The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  “This Cornelius,” Nicandrus loiters at their table, “the one who liked your singing. He seemed like an honest man?”

  Amara and Dido look at each other. “A bit early to tell,” Dido replies, glancing up at him. She has one of the roses he gave her yesterday in her hair. It’s the sole survivor from his garland which spent the night bundled up in her discarded toga.

  “Come on!” Victoria says. “What about afterwards?”

  Nicandrus moves away, heading back to the kitchen. Amara shrugs. “Not that impressive. I preferred the party.” It had been a strange end to the night. The four of them back at Quintus’s house, all in the same bedroom, slaves wandering in and out to top up the wine, sex just another social exchange.

  “You telling me they paid seventy denarii for no poking?” Victoria says. There’s an edge to her voice. She has been laughing along with everyone else, but Amara knows she is devastated to have been excluded from such an exciting night. None of Felix’s women have ever been paid to attend a private house party.

  “They were quite drunk,” Dido says.

  Beronice and Zoskales laugh. “Money can’t buy you everything,” the landlord says. “Certainly not sense.”

  Victoria pulls a disgusted face. “Couldn’t get it up then?”

  Dido shakes her head. This isn’t entirely true. Marcus had been unable to perform after the party but had more success in the morning. He had proved an exhausting lover, nagging Dido for constant approval, wanting to know if she was really enjoying herself, would she like it better from behind? Even Quintus had rolled his eyes. Amara guesses Dido would prefer Nicandrus to hear a less eventful version of her exploits whenever the evesdropping Zoskales fills him in.

  “Yours was a flop too?” Victoria needles, jigging Amara’s arm. “No action at all?”

  She feels irritated at the focus on the least interesting part of the evening. “A few blow jobs,” she replies with a shrug. “The action was the party.” Amara turns back to Dido with a smile. “I still can’t believe we sang that bar song. The look on their faces when you started!”

  “And they didn’t even want to swap girls? Having paid for both of you?”

  Victoria’s question is interrupted by the arrival of Felix sauntering into the bar, wearing a look of absolute self-satisfaction. “And how are my favourite whores this morning?” he demands, gesturing impatiently for Cressa to move along so he can squash in between Amara and Dido. He kisses them, one after the other, taking their faces in both his hands and squeezing hard. “Your boys paid their debt. Sent their slave round this morning.” He looks elated, Amara thinks. She has never seen him in a mood like this. “Zoskales! Everything for the girls is on me today! Some wine for us all.” He smiles at Beronice, Victoria and the drooping Cressa. “Even if you didn’t all earn it.”

  “Poor Dido didn’t even get a fuck out of them,” Victoria sighs. “Her lover was limp as a cabbage.”

  “And they still paid!” Felix looks at Dido with renewed respect. “What a girl you are.”

  “It wasn’t just about sex,” Amara says. “You heard us sing. That’s what they paid for, that’s what they wanted. To be entertained.”

  “They could have dressed up as chickens and ordered a spanking for all I care,” Felix says, taking the wine from Zoskales as he brings it over. “As long as they paid.” Beronice and Victoria snigger. Cressa buries her head in her hands, moaning at the noise. Felix tops up all their glasses. “So what was it like, this party?”

  “The house was…” Dido hesitates, trying to find words that will conjure up the scale of the wealth. “Enormous. So much silver and gold! And fountains. And the world’s biggest pie.”

  “Apparently the wine cost two thousand sesterces a jar.” Zoskales sets one of his own amphora down behind the bar with a thump. “Madness.”

  “Almost everyone at the party was a freedman,” Amara says. “Apart from the posh boys who bought us. And they did nothing but sneer.” She remembers Fortunata and her branded forehead. “If I were rich, I wouldn’t bother inviting men like that to share my wine. Why set yourself up to be laughed at?”

  “Yes,” Felix says with feeling. He glances at her then turns away. It is a rare moment of intimacy between them. “But the question is”—he stretches out his arms and puts them around her and Dido—“can you pull this trick off again?”

