Actually, the place has no name, or none to be read on the signpost outside. Atop the little pillar, instead of an inscription, is an upright marble phallus. The lamp which casts such a lurid glow is carved in similarly suggestive shape. Perhaps inspired by these fine examples o craftsmanship, less skilled artists have drawn crude graffiti on the wall outside, graphically depicting various uses to which such phalli might b put.
Catullus rapped on the door. A little trap opened. A bloodshot eye peered at us. The door swung open.
"They know me here," said Catullus. "And I know them. The win is wretched, the whores are lice-ridden, and the patrons are the lowest of the low. I should know. I've come here every night since I go back."
We stepped into a long narrow room partitioned here and there b
folding screens. The room was packed with patrons who stood in groups or sat on chairs and benches around little tables. The lamps were fueled by an inferior oil that created as much smoke as light, filling the room with an amber haze that made my eyes water. I heard laughter and cursing and the clatter of dice followed by hoots of triumph and groans of despair. The crowd was made up almost entirely of men. The few women were obviously there to ply their trade.
One of them suddenly emerged from the haze and wrapped herself around Catullus like a clinging vine. I blinked my watery eyes and the vine resolved into a supple redhead with a heart-shaped face.
"Gaius," she purred. "One of the girls told me you were back. And with a beard! Here, let me kiss it."
Catullus stiffened and drew back with a pained expression. "Not tonight, Ipsithilla."
"Why not? It's been a whole year since I've made a meal of you. I'm famished."
Catullus managed to smile.
"Not tonight."
She drew back, lowering her eyes. "Still pining for your Lesbia?"
He winced and took my arm, leading me to a bench that had just been vacated. A slave brought us wine. Catullus was right; the quality was wretched, especially after the honeyed wine that Clodius had given me. But Catullus drank without hesitation.
Next to us, clustered around a little table, a group of rough-looking young men were playing with dice of the old-fashioned kind, made from the rectangular anklebones of a sheep, with numbers-I, III, IV, VI- painted on each of the four long sides. Each man in turn would scoop the four dice up in a cup, rattle them, cry out the name of a deity or his mistress, and cast them on the table. A referee figured out the combination and shouted the name of the throw, which would be followed by cries of gloating or derision.
"When I was young, the laws against gambling were more strictly enforced," I said, "except of course during the Saturnalia."
"It's always Saturnalia inside the Salacious Tavern," quipped Ca-tullus.
"Hercules!" shouted one ofthe gamblers. The box rattled, the bones clattered. "A Taurus Throw!" declared the referee-three ones and a six.
The next gambler cried a woman's name and tossed the dice. 'Dogs!" cried the referee. "Four ones – nothing lower!" The player groaned at such bad fortune, and cursed the mistress whose name he had called out for luck.
Catullus stared blearily at the crowd. The haze was so thick I could hardly make out faces, let alone recognize anyone. "You wanted to talk " I said.
"I've lost my tongue for it. I want more wine."
"Then I'll talk. Was it you who followed me up the Ramp two nights
ago?"
"Yes."
"Who sent you?" "No one."
"Then why follow me?"
"I was following you before that. Perhaps you're not as sharp as you think. I was outside her house when you came calling that afternoon with Trygonion.
I'd just gotten back into town."
"You'd just arrived and you went straight to Clodia's house?"
He put a finger to his lips. "In this place, call her Lesbia."
"Why?"
"It's my secret name for her. In the poems. In places like this."
"Why 'Lesbia'?"
"Lesbos was the island of Sappho, who understood love better than any poet before or since. And Homer called the women of Lesbos 'the most beautiful women in the world.' "
"Wasn't Homer blind?"
He gave me a sour look. "Agamemnon speaks the line."
"Very welclass="underline" Lesbia. When you went to Lesbia's house that day, didn't they tell you she'd gone out?"
"No. I didn't knock on the door. I was waiting. Watching. I wasn't ready to see her again, not face to face."
"Waiting and watching from where? It's a dead-end street."
"There are doorways deep enough to hide in. Then you came along with your bodyguard and the little gallus. I was close enough to overhear the word 'horti,' so when you headed off, I followed. What did the two of you get up to, alone inside her tent?"
"I don't think that's any of your business."
"More to the point, what did the three of you do after Lesbius showed up, naked and dripping from the river?" "Lesbius?"
"You know whom I mean."
"You saw him come into the tent?"
"I hid among the trees and bushes on the riverbank." He grinned bleakly. "You must think I'm an utter fool." "Did you follow me when I left?"
"All the way to your house, then over to that other house in the
Subura, then back. You never knew until the Ramp, did you? You set a trap for me at the top, you and your bodyguard, so I made like a rabbit. If you're like most of the low-lifes she takes for lovers, I figured you might be pretty dangerous."
"I told you, I'm not her lover. Just her 'hireling,' as Clodius calls
me."
"Lesbius!" he insisted. The cheap wine was beginning to take effect. "Anyway, you could be her lover and her hireling both. She's far above the likes of you, but she's been known to bend over for love."
"The Venus Throw!" shouted the referee, setting off an uproar next to us. Someone slammed his fist on the table, making the dice jump, and shouted an accusation of cheating. The others closed ranks to calm him down.
"The Venus Throw," said Catullus. "When all four dice come up different. Not the highest total, just the luckiest. Why do you suppose
that is?"
"Because Venus craves variety?"
"Like Lesbia. Except when she craves her own flesh:
Lesbius is Pulcher-Pulcher meaning beautiful – and he must be, because Lesbia loves him far better than Catullus and all his clan, whom Lesbius would sell down the river
to pay three upright men willing to let him blow them… a kiss!"
I smiled and nodded. "Clodius said you made better poems than Milo's men. And nastier."
"Lesbius," insisted Catullus, "demeans me with such praise." "You seem to be talkative after all."
"But as thirsty as ever. Where is that serving slave?" He banged his cup against the bench, but the noise was lost in the hubbub. "I suppose you'll see her again, eventually," I said. He stared bleakly into the amber haze. "I already have." "I mean face to face. To speak to her." "I spoke to her today. I spent the afternoon with her."
"What?"
"This morning I finally knocked on her door. The old slave told me she'd gone out early, taking her daughter to visit some cousin. So I wandered around and ended up at the Senian baths. It was only coincidence that I happened to see you there, and that ridiculous chase after Caelius's friend. What was it all about?"
"I'll tell you later. Go on, about… Lesbia."
"I finally left the baths and headed back to her house. On the way I recognized her litter outside the house of one of the Metelli. She was just leaving, with her daughter. The two of them were stepping out the door. Before I could turn, she saw me. It was hard to read her face. It always has been. A face unlike any other, except one. Do you suppose that Lesbia and Lesbius can read each other at a glance? Like looking in a mirror? The rest of us study their faces for hours and still can't be sure what's behind them. Something about her eyes-like a poem in a foreign tongue. But more perfect than any poem. More painful.