Dido buries her face in his shoulder in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all.” And indeed, Nicandrus looks far from sorry at the situation. “Why don’t you take my cloak?” He says, unfastening it. He looks over at Amara. “I mean, you can both share it, maybe?”
“I think I’d better keep hold of the lamps.”
Nicandrus wraps Dido in his cloak. He takes his time, smoothing it over her shoulders, reluctant to let go of her. “I can get the water,” he says. He heads to the well, starts refilling their bucket. It takes him half the time to work the pump that it took Amara. He hauls their pail out and clanks his own into the trough. “It’s not safe for you both out here, Zoskales would never send Sava out at this time of night.”
“Zoskales isn’t Thraso,” Amara replies. “Or Felix.”
“I know.” Nicandrus lifts out the second bucket. “I’m sorry.” He looks at them both – Dido muffled in his cloak, Amara standing rigid with her two lights like a lamp stand. “I wish I could… I wish…” They stare back at him, waiting for him to finish. “You don’t deserve any of it,” he says to Dido, as if Amara wasn’t there. He picks up both buckets. “I guess we should get going. Zoskales always moans if I take too long.”
Amara hands Dido one of the oil lamps and sends her ahead. Nicandrus follows, and she takes up the rear with the second light. It’s brighter with two flames, and although one skinny man would be small protection against thieves, it still feels safer with Nicandrus than it had without him.
At the back door to the brothel, Amara is prepared to slip inside and give her friend a moment alone, but Dido stands on the threshold, blocking her way. She passes Amara the lamp, her hand no longer shaking, and takes off the cloak, giving it back to Nicandrus. Then she leans over and grabs the bucket from him, holding it like a shield across her front, spilling some water on her shoes. “Thank you,” she says, not looking him in the eye.
All three stand in the doorway. It’s painfully obvious that Nicandrus wants to hold Dido, to kiss her, anything to recapture the intimacy at the well. But it’s also obvious the moment has passed. “Anytime,” he says bowing his head, before turning and walking back to the tavern.
Amara feels sad, watching him go. “I think he was hoping for…”
“I know what he was hoping,” Dido says.
“Don’t you like him? I think he really cares for you.”
“I do like him.”
“Then why not?”
Dido turns to her. Her face is drawn. “I can’t bear any man touching me. They all feel like Felix.” She is gripping the bucket. “Even when he had his arms round me, when I wanted to hug him back, I kept thinking he was going to hurt me.”
Amara is about to answer, to say Nicandrus would never hurt her, but then she realizes she doesn’t know that for sure. Perhaps he is like other men, after all. “I understand,” she says.
They step inside the brothel. “At last,” Fabia exclaims, taking the bucket from Dido. She sloshes it over the floor and starts to brush the vomit towards the front door. A man, who has been hovering at the entrance, dances to avoid the splash.
“Fucking watch it, you old crone!” He looks up at Dido and Amara. “Which one of you is mine?” Amara feels like she has met this man a thousand times before, even though his face is not familiar. Dishevelled, drunk, no doubt rough with his hands. She thinks of Cressa, of the way her kindness once reached across the darkness, of what that had meant when she was afraid.
“My cell is here,” she says, pointing to the open door.
The man staggers his way over the wet floor, avoiding Fabia’s busy, darting brush. Dido leans in towards her, speaking quietly so he cannot hear. “Thank you.”
The customer pushes between them, and Dido turns away. Amara follows him into her cell, drawing the curtain. He sits heavily on the bed. “I’m Publius,” he says.
“Lovely to meet you Publius,” she says. “I’m Amara.”
She starts to undress, taking her time, not to titillate him but to give herself a small delay. This is where Victoria would be running through her patter to get him in the mood. But there is no need. Publius is looking at her naked body in wonder. “You’re lovely,” he says.
Amara almost feels sorry for him, this man who cannot see her bitterness. She smiles. “Thank you.” She walks to the bed and kneels on the floor, unfastens his boots, easing them off his feet. “You’re tired,” she says, without thinking.
“It was a long day at the bakery,” he replies.
