The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  Victoria flings herself into the dance, bumping and grinding, shaking herself at her yelling audience. Drauca only hesitates a second before joining in. The flute player ups his tempo, piping so fast it seems impossible the dancers will be able to keep time, but they do. One of the men throws his drink at the women, and others follow, screaming encouragement. Red liquid shining on their skin, dancing with the ferocity of wolves, Victoria and Drauca look less like whores and more like the fevered acolytes of Dionysis about to rip each other limb from limb.

  “There you are!” Beronice heads towards them. She is draped over Gallus like a garland, her cheeks shining. Nicandrus trails after them both, holding a small bunch of roses. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She stands on tiptoe to see what all the nearby shrieking is about and recognizes Victoria. “Such a show-off! And she’s taken all her clothes off! Do you like it?” She turns anxiously to Gallus. “I can dance like that for you, if you like? Do you want me to? Would it turn you on?”

  Gallus answers by seizing her and sticking his tongue down her throat.

  Neither of them look likely to break for air anytime soon, so Nicandrus pushes in front. “These are for you,” he says to Dido.

  “Thank you.” She takes the roses and holds them to her heart. “You’re always so kind.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” Amara murmurs, half expecting Dido to protest. But perhaps the honeyed wine or the atmosphere has taken the edge off her shyness. She is pleased to see Dido smile as Nicandrus bends to say something to her.

  Amara has no idea where she wants to go. The flask of wine Victoria gave her is warm in her hand, and she sips it, wandering slowly through the square, stopping now and then to listen to various players. She wonders if Salvius might be here with his pipe.

  The crush is not as intense as in the procession, and the noise of so many competing musicians, the cheers, the laughter, echoes off the stone and rises into the warm air like an offering to the gods. It’s the first time Amara has been completely alone like this in a crowd. She looks briefly at the people she passes, not to attract unwanted attention but to get a sense of those around her. Has she been with any of these men? It’s hard to know. In the brothel, she tries not to focus on their faces.

  Amara walks a little faster, back towards the area where she left Dido, aware that she doesn’t want to drift too far from her friends. She is so intent on her purpose that she almost misses him. Menander. He is walking in her direction, staring at all the women he passes, his brow creased with worry. Then he sees her.

  “There you are!” he says, his face lighting up. “I knew I’d find you.” His joy and the lack of effort he makes to hide it warm her like wine.

  “I bet you say that to all the women at the Vinalia.” She laughs.

  “You know that’s not true, Timarete.”

  The switch to Greek, as always, hits her harder. “Rusticus is a generous master,” she says. “Letting you wander about a wine festival at will.”

  “He is generous. But only to a point. I have an hour, that’s all.”

  Amara cannot look away from his face. She thinks about her prayer to Venus Aphrodite. May I know love’s power, if never its sweetness. Perhaps the goddess is punishing her for her arrogance. “Let’s not waste it then,” she says, reaching out to him.

  They walk hand in hand through the crowd, not saying anything at first, not even sure where they are going, carried along on a current of shared happiness. “I’ve been to The Sparrow three times since I last saw you,” he says. “That’s every evening I’ve had off. The barman told me you usually only visit during the day.”

  “But you kept coming?”

  “Of course! A small chance of seeing you is better than none.”

  The thought of Menander waiting for her just over the road, while she is powerless to join him, is almost too painful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she says.

  “Does your master give you any time off for the games? I think he must do; the first game in July is traditionally for slaves too.”

  “July?” Amara asks, horrified at the thought of a date so far in the future.

  “Can’t you wait that long for me?”

  She knows he is teasing her. He has the same air of confidence she remembers at their first meeting when he claimed the lamp in her hands as his own. She smiles, not wanting to give him everything at once. “I expect so.”

  They reach the end of the Forum. A musician is playing a slow, melancholy tune on a lyre. Amara watches, imagining the vibration of the strings under her own fingers. “I used to play,” she says. “My father liked me to sing in the evenings. Though only in private,” she adds, hoping he will understand that in Greece, unlike Pompeii, she came from a respectable house.

