The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  “Isn’t the old man’s wife going to kick up a bit of a stink if we walk in with two naked girls though?” Marcus looks nervously at Dido. Amara wonders what they both talked about on the walk from the Forum.

  “It’s the Vinalia! Girls are meant to be naked!” Quintus protests. He turns to Amara. “What do you think?”

  Both men are looking at her, waiting for an answer. Briefly, she considers the state of her and Dido’s clothes. The colours are bright, but she knows the fabric marks them out instantly as cheap. There are few crimes as great in Pompeii as poverty. A naked entrance will trumpet their status as prostitutes, but perhaps not as objects of total contempt. She tilts her head towards Dido, a silent question, and gets a little shrug in answer. Amara smiles broadly at Quintus. “I say naked.”

  He whoops with delight, helping her out of her cloak and handing it to one of the long-suffering slaves in his retinue. Then he gets to work enthusiastically on her toga, removing it in a couple of tugs. Amara notices the clothes-bearer is the old man with the purse. He averts his eyes rather than look at her.

  “Are you sure?” Marcus asks Dido, undoing her brooch, fingers fumbling from drunkenness. “You don’t mind?”

  “You’re so kind to ask,” Dido says, head down as she steps out of her toga.

  “Perfect.” Quintus turns from one woman to the other, both now standing naked and shivering on the threshold of Zoilus’s house. “In we go.”

  They walk over a fine black and white mosaic of a snarling dog, elongated the length of the narrow hallway, and emerge into the biggest atrium Amara has ever seen. It is at least five times larger than the one at Chremes’s house, her only real point of comparison. The mosaic from the entrance ripples outwards in ever more intricate patterns, flowing into other darkened chambers that surround the hall. A table of solid silver stands beside a large pool to collect rainwater. Moonlight from the opening at the ceiling’s centre glows on its polished surface, and its pale reflection wavers in the water. Other precious objects – goblets, plates and lamps – are piled in a heap on top. Many look like gold. Put together, she knows it would cost several times the price Felix paid for her.

  Behind her, their new masters’ slaves negotiate with Zoilus’s doorman, identifying the party as invited guests. The doorman doesn’t sound happy about something, no doubt the presence of two naked women. She hears the word actresses repeated in the murmured discussion.

  “This way,” Quintus says, waving a hand airily, as if he were leading them into his own home. “The master will be in the dining room with his guests.”

  Amara resists the urge to skirt the edge of the atrium, following Quintus with a confidence she doesn’t feel, clamping her teeth together to stop them chattering. When they reach the marble pool and the groaning table of silverware a ferocious barking rings out. She and Dido clutch each other, nearly stumbling into the water with fright. She looks back to see a dog straining against its chain on the far wall, a long way out of reach. The doorman shouts at it to be quiet.

  Marcus and Quintus both laugh. “Perfect,” Quintus says, slapping her hard on the backside, a gesture that reminds her of Felix. “You pair are absolutely fucking perfect.” Amara likes him less this time. She stands straighter, still smiling, determined not to be the butt of jokes for the entire evening.

  They pass through an enormous garden, walking round the painted colonnade. Scenes from the legends of Hercules flicker in and out of view. In the middle of the lawn, a fountain is illuminated by hanging lamps, its spray falling in the darkness like stars.

  “This place,” Dido whispers to her. “Where are we?”

  “You like the house then, ladies?” Marcus asks.

  “It’s beautiful,” Amara replies.

  “Zoilus is a freedman,” Quintus says, contempt apparent in the careful way he stresses the word. “Who knows. If you get your freedom one day, maybe you could have a house like this.”

  A house with money but no class. The sort of place a whore would find impressive. The meaning behind their visit, which Amara has resisted acknowledging, could not be clearer. She and Dido are intended as an insult to the host, a gift to represent his own low value. She can feel her cheeks burn in the shadows. Whoever Zoilus is, she will try not to disgrace him. Or herself.

  They pass into a bigger walled garden, thick with plane trees. It is well lit and even without Quintus as a guide they would be drawn by the growing sound of laughter and conversation. The dining area is at the back, half in the garden, half in a room painted to look like a grotto. Two artificial streams cut through the area, diners sitting and reclining on couches set at the water’s edge.

