Graveyard of the Hesperides by Lindsey Davis

one was a shitty nobody, while both then and now their earnings stank. No need to ask of what.
    Faustus questioned them about their hopes for the future. They responded to him better than I expected, saying they would go home, but they still owed fare money to the man who brought them here, a toothless drover in a hairy cloak who had told them he knew their parents. Everything he said was shit. However, they were scared of him and what he could do to their families. Besides, in their hearts they still hankered to find those golden opportunities the legionaries had promised, which they still believed existed somewhere.
    While they were answering Faustus, I tried to gauge how old they were. They pretended to be nymphs but had the faces of hags. This was a common result of poverty, let alone the work they did. Bad diet and degradation had left both with poor skin, dull eyes, bruises, pocks and a washed-out, gray appearance under whatever poisonous potions they painted on. I could see a lot of that; they would die before their time. But they were too young to have known Rufia.
    They were too young to die too, though I concede that was irrelevant to my inquiry.
    They confirmed they never met the missing woman. However, they knew people who had. Well, for one thing, they screwed Nipius and Natalis. From the waiters, if from no one else, they had heard the rumors about their luckless predecessor’s fate.
    â€œWas she Dardanian, or any other kind of foreigner?”
    â€œWho knows?” said Artemisia.
    â€œI do!” boasted Orchivia. “She was a shitty Illyrian.”
    â€œWho the buggery told you that?” demanded her colleague scornfully.
    â€œMenendra.”
    â€œWhat does she know?”
    â€œShe knew Rufia.”
    â€œShit!”
    â€œIs there,” I interposed quickly, “any way I can speak to this Menendra?”
    A shadow came over Artemisia and Orchivia, as if they regretted mentioning her.
    â€œShe’s around,” Orchivia muttered. “Off and on.”
    â€œWell, if you see her, will you please push her my way?”
    Orchivia said she might do, though Artemisia looked as if she did not like the idea that this other woman might find out they had been talking about Rufia with me.
    â€œIs Menendra another scary one, like Rufia?” I asked, on the off chance. They laughed. They were pretending to dismiss that suggestion—while obviously agreeing with it.
    â€œDoes she also serve drinks at the Hesperides?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere then?”
    â€œNowhere special.”
    â€œSo how does she earn a living—assuming she doesn’t own a fancy man?” Few waitresses had pimps; in general their custom was straightforwardly controlled by the bar owners, who saw no reason to let others muscle in.
    â€œShe supplies the bars,” said Artemisia.
    â€œSupplies what?” asked Faustus, butting in. He so much adored finicky detail.
    I like detail myself; I prefer to work up to it my own way. “Supplies what?” I echoed, putting my own stamp on the question.
    â€œAnything they need,” Orchivia replied dismissively.
    â€œThat’s nice and vague.”
    Both women gave high-shouldered shrugs, as if my insistence was unreasonable. What passed for expressive in Dardania meant nothing in Rome. Faustus and I stared.
    â€œFruit,” explained Artemisia glibly. “Menendra is a fruit-seller.”
    That, I felt certain, was a barefaced Dardanian lie.
    *   *   *
    Getting nowhere, and hoping I could track down Menendra myself, I went back to Rufia. Did the women have any idea of when she disappeared? Surprisingly, they put a date on it. Someone had told them it happened in the first year of the Emperor Titus. Titus only reigned for two years, which was sad for him, but helpful here.
    I joked with Faustus, “I remember his inauguration, plus all the festivities when he opened the Flavian Amphitheater, made it