‘Looking for a slave? A pretty girl?’
Startled, he found a pox-scarred dealer with lank grey hair regarding him. He indicated his slaves, half a dozen girls who ranged from no more than six or seven up to adulthood. They all seemed terrified. Hanno curled his lip. ‘No.’
A greasy smile. ‘You prefer boys? A friend of mine has several who might interest you. Come, come!’ The dealer beckoned.
Hanno could feel his temper rising. Keen not to make a scene, he turned his back and strode off. Unsure where to go next, his feet took him down a street that he’d not been on before. A blast of warm, moist air from a doorway to his left made his head turn. Above the lintel, he read the words ‘BATHHOUSE. JULIUS FESTUS, PROPRIETOR. HOT WATER AT ALL TIMES. PRICES REASONABLE.’ He could hear the chatter of conversation within and a voice calling, ‘Fresh pastries, fresh pastries. Just baked! A quarter of an as each, or five for one as.’ Hanno stopped, but not because of the food. He hadn’t had a proper bath in many months — and if Carthage was anywhere to go by, there was no better place to eavesdrop on conversations. He was about to duck inside when something made him glance to his right. A pair of bruisers were leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the forge opposite. They scowled; Hanno averted his gaze. No point picking a fight when there was no need.
A pasty-faced fat man was sitting behind a desk by the entrance. On top of the desk lay a tabby cat, which was cleaning its face with its paw while the attendant stroked its ears and whispered to it. Hanno waited for a moment. The cat cocked its head at him, but the man did not look up. Irritated, he cleared his throat.
Finally, an uninterested glance. ‘Wanting a bath?’
‘Yes,’ he growled.
‘One as. That includes a drying cloth. Two asses if you want a strigil and oil as well.’
‘That’s bloody robbery!’
‘Times are hard. That’s the price. If you don’t want to pay. .’ His eyes flickered to the right, and Hanno spotted the other doorman, a grinning brute with no teeth who gripped a club as thick as his thigh.
‘Fine.’ He slapped down two bronze coins.
The attendant eyed Hanno again. ‘If you’re after a massage, the slaves, male and female, offer other services as well, but they cost more-’
‘A bath will be sufficient.’
‘As you wish. The apodyterium is that way.’ He waved at the door on the far side of the little room, his attention returning to the cat.
Hanno didn’t bother to reply. Throwing a scornful look at the brute, he made his way into the rectangular changing room beyond, which was nicely decorated with a mosaic floor and swirling aquatic murals on the walls. At once a pastry-seller — whose voice he must have heard — lifted his platter in Hanno’s direction, but he waved it away. There were a couple of other men undressing; they handed their clothes to a slave who placed them into individual numbered partitions on the wooden shelves that hung at eye height. Hanno was about to start disrobing himself when a sudden realisation froze him on the spot. His scar. He’d forgotten his damn scar! Anyone who saw it would take him for a slave. Devilment and irritation made him decide not to walk out. If he left the strip of fabric that protected his neck in place, no one would see the incriminating ‘F’. If asked about the cloth, he would explain it away with a story about a non-healing wound. The surgeon had told him to keep it covered, especially in the baths.
He stripped and handed his garments and sandals over. ‘I want nothing stolen while I’m bathing.’ It wasn’t his imagination that the slave sniffed. Hanno’s lips quirked. ‘They might smell ripe, but some thieves will take anything.’ He handed over an as, and the slave’s expression warmed.
‘I’ll keep good watch over them, sir. Would you like your clothes laundered?’
‘Maybe another time.’
The slave threw a curious glance at his neck, but Hanno was already heading for the frigidarium. He didn’t intend to spend long there: few people tended to linger in this room. Sure enough, there was only one occupant of the cold pool — one of the other customers he’d seen in the apodyterium, a middle-aged man with a shock of white hair and a beak of a nose. They exchanged nods; his neck cloth got another inquisitive look. To keep up the pretence, Hanno was careful not to get it wet. He waded quickly from one side of the pool to the other and climbed out. The tepidarium, the next room, would be more to his taste. The brief immersion had brought up goose bumps all over him.
In the tepidarium, he took a seat on one of the long wooden benches that ran down each side of the room. The air was pleasantly warm; the walls were decorated with images of dolphins, fish and sea monsters. A number of men sat nearby, or opposite. Three were talking together in low tones while supping wine from clay beakers; a pair were playing dice on the floor; one leaned back against the wall, dozing. Hanno closed his eyes and pretended to do the same. In reality, he was listening with all his might.
‘A drachm on the next roll, as before?’ asked the first gamer.
‘Aye, I suppose,’ said his companion none too happily.
‘Two fives! Beat that if you can, my friend!’
‘Did you go down on Fortuna last night?’ asked the second man sourly. ‘She’s giving you all the luck.’ He rolled the dice. Then, a triumphant cry: ‘A six and a five! I win at last.’
The pair continued to play and bicker, and Hanno’s attention moved on to the three men who were sitting together. Because they were opposite him, he continued to pretend that he was asleep. Thanks to this, or perhaps the wine, their tones gradually became louder.
‘The damn war shows no signs of ending,’ grumbled the oldest, a greyhair with knobbly jointed hands and feet. ‘No doubt it will drag on as long as the last one did. I remember-’
‘Calavius, have some more wine,’ said the man on the left, a short individual with brown eyes and oiled ringlets. ‘Your cup is empty.’
Although he had interrupted, Hanno noted that his manner was obsequious. There was a difference in social status here: his companions were possibly nobles. This added hugely to his frustration. Capua was not that big a city. These men probably knew Aurelia’s parents. If only he could ask them where she was!
‘My thanks.’ Calavius held out his beaker.
The short man raised his own vessel. ‘A toast: to our brave leaders, that they may defeat Hannibal before too much longer.’
The third man, broad-shouldered and with a casually handsome look, sat back without doing the same. ‘Our leaders, you said. You’re not a Roman, still less a Campanian. You’re a damn Greek.’
‘That’s neither here nor there, surely. I live here, I pay my taxes,’ said the short man, looking a trifle uncomfortable.
‘You’re no citizen, though.’ The third man’s voice had a hard edge to it. ‘You’ll never be conscripted into the army. Never have to fight the guggas, like my son, or Calavius’ nephews and grandsons.’
Calavius’ brows lowered. ‘It’s as my friend says.’
‘My apologies,’ came the swift reply. ‘I meant no offence.’ He lifted his cup again. ‘May the gods guide and protect the Republic’s leaders in their quest to defeat Hannibal. May they also keep safe all the sons of Rome who fight the enemy.’
The two others were mollified by this. They all drank a toast.
However, the peace didn’t last long. When the two Romans began talking politics again, the Greek couldn’t help but throw in his opinion. The third man looked even more irritated than he had before. ‘Enough of this, Phanes. You’re here to curry favour, that’s clear, but I’m not interested in your opinions on the Roman political system. Understand?’