"Do you want me to leave?" Maia asked him.
"Are you ready to go?" From his hostile tone, I guessed Petro was hunched motionless, staring ahead bleakly. I had no idea what Maia was doing. I had never seen my sister comfort the bereaved. Especially someone she had at least briefly wanted in her bed. That no longer seemed relevant-and yet she had persisted in the search for him. It was the old Didius affliction: she felt responsible. "I have to do this mission," Petronius explained, in a well-mannered, meaningless tone. "I may as well finish. There's nothing else for me."
"You do have a daughter left!" snapped Maia. "And there is Silvia."
"Ah, Silvia!" A new note entered Petro's voice. He showed some feeling at last, though it was not clear whether his ruefulness was a comment on his ex-wife, himself, or even Fate. "I think she may want us to get back together. I already detected it when I saw her at Ostia. That boyfriend she took on is a loser, and now-" It poured out, then he stopped himself. "Now we have a child to console."
"So what do you want?" Maia asked him quietly.
"I can't do it! That's the past." He would know how many men had decided to stand firm in such a manner, only to be dissuaded. Pain and conscience were lined up to entrap him. His surviving daughter's tearful face would haunt him.
"Then Silvia has lost out all around." I was surprised my sister could be so fair. It had even been she who had reminded him that Arria Silvia needed him.
"You think I should?" Petronius demanded brusquely.
"I won't tell you what I think. This is for you. But"-Maia had to add-"don't make a mistake out of guilt."
Petronius gave a small snort of acknowledgment. If it helped him make his decision, he was not revealing his thoughts. He had always been tight over his personal life. When we shared a tent in the army, there were things he could not hide from me, but since then I had had to guess. He kept his feelings to himself; he thought restraint would help. Maybe that had in fact contributed to problems when he was living with Arria Silvia.
Maia must have reckoned she had done all she could. I heard movement. She must have stood up again. "I'll go now." He said nothing. "Take care."
Petronius stuck to the bench but he must have looked up. "So, Maia Favonia! I understand the boys. But why did you come?"
"Oh… you know me."
Another short bark of humorless mirth came out. "No," replied Petronius, his voice blank. "I don't know you. You know damn well that I Wanted to-but that's all over, isn't it?"
My sister left him.
When Petronius leaped up abruptly and went inside the baths, I pre-
pared to leave too. I should have gone after him. He was suffering. But explaining my presence would be too difficult. I had never wanted him to join up with my sister, nor her with him, but I was troubled by the scene I had just overheard.
As I stood undecided, a third party intervened.
"Please!" A sudden muffled whisper almost evaded me. "Please, Falco!" I was in no mood for intrusions. Still, hearing your name somewhere you don't expect it always makes you react.
I stepped into the road and looked up. Above me, at a window in this dump that was called the Old Neighbour, I saw Albia's white face. She did not need to explain she was in bad trouble. And she was appealing for me to get her out of it.
Now I myself was trapped. I had never heard Albia speak before. She was clearly terrified. I had brought her out onto these streets today. Helena Justina had promised her refuge, yet I had put the girl back in danger. There was nothing for it. I had to enter this dark, no doubt unfriendly house and fetch her. The old Didius affliction had kicked in again. Albia was my responsibility.
XXIII
The moment I set foot across the threshold, I knew what the house was. The entrance corridor was still empty. A small shabby side table, holding the door open, impeded my path. Somewhere to leave your hat-if you wanted it stolen. On it a cracked and filthy dish dared to request gratuities. There were none. Not even the usual broken quadrans to give people the right idea. Only some joker's present of a rusty nail.
The front of the house must have been designed as a shop, but the Roman-style folding doors on the frontage were jammed closed and seized up. I glanced in through an archway. It was untenanted and used only for storage of rubble and old horse bedding. Whatever went on here would go on upstairs. Cautiously I moved down the interior passage toward a shadowy stair flight going up into darkness. Underfoot was a pressed-earth floor. I knocked into a piece of broken furniture. Part of a cupboard. I was treading slowly, so I had time to steady it at the cost of a wood splinter in my right palm. I managed to muffle the noise. Above, there must be at least a couple of rooms. That would be standard for a live-in shop. Though I listened, I could gain no sense of how many occupants might be there.
The stairs were wooden. As I climbed, they swayed and creaked as if the house was unsound. Dirt made this ramshackle property seem old, though it could not predate the Rebellion. Good going: derelict after ten years. The roofspace must be low; heat had been absorbed all day through the building fabric, so I moved upward into a stifling, airless atmosphere. The first loft-like space formed an antechamber, definitely used for the purposes I feared. Though the pallets on the floor were unoccupied, a faint sexual smell told its story. I tripped over a lamp, unlit of course. Anyone who wanted to inspect his bedmate would have to pay for extras. I bet no one bothered. The only light filtered up from the stairs; there were no windows.
I could hardly breathe. Commerce here must be rapid. To call it a brothel would be linguistic outrage. This was a doss to which rank street-whores brought their undiscriminating marks. It was a toss-up which party in the grim couplings would be the rougher character, and who cheated whom the most. I knew there would be violence. I could believe there had been deaths. I had to pray there was no pimp asleep now, with his arms around an amphora and a large knife to hand. He would see me before I was aware of him.
By feel, I discovered two doorways. I worked out which one gave onto the room with the window where I had glimpsed Albia. The door had been wedged on the outside, locking her in. I was not surprised.
Quietly I removed the heavy wooden stave that held the door closed. Even more gently, I pushed my way in. Light filtered through the window, but I could hardly see where she was. She had cowered in a tiny ball, even though she knew I was coming. I assumed she trusted me, yet terror had her paralyzed.
I gave a low whistle. "Come on. You're safe. Be quick." It was like freeing a trapped sparrow. First the creature froze, then it made a desperate bolt for the light. "Shh!"
The girl had fled right past, barging her way between me and the doorpost. She had already spirited herself down the stairs. I let her go. As I turned to follow, the other door burst open. There was suddenly more light, a frightfully smoldering lamp, held aloft by a three-foot-high old baggage with ferocious bad breath and a vicious snarl. I think it was female, but I felt like a hero who had woken some foul mythical beast. "What do you want?"
"I came for a girl," I answered honestly. I pulled the door closed behind me, as if Albia might still be inside. "I saw her looking through the window."
"Not that one."
"I like them young."
"Not her!"
"Why not?"
"She's not trained." Well, that was a relief, mainly. "I can handle her."
"I said no!"
The old woman was ghastly. A huge round face with features slammed on as if by a bad potter after he'd had too much to drink with his lunch. Flabby white arms, tremulous fat in the body, oily gray hair. Her flat dirty feet were bare. On a cord at her waist hung a bulging purse. She was wrapped in layers of grimy rags, their stiffened cloth twisted like cheese wrappings all around her body. This swaddling seemed to have trapped in the dirt, flea droppings, and smells. She was marinated in filth. And the evil madam oozed with redolence of her foul trade.