There is no sign of Felix. He must have left for the Palaestra without waking her.
Amara breathes out. The sounds of the street outside the brothel are loud, carts rattling, the babble of conversations. She must have slept until the afternoon.
She follows her memories of the night, like a series of scenes painted round a room. It was Gallus who brought her back to the brothel by torchlight in the early hours, after Fuscus had finished. They came alone, as Dido was still busy entertaining. She had not been expecting Gallus to show her upstairs, but presumed Felix wanted to claim any tips. At that time, it was no surprise to find him in bed, more surprising that he had waited up.
Amara feels her cheeks grow hotter. It had been a pleasure to boast about the success of the night, Egnatius’s promise to book them again, the tip Fuscus had given her. She had almost forgotten Drauca, sitting there with Felix, seeing his excitement at the money mirror her own. It was all the coins spread out on the bed that turned him on, she’s sure of that, and the sex wasn’t even that different from complying to his usual demands, though the lateness of the hour gave it an intimacy which was hard to ignore.
Even though she is alone, Amara covers her face with her hands in shame. When did she realize he wanted her to stay afterwards? Did she want to stay? Did she linger too long? Remembering her feelings is like opening a door onto the darkest part of herself. Felix had held her hand so tightly, was still holding it, so far as she knows, after she fell asleep.
“I hate him,” she tells the empty room. “I hate him.”
She trawls through her memories, remembering every cruelty, the times he has raped her, his violence. Drauca. But other images push through like weeds. The figs he bought her and Dido, the laughter in his eyes when she met him at the Palaestra, his excitement at her stories last night. The fit of his fingers in hers. Amara flops back on the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes. “I hate him,” she says again.
In the bright spots and blackness behind her eyelids, she conjures another memory, one that never existed, a vision brought to life solely by Felix’s voice. You could have been the goddess Diana, from the way you held yourself. As if you would call on your hunting dogs to tear apart every man who had dared to see you naked.
Amara feels her breathing grow easier, soothed by more familiar feelings. The rage she had been searching for is still burning. Felix has seen her, seen all her loneliness and need, but she will not be torn apart by him. “I hate you,” she says. “I will always hate you.”
She swings her legs out over the bed, the wood cool beneath her feet as she stands. Her expensive silk clothes are still folded in a neat pile on a nearby chair. She cannot wear those; it will have to be nothing but her cloak. With the palms of her hands, she smooths out the bed, flattening it, hoping to wipe out all trace of her presence. Then she slips from the room.
*
Dido is alone in the brothel when she goes downstairs. At the sound of Amara’s footsteps, she rushes into the corridor.
“Are you alright?” They ask one another the same question at the same time, then laugh.
“Did you spend the whole night with Fuscus then?” Dido says, leaning her back on the wall. She looks tired. “He seemed very keen.”
“I had to see Felix afterwards.” Amara says, glad she does not have to meet Dido’s eye as she changes into her toga. “But that was nothing; he was fine, pleased we had earned so much,” She changes the subject. “I want to know what happened to you! Egnatius said he would look after you; I hope he did.”
“He did,” Dido says. “As much as he could. You wouldn’t believe how odd that house is. Cornelius has a whole brothel at the end of his garden! A lot more luxurious than this place, and the paintings are better. But it’s a corridor with cells, hidden behind the baths. And the finest room has a window looking into another cell.” She makes a face. “He likes to watch.”
“I should think he was too drunk to do anything but watch,” Amara replies, grateful she only had Fuscus to entertain. He had been a dull lover but not a taxing one. Again, she can feel the warmth of Felix’s body lying close to hers and pushes the memory aside.
“It’s more than that,” Dido says, with a certainty about men’s tastes that would have been unthinkable a few months ago. “He’s a watcher. I’m not sure he ever does anything else, drunk or not.”
“Did you have to entertain a lot of customers?” Amara asks. “I hope they all tipped.”
“It was mainly Quintus,” Dido replies. “Cornelius wouldn’t let that really drunk one in. I think he just wanted to watch the women with younger men.”
“His poor wife,” Amara says, imagining all Calpurnia must have endured with such a husband. “Did you hear the way he spoke to her?”
“She has a family, wealth, the respect of other women,” Dido replies with surprising sharpness. “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her.”
All the things Dido wants, Amara thinks. And the two she wants most, she will never have. Amara knows she herself would gladly settle for wealth at the expense of the rest. Respect and family did not, in the end, save her or her mother in Aphidnai.
The voices of the other three women float through the window moments before they step into the brothel.
“You won’t believe the news!” Beronice exclaims as soon as she is inside. “Drauca is dead!”
“Dead?” Amara repeats with genuine surprise.
Life is cheap and a slave’s life most of all. Dido, who didn’t know about the fight, is curious but not shocked. “I didn’t know she was ill,” she says.
“She wasn’t sick,” Victoria says. “Murdered.”
“No!” Dido grips Amara’s arm. This hits closer to home. The threat of a violent customer always casts a long shadow.
“Some drunks turned over Simo’s bar at the Vinalia,” Victoria goes on, as all the others huddle round. “Drauca got caught up in it.”
“She died on the Vinalia?” Dido asks.
“No, a couple of days ago,” Cressa chips in. “She was in a bad way. Maria was at the baths today. She thinks Simo did it, though he denies it. He couldn’t bear to look at her face anymore. It was all…” She trails off.
“She lost an eye,” Victoria says. “Some cunt took out her fucking eye.”
Amara understands the anger. Victoria didn’t like Drauca, hated her even, but this is violence against one of their own. That a man held Drauca’s life so cheap, reflects on all of them. “I imagine Felix would have done the same as Simo,” she says. “If it had been one of us.”
