The River God's Vengeance(67)
“Bovillae, I understand,” I said.
“Bovillae, then. A happy town without that couple. Anyway, when he got here with all his money and his taste for blood and pain, he started working his way through all the lupanaria in Rome, starting with mine.”
“Rumor has it,” I said, “that you cater to every imaginable taste.”
“Not every one of them,” she insisted. “Think about it: If you rented horses, would you rent one to a man who’d beat it and run it until it collapsed and return it to you half dead?”
“Those girls and boys last year,” Asklepiodes asked, “Folius was the one?”
“Him and the woman both,” she said, nodding. “Thought they could buy me off with a few coins and come back for more of the same. I told them I’d leave orders with my men to knock them on the head and dump them in the river if they ever came back. I couldn’t keep a single girl here unchained if I let them be treated like that. I don’t mind a little playacting, no harm in that, and I have people specially trained for it. Those two wanted the real thing.”
“I saw how their household slaves were treated,” I admitted. “There really should be provision in Roman law to prevent such things.”
“I heard later that they found places to cater to them,” she went on grimly. “Slaves die all the time. Nobody looks into it.”
It occurred to me that I was looking into the very timely deaths of two people who might have been among Rome’s most illustrious mass murderers. They were merely careful about whom they killed, never doing away with anyone of rank. It was rare for rich equites to make themselves so repugnant to so many persons in so brief a time. Everybody from Proconsul Antonius Hybrida to madame Andromeda, yet their neighbors barely knew who they were!
“I want to see the room where Lucilius was killed,” I said.
“Whatever for?” she asked.
“You never know what such a place will tell you,” I answered.
“My friend has created his own branch of philosophy,” Asklepiodes assured her, “or perhaps a form of necromancy. Sometimes it is as if the spirits of the slain speak to him.”
Andromeda rubbed an ivory ring she wore on her forefinger and kissed it. “I want no dealings with the dead here, but I’ll show you the room.” She rose to her full, amazing height, and I followed her, with Asklepiodes at my side and Hermes padding along behind. I decided I’d better count my money when we got home. The boy might have slipped off with one of the girls while we conversed.
The stairways that connected the upper galleries were arranged in pairs. Those nearest the courtyard were for upward traffic, those next to the wall for descending. It was most orderly, almost like a theater. Some of the rooms we passed were illuminated, others were dark. From within came sounds of music and cries of passion and sounds that defied interpretation. It might have been amusing to pause and try to interpret some of these noises as an intellectual exercise, but duty called.
Andromeda led us to a door and rapped on it. There was no sound from within, so she pushed open the door. Light poured out, its source a fioor lamp that supported four wicks. The room was no larger than necessary for the activities inside. Its furnishings, beside the lamp, were a small table holding a basin, pitcher, and washing materials; a bronze brazier that held no coals that evening; and a rather commodious couch with ample cushions and a backrest.
“The larger rooms are on the ground fioor,” Andromeda said. “Some of them are for groups and have special equipment. Nothing fancy here.”
I walked over to the room’s single window. Its frame was of fragrant cedar, a luxurious touch. The inner shutter was likewise cedar, carved in an intricate fret to admit light and air. The solid, outer shutter was of painted pine. I opened both shutters and looked out. It was a straight drop to the paved square below. I could see no convenient place in the room for attaching a rope. The killer or killers must have left by the door.
“Are you certain this is the room?” I asked. “Except for those on the ground fioor, they must be much alike.”
Andromeda indicated the door, which was painted red and bore a stylized design of a lyre. “Most of the girls and slave staff can’t read, so I don’t use numbers. I use a different color door on each of the three upper fioors: blue for the second, yellow for the third, and red on this one. Each door has a symbol for one of the gods that everyone knows: lightning for Jupiter, a moon for Venus, a spear for Mars, a serpent staff for Mercury, and so forth. I tell a slave, ‘Go up to Yellow Hercules,’ he knows to go to the third fioor and find the door with the club on it.” She rapped the door with a knuckle. “Lucilius was killed in Red Apollo; I’m not likely to forget it.”