  They both start answering at once, eager to tell him everything about Cornelius, from his blue robe to the songs he requested. “Too much, too much!” Felix points at Amara. “You can explain it upstairs.” He keeps his hand on Dido’s shoulder, pushing her downwards as he rises. “You stay here. It’s quite enough with one mouthy little whore.”

  Amara struggles from the bench after her master, looking back at her friends enjoying their free lunch. Beronice is digging into the food again, Cressa seems to have dozed off and Victoria is purposely avoiding her eye. Dido mouths good luck. She walks round the corner to Felix’s flat, trailing behind him on the narrow pavement. Paris opens the door, and their boss shoves past him, pulling Amara up the stairs.

  “In here,” he ushers her into his study. The room, which always used to intimidate her, seems small after Zoilus’s house. The painted bulls’ skulls, usually so full of menace, look flat after the exquisite frescoes in Quintus’s bedroom. She is already imagining herself elsewhere. Felix sits down, making himself comfortable. “So when can we expect more from our boys?”

  “At the Festival of Flora,” Amara replies, pulling up a stool without being invited. “But it’s a different client. A man called Cornelius. This booking is a sort of… trial. He wants to see if we can do even better. Then he might have us more regularly.”

  “Do better?” Felix frowns. “He fucked you too but without paying?”

  “No.” Amara tries not to let her irritation show. “He wants us to do better at the singing and dancing. He’s asked us to join him for the first night of the festival next month, for the Floralia, to perform at a private party. He didn’t use either of us.” She thinks of the way Cornelius gripped her thigh, his calculating stare. “Though I’m sure that would be part of the price. He said to tell you it would be seventy for the trial. Ninety for future bookings.”

  “All this money for singing,” Felix says, taking his tablets out of a drawer to scribble down the sums she has promised. “Well, whatever works. You and Dido had better practise. You can play up here, so I know what you’re up to.”

  “There was something else,” Amara says. She takes a silver coin from her purse, the one Nicia had pressed into her hand as she and Dido left. For your sweet words, he had said. For Fortunata. It is almost physically painful for her to place it on the desk in front of Felix and move her hand away. “A tip,” she says, looking at him. “I would like to spend it on performance clothes for us both, maybe some music lessons.”

  “You expect me to be grateful for your honesty?”

  “No. I expect you to understand a good investment. These men want a certain style. This”—Amara plucks at the worn material of her toga—“is not it. We performed naked last night. But you can’t play the same trick every time.”

  He pushes the coin back towards her. “Take it then. But I want proof of how you spend it.” Felix stretches his arms out behind his head, leaning back and grinning at her. “You’re not the only one who had a successful night.” Amara is slow to hide her surprise. She hadn’t thought they were so intimate. “Not that, for fuck’s sake,” he says, laughing at her expression. “I wouldn’t call a woman a success.” He inclines his head. “Well, maybe if she earns me ninety denarii. No. I mean Simo has finally been taught a lesson.” Amara feels the smile freeze on her face. “Some drunks trashed his bar late last night. Smashed the place up.” He shrugs. “These things happen at the Vinalia. A lot of drunks around. Sadly, pretty little Drauca didn’t move fast enough. Her face doesn’t look so pretty now. Not after a glass took out her eye.”

  Amara stares at him, all the air crushed f
rom her lungs. “No,” she says, as if the word can wipe out what he’s done. “No.” She thinks of Drauca at the baths, her perfect body and lovely face. She covers her own in horror. “No!”

  “What’s the problem? You were the one who suggested turning over his bar in the first place. You didn’t even like the girl.”

  “But Drauca never did anything to you!” Amara shouts, torn between grief and rage. “She’s just a woman! What will happen to her? How will she work? How will she eat? How will she live? Her poor face…” she breaks off, choked by tears. “Her poor beautiful face.”

  “She won’t be competition for any of my girls, that’s for sure,” Felix says, completely unmoved by her distress. “Simo will have to spend a lot of money if he wants to invest in another whore like that. And I doubt he can afford to, not with the bar to repair.”

