“Thank me?”
“Yes. Because you got us to sing. Our master was listening, and he bought the lyre.” Amara remembers the street musician’s face and hopes Felix did really pay for it. “And now we are booked to sing at the Floralia. At a party.”
None of it is quite what she wanted to say. But at least she is talking to him. “I’m glad he bought you the lyre,” he says. “You played it so beautifully.”
“Menander!”
“I can’t stay now.” He looks nervously over his shoulder. “Can I write to you? On the wall, outside The Sparrow?” He lowers his voice. “I will use Timarete and Kallias, so nobody knows.”
“Yes,” Amara says. “Yes.”
Menander turns and hurries back inside without saying goodbye.
16
I pawned earrings with Faustilla for 2 denarii. She has deducted an ass a month in interest
Pompeii The graffiti
The line at the well stretches along the street. Not that anyone is paying much attention to waiting their turn. Amara and Dido don’t bother to shove ahead with the rest, loitering in the late morning sunshine instead. It’s not the most restful place to stop. Hammering, banging and shouting rings out from one of the grander houses nearby. It has been dilapidated for as long as Amara can remember, the owners killed in a terrible earthquake, or so Victoria told her. Somebody new must have bought it, decided to spend their money on decking it out like a palace. One of the team of builders leans out from his ladder, whistling at her and Dido. They ignore him. He won’t be buying a woman for hours. Barely worth their notice.
“Everyone liked the gold,” Dido says, raising her voice to be heard. “They all used it last night, didn’t they?”
“Beronice certainly did,” Amara says, remembering the way Beronice had smeared it copiously around her eyes, and her fury when Victoria laughed at her. That’s what men in this stupid town expect Egyptian women to look like! Beronice had insisted, face sparkling like a temple statue. Amara cannot imagine how small Pompeii must feel to Beronice after growing up in a great city like Alexandria, although as a slave, perhaps she never saw much more than the house where she worked. Victoria and Cressa had shared the new pot too, but Amara suspects it will take more than gold paste to smooth over the others’ envy. The shift in power to the Wolf Den’s newest women has unsettled everyone. “Felix will want us to practise for Cornelius today,” she says. “We have to come up with some other songs.”
“We could always ask Salvius for help,” Dido says.
“I wouldn’t know where to find him. Do you think Nicandrus might know?”
“He runs the ironmonger’s, the one near Modestus’s bakery. I think he owns it. I spent time with Priscus that night when you were talking to Menander. He told me where they both work.”
Amara feels a sharp tap on her back and spins round, angry, expecting it to be the builder come down from the ladder to try his luck. A young girl steps back in alarm, clutching an enormous bucket to her hip.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says. “But aren’t you from the Wolf Den? I’m sure I’ve seen you both at The Elephant before.”
Amara looks at her. She sees eyes smudged with blue and shoulders stooped with exhaustion. A memory surfaces. The same slight girl scurrying between customers at The Elephant, a nervous smile on her face. “Yes. You’re the waitress, aren’t you?”
“Pitane,” says the girl. “I don’t just wait tables though.”
“No.” Amara remembers Victoria’s taunt to Drauca, about the customers she has to service as well as serve. She turns away, not wanting to think about her former rival or remember her suffering.
“It must be hard work,” Dido says kindly. “The Elephant is always so busy. Have you got friends there?”
“Martha. She was my friend. But she died in childbirth. Hazard of the job, isn’t it?” Pitane is staring at them both, desperation in her face, willing them to understand. “I guess you must both know all about that, about how to avoid it. Or how to…” She trails off.
End it, Amara thinks. “Is it avoiding, you want to ask about?” Pitane shakes her head. Amara glances down at the girl’s waist, taking in her thin figure. “There’s a woman you can see. But don’t wait too long.”
“You don’t keep anything yourselves?”
“The herbs have to be fresh.”
“Amara,” Dido is shaking her head. “Not here.”
“I don’t have the money.” Pitane looks disappointed. “I thought you might keep the herbs, that you might spare me some, let me pay you back over time.”