  “Why don’t you ask him to let you borrow it?” Amara laughs, thinking he is joking. “Why not?” he presses. “It’s the Vinalia. You should be free to demand what you like.”

  Amara is spared from answering when she spots Dido, now standing alone. Beronice and Gallus are nowhere to be seen. “There’s my friend,” she says, pointing. “We should join her.”

  “I remember her,” he says. “She has a beautiful voice.”

  Amara introduces them both again. She is pleased to see Dido pretend not to remember Menander. He would never guess they have both spent more hours poring over his name and character than priests divining entrails on an altar. “Where’s Nicandrus?” she asks.

  “He only had a few minutes to spare; he just came to give me these.”

  The musician on the lyre begins a jauntier song. A couple beside them cheer and start dancing. Dido sways to the music, holding her roses.

  “I have to leave soon too.” Menander looks at Amara. “Will you have one dance with me?”

  “I’m not sure I know how.” She thinks of a family wedding she attended back home, the childhood glee of spinning round and round with her cousins. “I’ve only ever danced with women.”

  He takes both her hands and pulls her closer to the lyre. “Everybody’s drunk,” he says. “We can make it up.” She hesitates, but the clapping, the twirling, the stamping, are infectious. Amara and Menander link arms, turn, stop and clap, faster and faster, over and over, until she collapses against him in laughter. The musician ends his tune with a flourish, holding out the lyre and bowing.

  “Ask him now,” Menander says. “I want to see you play before I leave.”

  She looks at the lyre with longing but shakes her head. “I can’t.”

  Menander lets go of her and heads over to the musician. She sees him greet the man then turn back and gesture towards her. They have an urgent exchange. The musician nods and beckons her over.

  “How could I refuse such a request,” the musician says to her in Greek, as she approaches. Amara looks at Menander, wondering what he can have said. “Of course you must play.” He hands over his instrument.

  For a moment, Amara feels nothing but panic. Her mind is blank, she cannot remember a tune, cannot remember how to play a note. She looks up and sees people staring, curious, waiting to hear what she will perform. Dido is watching too. “Sing with me!” Amara calls to her, desperation in her voice.

  Dido hurries over. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “We can’t sing here!”

  “What about that love song Salvius taught us?” Amara’s cheeks are burning at the prospect of handing back the lyre, unplayed.

  “I don’t think I can remember it,” Dido says, but Amara has already started strumming the strings with the plectrum. The first notes strike her as shockingly discordant. It’s an unfamiliar instrument, with seven strings, not ten, and it takes her a while to work out which chords will recreate the Campanian folk song. She is concentrating so hard on getting the music right that she forgets about the crowd, even about Menander. With every touch to the strings, her confidence grows a little, and the music sounds a little sweeter. She launches into the first verse. To her relief, Dido joins her.

 
The crowd clap and several sing along, prompting them to remember the words. She is conscious of Menander smiling, nodding encouragement, but it’s hard to keep sight of him with dancers swirling and stamping past her. Instead, she looks at Dido. The performance has lent her the confidence of a stranger. She is holding herself with a boldness she never manages walking the streets. Amara catches her eye, and they start to sing to one another. It becomes a conversation, the passing of a look, a gesture, a feeling, even as they sing the same words. They repeat the song, but this time Amara stays silent when Dido sings the role of the shepherd, and understanding her, Dido leaves the role of the woman to Amara. They tell the story as a duet, playing up the comic element, Dido ever more pleading, Amara increasingly absurd in her proud rejection. At the end, Dido feigns collapse of a broken heart, sending a ripple of laughter through the small crowd.

  Amara laughs too, looking for Menander, hoping to find his approval. She cannot see him. His absence jolts her, but she is too caught up in the moment for sadness to swallow her. Two young men at the front are clapping and chanting, demanding another song. Others join in. Amara looks at the crowd, at the faces watching her. It is a power she has never felt before, this sense that she might shape the expectations of others, hold their desires in check, or release them. She bows.