  “Zoilus, my dear fellow,” Quintus says, sounding like a parody of a man of his class, striding towards the host’s couch. “I’m so sorry we are late. My father, sadly, could not come, but he insisted we bring along two of his treasured possessions for your entertainment. A pair of lovely little actresses. What could be more fitting to celebrate the Vinalia?” The background conversation quietens. Amara can hear titters and muttering from the other diners. She stands tall, looking straight ahead, ignoring the wild beating of her heart.

  Amara had not formed a clear picture of Zoilus in her mind, but the man lying in front of her is nothing like what she would have imagined. The swathes of expensive fabric, yes, but not the nervous, darting eyes, the thin mouth twitching like a goat when it chews. Now he is staring at her and Dido, his face creased in confusion. Her sense of shame deepens. “Ah,” he stutters at last. “How kind. How kind the young men are, aren’t they, my love? Very modern, don’t you think, Fortunata? To bring actresses.”

  Fortunata, who reclines next to Zoilus, has not missed the insult. She has a sharp, intelligent face, marred by thick make-up that sits caked over her forehead in lumps. Slave brands, Amara realizes. Fortunata must be disguising her former humiliation. “Yes, husband,” she says in a loud voice. “Very modern.”

  Some of the company laugh. Fortunata smiles coldly at her two new guests, ignoring the naked girls entirely. Quintus smiles back, but Marcus has the decency to look uncomfortable. Zoilus swats at his wife in annoyance. “You’ll have to forgive Fortunata,” he says, the cringe of an apology in his voice. “She’s rather old-fashioned. Please tell your father I am most honoured. I hope he will visit soon, to receive my thanks in person.”

  “You must let them sing for you,” Quintus presses. “That would please him most. To know they have pleased you.”

  “Very well, very well,” Zoilus says, looking at Amara and Dido without huge enthusiasm. “But first, you must enjoy my new cook’s speciality. We are just about to serve.”

  A slave in bright green silk hustles them away to a large empty couch. Amara sees with a pang that they are being placed at one of the most prestigious spots. Zoilus must have really wanted to impress Quintus’s father. The two men recline, and she and Dido join them, draping themselves over the cushioned couch. She is conscious that nearby guests are staring. I am not ashamed, she tells herself as Quintus runs his hand across her breast and down her side. Another slave, dressed in the same lurid green as the first, appears with a silver platter, handing them all glasses of wine.

  “Did you see Fortunata’s face?” Quintus murmurs to Marcus, taking a sip. “Jumped up little bitch.” Away from the full glare of his hostess’s anger, Marcus laughs. Amara clutches her glass. Quintus kneads the flesh at her waist. “Drink up darling, this is the most expensive Falernian I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Two thousand sesterces a jar,” says a red-faced man loudly from the couch beside them. “Only the best wine with Zoilus. Finest house in town. Bet you were pleased for an invite. Too bad your old dad couldn’t make it.” Quintus rolls his eyes and Marcus snorts into his glass. “So actresses are the thing now?” The older man continues, too drunk to notice their disdain. “Have to say I’m with Fortunata. That’s all a bit modern for me, even for the Vinalia.”

  “Wasn’t Fortunata once an actress hersel
f?” Marcus asks.

  “I don’t know who told you that!” The old man is indignant. “She’s a respectable freedwoman. The marks… I agree, they’re… well, they’re unfortunate. But that was from childhood. Before she was in the old master’s household. Zoilus’s master, I mean. Old Ampliatus.”

  Amara glances up at the couch where the hosts are reclining. A cascade falls into the waterway beneath them, decorated with carved dolphins. So Fortunata was branded as a child. She wonders what her young life must have been. She hopes the former slave is enjoying her wealth now.

  “Really?” Quintus says. “How fascinating.”

  “He didn’t have to marry her. Zoilus, I mean. But you know what he said to me”—the guest leans closer to them, almost toppling off the couch in his bleary state—“‘Nicia, he said, I couldn’t stand by and have men wipe their dirty hands on my Fortunata’s front at dinner like she’s a fucking napkin. Course I freed her, course I married her.’” Nicia raises his hand in a wobbly toast. “Too fucking right. That’s love, that is.”

