“I suppose coming here makes a lovely change for you,” Victoria says to Drauca. “A break from all that slopping out and changing the sheets when customers have pissed in them.” She turns to Beronice and Amara in mock sympathy. “Imagine working all hours in a bar and having to screw the customers! Exhausting!”
“Fuck you,” says Attice. “At least our master isn’t a total shit. When was the last time Felix-the-tight-arse let you keep any tips?”
“You’re right he does have a tight arse,” Victoria replies. “A hard, tight arse, like an apple. Such a shame we have to serve a master who looks like Apollo. I’d so much rather be squashed under fat old Simo with his bad breath and bald patch.”
“Yeah, must be brilliant for you all,” Maria says. She points at Dido, raising her voice. “That one looks like she’s loving life.”
Dido turns her face away, in no mood to fight back, but Cressa is angry. “Why don’t you just keep your big mouth shut?” She flaps a hand at Maria. “As if you’ve never cried over a man. Sure, Felix is a dick. So is Simo. Big deal.”
“Simo might be a dick,” Drauca sighs, turning her pretty face to look out over the sea as if she’s bored. “But at least he tips. That’s the point.”
“I suppose he gave you extra to have us thrown out last time,” Amara says, still annoyed at the thought of being cheated. “Shame that didn’t work out for you.”
“Oh,” says Victoria. “I don’t think it was the money.” She stands up on the steps where she has been sitting in the water, nimbly hopping up onto the heated floor. She flexes her body, not in the coy way Drauca does, but like an athlete, showing off her strength as well as her beauty. “Are you scared of the competition? Afraid those legendary tits of yours aren’t going to look as good next to mine?”
“I think you’ll find the men are looking for Venus not Hercules,” Drauca sneers. Simo’s other women laugh, but Amara can see Drauca is rattled. She stares at Victoria who is now doing backflips, a small crease on her beautiful forehead.
“Shut up!” Beronice hisses. “Listen.” The women fall silent. An echo of male voices reaches the pool.
“Here they come.” Victoria splashes back down into the water. She is flushed with excitement. It’s not about sex, Amara realizes, looking at her. Her eyes take on that same look at the gaming table. The ferocious will to win.
Six men walk through an archway encrusted with coloured shells, bare feet slapping on the stone. Their faces are red, and their bodies shine with sweat. They must have come from the steam room. Amara watches as they drift towards the pool, chatting, unhurried, not yet acknowledging the women’s presence.
Drauca may have picked the most scenic spot, but Victoria, sprawled over the steps, beats her by proximity. “You’re new,” says a young man as he eases himself into the water next to her.
“Victoria,” she breathes in his ear, twisting herself round his body like a vine. She starts kissing him to forestall any further conversation.
“Lucius got a lively one,” laughs another man, following his companion down the steps. He wades towards Drauca. “And how’s my lovely girl?”
Amara realizes she has unconsciously shrunk back against the side, away from where the customers are getting in. She thinks of Felix, of Vibo, of all she has gone through to get this second chance. There’s no point wasting her time by allowing nobodies like Maria and Attice to upstage her. Swallowing down the feeling of dread, she swims towards two older men who are sitting talking at the side of the pool, their thin legs dangling in the water.
“So I told him, at that price, we will look for another supplier. People need bread, but the city won’t pay for grain at any cost…” He trails off, noticing Amara leaning against the side next to him. “Not now.” He shoos her away. “Maybe later.” She freezes, not sure what to do.
“Maybe this one doesn’t speak Latin,” says the other man. He turns to her, enunciating slowly, as if she is stupid. “You. Greek. Whore. Yes?” The man’s white hair is stuck to his head in sweaty tufts like a newborn duckling. His pale eyes stare at her with a lack of focus, as if he doesn’t expect to see anyone looking back.
Amara thinks of her father. The crooked way he would smile when he talked about the power of the Roman state. Everything they have is borrowed from us, Timarete. Always remember that. “I am from Aphidnai,” she replies, speaking fluent Latin. “Twelfth city of Attica, once the home of Helen of Troy.” She inclines her head graciously, one hand over her heart in greeting, her father’s smile on her face. “In this country, I am called Amara. I wish nothing other than to be of service to you both.”