  “We are celebrating the goddess of love,” she says, her voice loud. “Perhaps you would allow us to sing a hymn to our mistress, Aphrodite?” She makes no effort to hide her foreign accent, deliberately calling Venus by her Greek title. The two men at the front yell their approval, and Amara turns to Dido, speaking quietly. “If I sang a verse to you in Greek, line by line, would you be able to sing it back to me?”

  “I think so.”

  Amara strikes the lyre with the plectrum, the chords swift and insistent. The notes take her back almost instantly to Chremes’s house, and the way he watched her in the lamplight with the greed of a fox waiting for its prey to falter. This was not a song she learnt as a child. The memory is bitter. Amara imagines herself back at the feet of the painted Venus, breathes in, remembers the feel of the myrtle crushed beneath her fingers, its sweet scent.

  Aphrodite, subtle of soul and deathless,

  Daughter of God, weaver of wiles, I pray thee

  Neither with care, dread Mistress, nor with anguish,

  Slay thou my spirit!

  Dido listens intently, her eyes never leaving Amara’s face. She repeats each line back at a lower pitch, her voice catching the haunting quality of the song. It’s not a tavern favourite, like the folk tune, but their audience is eager to enjoy themselves, swaying to the music, some even clapping as they pick up the rhythm.

  At the second verse, one of the young men gives a sudden shout of recognition, slaps his companion on the back. Amara looks at them both more closely. One wears an expensive brooch at the fastening of his cloak. It is bronze, inset with red stones. She smiles, beckoning them towards her. The pair are drunk, but not insensible, and notice her flirtation. They draw a little closer, catcalling. Behind them, she sees a more familiar figure. Not Menander, but Felix. He is flanked by Thraso, watching her and Dido with an expression that she would mistake for fascination, if he were any other man. Perhaps he understands, finally, what they might be worth.

  They reach the last verse and just as she hoped, the two young men push themselves forwards. “Sappho?” one says, laying a hand on her arm. “A little grand for the Vinalia, isn’t she? Whose women are you?”

  Felix slips between them, swift as smoke. “The girls are mine,” he says, bowing low. Amara has never seen him speak with men of this class before. He is slighter than the two drunks, but she knows who would win in a fist fight.

  “Perfect for Zoilus, don’t you think?” The man says to his companion, barely acknowledging her master’s presence.

  The other laughs hysterically, slapping his thighs. “You have to, Quintus! You have to!”

  Quintus smiles at Felix, the sort of grimace the rich reserve for servants. “How much to rent the pair for the evening?”

  “The whole night?” Felix asks. Amara understands he is playing for time, trying to assess how far he can push it. She feels the warmth of Dido’s body press closer to hers. Their proper role in this exchange is silence, but there are other ways to communicate. She answers with a brief brush of the fingertips.

  “Of course the whole night, man! We want them to adorn our esteemed host’s party!” His companion again collapses into guffaws. “You must have heard of Zoilus?” Quintus continues with a smirk. “Foremost freedman in Pompeii.”

  Felix is himself a freedman. Amara suspects that neither Quintus, nor his friend, have any slaves in their own ancestry. Her master inclines his head graciously. “For such a host,” he says. “Fifty denarii.”

  The man called Quintus doesn’t flinch. “Done.”

  “Of course, if you want the lyre as well,” Felix replies. “That will be another twenty.”

  Even Quintus is not such a fool as to miss the fact he’s been tricked, but he clearly doesn’t wish to haggle like a grocer. “Very well,” he replies. “You can have twenty now as surety for the rest.”

  It is Felix’s turn to hesitate. Amara hopes he is not going to whip out a wax tablet, insist the men sign a promise for the extra cash in their own blood. Twenty is already more than she and Dido would earn overnight at the brothel. And surely, he must understand that men like this trade on their names all the time? Felix gives another bow. “For such honoured customers, my pleasure.”

