Stricta was a little better off. She’d been given an actual room at the end of the hall. The murmur of women’s voices, even women’s laughter, was coming from her cubicle. Lupo’s thundering footsteps could be felt in the floorboards before he entered, and the laughing stopped. He pushed the cheap flannel curtain aside and walked in. I was close behind him. Draco stayed a discreet distance in the rear.
Lupo pointed at one of two women, a garishly made-up, henna-haired whore of an age impossible to determine. She was still plump around the cheeks, so she could’ve been younger than she looked. A stale perfume of spices, pennyroyal and dried violets swam around the tired room, unable to escape.
“You-Stricta. This man wants to talk to you about the Syrian.”
The woman looked surprised, and then stared at me. I stared back. The other woman, a small, intense brunette, a little less garish, fled.
What passed for a grin creased Lupo’s face. “Stay here. Talk. You paid for her.” With that, he lumbered off.
I poked my head from behind the red flannel drape and told Draco to stay, and then turned back to the woman in front of me. She was attractive, in a desperate, mean way. Her hair looked like it once was really red. The eyes were blue, dull, but with a spark of cunning. She seemed oddly familiar.
“How much did you pay for me?” she asked, stretching out on a cot with a provocative leer.
“Three denarii.”
Her eyes widened. “You really are a rich boy, then, aren’t you?” For some reason, she found this funny, and tilted her head back to laugh.
It was more like a laugh-scream, a strange, almost angry voice. I remembered, then, where I’d seen, where I’d heard, this woman. She wasn’t Stricta. She was Galla, the girl of the drunken ditty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was lucky to recognize her. Her voice was distinctive, and even though Avitus had dragged me away from last night’s comedy, I remembered the stream of curses and piss the whore tried to pour on the drunk. I’d underestimated Lupo. It wouldn’t happen again.
Galla was staring at me with curiosity. No doubt she hoped for a bonus. She grinned knowingly, laid back on her cot, and spread her legs. Unlike Gwyna, she couldn’t afford silk underwear. Apparently, she couldn’t afford any at all. The sight was far from arousing.
I walked the few paces to the cheap straw mattress-glad the stuffing had been changed recently-and sat down, next to her, facing the wall.
“Here-what is this? I thought you paid for me. Stricta,” she emphasized. “Don’t you wanna see why tha’s my name?”
I shook off the exploratory hand she’d snaked around my lap. Her hands were older than her face.
“No offense-Stricta”, I added, with equal emphasis. “I paid for information. That’s all.”
She studied me, surprised, from a kneeling position. I stood up and faced her. She met my eyes, shrugged, rearranged her thin, spotted tunic, and sat down. A cautious, animal-like wariness came over her.
“So whaddya wanna talk about?” She slurred her Latin, and now spoke with a pronounced native accent. She smelled of fusty wine.
I held up a finger, and stepped to the door. I craned my head around the corner and saw Draco, still alert, but revealing an unhealthy fascination with the odd noises coming from a cubicle up the hall.
“Draco!” I whispered.
He jumped, blushed, and strode toward me.
“Yes, Master?” he breathed in a booming undertone.
“Shhh. Quieter. Where did that other woman who came out of here earlier go? The dark-haired one?”
“I remember. She was small. Looked a little like Coir. She and Lupo walked into that end room.” He pointed to the first curtained stall off the tavern, the farthest from where I was. “Then Lupo left, and she’s been there ever since.”
“Good. Now listen to me, and this time don’t forget what I tell you.”
He hung his head and blushed. I couldn’t be too hard on him. Maybe Lupo told a hell of a joke.
“Stand in front of her cubicle and don’t let her leave. If Lupo-or anyone else-comes through here, yell.”
He nodded. I turned back into the room, where Galla had lit some shabby incense and poured herself something fermented.
“Wan’ some?” She offered the drink with an expansive gesture, as if she were a hostess on the Palatine.
I smiled, and shook my head. What she was drinking smelled like the cheapest posca. She swigged it from a chipped, cracked kylix-a bit of eastern drinking ware that probably belonged to Stricta. The posca probably belonged to Stricta, too.
“Tell me about the Syrian who was here last night.”
She drank again, smacking her lips. Then she shrugged. “Not much t’tell. He had a lotta money. Saw some little blonde thing he’s gonna marry. ‘Course, she didn’ give ‘im what he needed,” she added knowingly. “Thas why he called me.”
Galla must’ve already been half drunk when I walked in, and the boozy vinegar she was gulping finished the job. That should make mine a little easier.
“Did he say why he was here?”
A wary look again crossed her face and body. She sat up straighter. She’d been rehearsed.
“Business deal for Domitian. Friend of the Emperor. A freedman. Here to marry tha’ girl. Came-oh, day b’fore-night before-last. Don’ know why-he didn’ pay to talk to me”. She aimed a leer at me.
“What did he do when he was done with you?”
“Whaddya think? What they always do. He wenta sleep. Then tha’ Rhodri started trouble,” she added with an afterthought. That didn’t sound like part of the script.
“What about Rhodri?”
She stared at me and frowned. The wine was starting to make her a little volatile. “He’s one ‘a us. Not one ‘a you. I ain’t sayin’ nothing against ‘im. He wants that lil’ bitch … her father sold her. Sold her for money to tha’ Syrian.” She hiccupped. “Tha’ makes her a whore, jus’ like me.”
“Were you with the Syrian when Rhodri came in?”
“No. He finish’d early.” She giggled. She was improvising.
“How long between when you were done with the Syrian and when Rhodri came upstairs?”
“Who knows? I go from one t’other. I work all night. After th’ Syrian, I had one a’ my regl’ars.”
“A tradesman?” I asked.
She sobered up a little. “Yes. I have many re-gu-lars.” She stretched out the word in an effort to speak more clearly. Fear crept behind her eyes.
“Do you know where the Syrian is now?”
She paused before replying. Insinuation perfumed the rancid atmosphere. I reached into my purse, and took out a denarius. Walking over to the kylix, I dropped it in with a plink.
She grinned. “You’re a good man. I’m s’pposed t’ say he left for Durovernum on business. Changed his mind, maybe, ‘bout the girl. But-I heard-” her voice dropped to a low whistle-“He’s dead. Murdered.”
She fished the denarius out of the cup and drained it. “Maybe you killed him!” She laughed her angry laugh again at her own bad joke.
“Maybe.” I walked to the cot, and it agitated her.
“Whaddya want? I was jus’ jokin’ around-I tol’ you what I know, even extra.”
“I appreciate it. If you remember anything else, there’ll be more.” I gestured to the kylix, and sat beside her, and spoke in the native tongue.
“Listen. Forget you talked, to me or anybody else. If you’re asked, say you haven’t. And if someone makes trouble for you, find me.” I handed her two more denarii and her eyes bulged.
“Lupo’s put you in a bad spot. Don’t let him make you play Stricta for anyone else.”
She rose from the cot.
“H-How did-”
“It doesn’t matter. Find me. Ask at the marketplace for where Agricola’s doctor lives.”