The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  Amara stares at the wall. No gambolling nymphs or lovers here. Everything is painted in a geometric pattern of black and white. The sharp-edged lines turn and interlock in an endless maze that’s hard to follow round the room without feeling dizzy.

  They sit and wait, not talking, time stretching out. It starts to rain more heavily, water beating down on the roof. It’s impossible to tell over the noise whether Felix and his client are still doing business. Then Amara sees a downcast figure pass the doorway, hears him thud down the stairs. Nobody gets up from the bench.

  Paris sticks his head around the door. “You’d best go through.”

  Thraso rises, stalking past him. Amara and Victoria follow.

  2

  She reeks of the soot of the brothel!

  Seneca, Declamations 1.2

  The room is large, dominated by red. Their master is sitting behind his desk. He doesn’t rise as they enter. If he is surprised by their arrival so much earlier than expected, he gives no sign. Felix has half Thraso’s bulk but twice his strength. His wiry frame is all bunched muscle. Amara knows there is no softness anywhere on that body hidden beneath the folds of the pale toga. Nothing to give the lie of tenderness when he holds you.

  “That was a quick orgy,” he says. “The rich boys couldn’t keep it up for long then? But they paid you double, of course.” Felix looks at Victoria. “That’s what you’re here to tell me, isn’t it, my darling? How much money you made.” Felix is smiling, but Amara can feel his anger vibrate through the sarcasm. The room grows darker. She knows without looking that Paris has just closed the door to the balcony.

  Victoria opens her mouth, but Thraso jumps in. “It was Simo,” he says. “Simo betrayed us…”

  “He must have been in it with Vibo,” says Victoria. “All Simo’s girls stayed in the pool, but some old crone dragged the rest of us out. She forced us. She said it was Vibo’s orders. That fat slug! We never even saw the punters—”

  “Balbus was in on it too,” Thraso interrupts. “I thrashed him for you, the lying little—”

  “Thraso only stopped because Vibo made him!” Victoria says. “And Drauca was sneering at us; she knew, I’m sure she did…”

  Amara watches Felix as Victoria and Thraso babble on, falling over themselves to shift the blame as far away from themselves as possible, shovelling it aside like shit from a latrine. She knows that if the boss doesn’t interrupt, they will soon start blaming each other. Felix listens in silence, absorbing everything, his anger visibly growing. If there were a way of making herself smaller and less noticeable, she would shrink to the size of a dormouse.

  “And you?” Felix turns sharply to Amara, catching her off guard. “Do you have nothing useful to say? Or are you just going to stand there like a dog?”

  “It’s… it’s like they said,” she stammers. Felix waits for her to continue, radiating rage. Behind him, the wall glows red. The only sound is the heavy drumbeat of water above. Amara knows her master is just moments from erupting. If she doesn’t fill the silence, there will be nothing between her and the rain of blows that fall. “The old woman forced us out of the baths,” she says. Her eyes avoid his face, skirting instead to the fresco that frames his desk. She tracks up the black plinths, reaching the bulls’ skulls painted at the top. “She used your name. She only wanted the women belonging to you. It was an insult aimed solely at you.” Victoria gives a stifled gasp. Amara glances over, sees the fear in Victoria’s face then looks quickly away. “I don’t think it was an insult from Vibo. What would he have to gain?” Nobody replies. Amara continues, talking to the small bag of coins resting on the desk by Felix’s right hand. “Simo must have bribed him. It’s the only explanation. Simo’s got a nice little deal going on at the baths right now, why would he want to double the women and halve the profits?”

  The rain is still falling, and she is almost out of courage. Nobody has ever frightened her more than the man in front of her. Amara looks up from the desk. She always avoids staring directly into his eyes, and so now, when she does, his expression surprises her. He is listening. For one brief moment, she sees him. It’s enough.

  “I don’t think it’s Vibo you want to punish,” she says, her voice a little steadier. “He could be valuable. If Simo can pay him off, so can you. That way we could still make money at the baths and show we won’t be put off so easily.” Felix raises his eyebrows. She has surprised him. Amara tries to let go of her fear, imagines it rising from her body like steam, evaporating. “As for Simo, I’m sure you could teach him a lesson. Doesn’t he run a bar? Perhaps it will become less attractive to customers.”

