A Coin for the Ferryman by Rosemary Rowe

stopped, and there was a whispered consultation in the lane, with Aulus motioning towards me with his thumb, and the driver countering by gesturing at his human cargo with his whip. However, a decision was obviously reached, and in my favour too, because presently the passengers began to climb down from the cart.
    They were a striking collection. Two handsome, muscular young men in leather skirts, who moved and looked like acrobats, and an ageing one who certainly did not; a pair of stunted men with exaggerated beards and straggling haircuts, who might have been a form of comic turn; and lastly a group of chattering young women – most genuinely Iberian from the look of them, with the typical striking red-blond colouring of Celts from that part of the Empire, though there were one or two with darker skin and hair. All of them were comely. Aulus was ogling them as they got down from the cart, and I found that I was staring at them too.
    They invited stares. Their skin was powdered almost white, and they were wearing so much lamp-black round their eyes and wine lees rubbed into their lips and cheeks that I could see it even where I stood. They wore their hair luxuriously long, hanging free around their shoulders in a way no self-respecting Roman maiden would consider (although the effect was very pleasing, in an erotic sort of way). Their costume, too, was not of a modest nature, not only because of the boldness of the dyes – I noted reds and orange, yellow, pinks and greens – but because it was of a daring cut as well, with little tunic-skirts that barely reached their thighs and necklines that almost reached their waists. The floating scarves of different colours suspended from their belts gave only the illusion of covering their legs: at the slightest movement it did nothing of the sort.
    They were moving a great deal as they climbed down from the cart, and Aulus was almost salivating at the sight. However, as each one reached the ground, an older woman, who seemed to be in charge, handed her an ankle-length brown cloak, and when all had descended she hustled them off towards the back gate of the house. Even then they walked with a kind of conscious, swaying gait that made the long, drab cloaks look sensual.
    Aulus watched them go, lust and disappointment written on his face, and it was a long moment before he walked back to me. ‘The driver will turn the cart round and then he’ll take you home. And your little kitchen slave as well – supposing that he ever shuts his mouth again, that is.’
    I turned to Kurso. I had forgotten him. He too was staring after the departing girls. He caught my eye and closed his jaw, which had dropped in what I thought was admiration for their looks.
    I was wrong. ‘All those p-p-proper dancing girls?’ He sounded awed. He saw my face, and hastened to explain. ‘My former m-m-master had a s-s-single dancer at a b-b-banquet once, and said she c-c-cost too much to use again. And your p-p-patron . . .’ He coloured and tailed off.
    It was surprising, when you thought of it. Marcus was famously careful with his wealth. The entertainment at his feasts was more likely to be a local poet, or a group of tumbling dwarves, than any sophisticated group like this. These were expensive dancers, you could tell that at a glance: their dyer’s bill alone would have kept our household for a year.
    I laughed. ‘Attempting to impress his cousin Lucius, I expect. I hear that they have entertainments between every course at court, and presumably the rest of Rome follows suit. In the best households, anyway. Obviously Marcus wants to prove that he can do the same, and for once he doesn’t care about the cost.’
    Aulus gave me a sideways look. ‘It’s more than that. It’s rumoured that Lucius is on the lookout for unusual acts that he can take back to amuse the Emperor. He has already sent one act on its way to Rome with his chief slave and baggage. Apparently there is a lack of novelty at court.