  “Was Drauca the real target?” Amara’s sense of horror is growing. In her mind’s eye she can see Drauca dancing with Victoria at the Vinalia last night, full of life, face lit with passion. She feels like she might pass out.

  “Amara, come now.” Felix’s voice is soothing. He gets up from his desk and walks over to her, pulling her up from the stool. He holds her upright, gripping her shoulders, not quite in an embrace. “Don’t pretend. You were the one who suggested biding my time, not striking straight after the baths. None of these men can be traced to me. Why do you think I keep so many of my clients private?” He draws her a little closer. “The thing about revenge,” he says, his breath soft in her ear, “is that destroying your enemies is all that matters. Bragging about it, identifying yourself, that’s for children.” He stands back, releasing her slowly so she doesn’t fall. “Now.” He claps his hands as if to wake her from a trance. “Enough. You and Dido need to get yourselves some pretty clothes, start practising your songs.”

  “Why tell me? If it’s not bragging, why tell me?”

  Felix perches on the edge of his desk, studying her. “Because you have even more to lose if this gets out than I do.” He looks up at the bulls’ skulls on the wall, as if suddenly noticing a new detail in the design. “Or maybe Simo would consider Dido more valuable than you. She is prettier after all.”

  Fear grips Amara. She feels it sink deep inside, like a hook piercing a fish, and understands it is a pain that will never let her go. Felix picks up Nicia’s silver coin and uncurls her fingers, pressing it into her palm. She says nothing. He turns his back on her, settling himself behind the desk again.

  “Drauca didn’t do anything to you,” Amara says. “She didn’t deserve this.”

  Felix laughs. “Nobody gets what they deserve.” He looks genuinely amused. “What do you think it takes to survive in Pompeii? It’s not all sucking cocks and fine dresses. Now off you go, get a fucking move on.”

  *

  Outside his flat, Amara leans against the wall of the brothel. She wants to scream, to smash her fists on the door, howl out her anguish. Instead, she stands silent, jaw clenched shut. The need to tell, to share the burden of knowledge, presses against the sides of her skull. She closes her eyes. Nothing will be gained by sharing this. Why should Dido walk in fear too? Every waking moment shadowed by the memory of what Felix has done. She doesn’t consider trusting any of the others, not with a secret this lethal.

  You were the one who suggested turning over his bar in the first place. Amara breathes in deeply, rubbing the silver coin between her fingers. There is nothing to be done but imagine it never happened, to try to pretend, even to herself, that she doesn’t know.

  *

  The others put her silence down to Felix’s usual tricks when she rejoins them at The Sparrow. Cressa has already left, gone to sleep off her hangover in her darkened cell.

  “The man can never give it a rest,” Beronice says, swiping the last of the chickpeas when it’s clear Amara doesn’t want them. “Sodding Felix. Always got to prove his cock’s the biggest.”

  Dido squeezes Amara’s hand under the table, and she feels a flood of guilt. Would her friend love her the same if she knew about Drauca? Was she really the one who gave Felix the idea?

  “I don’t think I’d be wearing a long face if he sent me out to buy new clothes,” Victoria says. Amara knows what pains Victoria takes with her appearance, the hours she spends on her hair. She looks very upset, almost tearful, and Amara’s sense of guilt deepens.

  “If there’s anything left over, we can buy something for everyone to share,” she replies. Beronice and Victoria exchange a little look with each other, more sharp than grateful, and she understands that the sudden, unequal change in fortune is unlikely to bring them all closer together. “I guess we had better get going.” Amara rises from the table again. Dido follows, eager to start shopping.

  It’s early afternoon, the sun baking the filth in the road, sharpening the smell of manure left by passing horses and pack mules. “Where should we go?” Dido says. Her face is bright with excitement as they head down the street, the back way that joins onto the Via Pompeiiana. “How many outfits can we buy?”

  “I guess just one to start with, in case we don’t get more bookings.”

  “Don’t let Felix ruin this.” Dido stops, her expression earnest. “Don’t be unhappy. We have so little.”

  “You’re right,” Amara says, making an effort to smile. “Let’s try Cominia’s place. I’ve always wanted to go inside.”