“But why? Wouldn’t your master be pleased?” Amara says. “They’re usually happy to have home-grown slaves.”
“Martha took three days to die,” Pitane says. Amara and Dido exchange glances. Every woman understands the danger, the horror that childbirth can bring.
They have missed their place in the queue, but none of the three women rush to push back in. “If it’s money you need,” Amara says. “Then we might be able to help. But you have to be very sure you can pay it back.”
*
On their walk to the ironmonger’s Dido does not mention the deal Amara has just done, does not ask her whether Marcella has paid her debt yet, or when it’s due. But Amara can feel her palms sweating at the thought. She tells herself that there’s still time for Marcella to deliver, her debt isn’t late yet. And perhaps finding Pitane will incline Felix to patience.
They pass the bakery and stop at the ironmonger’s, listening to the clang of metalwork inside. “Do you think Salvius will even remember us?” Dido says.
“How many beautiful singers do you imagine he meets?” Amara replies, shifting the lyre higher in her arms, covering her nerves with bravado. It had been difficult to wrest the instrument from Paris. They had to pretend their music lesson was already arranged. No doubt he will drop them in it with Felix if the visit proves a failure. “Of course he will remember.”
They walk past the front counter where a slave is busy with customers and head deeper inside. The flute player is at the back supervising an apprentice, helping him fashion a lamp stand, holding it steady while the boy hammers at the legs and giving the odd word of encouragement. He is as Amara remembers, the same kind manner and greying hair. The two women wait, not wanting to disturb him.
When Salvius looks up, she can see him take a moment to place them, but then he smiles. “This is unexpected,” he says. “The lovely singing sparrows. What can I do for you?”
“We wanted to ask a favour.” Amara holds up the lyre as an explanation, hoping to pique his curiosity.
Salvius walks over, wiping oil from his hands onto his leather apron. “If you’re looking for an accompanist, I only play the flute.”
“I would be playing,” Amara says. “We were hoping you might teach us some tunes.”
“We would pay for your time,” Dido adds.
“Flavius,” he calls to his apprentice. “Keep working on the feet, please. Just how I showed you.” He turns back to the two women. “Let’s talk.”
They follow him, climbing the narrow wooden stairway to the floor above. “I’m not much of a musician,” he says. “You might be disappointed. Where will you be playing?”
Salvius’s living room is painted in warm shades of yellow. A procession of swans fly from panel to panel and tiny larks are painted around the skirting. He sits on a bench, inviting them to take the one opposite. “It’s a party, much grander than anything at The Sparrow,” Amara says. “On the first day of the Floralia. We were thinking of setting poetry to some popular tunes.”
“Mixing high and low?” Salvius asks.
“Yes,” Dido nods.
“Sounds fun. But what will you pay me? Or should I ask how will you pay me.”
“That depends what you would prefer.” Amara slips her toga off one shoulder, not far enough to show much but enough to make her point. She hopes he will take the bait. Salvius is not an unattractive man, but
her reason for wanting him has little to do with desire and everything to do with saving money.
“Deferred payment would suit me best,” Salvius replies. “An evening or two of your company, here, at my house.” He nods at Dido. “I will invite Priscus.”
Amara has no idea how Felix will react to this proposal, evenings are their most lucrative hours, but before she can suggest seeking their master’s approval, Dido answers. “We would be delighted.”
“I cannot spare too long today. Perhaps enough time to teach you a couple of tunes depending how quick you are.” He rises, walking to a desk covered in clutter. His back is turned. They can hear him rifling through pots and boxes before he returns with the flute. “There are so many songs about spring,” he says. “This one is Oscan. I don’t suppose either of you speak the language?” Salvius looks hopeful, and Amara wonders if Campania’s ancient tongue is also his own.
“No.”
“Nevermind. You can adapt the tune as you wish.”