She carries on undressing him. At least he is not such a monster as the wealthy old men at the baths. The memory brings a flush to her cheeks. All that effort and she barely made a denarius in tips. If anything, the day has shown her rich men are meaner than poor ones. She cannot believe she was stupid enough to think a place run by a man like Vibo would ever provide her with a way out.
Amara climbs up onto the bed beside Publius. She thinks of brokering the loan in the Forum, the feeling she had when Marcella signed. Not just guilt but elation. She lets Publius kiss her, lying passive as a stone. It’s supposed to be her making the effort here, not him, but he doesn’t seem to care. The anger that is always just beneath the surface of her skin flickers into life. Why should he care? He’s lucky to be able to touch her at all.
She hears Felix’s voice in her head. And you would, wouldn’t you? Tear them all apart.
He seems nice enough, this Publius, the baker’s man. Perhaps he has a wife at home, a family. Would she tear him apart? Amara doesn’t even have to ask herself the question. She rises, looking down on her breathless lover, eyes glittering orange in the lamplight. If the only way out requires working with Felix, then so be it. Whatever it takes.
APRILIS
12
Celebrate the power of Venus, girls of the street; Venus is appropriate for the earnings of women who promise a lot. With an offering of incense ask for beauty and popular favour, ask for seductiveness and words that are fit for fun. And give your mistress pleasing mint along with her own myrtle, and bonds of reed covered with well arranged roses.
Ovid, Fasti IV
Amara is caught in a river of women, unable to break from the flow, even if she wanted to. There are so many of them, they have burst the banks of the pavements and spilled over into the road. Mud is splashing up her legs, but she doesn’t care. They are a noisy crowd, singing, laughing, wrists and ankles jingling with bells. The sweet smell of mint mingles with the reek of sweat. She would never have suspected Pompeii had so many prostitutes.
Out of sight at the front of the procession, musicians blow their shrill pipes, and her blood pulses to its beat. She squeezes Dido’s fingers. The kohl she drew around her friend’s dark brown eyes has smudged a little but that only makes them look wider. Neither have watched the Vinalia before, still less taken part. The April festival of whores and wine is hardly an event a respectable girl would attend, or even try to glimpse from the window.
Plenty of others are watching though. People stand bunched together outside shopfronts or hang out of balconies to see the women pass. Men loiter at the edges of the procession, drinking and shouting, vying for a chance to grab a kiss or maybe more. Amara knows Felix, Thraso and Gallus will be weaving through the crowds, keeping watch, even when she cannot see them. After all, the women aren’t just here to celebrate but to sell. Everything in Pompeii turns to making a profit.
“Keep up!” Victoria yells, looking back over her shoulder. She is almost naked and has dressed her hair in myrtle, Venus’s own flowers. Amara knows how much this day means to Victoria. To spend your life classed as infamia, unable – even if you win your freedom – to rub off the taint is a shame that can eat into your bones if you let it. But the Vinalia upends the usual order. Today, they own the streets. Nobody can deny the whores’ importance to Pompeii’s most powerful patron.
“Look at the goddess!” Beronice says, pointing. As the road t
o the Forum rises, they can see the plaster statue of Venus more clearly. Carried on a platform, she stands above the crowd as an immortal should, swaying on the shoulders of her temple’s slaves, draped in garlands. “I’m going to ask her to help me marry Gallus,” Beronice says, glancing round, trying to spy her lover in the crowd. “He’s bought me roses to give her.”
“Gallus bought them?” Amara asks.
“Well, he’s going to buy them,” Beronice replies. “When we get to the Forum.”
“He’ll be lucky if the sellers have any left,” Cressa says.
Beronice doesn’t reply; she has seen her beloved and rushes to the edge to be closer to him. “Won’t Felix notice?” Dido asks, watching her with an anxious frown. “She’s not very subtle.”
“Probably useful for him,” Cressa says. “All that foolishness keeps them both obedient.”