  Felix’s expression has barely changed, but she knows the worst of his anger has passed. “You bark a lot for such a little dog,” he says. He nods at Thraso’s swollen, bloodied lip. “And what did you do to Balbus in return for this?”

  “I broke his nose.”

  “More than that, I hope.” Felix rises from his seat, and the two women step backwards. Thraso stays still. Felix clicks his fingers at Victoria. She hurries over. He runs his hands over her, feeling her body, rearranging her clothes, a critical look on his face. It’s not a man touching a woman, but a salesman checking his goods. He slaps her backside, hard. “Will you make me as much money as Simo’s whores? Hmmm? Will you?” He gestures towards Amara without looking at her. “That one thinks so, but I’m not convinced.” He takes Victoria’s chin between his fingers. “What were you doing at the pool today? Gawping round the place like peasants at the games? Slouching about on your flat arses?”

  Victoria can’t shake her head; Felix is holding her too tightly.

  “I’ve seen Drauca. That whore has the finest ass in Pompeii. And what do you have? What sort of tits are these?” He lets go of Victoria, pushing her face away. She sways but stays upright. “Simo may have paid Vibo off, but would Vibo have thrown you out if he thought any of you could fuck like Drauca?” He pauses, daring them to answer but neither do. “Our friend Simo’s been bragging he sells the best cunt. So you”—Felix jabs a finger at both his women—“need to show Vibo he’s talking shit. Vibo gets to fuck you whenever he likes, however he likes, no charge, all part of the service. If you’re not his favourite girls after that, I’ll know why.” Amara glances at Victoria, trying to judge her reaction, but her face is blank as wax. “Get moving!” Felix shouts, making them both jump. “I want five denarii each from you lazy, fucking whores. Tell the others they’d better put some effort in.”

  Amara almost stumbles over Paris in the doorway in her haste to get out of the room, but Victoria is still quicker. They scuttle along the balcony, shoving their way down the stairs. Victoria reaches the bottom first. She turns round, blocking the door so Amara can’t get back into the street. Amara steadies herself against the wall, jolted as much by Victoria’s obvious anger as the sudden stop. “Why did you do that?” Victoria whispers. “Felix would have dropped Vibo. Why ask him to send us back? What sort of idiot are you?”

  “Think of the money,” she whispers back. The pair of them are rammed together at the bottom of the smelly, dark stairwell. “Think of all the rich men! Not like the dregs who come here.”

  “You’re crazy. What do you think they’re going to do? Turn up at the baths with bags of gold? They go there to screw, not find a bride!” Victoria’s whisper grows louder with exasperation. “And now we have to put up with Vibo!”

  Amara wants to explain that she’s willing to try anything, no matter how far-fetched, however horrible, anything that might get them out of the brothel. Paris’s sharp voice calls down. “What are you both doing?”

  “Leaving,” Victoria says, pulling the door towards her. They slip out into the rain and, within a couple of paces, are back inside.

  Even though the sky is murky and overcast, it is another level of darkness in the brothel. The shutters in the small cells are locked to keep out the damp and the air is thick with smoke from incense and oil lamps. The space is not that much smaller than Felix�
�s apartment above, but to Amara, it feels as narrow as a tomb.

  Fabia is slopping out, trying to stop the latrine from overflowing with rainwater. The stench, never pleasant at this end of the corridor, is worse than usual. She looks up briefly to greet them, then bends back down to her task. Fabia used to work here as a she-wolf before she grew too old. She even gave birth to the wretched Paris in one of the cells. Fabia barely earns her keep now, but so far Felix has not thrown her out on to the streets to fend for herself.

  “What did Felix say?” Cressa asks, as she and the other women emerge from Beronice’s cell.

  “He’s going to give it another go with Vibo,” Victoria says. “He wants to persuade him to take us back at the baths, which means the smelly prick will be coming here, and we’ve got to give him whatever he wants.” She folds her arms, and Amara is expecting her to tell everyone whose fault this is. But she doesn’t.