  The dressmaker’s is on the town’s main shopping street, not far from Rusticus’s lamp store. All the women like to visit from time to time, to loiter at the front billowing with fabrics, softer and finer than anything they can hope to wear. A small, round portrait of a younger Cominia, painted high up on the second storey, looks over her empire. Dido goes first, pushing through a tunnel of hanging material.

  Inside, their eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Cominia herself is busy at the main counter with a customer, a matron whose slave lurks behind, ready to carry the load home. The two she-wolves stand, watching, unsure what to do.

  “How can we help you, ladies?” A young assistant appears at Dido’s elbow. She is thin, with a small, sharp-featured face. Her expression is polite but firm. If they cannot afford anything, they had better leave.

  “We need clothes suitable for the Floralia,” Amara says. “To entertain at a dinner party.”

  “You will be guests?”

  “No,” Dido says. “We will be… singing.”

  “I understand,” the assistant says with a bow. “I am Gaia. Please come with me.”

  They follow Gaia, who parts some heavy grey linens hanging at the back of the shop, revealing another smaller room behind. It is much darker in here, and an oil lamp is burning. “I know exactly what you need.” Gaia’s tone is business-like. She has clearly decided these are not customers who need sweet-talking. “We supply a lot of actresses and concubines. This is by far the most popular fabric.”

  She is holding up a silvery material, so fine it is transparent. Gaia runs a hand gently underneath, demonstrating its translucence. “Assyrian silk,” she says. “With a silver weave. You can see everything through it. If you want to tease, you can buy more fabric and fold it, making it opaque as required.” She shows them, deftly manipulating the silk so that her skin is half-hidden in a glittery sheen.

  “How do you fasten it?” Amara says, too nervous to touch the flimsy fabric. “Wouldn’t a brooch tear it?”

  “We sell special pins. I can show you how to fix it. But it doesn’t tear that easily – the weave is tight.” Gaia looks at them a little impatiently. “Are you going to try it on or not?”

  Amara and Dido step out of their togas, letting Gaia dress them. They watch each other closely, trying to memorize how to fold the material when they are alone. Gaia gets out a tray of pins. “We go from the basic model”—her finger points at a round stud—“to something more delicate.” Her hand travels to the other end of the tray, with its shaped birds and dragonflies.

  “We could try the bird model for now,” Amara say
s to Dido. “It fits with singing. Don’t you think?”

  Gaia pins the fabric in place for them both. They stand apart, looking each other up and down. “It’s like wearing a cobweb!” Dido says.

  “That’s part of the magic,” Gaia replies. “The men love it, trust me.”

  “Do that again,” Amara says to Dido who has just moved nearer the light. She obeys. “It’s lit you up! You’ve gone completely silver.”

  They both walk round the flame, admiring each other, moving to make the silk change colour, feeling it rustle against their skin. “If you really want to make an impact,” Gaia says, “we have this.” She gets out a small jar from the cabinet, opens it for them both to see. Inside is a thick gold paste. “For the eyes,” she says. “And also to gild the nipples.”

  *

  There is very little left from Nicia’s coin when Amara and Dido leave Cominia’s shop. They buy the largest jar of gold paste on offer, planning to decant some into another pot for the others to use.

  “We’ll have to give the dresses to Felix,” Dido says, holding her parcel close to her chest. “We can’t risk leaving them lying round the brothel. One of the customers will steal them.”

  “He wanted proof of where we spent the money anyway,” Amara replies. They are walking the main road home, and she knows they will soon be passing the lamp shop. She is desperate to stop.

  “Isn’t that where Menander works?” Dido says.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Give me that.” Dido motions for Amara to hand over her new dress. “Why don’t you go in?”

  “I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t.” Amara hesitates, half-craning to get a view into the shop while they tussle with the fabric. Menander is inside. She gives up and lets Dido take her parcel. It takes him a while to see her loitering on the street. He is with a customer and gestures for her to wait.

  “We were just passing,” Amara says when he comes out, anxious to include Dido. “And we wanted to thank you.”