Salvius begins piping. He is a more skilled musician than Amara remembers. She can hear the trill of birdsong in his tune, the sigh of the wind, and imagines Flora dancing, half glimpsed through the trees, in the repeated haunting melody. He stops, taking the flute from his lips. “Again? Or shall we go through it, line by line?”
Amara is nervous she will not match him. She picks up the lyre. “Let’s go through it.”
He is a patient teacher. He breaks the tune down for them, waiting for Amara to find the corresponding notes, nodding when she chooses chords that fit. Dido sings the melody note by note, committing it to memory. Their version is nothing like as lovely as his reed pipe solo, but it is enough to take away and polish.
“How about something a little more playful?” Salvius asks. They nod. He pauses, breathing in deeply, flute poised. Then he begins. This time he bobs and sways, closing his eyes at the higher notes. It is not beautiful like the first tune, but Amara can immediately see the potential. It is a tease of a song, perfect for her and Dido to play to one another. She takes up the lyre, daring to join Salvius as she anticipates the repeated melody. “I thought you might like that,” he says, when they reach the end.
He begins again, not breaking it up this time, instead, letting them pick up the tune as he plays, as if they were back at The Sparrow. Amara throws herself into the music, even forgetting for a few moments that they are together for work rather than pleasure. She is expecting to perform it a third time, but Salvius stops a few notes in, almost as if he has forgotten what comes next. Dido’s voice trails off into the silence.
“That should be enough for now.” He turns his back to them, returning the flute to its box. Then he stands, resting his hands on the desk. “We can leave it there.” His tone is not unfriendly, but something has shifted. Amara wonders if they offended him in some way, or if he has simply remembered his work.
He faces them again, making an effort to smile. “I hope that gives you something to work on.”
Amara and Dido talk over each other in their effort to mollify him.
“It does! It was so helpful…”
“We’re very grateful, I hope we didn’t…”
Salvius waves away their thanks, ushering them both to the stairs. “I will send your master a message, to explain the arrangement.” They wait, expecting him to go down first, but he holds out his arm as a gesture for them to leave. “I have some business up here. Be careful how you go.”
*
At the brothel, Amara lets Dido do most of the talking. She watches Felix, his smile, the way he listens, his nods of encouragement. She sees Dido relax, lulled into thinking he is in a good mood, but all she can think about is Drauca. Destroying your enemies is all that matters. She stares at the bulls’ skulls on the wall, the shadows of their empty sockets. It is not until Felix turns to her that she realizes Dido has just offered to perform for him, and they are both waiting for her to pick up the lyre. She finds she cannot move.
“No need to be shy,” Felix says.
“We haven’t chosen the words yet,” she stammers. “Maybe we could practise a little first?”
“Music means nothing to me,” Felix shrugs. “I just want to know you’re working. Play next door if you like.”
Dido helps her up. “Thank you,” she says, answering for Amara who hasn’t spoken. “We appreciate it.” They walk out onto the balcony, and Dido slips an arm around her. “You shouldn’t be so afraid. He wasn’t angry today.”
“I don’t think you can ever know with Felix,” she mutters as they head down the corridor.
“Amara.”
His voice stops them. Felix is standing in the doorway of his room. “A moment, before your singing. There is something I forgot to ask. No, not you,” he says as Dido turns to go back with her. “Take the lyre for her.”
Amara watches her own feet cross the painted wooden floor as she walks towards him. He takes her hand, guiding her over the threshold. “You didn’t tell her,” he says when they are inside. Amara says nothing. She knows it isn’t a question. He takes her chin between his finger and thumb, forcing her to look up. “There are many ways to spill a secret. Especially if you sit there like a quivering sheep. Do you understand?”
“You are threatening me not to be frightened?”
“That’s better. A bit of temper.”
She isn’t sure what she hates more, feeling afraid of him or sliding into familiarity. She pushes his hand away. “One of the waitresses at The Elephant wants a loan from you,” she says. “Two denarii.”
“Two denarii? Why chase small change like that when you will be making me seventy next week?”
“It’s all money. Nobody got rich turning down a deal.”
“What’s the debt for?”