  “Beautiful,” murmurs Marcus. Amara can feel Quintus shaking bodily with laughter beside her.

  “I know many songs about love,” she says. “Few reveal as much true devotion as Zoilus showed Fortunata.”

  Nicia nods vigorously. “You’re right, that’s true. That’s true.”

  Marcus has to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit. Quintus leans closer, breathing into her ear. “Perfect girl.”

  Amara twists round and smiles at him. She understands, finally, how she can entertain all the audiences at this party. Quintus is far too ignorant to understand that she was sincere. She is safe to pay her respects to her host; the men who brought her will only imagine it’s mockery. A little more at ease with herself, Amara taps Dido’s arm. “Can you believe it here?” she whispers. She looks at the other guests, lounging on their couches beside the two streams. Dozens of oil lamps blaze with light and give off a heat that makes her nakedness easier to bear. Nobody else here is short of clothes. Some are sweating under the physical weight of their wealth. One woman wears a headband so heavy with jewels she is struggling to prop herself up on her elbow.

  “We can’t sing that old folk song at a party like this,” Dido whispers back. “We can’t.”

  “I think you’ll find you can,” Quintus says. “But first, here comes the old man’s novelty dish.” A troop of men in scarlet prance in, carrying an enormous platter on their shoulders, the way you would see slaves carry a litter in the streets. A huge pie sits on top, with a pastry lid crafted to look like a swan.

  “Shame you were too late for the seafood.” Nicia sniffs. “Those sea urchins were really something.”

  “How do you know Zoilus?” Dido asks him, unable to take her eyes from the monstrous pie.

  “He’s my dearest friend. The times we’ve had together!” Nicia sounds maudlin. “Our old masters loved each other as boys. And the pair of them did alright for Zoilus and me in the end. Mine left me my freedom in his will, though not a fortune as well.” He swills his cup, holds it out for more wine. A boy in green scurries over with a large silver wine jug. “Not that old Ampliatus ever had all this. Zoilus can turn anything to gold. Always has done.” Amara cannot imagine Felix leaving her so much as a tunic in his will, let alone her freedom. The thought of him making her his heir is almost comical. “You watch now,” Nicia says to them, gesturing at the giant pie. “You’ll like this.”

  The slaves guarding the pie stand aside as another man in red strides towards it brandishing an enormous knife. He bows to his master then skewers the pastry with a flourish, lifting the lid and standing back. He pauses. Something was evidently meant to emerge, but there’s no movement. The cook leans over, poking at the inside with his knife. A handful of sparrows fly out, dazed and twittering. Two don’t make it far from the platter before collapsing.

  There’s a mortified silence. “Bravo,” Quintus yells, clapping from his couch. “Bravo!” Other guests join in, hesitantly at first, but then the applause builds to a crescendo. Amara glances over at Zoilus, sees the gratitude on his face. Fortunata looks furious.

  “Shame,” Nicia mutters. “It was meant to be a flock of sparrows, flying out for Venus. Must have smothered in the heat. That cook should have made bigger holes.”

  Quintus swings his legs from the couch and stands up. “My most esteemed host, while the dish is served, I insist you enjoy the sweet delights of a musical performance.” He beckons over one of his own slaves who presents the lyre with a bow. Amara hopes the light is not strong enough to reveal what a cheap instrument it is. In this house of wrought silver and beaten gold it looks like a peasant’s plaything.

  “Yes, thank you,” Zoilus says, nodding vigorously. “Delighted.”

  Amara takes the lyre and helps Dido off the couch. They pause a moment, taking strength from one another. “We’ll sing Sappho’s hymn first,” Amara murmurs. “Aphrodite will smile on us; none of her worshippers are as beautiful as you.”

  Amara walks purposefully towards the stream then steps over it, avoiding the floating oil lamps. Dido follows so they are standing side by side between the waterways at the centre of the gathering, light from the flames flickering on their skin. She feels grateful now that they left their togas at the door. She is not ashamed of her body the way she would have felt ashamed of her clothes. She whispers to Dido, and they both turn towards the host and bow.

  Zoilus and Fortunata lie on their couch, watching. She knows she can neither speak to them with the crudeness of a whore nor the modesty of a doctor’s daughter. There is no language from her past or her present. She will have to fashion a new one.