  “Vibo’s coming here?” Beronice says. “But he can’t be!”

  “Is he that bad?” Amara asks. Any lingering satisfaction she felt at impressing Felix is fast disappearing.

  “You two not had him yet?” Cressa asks. Amara and Dido shake their heads. “He’s the worst. Practically strangled me last time.” She raises a hand to her throat, as if remembering his fingers around her neck.

  Amara looks at Victoria, full of remorse, but she ignores her. “And the best part,” Victoria says, “is that we’ve all got to earn Our Glorious Master five denarii each by tomorrow.”

  Cressa groans.

  “Was he joking?” Beronice asks, her face hopeful. She’s never very good at spotting when anyone is being humorous.

  “Not joking,” Victoria replies. “Safe to say he was not in a jolly mood.”

  “But we’ll never manage it!” Beronice wails. “That’s far too much.”

  “We’d better get as close to it as we can.” Cressa’s gaze wanders over to Fabia, still sluicing the latrine. “Though Venus herself would struggle to pick up punters in this weather.”

  “I’m not going fishing without food,” Victoria says. “We can start at The Sparrow, have something to eat, and maybe after that, the rain won’t be so bad.”

  The five women set about extinguishing most of the oil lamps to save fuel and limit the smoke. The constant smelly fug indoors means the paintings Felix recently paid for – endless sex scenes emblazoned round the top of the walls – are already smeared with soot. The picture above Amara’s cell, of a woman being taken from behind, has a new grimy shadow across the bed. She bends down to put out the terracotta lamp burning beneath it. Like every other light in the brothel, it is modelled in the shape of a penis, flames flickering from the tip. One or two even have a small clay man attached, brandishing an enormous fiery erection. Felix finds it amusing, says the lamps get the customers in the mood. Amara hates them. As if they don’t have enough cocks to put up with.

  Gallus, Felix’s freedman, is guarding the main door, directly opposite The Elephant. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he’s better looking than Thraso, though just as brutal in a fight. He grasps hold of Beronice’s arm as they try to pass. “Hang on,” he says. “You can’t all go out at once. One of you has to stay behind. What if I get a customer?”

  “Can’t you just come and grab one of us from The Sparrow?” Victoria says. “We’ll only be up the road.”

  “No,” Gallus replies. “You know Felix’s orders.” He gives Beronice a shove. “Back in there.”

  “What a shit,” Victoria mutters, as they hurry along the pavement. “We’ll have to take her something back.”

  “And Fabia,” says Cressa. “She’s looking so thin.” The presence of the older woman, barely hanging on to existence, is like the shadow of a future none of them want to face. For Cressa, who is several years older than the rest of them, Amara suspects Fabia’s fate is even more frightening.

  The noise from the tavern opposite is loud even at this time of day. A gigantic mural blazes with colour on its outside wall. It’s an elephant surrounded by dancing pygmies and draped in snakes for good fortune. Underneath reads the boast: Sittius Restored The Elephant! The four women don’t stop to go inside. Picking up customers at The Elephant isn’t impossible, but Sittius rents rooms as well as serving food and wine. In this weather, his guests are more likely to head upstairs with one of the women who work at the inn than troop to a brothel in the rain.

  The Sparrow is only a few paces further away. Its painted sign is drenched and darkened by the rain, but Amara can still make out the small bird surrounded by flowers, sitting on its innuendo-laden message. The Sparrow is Satisfied, So may You be! Nobody is loitering in the small square outside today. Instead, the stones shine white in the wet. When Amara first arrived in Pompeii, almost every scrap of pavement in front of the bar seemed to be taken up by drinkers, most standing and talking, some scribbling messages on the wall. She’s seen graffiti about Felix on there before, even some reviews of the brothel. Plenty about Victoria. Nothing about her. She’s not sure whether to be grateful for that or not.

  They scurry inside, stamping their feet on the floor to shake off the rain. Victoria saunters over to the bar. She leans against its marble top, undoing her cloak and letting the edge of her yellow toga slip from her shoulder. There are whistles from a table in the corner.