Duckling Head is not charmed. “Aphidnai didn’t keep hold of Helen for long, if your myths are true.”
His companion laughs. “Don’t be so bad-tempered Gaius.” He looks at Amara with more interest. She looks back under lowered lashes. He is old, it’s true, but not entirely unattractive. His square jaw and iron-grey hair at least make him more prepossessing than his rude companion. She glances downwards. There are gold rings on his fingers, the flesh around them swollen in the heat. Her heart flutters. Could this be the patron she has been hoping for? Can he see how much she has to offer? In her imagination, she leaps forwards in time, sees him devotedly draping her in jewels, entranced by her every word… “You have a pretty mouth, Amara from Aphidnai. Don’t waste it talking to him.” He parts his legs in a not very subtle sign of what he wants. Of course, it’s not interest in his eyes. It’s nothing more than the drunk look of lust she has seen so many times before. Amara hesitates, the disappointment of reality taking a few seconds to dissipate her fantasy. Then she bends her head to oblige.
Duckling Head harrumphs in annoyance. “Not very entertaining for me, and now you’ve gone and taken the last pretty one.”
“Don’t make a fuss,” groans his companion. “That fat one over there isn’t doing anything. It’s not like you have to look at their faces anyway!”
The men shout at Maria to join them. Amara finds it distracting to have to work next to her. Duckling Head does nothing but complain, threatening to shove Maria’s head under the water if she doesn’t make more effort. It seems Drauca’s warning wasn’t a joke. The rage Amara feels is blinding. For a moment, she thinks of Felix. Imagines what it must be like to have the power to act on your anger rather than bury it.
Amara’s customer – whose name she still doesn’t know – finishes with a whimper. He pulls his legs up out of the water and rises unsteadily. He waits for Duckling Head then helps him get to his feet. They walk off without offering any thanks.
“Is it always like this?” Amara asks Maria.
“Like what?” Maria snaps, wiping her face. There are red marks on her cheek where her customer must have dug his fingernails into her skin.
Amara glances round the luxurious room which is now reverberating with the women’s fake gasps and moans. Victoria is the loudest, but she seems far more interested in what Drauca is up to than in the man beneath her. The two women are showing off and out-performing each other, their customers the unknowing recipients of their rivalry. Amara looks over at the window then looks away – she isn’t sure she wants to know what two men are doing with Beronice over there. Dido and Cressa have the easiest deal, giving a double massage to a man sprawled over the bench they were sitting on.
“I thought maybe…” Amara trails off, silenced by Maria’s angry, uncomprehending stare. She isn’t sure what she would say anyway. That she was hoping for a watery symposium, impressing rich men with her conversation like the courtesans of Greek high society? Her humiliation feels worse for being self-inflicted. Better to expect nothing than be made a fool.
There’s laughter as three more customers walk into the baths from the steam room. This time, Amara doesn’t wait. She leaves Maria, wading towards the men. It isn’t Victoria she imitates as climbs the steps, water dripping off her. She remembers the way Felix moved at the Palaestra, the sharp lines of his body as he ran past his rivals, the
violence and the rage.
She stalks towards the men, interrupting their conversation without apology. “I am Amara of Aphidnai,” she says. “Twelfth city of Attica, home of Helen of Troy. Which of you imagines he may command my attention?” The three men look at each other, amused but not entirely sure how to respond. The illusion of power she has created is fragile; she knows any one of them could force her if they choose to. Rather than frighten her, the knowledge makes her even more aggressive. She holds out her hand to the most confident-looking man, the one she hopes will have the least to prove by humiliating her.
“Who could refuse such an Amazon?” he says, smirking. He takes her hand and follows her to an empty bench.
Amara has learnt more than enough about the mechanics of sex to understand what will give pleasure. All that matters now is severing herself completely from her body. She runs through the repertoire, the line between fear and anger stretched taut across her heart. The only time panic threatens to pull her into the present is at the end when he tries to wrest her onto her back. She cedes control, telling herself it will be quicker that way.