  “Our names are Amara and Dido,” she says, her voice cutting clearly through the tinkle of the water and murmur of the company. “We are your most grateful guests. We are here to celebrate Venus Pompeiiana. And in a garden of such beauty, the goddess of love would imagine herself in the groves of Olympus, should she choose to grace us here now with her presence.” She nods towards Fortunata, who looks away. “We are, as you can see, the lowliest of her servants. But tonight, on the Vinalia, even worshippers like us have our place.”

  Amara takes the lyre, positions it in her arms, trying to ignore the plectrum trembling in her fingers. She strikes a chord. “And who better to praise Aphrodite, than the Tenth Muse, the Poetess of Lesbos?” She turns to smile at Quintus.

  Amara and Dido begin Sappho’s song, nervously at first, but with each line, as they sing the verses back and forth, they find their own joy in the music. They sway to the rhythm, copying one another’s movements, just as they repeat each other’s phrases. Dido guides Amara to turn as they sing, focusing on different guests, drawing them in. The crowd are not entirely won over – Amara has given Fortunata up as a lost cause – but many of the men are clearly enjoying the performance.

  At the end of the song, they bow and Zoilus claps. He looks relieved. Perhaps he had been expecting something else. “Charming, charming,” he says. “Very thoughtful of your father, Quintus.”

  “You must let them finish with a comic turn,” Quintus replies. “All the best actresses do.”

  Amara glances at Dido, who raises her eyebrows. What choice do they have? Nothing for it but to belt out Salvius’s folk number. Another flowery invocation to Venus feels excessive, so Amara begins strumming the strings of her lyre without explanation. Dido launches straight into the role of the shepherd, clasping her hands to her chest with a wail of mock despair. The guests look at each other, a little uncertain how to take the change in tone, but Amara beams round at them before ramping up the melodrama as the scornful mistress. Quintus and Marcus cheer loudly at each chorus, seeming to enjoy the performance even more than they did at the Forum. Other diners look less amused. But Dido’s collapse at the end manages to raise a few laughs, and best of all, the arrival of the sweet dishes brings their performance to a close without the need for laboured goodbyes.

  Amara feels light-headed from n
erves, excitement and lack of food as they make their way back to the couch. A third man is now sitting upright between their escorts, dressed in a cloak of midnight blue.

  “This is Cornelius,” Marcus says, slurring. He tries to slap his friend on the back and misses. Zoilus’s wine has clearly gone to his head. “Cornelius! A lion in a herd of freedmen! He’s in on our little joke.”

  Cornelius is older than Marcus and Quintus, and his stare, when he greets them, is harder and more knowing. He pulls Dido onto his knee, gesturing for Amara to sit beside him. “Aren’t you both lovely,” he says. “I could hardly tell from the first song. But that last number would have stretched the credulity of anyone but Zoilus.” He laughs, resting his free hand on Amara’s thigh, higher up her leg than she would like. “With a little more movement, a few more suitable songs, you could be quite delightful.” He is looking at Dido as he says this, stroking her arm. Her face has taken on the blankness Amara recognizes whenever a man is mauling her. She wants to catch his wrist and stop him. Cornelius turns towards Amara, and she blinks. He smiles, as if he sees through her anger and is amused.

  “How would you feel about performing at a real dinner party?”

  15

  He who lies down with dogs will wake up with fleas.

  Traditional, attributed to Seneca

  Amara’s head throbs with tiredness and her cheeks ache from laughing. It is a happiness unlike any other, sitting with her fellow she-wolves in The Sparrow, recounting the pleasures of the night before. They have treated themselves to a larger meal than usual. Bowls of chickpeas, bean stew and olives clutter the table.

  “The birds in the pie were boiled then?” Beronice shrieks, cackling with laughter. “After all that fuss?”

  “Not so loud,” Cressa murmurs, with one hand over her eyes. She is sipping her way through a small glass of wine, trying to recover from her hangover.

  “That cook should have taken a few tips from my kitchen,” Zoskales says from behind the bar. “And I could have supplied him with a much more reasonable wine than two thousand sesterces a jar.” He snorts at the absurdity of the sum.