the visage, no doubt. He was dressed elegantly in the Greek fashion, a short pleated tunic of lime green and a purple chlamys of fine linen draped over one shoulder; a wreath strategically placed to cover his bald spot, as Julius Caesar used to do. His working clothes, as he like to think of them.
Suetonius paused to take in his surroundings; he was impressed. Elysium’s exterior, the blank wall it turned to the street, gave no hint of what lay within. The air was heavy with perfume. The flickering light of lamps on ornate stands, artfully placed and trimmed, gave just enough, but not too much, illumination. In the center of the spacious interior a fountain splashed—a gilded Triton pouring water from his conch into the mouths of dolphins. Around the walls, paintings depicted the amours of the gods: Leda opening her luscious pink thighs to a Zeus-embodied swan, Aphrodite admiring Ares’ heroic cock, painted an angry red. Others illustrated all the positions and techniques of love which could be had for a price. At a score of gilded tables groups of revelers reclined on silk-draped couches: the men of all sorts—young, old, thin, fat, bearded, bald; the hetaeras who shared their couches, all of one sort—young and beautiful. In one corner, a pair of musicians played on the drum and double flute as a lithe African girl, clad only in a golden belt around her hips, her skin black and lustrous as jet, performed sinuous turns and pirouettes, holding saucers of flame in the palms of her hands, bending backwards until her head touched the floor. Some in the audience threw coins at her feet.
A young slave wearing Persian tunic and trousers approached and gestured that Suetonius should follow him. He had sent word ahead asking for an appointment with Sophronia.
He felt the eyes that followed him as they mounted the stairway to the mezzanine of private rooms. Behind him, laughter and conversation resumed.
She sat behind a desk in a small, bare office; on a stool beside her, a watery-eyed little man bent over an abacus. The desk top was covered with papers. She waved Suetonius to a chair. “Thank you, Byzus. We’ll finish later.” The accountant gathered his scrolls and crept out of the room, ducking his head at the Roman guest.
“Wine?”
“Thank you.”
The wine service, heavy chased silver and rose crystal, sat on a sideboard. Suetonius estimated it was worth half a million at least. She filled his goblet but took nothing for herself. He rolled the wine in his mouth—an excellent Chian.
She fixed him with a level gaze. “To what do I owe the attention of a Roman official? I can spare you a quarter of an hour, no more.”
Her skin was a rich olive, her hair, pulled back and coiled on the nape of her neck, was thick and black. She was in her forties, he supposed, still beautiful, though the corners of her mouth were beginning to set in hard lines. She wore a simple white gown, belted under the bosom. Gold bracelets set with rubies circled her wrists. Suetonius, who had made some inquiries about her, had been told of her exotic beauty. He wasn’t prepared for how tiny she was; not even five feet, he guessed. What an incongruous pair she and Balbus must have made! He inhaled her scent—myrrh and roses, he thought, and hints of other things he couldn’t put a name to.
He had joked with Pliny about interviewing her for his monograph on famous whores but one minute in her presence told him that she would not be amused. She was a whore with the bearing of an empress. And the empresses of his acquaintance were not noted for their sense of humor.
He found himself uncharacteristically stammering. “I, ah, understand that you were a particular friend of the late procurator.”
“You come here to pry into my private affairs? So like a Roman, you nation of moralists!”
Once as a boy he had surprised a mother lynx and her brood in their den when hiking in hills near his home. The animal was smaller than his dog, but he sensed that if he took another step forward she would slash him to ribbons. He felt that same premonitory chill now.
“Whoever told you that is lying.” She thrust out her chin, challenging him.
“According to our source”—speak softly, don’t threaten—“Balbus was going to leave his wife and marry you. His death must have been a shock and a deep disappointment. My sympathies.”