Afterwards she doesn’t wait to see if his reaction will be gratitude or indifference. She turns her back and walks to the pool. Down the steps, the water rises past her waist then higher as she plunges all the way in, swimming to the window. Amara looks out to the sea. If she didn’t know the scene behind her, if she couldn’t hear it, she could imagine that the horizon stretching out ahead belonged to her. Instead, she knows that she is as confined here, in the air and the light, as she is in the narrow darkness of her cell.
11
Do you regard yourself as chaste just because you are an unwilling whore?
Seneca, Declamations 1.2
Amara holds Dido as she cries. They sit huddled together on Dido’s narrow bed. Over her friend’s heaving shoulder, she can read the Thrust SLOWLY! command she carved into the wall. She cannot imagine now why it ever seemed funny. Beside it, the curtain is half-drawn to give them a little privacy. She doesn’t dare pull it across completely. Victoria’s voice is loud in the corridor, praising some man to get him in the mood. At any moment, they will be interrupted by a customer. The women have no time for themselves at night, not even for grief.
“I can’t live like this,” Dido gasps out between sobs. “I can’t go on. I can’t bear my life; I can’t bear it.”
“But you did so well at the baths earlier,” Amara says, stroking her hair. “Second most popular after Victoria. All those tips.” At the time, she had felt a stab of jealousy, but now she wishes Dido had out-earned her by twice as much. She holds her closer. “You just need to keep thinking about making enough to escape. Nothing else matters.”
“We’re never going to escape!” Dido says, pushing her away. “This is it! It’s all our lives will ever be.” Her voice is rising, almost hysterical. “If I had any real virtue, I would have killed myself before allowing any man to touch me!”
“Please don’t,” Amara says. “Please don’t say things like that.”
“Everything good about me died in this cell; Felix made sure of that,” Dido puts her hands over her face, either to stem the tears or to blot out the memory. “Eight Denarii. That’s what he was paid for my virginity. That’s what my honour was worth.”
“You didn’t have any choice,” Amara says. “It’s not your fault.”
“Do you know what he told me this morning?” Amara doesn’t reply. She had suspected Dido’s despair might have been prompted by their pimp’s cruelty. “He asked me if I thought my mother was dead. I said I thought she must be. Then he said I shouldn’t worry. If she was as beautiful as me, the pirates wouldn’t have killed her; some man was probably fucking her as a whore somewhere, right at the same time as he was fucking me.” Dido starts crying again. “He doesn’t leave you anything; he has to destroy everything.”
Amara stares at the smoke billowing from one of the clay lamps in the corner of the cell. A savage, grinning little Priapus, one of the models she bought from Rusticus. It has almost burnt out. If she were Victoria, she would tell Dido not to pay attention, to ignore Felix. “I wish I could kill him for you,” she says, her voice flat. “I’ve imagined it enough times. But I know what happens to slaves who murder their masters.” In the flickering glow, the whites of Dido’s eyes shine. Amara shrugs. “Better than killing yourself, if you have to end it all.” She cannot read the expression on her friend’s face. “So you see, you’re not such a bad person, are you? I know you’ve never thought of hurting anyone. Not even Felix.”
“Perhaps I should have.”
“No.” Amara takes her hand. “You are one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. It’s why I love you so much.”
“More than the potter’s slave?” Dido wipes her face with her free hand. “I know that’s who you went to see the other day.”
The smoking lamp stutters out. Next door, they can hear Beronice’s customer shouting, presumably with pleasure. The busiest hours of the night are approaching. Amara glances at the curtain. Every second alone is time they have stolen. “I didn’t go to see Menander. Though I wanted to.”
“Where then?”
“I went to see Felix at the Palaestra.”
Dido looks more shocked than when Amara confessed her longing to murder him. “But why?”