“An abortion.”
“And she can afford it?”
“She says so.”
“Like your fast-food seller.” Felix crosses to the desk, looks through the drawers until he finds the agreement with Marcella. “We’re still waiting for her. I didn’t think you were meant to be taking on any more debtors until the first had paid up?”
“But her loan isn’t due yet.”
“Don’t try it. You know her instalments have been too light. And I never accept late payments, particularly not from a woman.” He smiles, as if suddenly remembering he is not meant to be threatening. “But then, of course, it’s you who is collecting her payment, isn’t it? So she is quite safe. Until the day it’s late. Then the debt is mine.”
17
Trickles of acacia pomade ran down his sweaty forehead and there was so much powder in the wrinkles on his cheeks he looked like a peeling wall in a thunderstorm.
Petronius, The Satyricon
The room still holds the heat of the spring day and is much more crowded than Amara was expecting. A troop of mime actresses, all of them naked save for garlands of flowers, are practising their routine. She and Dido look overdressed in comparison, with their silvery robes and gilded bodies. One of the actresses glances at them sidelong then turns back to her friends, laughing through pretty fingers.
“I didn’t know there would be so many other performers,” Dido whispers.
Amara’s own fingers are sticky with paste. They had tried to decorate the lyre, and although it now shines golden, so do the palms of her hands. “It’s as well we look different,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Dido. “We couldn’t all be naked.”
“A few more flowers and you will be perfect.” It is a deep boom of a voice. Egnatius, the self-declared master of Cornelius’s entertainments. Amara is startled by his interruption; she didn’t notice his return, but there is no sign he took their mutterings amiss. Instead, he is now fussing with Dido’s hair, weaving the white roses he went to fetch between her curls. She has never seen a man wear so much make-up. His eyes are lined with kohl and the thick powder on his cheeks is cracked like badly dried plaster. The grooves cut deeper every time he smiles, which is often. “Such a p
retty little thing,” he says, standing back to admire Dido. “I never saw a face more exquisite.” He turns to Amara, teasing his remaining flowers into her hair. “Except yours, of course, darling,” he drawls, raising his eyebrows. She finds herself laughing. Egnatius purses his lips, pleased to have amused her. He is standing so close, his breath is warm on her cheek and the smell of acacia pomade in his hair is almost overpowering. He tweaks the last rose behind her ear. “Now!” He claps his hands together in a theatrical gesture of excitement. “What will you two nymphs be singing for us this evening?”
“Several verses from Sappho,” Amara says. “A medley of songs about Flora and the spring and the tale of Crocus and Smilax.”
Egnatius nods. “Very pretty. Perhaps you could sing me a line or two, so I know where to place you?”
Amara begins to play Salvius’s Oscan song, which she and Dido have set to a well-known hymn to Flora. The mime actresses break off their own rehearsal out of curiosity, and Amara is gratified to see their expressions change from amusement to grudging recognition. She couldn’t ask for a higher compliment.
“Delightful!” Egnatius beams. “Your voices are as sweet as flowers falling from the mouth of Flora herself! Have you read any Ovid? Oh, you must, you must,” he declares when they both shake their heads. “I will write you out some of Cornelius’s favourite verses for next time.”
Amara wishes she had known Cornelius had a favourite poet before this evening but is touched by Egnatius’s generosity. “Thank you,” she says.
“You are too kind,” Dido adds, laying her hand on his arm. Her sincerity is unmistakably genuine.
“You know,” Egnatius continues, “my master is something of a poet himself. He has composed a few lines for the Floralia, if you could find some way of weaving them in…” He reaches inside the folds of his cloak and brings out a roll of parchment.
Amara restrains herself from seizing it. “We would be more than delighted.”
Egnatius hands over the small scroll. Amara unrolls it, and she and Dido huddle round. For a moment, she cannot believe what she is reading. Then the words bring a stab of fear. She looks up sharply at Egnatius. “You are certain he will be pleased to hear this recited.”
The Wolf Den Page 14
