‘Sorry, sir. He don’t mean anything,’ his companion said, looking down with glazed fondness at him. ‘You were with us, weren’t you?’ Ferox nodded. ‘Then I don’t think “Old Iron” would grudge you your turn.’
Ferox had not heard the nickname before, and nodded amicably to the man as he passed. He was going to Flora’s, but not for the usual reason.
‘I would like to see the mistress,’ he told the thickset slave standing in front of the open back door. ‘I am expected.’ He had sent a note earlier in the day and been told to call at this hour.
‘Of course, centurion, you are always welcome,’ purred the oily voice of Flora’s clerk, who was sitting at a desk inside the porch. This was the entrance used by the more important clients and led to the luxurious rooms as well as Flora’s office and her apartment. Everyone else climbed the wooden steps at the front to the second floor, where matters were dealt with efficiently, if with less style. ‘You know the way, do you not, sir?’ The man was small and had eyes that only focused on the page in front of him.
As Ferox went down the corridor, the one-eyed Batavian cavalryman appeared from the main office.
‘Centurion,’ Longinus said, nodding respectfully and moving out of the way to let the officer pass. The walls were plastered and painted, less gaudily than the upper storey, and by the look of it the same artist who had worked on the main rooms of the praetorium had done these.
‘The terms are the same as usual,’ Flora said as the centurion went into her office, a simple room equipped with several cabinets, a marble-topped table and three well-upholstered chairs. The wall panels showed pastoral scenes with plenty of nymphs, each with the face of a girl who worked or had worked here.
Flora was a short woman, so slightly built as to be almost boyish, and still slim and strong even though she must be well past her fiftieth year. There were deep lines on her face – at least on those rare occasions like this when she appeared without heavy make-up. He was also surprised that she was dressed simply, and that there was a little tear at the neck of her plain brown robe. Beside her stood a slave boy in a brightly bleached tunic. She wrote something more on a wooden tablet, and then looked up, noticing his gaze.
‘I thought a lot of Titus Annius,’ she said, and one hand fingered the torn linen. Ferox guessed that this must be the way her people mourned. He had never been quite sure where Flora came from. She had olive skin, dark eyes and long thick hair – these days dyed a bright henna red. No doubt there were many stories from her rise from slave to prosperous businesswoman, but she hardly ever spoke of her past and he did not pry. Crispinus talked a lot about trust, and that was something Ferox did not give readily. Yet he trusted this little whore mistress and she had always been fair with him.
‘Here is the contract.’ She held out the sheet of thin wood, its surface carefully rubbed with beeswax so that the ink would not spread. ‘You have the money?’ For the moment she was all business.
Ferox took a bag from his pouch and poured the contents on to the table. ‘Sixty denarii, including the tax.’ The coins were the pooled resources of the men stationed at Syracuse. Every year or so they put together the cost of hiring a girl for a month. Ever since he returned, their spokesman, the Thracian, had pressed for him to arrange matters with Flora.
‘You will see their entitlements laid out in order. I’m letting you have Procla. She – and only she – will keep the tally and charge whatever is necessary.’ The initial lease would only cover so much, and once that allowance had gone the soldiers would have to pay each time just like any other customers.
‘She can come up next week when the cart brings our supplies.’
‘Good.’ Flora turned to the slave. ‘Wine.’ She looked questioningly at Ferox.
‘Thank you, but plenty of water.’
Flora nodded as the slave left on his errand. ‘Good. Glad to see that you are being sensible. Sometimes I worry about you.’
‘I’ll get by.’
She smiled, the creases around her eyes and mouth becoming deeper. ‘You have so far. Are you stopping for a while or just here on business?’ A burst of singing came from above them. The ceiling was made from thick beams, and normally kept out any noise from above, but a group of merry Tungrians were bawling out an obscene song about a centurion and an army mule. ‘That’s an old one,’ she continued. ‘It’s not a peaceful night, but I’ve kept the twins out of it, and young Cytheris.’
The twins, two women unrelated and utterly different in appearance, but of equally great skill in their trade, were the most expensive girls at the place. Cytheris was fairly new, not yet up to such a robust evening.
‘Thank you for the offer, but I shall say no.’
‘It will not cost, you know that. Not with everything I owe you.’
Ferox shook his head. ‘You’ve long since paid me back.’
‘You cannot pay back a friend – though that cheeky sod Vindex reckons I ought to keep trying!’ Her laugh was deep and earthy, a laugh that should have come from someone fat and drunk.
‘I reckon friendship with Vindex costs everyone a lot.’ Flora laughed again, a bubbling sound. She drank a lot, but Ferox had never seen her the worse for wine. ‘I’ll pass today, all the same – unless you have changed your mind!’ He grinned, a rare gesture that always made him look younger.
‘You’re as bad as he is!’ Flora flushed with pleasure. ‘You know I’m retired – and old enough to be your mother.’
‘Would you talk to me a while?’ he asked.
‘Still business, eh? Well, you know you don’t have to ask.’
‘Was Titus Annius a guest here?’
That surprised her and she raised her thin, well-plucked eyebrows. The slave appeared and placed two blue-green cups on the table. A slim girl aged about twelve with thick, mousy hair appeared with a flagon each of wine and water. Flora poured her glass unmixed, and waited for the slaves to leave. ‘Good kid, that one. She’ll have to decide soon which way she goes. Her mother raised enough to buy her freedom, but where would she go if she doesn’t work here? Not easy for a girl on her own and there’s a lot of bastard men out there.’ She drained the glass and poured herself another.
‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ she said after a moment. ‘And if you were another man we’d talk about that and the struggles of life and move on. But you’re not like that, and never give up. I guess it’s not my business why you want to know, and there’s no need to tell me.
‘Yes, the centurion came here, regular as clockwork every third month. Didn’t favour one girl over another, didn’t talk much, but they said he was kind enough – no trouble, he just got on with it. Not like you, singing to them for hours before getting down to business!’ She laughed again. That was another old joke. Ferox had not come here for years except to talk to the mistress, but she swore than when he used to visit he had always got drunk and started to sing. ‘They quite liked it, tell the truth. You’ve a nice voice.’ Ferox could not remember anything about those times and still wondered whether this was Flora’s little joke.
‘How about Flavius Cerialis?’
‘Huh! Trying to be clever again.’ She waved her glass at him, and it must already have been almost empty because nothing spilled out. ‘Well, don’t bother with me because I’ve seen it all and don’t get shocked, and you should know that I’ll tell you what I wouldn’t tell most.
‘Yes, he was here within a few days of arriving, and then a couple of times each week after that. Only stays away when that ponce of a freedman is about, along with his wife.’