  “Busy morning, ladies?” The landlord, Zoskales, has a cloth draped round his neck and his face is shining with sweat. There’s almost no room for him behind the counter, the wall is stacked with wine jars from floor to ceiling, but Amara’s never seen him knock anything over. She has no idea what brought Zoskales all the way to Pompeii from Ethiopia, a place so distant she finds it almost impossible to imagine its existence. He likes to joke to customers it was love of his wife. Amara almost never sees her at the bar, more often in the street, harried by their three small children. She makes an unlikely Siren, luring her man halfway across the world.

  “Not as busy as we’d like,” Victoria says. “Anybody here need entertaining?”

  “I’m sure if there are, you’ll soon find them.” Zoskales replies. Business between tavern and brothel is always brisk. “I’ll get Nicandrus to bring you hot wine and stew.”

  The women make their way to a table near the two wolf-whistlers. Amara feels a flicker of fear. She would have crossed the street to avoid men like this in her hometown, her mother no doubt tugging her along to walk faster, whispering at her to look down. The two men are already drunk, dressed in the stained, weatherworn clothes of travelling traders. She sees the one closest to them is missing his four front teeth. His companion has a thick beard, curled and dressed with cheap oil to hide the grey.

  Amara takes a seat on a bench by the wall, and Dido joins her. Victoria tries to pull up stools for her and Cressa, but the man with the missing teeth catches hold of her wrist. “Plenty of room for you to sit here.” White spittle pools in the middle of his lips as he speaks. He spreads his legs out, slapping his knee. His companion snorts with laughter.

  “Hope you aren’t bothering the ladies.” Nicandrus arrives with the tray. His tone is light, but he walks deliberately between the tables, forcing the man to let go.

  “Oh, they’re no trouble.” Victoria smiles sweetly at the man who just grabbed her. She sits down, moving her cloak so he can see up the length of her thigh, before swiftly covering it. She smiles at him again, and he stares back, flushed. First fish caught, Amara thinks.

  Nicandrus puts the bean stew down in front of Dido. “You look cold,” he says.

  “It’s so wet out,” she replies.

  “Hope this warms you.” He hovers, obviously hoping she will say something more. Amara has noticed the way Nicandrus watches Dido, seen his nervousness whenever an aggressive customer gets too close to her. She almost loves him for it.

  “Nicandrus!” Zoskales bellows across the bar. “The wine won’t serve itself!”

  Dido bends her head to eat. She is hopeless at fishing. A few short months ago she was a respectable
girl from a small suburb of Carthage, never leaving the house with her head uncovered, betrothed to a man chosen by her father, a secluded life of raising children and keeping house stretching out in front of her. Amara feels a pain in her chest. She has been enslaved longer than Dido, but not so long she doesn’t remember the agony of losing her own freedom.

  “You’re not from Pompeii,” Victoria says to the two traders. She is making quick work of her stew, dabbing with the bread around the rim, never one to let a potential customer slip away.

  “Did you travel by sea?” Cressa says. “I’ve always wanted to travel by sea.” She sips her wine, gazing at the bearded man as if he were the god Poseidon deigning to visit the mortals on shore.

  “No. We came over from Puteoli,” he says. “In the meat business. Goats, mainly.”

  “Bet you like a bit of meat,” his companion adds, poking Victoria in the leg, the string of saliva between his lips lengthening as he grins. Victoria laughs, covering her mouth prettily with one hand, as if he just said something witty. Amara tries not to wince. Always the same. Why do men never have anything original to say to a prostitute? This pair are moments away from bragging about the size of their cocks.

  The toothless man slaps his knee again, and this time Victoria perches on it. Cressa takes a long draught of wine, draining her cup to the bottom, then rises and drapes herself over his companion. Victoria nestles herself back closer against Toothless who is breathing heavily, but Amara notices she is careful not to let his hands wander too far up inside her clothes. There are limits to what Zoskales will tolerate in his bar.

  The bearded man is kissing Cressa who breaks away to steal another sip of wine, this time from his cup. He gives her a slap, meant playfully perhaps, but hard enough to make her spill red liquid down her front. “Dirty little she-wolf,” he says.