as if he wouldn’t have cared what happened to the Rhodians if it weren’t for the off chance he might do business with them again one day. And he probably wouldn’t. Traveling all over the Inner Sea, Menedemos had got to know a fair number of brothelkeepers. Their trade made them hard and remorselessly practical.
“Well, come on,” the fellow said now. He sounded resigned; he might be regretting his impulse of a moment before but without any good way to go back on it.
“No point to bringing more than a drakhma or so along,” Menedemos said pointedly. Sostratos got the hint and dipped his head. They both took leather pouches from their belts and stowed them on the Aphrodite. The brothelkeeper watched attentively. Menedemos wanted him to; this way, he wouldn’t decide robbery made good business.
The brothel lay only a few blocks from the harbor and the agora. Menedemos thought he could have found his way back on his own. Still, though, a torchbearer who knew Olbia would be welcome. Navigating in a strange town by moon- and starlight wasn’t something Menedemos wanted to try unless he had to, and that would be all the light there was if he and Sostratos came back by themselves. No one wasted torches or lamp oil to light the streets after sunset.
Inside the brothel, some of the dozen or so women were spinning wool into thread, which made the brothelkeeper money even when they weren’t lying with men. Three or four others played dice for khalkoi or oboloi. A couple of others ate bread and olive oil and drank watered wine. They weren’t naked-they hadn’t been expecting business. But none of them veiled her face, as a respectable woman or even (perhaps, or especially) a high-class hetaira would have done. As far as Menedemos was concerned, that was exciting enough by itself.
“Take your pick, friends,” the brothelkeeper told the Rhodians. He held up the perfume jars to the women. “I got this essence of roses for you from these fellows. I want whichever of you they pick to give ‘em a good time.”
Menedemos pointed to one of the women playing knucklebones. “Come on, sweetheart. Yes, you.”
“All right. I come,” she answered resignedly in accented Greek. She was about his age, swarthy, with a prominent nose and hair so black it was almost blue. She wasn’t beautiful-as well hope to find a ruby the size of a man’s thumb as a beautiful girl in a harborside whorehouse-but she wasn’t ugly, either. As she got to her feet, Sostratos picked a woman, too: one of those who’d been spinning. Menedemos hadn’t given her a second glance and had other things on his mind now.
The whore he’d chosen took him to a little room that held a bed, a stool, and not much else. As Menedemos shut the door behind them, he asked, “What do I call you?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Most men do not bother to ask. You can call me Armene. It is not my name, but Hellenes cannot say my name.”
“That means you’re from Armenia, doesn’t it?” he said. He had a vague idea where the place was: somewhere in eastern Anatolia or the Caucasus. He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone from that land before.
Armene nodded, which by itself would have proved her no Hellene. “Yes. My valley had no rain two years in a row. My father sold me to a slave trader to keep me alive and let him and my mother buy food so they could live, too. The slave trader sold me to Kritias here, and so…” She shrugged once, and then, shrugging again, pulled her long chiton off over her head.
Her body was stocky but still curved, her breasts large and heavy and tipped with dark nipples. Though a barbarian, she’d taken up the Hellenic custom of singeing away the hair between her legs. Menedemos took off his tunic, too, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I am a gift for you, yes?” Armene said. “Tell me what you want, then.” She couldn’t keep a certain apprehension from her voice. He’d heard that in other brothels. The women had no choice and knew it too well.
Menedemos stretched out on the bed. “Come here. Lie down beside me.” She did. The bed was narrow for two side by side. Her breasts brushed his chest; her legs bumped his.
She gave him a worried look. “I am sorry.”
“It’s all right,” He squeezed her breasts, then lowered his head to them. Surprisingly often, even a slave in a brothel would take pleasure if a man worked a little to give it to her. Menedemos caressed her. He stroked her between her legs, as a Rhodian hetaira had taught him to do a long time before.
After a while, though, Armene set her hand on his. “You are a kind man,” she said, “but I do not kindle. I do this, but I do not enjoy it.”
“All right. I thought I’d try,” he said, and she nodded again. He rolled onto his back. “Why don’t you ride me like a racehorse?” If the brothel-keeper-Kritias, Armene had called him-was going to give him a present, he’d take the most expensive one he could get. If he were paying for it, having the girl climb on top would have cost him more than bending her forward or bending her back.
She nodded as she swung herself over him. “I thought you would ask this.”
“Why?”
“Because I am doing the work,” she answered. She took him in hand and guided him into her, then slowly began to move. Her breasts hung just above his face, like sweet, ripe fruit. He leaned up a little and teased her nipples with his tongue. She kept methodically moving up and down, up and down.
Before long, Menedemos was moving, too, driving his spear home with every thrust. His hands clutched her meaty buttocks. The bed squeaked under the two of them. As his delight peaked, he went into her as deeply as he could, holding her against him till the spasm of pleasure passed.
Then, laughing, he said, “You see? You didn’t do all the work.”
“No, not all,” Armene agreed as she slid off him. Some of his seed dribbled down onto his hipbone. “Good,” she said. “The more out, the less in to make a baby.” That wasn’t Menedemos’ worry. He rubbed the stuff off of him and onto the mattress cover while Armene squatted over a chamber pot she pulled out from under the bed. He’d seen more than a few women, whores and bored wives alike, assume that position after making love. He’d heard more than a few of them say the same thing, too.
He and Armene both dressed. With a conspiratorial grin, he gave her a couple of oboloi, whispering, “Don’t tell Kritias,” She popped the little silver coins into her mouth. She and Menedemos went out into the waiting room.
Sostratos and the woman he’d chosen emerged from her chamber a few minutes later, Menedemos still thought her plain. By the way she smiled now, though, Sostratos had made her enjoy their time together. Menedemos laughed to himself. He tried to please women because, when they took pleasure, it added to his own, Sostratos, he suspected, did it for its own sake. He hadn’t asked his cousin about that, but Sostratos also looked pretty contented now.
The whores had lit lamps in the waiting room. “Boy!” Kritias the brothelkeeper shouted. No one appeared. Kritias muttered to himself. “Boy!” he shouted again. “Get your lazy, worthless carcass in here, before I sell you to a silver miner I know!”
That brought the slave-a scrawny youth of about fourteen-on the run. Maybe Kritias was joking. The boy didn’t care to take the chance. Slaves sent to the mines seldom lasted long. “What you need, boss?” he asked.