At the Corner of Teiban & Clive

At the corner of Teiban and Clive streets, before tor-tu-gor began to bake away the dew from the stones, I painted a timely oath on a broad wall overlooking the area where vendors for today's market would soon congregate.

Here, without contemplating consequences,
before the black Sardar range and in the face of the world,
I swear eternal fidelity to the just cause, as I deem it,
of the City of my life, my liberty and my love.

The author was a bold man from the earliest days of our founding. A peasant farmer who had been at various times in his life a bargemen and a sutler. A voracious reader and thinker, admired both for the strength of his arm and the strength of his will, he came to be caste leader in his village and, soon, for many of the villages that surrounded his own as Ar, both the City and the ideal, grew into what we know it to be today.

A Fire in the Anbar

I set a fire in an alley of the Anbar last evening. Using palettes and crating appropriated from the other businesses in the neighborhood, I built a litter and set it ablaze. Other residents, proprietors and citizens came out into the alley to watch, making comments as it burned.
"Which one do you suppose it is?"
"I do not know. He has them all dressed in red now."
"Who cremates a whore?"
"The Magistrate is an odd one, he is."
"It is not Portia."
"Well, yes, that is obvious."
"Waste of good wood if you ask me."
"Be silent. He got Mascius to repay the debt he owes me."
"What does that have to do with wood?"
"It is going to be all smoky in the alley now."
"Do not complain. If it weren't for his whore house, I wouldn't have customers at my tavern in the afternoon."
"I do like his whores."
"Indeed."
"Still. That smoke is unpleasant."

Advertising

I am a firm believer in advertising. I have seen it work. There are subtle ways to advertise, such as painting the doors of one's establishment red. Red speaks of blood. The heat of it. Passion. Whether it is the scarlet of a Warrior's cloak or the more lurid hue of a pagar slave's silk, it does not matter. Painting the door of one's establishment this color is an incitement to curiosity. It stirs the very blood it seeks to emulate. There are other forms of advertisement, of course, most of them less subtle. One might simply paint the words upon a door, "Whores. Three Copper per Ahn," if one is disinclined to worry over the opinions of one's neighbors. Still. The same objective is accomplished. The same blood stirred.

That is not to say I am averse to more blatant advertising. In the past, I have put camisks on girls that had the rather blatant inducement, "Have me. Boarding House. Anbar," stitched across the rear skirt. They were teal in color. As of this morning, those teal garments have been discarded in the refuse bins. They have lived their useful lives and been disposed of. They were replaced, however, with red garments. I purchased six of them with that now famous (infamous?) slogan across the ass. Portia received the first of them. Of women that earn, she is first on the chain. She was tasked last evening with gathering up the older teal garments and distributing the new red ones. She, too, will be accompanied by a red-lipped and kohl-eyed Cup during the ahn that she earns. Cup, I have decided, will earn her keep as her chain sisters do. She has been commanded to follow Portia's instructions explicitly.

Graffiti in the Anbar District

Remember me
That is not a question
It is a command
At the very least
It is something
That I implore
For when I am gone
I am gone
For when I am dead
I am dead
This generation
The next generation
And the generation
That came before me
They will remember
As must you
For when I am through
I am through
When I no longer write
No longer will you read
Anything new
Let the old ideals
Spark the new ideas
And the new ideas
Bring the change
We all desire
Feet to the fire
Your ire to the flames
You are challenged
All life is The Game
Each piece has its place
Each place has its time

In the Anbar

With the two principal parts of the play cast, I have decided to divide myself between districts again, allowing the doors to the domicile in the Anbar to be open. Profit, while showing an increase in the accounts of a few girls, has leveled with the remainder. With regular patronage during the day and no bar to their ability to earn (I do not allow them to solicit on Aulus Street or within the vicinity of the Theater of Pentilicus Tallux), I expect an increase in revenues. Too, it is now the month of Hesius, the fifth day. The twenty-second day of this month marks the second full year that Szol of the Poets, now Magistrate of the People, Playwright, and Whoremonger, became the proprietor of the Boarding House. It is only fitting that the red doors be open, welcoming citizens and visitors alike to the pleasures three copper coins per ahn (four for the blonde) can purchase. Perhaps there will be an event to mark the occasion. For now, I must put down the pen and smack a few whores across the ass that they may begin their day. On most days, these girls needs no greater impetus to earning than the sting of an open palm. And the fellows who patronize them need no greater endorsement to spend than the sight of a slapped ass, coupled with their eager smiles.