At the Forum, their river hits a bank of humanity. Hawkers ride slipstreams through the crowd, balancing trays on their shoulders, selling everything from garlands to hot pies. And of course, wine. Venus isn’t the only deity worshipped at the Vinalia, it’s also a day to thank Jupiter for Campania’s fruitful vineyards. Although she cannot see it, Amara knows the faithful will be pouring wine on his altar, a sacrifice to please the most libidinous of gods. Although looking at the state of the worshippers, she suspects even more has been poured down their throats. Those who aren’t already too drunk, cheer at the women’s arrival, pressing towards them. The surge brings their procession to a standstill. Ahead, the musicians blast on their pipes more insistently, driving the men back from the goddess. Amara feels a hand grip her arm and whips round. Felix.
“Keep close,” he says, as if she has any choice with his fingers digging into her flesh.
“What about the others?” she asks, realizing she can no longer see Beronice or Victoria. Cressa is stuck with Thraso.
“Gallus has them,” he says, looking down at her and Dido. “Just concentrate on getting to the temple.”
They shuffle forwards, so slowly it’s almost painful. Felix’s presence stops her from getting trampled but also squashes her excitement. His hand on her arm, steering her along, owning her, makes this day more like any other, not the brief moment of freedom she had imagined. In her sweaty fingers, the sprigs of mint and myrtle are already wilting. Fabia went out early to buy their offerings but didn’t bring back any roses. Felix thinks they are overpriced.
At last, the goddess reaches the narrow road that leads to the temple. The plaster Venus dips and jerks as the slaves carry her over the uneven stones. The women follow, squeezing into the passageway. The mud is even deeper here, and Amara doesn’t like to imagine what might be in the damp sludge she is squelching through; everyone is packed so closely together she cannot see her feet. Getting through the arch into the temple grounds feels like she is being pressed through a sieve. On the other side, there’s a little more room to breathe.
Amara has never been here before. The precinct is enormous, perhaps half the size of the Forum, and although the temple itself is only part built, the vast colonnade which encircles it on three sides gives the illusion of opening out onto the sky. In spite of the crowds, from this position, high up on the edge of the hilltop, she can see the glittering sweep of the bay, the blue haze of the mountains. She stands, mesmerized. The first time Amara saw the sea was at the harbour in Piraeus, waiting to be loaded onto the cargo boat with all the other goods. The water had looked dark and frightening then, the savage kingdom of monsters which kept Odysseus from his home, just as she was being taken from hers. But here at Pompeii the sea looks different. From this height, it has the illusion of calm, a burnished silver mirror, reflecting the sky.
Blasts from horn pipes and flutes draw her attention back to the ceremony. The slaves have carried their painted Venus up the steps onto the dais and set her in front of the altar. Facing the crowd, the goddess of love’s eyes are thickly lined with black, giving her a staring, watchful look. She is naked apart from gold jewellery encircling her arms and the garlands draped around her neck. Behind her, the temple is a half-finished shell. Worshippers aren’t usually allowed in here, but the priests seem to hope today’s offerings will encourage the goddess to bless the construction work. Amara catches sight of Victoria and Beronice squashed beside Gallus. Beronice is leaning against her lover, and Amara realizes with a jolt of surprise that she is clutching a single pink rose to her cheek.
More blasts on the pipes, and the ceremony begins. A waft of smoke drifts towards Amara and she breathes in. It smells sweet with the tang of cinnamon. Priests are burning incense, making offerings of grain and wine. One miscalculates the strength of the flames and an attendant has to step in to protect the goddess from flying sparks. People in the crowd murmur and exchange uneasy glances. Surely that’s not a good sign? Amara looks up at Felix, but his face is impassive. She supposes he can’t be especially pious, or he would have bought them better garlands.
The women are called on to approach the steps. For a moment, Amara wonders if Felix is going to come too, but he releases her arm and gestures for her and Dido to go ahead. Cressa joins them, lips moving in prayer, and they walk forwards arm in arm. Amara wonders what Cressa is asking for. She looks down at her own crumpled offering. All the prayers of her childhood were to Athene; she doesn’t know what she should ask her new mistress, doesn’t know how much she believes in the gods at all.
Temple slaves guard the base of the steps to prevent over-zealous worshippers getting too close to the altar. Some of the women are weeping, raising their arms to the statue, milking the moment, others simply drop a sprig and leave. Victoria and Beronice are already at the front. Beronice lobs her rose so hard towards Venus, one of the attendants reprimands her. Victoria is uncharacteristically quiet, unweaving almost all the myrtle from her hair. She kisses it and lets it fall. Cressa lets go of Amara’s arm and pushes ahead. Amara and Dido hang back, uncertain.
