“No single courtesan, however well-trained,” his elder brother answered, “can make us that much gold.”
“This one will, and she will not have to personally entertain any of our clients. At least not for some time, brother dear,” Jovian finished. Rubbing his hands together gleefully, he sat down next to Phocas.
They were a study in contrasts, these two brothers. Although they were of almost equal height, Phocas being slightly taller, no one who did not know them would have realized they were siblings, born of the same parents. Their father had been a courtier, their mother his mistress. Villa Maxima had been her home. Phocas favored the paternal side of his family. He was slender, with a long aristocratic face made up of a slim nose, narrow lips, and deep-set dark brown eyes. His hair was dark and straight, cut medium-short, and brushed away from the crown of his head. His clothing was expensive and simple. Phocas Maxima was the sort of man who could easily disappear amid a crowd. It was said by the women he owned that he was a lover of epic proportions who could make the most hardened courtesan weep with joy. His business acumen was admired citywide, and his generous works of charity kept him in favor with the church.
His younger brother, Jovian, was his opposite. Elegant, classically educated, a slave to fashion, he was considered one of the greatest wits of his time. He adored beautiful things: clothing, women, works of art, and particularly beautiful young men, of whom he kept several to see to his every need. His dark curls in careful and deliberate disarray, he was easily recognizable at the races, the games, the circus. The success of Villa Maxima was largely due to him, for although Phocas could keep the books and see to the budget needed to run the brothel, it was Jovian’s wonderful imagination that set Villa Maxima above all the other expensive brothels in the city. Their late mother, a famous courtesan of her day, would have been enormously proud of them.
“What have you in mind?” Phocas asked him, his curiosity provoked by his brother’s particularly excitable state regarding the girl, Cailin.
“Are we not famous the length and breadth of the empire for our entertainments?” Jovian said.
“Absolutely!” Phocas agreed.
“Our living tableaux have no equal. Am I correct?”
“You are correct, brother dear,” Phocas answered.
“What if we took a living tableau a giant step further?” Jovian suggested. “What if, instead of a tableau, we staged a playlet of delicious depravity so decadent that all of Constantinople would want to view it—and would pay handsomely for the privilege. No one, brother dear, would be allowed to view this playlet at first but our regular clients. They, of course, would talk about it, intriguing their friends, and their friends’ friends.
“Only those personally recommended by our clients would be permitted to enter here to view our little entertainment. Soon we would have so many requests for entry that we could charge whatever the traffic would bear, and thus make our fortunes. No one has ever before done anything such as I propose to you. Others will, naturally, copy us, but they will not be able to maintain the level of genius and imagination as we can. Cailin will be the centerpiece of the performance.”
Phocas could fully appreciate his brother’s plan. It was absolutely brilliant. “What will you call your playlet, and how will it be performed, Jovian?” he asked his sibling, fascinated.
“ ‘The Virgin and the Barbarians’! Is that not marvelous?” Jovian chortled, most pleased with himself and his cleverness. “The scene will open with our own little Cailin seated before a loom, modest and innocent in white, her hair unbound, weaving a tapestry. Suddenly the door to her chamber bursts open! Three magnificent naked barbarians enter, swords in hand, their intent quite plain. The frightened maiden leaps up, but alack! They are upon her, rending her garments asunder as she shrieks her protest! They violate her, and the curtain descends to the cheers of our audience.”
“Boring,” Phocas said dryly.
“Boring?” Jovian looked offended. “I cannot believe you would say such a thing to me. There is nothing boring about the scene I have described to you.”
“Violation of a virgin is an ordinary topic of living tableau,” Phocas answered, disappointed. “If that is all there is to it, Jovian, then it is boring.”
“The gods!” Jovian exclaimed. “It is all so clear to me that I have not explained it in detail to you. Our virgin is violated by three barbarians, Phocas. Three!”
“Indeed were it one or three, it is boring,” his brother repeated.
“All three of them at one time?” Jovian slyly elucidated.
Phocas’s brown eyes grew wide. “Impossible!” he said breathlessly.
“Not at all,” his brother answered, “but it must be choreographed most carefully, as one would choreograph a temple dance. It is not, however, impossible, dear brother. Oh, no! Not at all; and nothing like it has ever been presented here in Byzantium. Does not the church itself constantly decry the wickedness of man’s nature? There will be riots before our gates in an effort to see the performance. This girl will make us our fortunes. We shall retire to that island in the Black Sea that we bought several years ago and have not seen since.”
“But will the girl cooperate?” Phocas asked. “You are, after all, expecting a great deal of an unsophisticated little provincial.”
“She will cooperate, brother dear. She is very intelligent for a woman, and because she is a pagan, she has no foolish qualms. Since she is not a virgin, she has no respectability to lose in this. Do you know what she asked me? What her future held after her youth and beauty had fled. Of course I told her she might eventually purchase her freedom if she were clever, and I believe she certainly is. With the proper training, Cailin will be the greatest courtesan this city has ever known.”
“Have you decided upon the men involved?” Phocas said, now all business. “And how often shall we schedule this spectacle?”
“Only twice weekly,” his brother replied. “The girl’s physical well-being must be protected, and the unique nature of the performance involved considered. Better our clientele be left begging for more than our little playlet become too ordinary too quickly. As for the men, I saw just the trio I will need at Isaac Stauracius’s private slave market two days ago.”
“What if they are already sold?”
“They will not be,” Jovian said. “I thought I might want them then, although I wasn’t certain. I gave Isaac five gold solidi to hold them for me. I was to tell him by tomorrow, but I shall go today. They are quite magnificent, Phocas dear. Brothers, all identical in features and form down to the last detail. Big, blond Northmen. They have but one tiny flaw. It is not visible to the eye, but Isaac wanted me to know. They are dumb. The fool who captured them had their tongues torn out. A pity, really. They seem intelligent, and hear quite well.”
“Go and fetch them, then,” Phocas replied. “Do not let Isaac cheat you, Jovian. After all, he does not know how we are going to utilize these young men. Their physical defect should certainly lower the price he will ask appreciably. But wait! What of their male organs? They are large? No matter how beautiful these creatures, they must have big manhoods. How can you be certain of that without Isaac suspecting something of the use to which we will put this trio?”