  Quintus snaps his fingers and several men in the crowd hurry over. Of course this pair wouldn’t go anywhere without a retinue of slaves for protection. “Twenty for the gentleman,” he says, nodding at Felix, and the oldest slave takes out a purse, well-hidden under his cloak. Thraso steps in beside the line of men, ensuring the trade is screened from view. Behind them, she can see the musician craning to get a look, no longer smiling at her. Gallus is at his elbow. They must have already cut a deal for the gift of his lyre. She hopes it was based on promises rather than threats.

  “Quintus Fabius Proculus,” says their temporary master, showing Felix his signet ring. “Where shall I send the payment?”

  “To Gaius Terentius Felix Libertus at the establishment opposite The Elephant Inn.”

  “The Wolf Den?” Quintus begins laughing so hard, Amara thinks he will choke. “Marcus! We did a deal with the town brothel! Wait until I tell the others we brought Zoilus a pair of she-wolves!”

  Felix does not defend his business, the promise of a small fortune no doubt providing enough balm to soothe his pride. Amara knows she should also say nothing but wants to reassert her presence. “I hope we will still be pleasing to you.” She lowers her head, looking up at the men through dark eyelashes. “We only wish to serve.”

  “Darlings.” Marcus puts an arm around her and Dido, breathing wine in their faces. “You are perfect.”

  14

  It was more like a musical comedy than a respectable dinner party.

  Petronius, The Satyricon: ‘Trimalchio’s Feast’

  Dusk has cast its haze over the streets as they walk to Zoilus’s house, the stone buildings darkening into silhouettes against the orange sky. Amara had been surprised by just how many men in the crowd belonged to Marcus and Quintus. Six slaves now follow behind, a silent, protective troop, while two more go ahead with oil lamps. Quintus has her arm; Marcus has taken ownership of Dido.

  “What are you doing working for that greasy little pimp?” Quintus asks, helping her over a stepping stone. “You’re both so pretty. Lovely voices too.”

  “Thank you,” Amara replies. His denigration of Felix gives her a strange feeling. For all her hatred, she realizes she must share some sense of identification with him. He does own her, after all. “I used to be free. In Attica. My father was a doctor in Aphidnai.”

  “Your old pa didn’t teach you Sappho’s songs though,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

  “No. I learnt tha
t as a concubine.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you know plenty of tricks.” He stops to look at her more closely. The slaves in front also come to a halt, attuned to their master’s movements. “Has anyone ever told you what beautiful lips you have? Red, like the heart of a pomegranate.”

  Amara understands the role he wants her to play. She smiles, dark eyes promising all he might wish to see.

  “Hey!” Marcus complains, thumping his friend on the back to interrupt their kiss. “We’re already late for Zoilus.”

  “Fuck’s sake. Not like you’ve got an armful of one of the prettiest fucking whores I’ve ever seen,” Quintus replies, as they start walking again. “You’re lucky I took this one.” He shrugs at Amara in apology. “No offence. She is more beautiful. You just have the sexier mouth. I like that.”

  Amara laughs. “And you’re bold,” she says. “I like that too.” Quintus purses his own lips in pleasure. It always amazes her the way men accept flattery from a prostitute. Though in this case it’s not a complete lie. She can see Marcus and Quintus are different from the rich men at the baths. No doubt, by the end of the night, they will expect the same service, but a whole evening of entertainment, conversation and singing is the prelude. Her heart beats faster, and she glances back anxiously at the slaves carrying her lyre. It’s a long time since she has felt this alive.

  They have walked down the length of the Via Veneria to the less fashionable end of town, not far from the Palaestra. The two lamp-bearing slaves stop outside a tall doorway, its massive wooden doors set ajar. Light from inside shines dimly on the marble doorstep.

  “How are we going to do this?” Quintus asks Marcus. “The clothes are part of the joke, but it’s almost funnier if he doesn’t notice what they are.”