“For money. Because I’m trying to act as his agent, arranging loans for desperate women. They’re not quite as desperate as me, but still, I’m not proud of it.” She shifts herself up further onto the bed, crossing her legs. “Either we choose to stay alive, or we give up. And if it’s living we choose, then we do whatever it takes.”
“I’m not as strong as you.”
“You’re stronger,” Amara replies. “You lost everything in a single day. I had years to get used to my losses. I cannot imagine what it was like for you – one moment safe with your family, the next dragged off onto that ship. All the things you saw. But you survived.”
Dido picks at the fabric on the bed, not looking up. “Sometimes I think I brought it on myself.” She tugs a thread lose and winds it round and round her finger. It digs deep into her skin. “I didn’t want to marry the husband my father chose for me. I was complaining about him to my cousin before the pirates attacked. Until then, being tied to an ugly man who sold cheese was the worst thing I could imagine.”
Amara almost wants to laugh, but Dido’s stricken face stops her. Before she can think of what to say, Thraso sticks his head round the door. “Some fucking drunk just threw up in the corridor. We need more water.”
“What about Fabia?” Amara says.
“She’s already trying to clean it up, she can’t do everything. Anyway, why are you moaning? You’ve barely sucked a cock all night, you lazy bitch.” Thraso takes a step forwards, but Amara jumps off the bed before he can raise his hand to slap her.
She ducks past him, grabbing the bucket from the doorway. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry; I’m going.” Dido picks up one of the oil lamps and hurries after her. The stench hits them as soon as they leave the cell. They step around the vomit splattered on the floor, bumping into Fabia as she straightens up.
“I’ll need that bucket as full as you can manage,” she says, flicking an angry look at the culprit.
The sick-stained drunk is pawing at Cressa, trying to persuade her to take him into her cell, even though he can hardly stand upright. “So pretty…” he murmurs, insensible to her look of revulsion.
Amara and Dido take the back way onto the street, passing the door to Felix’s apartment. Dido goes ahead, holding up the clay lamp to show the way. The flare sends their shadows lurching. At first the light and noise from The Elephant follows them, but soon, they are enveloped in almost total darkness. Moonlight picks out the bare shape of the houses, leaving unknown pools of black. Amara’s heart beats loud in her ears. She has always hated being out in the dark.
They walk slowly and painstakingly, taking care not to stumble. Wooden shutters seal u
p the shops and houses that they pass. If it’s not to visit a tavern or brothel, few people venture out at this hour. Unless they are thieves. Amara knows their poverty is no protection, plenty of men would steal what Felix sells. She glances up at one of the bolted windows. There’s little chance anyone would rush outside to help a screaming woman at this time of night.
The well is at the end of the street. “Hold it up for me,” she whispers to Dido, nodding at the lamp. Amara leans over the side, putting her weight into the groove in the stone, sunken under the pressure of so many hands. The flame flickers over the carved face as she cranks the arm of the well. Water pours from the stone mouth. It has never seemed to take so long to fill a bucket.
“Somebody is coming!” Dido hisses.
Amara straightens up, not wanting to leave her back exposed to whatever is approaching. She and Dido press together. There’s the brisk clip of feet, more certain than their mouse-like shuffle up the street, and soon, a single flame bobs into view. It’s a man with a bucket. Nicandrus.
He looks startled. “What are you doing out here?” The light from Dido’s lamp shakes wildly. Her hand is trembling with fright. Nicandrus puts down his bucket with a clank and rushes over. “It’s alright,” he says, putting an arm round her to hold her steady. “It’s alright.” He looks at them both shivering in their togas. “You’ve not even put your cloaks on!”
“We didn’t have time, we…” Amara trails off. What is there to say? That they ran off half-dressed because they were afraid of Thraso?
The sudden kindness is too much for Dido. All her emotion, already so close to the surface, spills over, and she starts to cry again. Nicandrus gently takes the lamp from her and hands both lights to Amara. “It’s alright,” he says, holding her close. “You’re alright.”
It’s not alright, Amara thinks, feeling foolish as she illuminates the pair of them, huddled like lovers in the dark. Nothing about our lives is alright.
The Wolf Den Page 9