“What do we ask for?” Dido whispers.
Amara looks up at Venus. It’s the closest she has been to the statue. Those painted eyes, so black and wide apart, don’t just look watchful but angry. She is not only the goddess of love, Amara thinks, this is a deity who drives men to madness, a destroyer of warriors, author of the fall of Troy.
“We ask her for power over men.”
Amara pulls Dido closer to the steps. She takes her sprig in both hands, crushing it to release the scent. May men fall to me as this offering falls to you, Greatest Aphrodite. May I know love’s power, if never its sweetness. Amara drops her mangled garland on the ever-growing pile of heaped offerings from the desperate whores of Pompeii.
13
Learn singing, fair ones. Song’s a thing of grace;Voice oft’s a better procuress than face.
Ovid, The Art of Love III
Felix’s women loiter at the entrance to the Forum, trying to decide which way to go. The Vinalia has taken hold like a fever. Clumps of drinkers stand around, while street musicians and performers stoke the excitement, urging people to dance. At the edge of the square, wine sellers are busy behind their stalls, making sure nobody goes short. Their master has given the she-wolves permission to stay out until evening – an unheard of amount of freedom. As if to prove his point, Felix has already abandoned them and wandered off to join a group of men. Amara isn’t sure what to do with herself.
“Don’t just stand there!” Cressa says, shooing her and Dido towards the nearest wine seller. “Make the most of it!” Cressa buys herself two flasks of honeyed wine, keeping one in reserve, while she knocks back the other.
“Shall we share one?” Amara suggests. The wine is expensive, the sellers’ obviously pricing in the captive audience and the loss of some of their flasks. Even on a festival day, Amara is reluctant to spend a single penny she might save for her future. Time enough to drink when she’s a free woman.
“I can get the next one,” Dido agrees as Amara takes a flask from the seller’s outstretched tray.
&n
bsp; “For fuck’s sake!” Victoria laughs, elbowing her. “Live a little! You’re not old women yet.” She makes a point of buying herself a drink, rolling her eyes at them both as she hands over the money.
“That’s the spirit, goddess,” the seller says, looking Victoria up and down. She has a small piece of cloth tied around her breasts, another round her hips. Her legs and waist are bare. “It’s not often I get to sell to Venus herself,” he continues, smacking his lips. “For a kiss, you can have the next for free.”
“Done,” Victoria says. She downs the flask and thumps it back on his tray, making the dark liquid in the other jars wobble.
“You don’t miss a trick.”
“Do you want that kiss or not?” He leans forwards eagerly, but Victoria steps back. “Drink first.” She points to Amara. “My friend will hold it for me.”
He obliges then takes hold of Victoria with one arm, holding his tray out with the other. Before Amara can warn her, the wine seller’s hand has reached the knot at Victoria’s back. He yanks the material down, trying to expose her breasts. She shoves him off, and he lets go, anxious to save his tray.
Victoria laughs. “These will cost you more than a flask of wine,” she says, hoicking the material back up again. “If you’re in the mood later, you can find me at the Wolf Den. That’s if you can afford it.” She takes the wine from Amara, and the three of them push deeper into the crowd. “Best way to get a drink at the Vinalia,” Victoria says. “You shouldn’t have to pay for more than one.”
“Beronice doesn’t seem to be paying for any,” Dido says. “I just saw Gallus get her a flask.”
“So he should,” Victoria replies. “He’s had enough free fucks off her.” They stop to join a small circle that’s formed around a flute player. A woman is dancing to the music, the men clapping and cheering as she lowers herself to the ground, her backside and thighs quivering. “Drauca!” Victoria exclaims. They stand and watch for a moment, but Victoria is restless. “Here, you can keep this,” she says, handing her drink back to Amara. She shoves her way to the centre of the circle, ignoring the catcalls, and stands in front of her rival. “I’ll show you how to move, bitch!”
The Wolf Den Page 10