Victoria explodes. “Why do you have to make it about Felix?” she shouts. “Simo kills Drauca, and you turn it on Felix! Can’t you give it a fucking rest for once?”
There are tears in Victoria’s eyes. Her hands, as she pulls them through her hair, shake with agitation. She knows it’s true, Amara thinks.
“We should go out,” Cressa says, moving between them. “Amara, come with me.”
Amara obeys, her own emotions too churned up to do anything but follow. They set off, passing the afternoon crowd at the fountain. Amara’s heart feels heavier to drag along than an overflowing bucket.
“Where are we going?” she asks at last, as they cross the Via Veneria. It’s a sweltering day, the afternoon sky almost white in the heat. They walk on the shady side of the road, hugging the walls of the buildings they pass.
“I don’t know,” Cressa says. “A bar, if you like? I could do with a drink.”
“There’s a fast-food place near the theatre,” Amara says. “I know the landlady.”
“Fine,” Cressa says. She takes Amara’s hand and squeezes it. “Don’t take it personally with Victoria, will you? She was just upset.”
“She’s upset because she knows it’s true. Felix doesn’t give a shit about any of us!” A respectable wife swerves out of their way, tutting. Amara has a sudden, vivid image of meeting her own mother on the pavement. What would she think of her daughter, swearing like a whore on a street corner?
I am a whore on a street corner, Amara thinks. The absurdity almost makes her want to laugh.
“Can’t you feel sorry for her then?” Cressa says. “Considering.”
“I suppose,” Amara replies, not sure why Victoria’s anger is more deserving of sympathy than anyone else’s. A sudden wrench of anxiety stops her, and she rests her hand against the wall to steady herself. Unless Victoria has guessed who is really responsible for trashing Simo’s bar and blames Amara? You were the one who suggested turning his bar over in the first place. They were both with Felix when Amara hinted Simo should pay for the slight at the baths. Does Victoria remember what was said?
“She’ll get over it,” Cressa says, mistaking the drawn look on Amara’s face. “Let’s just have a drink. It will make you feel better.”
Marcella’s place makes The Sparrow look grand. It’s nestled in a side street to catch passing trade from the theatre, with very little room to do anything but stand and nurse a flask of wine or else take away one of the greasy-looking pies frying at the back. Cressa doesn’t seem to care. She slumps at the counter. “A small wine. Whatever’s cheapest.”
The slave girl serving is red-cheeked and sweating, slowly roasting in the heat from the oven behind.
“Your mistress not here?” Amara says.
“Back in a minute,” the girl replies. “What you having?”
“I’ll wait until Marcella is back.”
The girl shrugs and pours out Cressa’s drink. She’s careful not to overfill the measure. “Barely an acorn cup,” Cressa complains, showing it to Amara. She takes a sip and pulls a face. “Strong enough to knock out a mule.” She downs it and pushes the flask back towards the girl. “Another.” The girl pours out more wine, and Amara is relieved to see Cressa doesn’t knock this one straight back too. “You know Drauca had a little girl?”
“No,” Amara says, her heart sinking at the thought.
“Simo kept her. She’s about five now, works doing odd jobs at the tavern in the day.”
Amara knows Cressa never talks about the child she lost but, somehow, not mentioning him, not acknowledging her pain, feels even worse. “I’m so sorry about…”
“Don’t,” Cressa stops her. “Don’t say it. I just can’t.” They sit in silence.
Amara fidgets. Cressa is shielding her eyes with her hand, as if to shade them from the sun, but really, Amara suspects, to hide her grief. It’s uncomfortably hot, between the simmering pies and the sun. She feels strung out with nervous energy, waiting for her debtor, still not sure how she is going to persuade her to pay but knowing she must.
Marcella rounds the corner, and Amara darts forwards, blocking her path. “There you are!” she exclaims, taking the other woman by surprise, not giving her a chance to escape. “What a day! The sun’s scorching, isn’t it?” She gestures at the bar. “Gellius still leaving it all to you?”
“What do you want?” Marcella asks, eyes flicking to her slave girl, well aware why Amara is there.
“Just to see how you are. I can’t believe Gellius isn’t here! You have to do all the work.” Amara moves in closer as Marcella edges away. She lowers her voice, as if in sympathy, drawing on her memories of that first overheard conversation at the baths. “Does he even know what goes on at the bar? This bar, I mean. He probably wouldn’t notice if half the stock went missing, would he?”
“Mind the store,” Marcella says to the slave at the counter. “I’m just going to have a talk with… my friend.”
“You’re not having a drink?” Cressa asks, surprised at being abandoned.
“In a minute.” Amara smiles, squeezing Cressa’s shoulder as she passes. She follows Marcella up the narrow ladder to the rooms above the bar. It’s even hotter here, a small airless space that adds to Amara’s tension. It is hard to know who is more agitated, her or Marcella.
“You have to pay up,” she says, anxiety making her voice sound harsh.
“No, you have to stop this,” Marcella hisses back. “I’ve fiddled the takings as much as I can. Either take less or give me longer! Your master must understand. The rate was never reasonable.”
“Then you shouldn’t have signed for it.” Amara gazes around the room. There is very little of value here, at least not on display. She wonders where the amber necklace came from. Perhaps the sisters’ family fell on hard times, like she and her mother did. Anyone’s fortune can turn on a knife edge.
“Keep the necklace then,” Marcella says, her voice cracking. “I can’t pay any faster.”
“The necklace doesn’t cover the interest.”
Marcella looks at her, for a moment, too shocked to speak. “You can’t be serious!”
Heat is radiating up through the floor, and Amara is now pouring with sweat. The smell of hot pies and the smothering sensation of guilt make her feel nauseous. She thinks of Drauca, of all Felix might do to the woman in front of her. She cannot leave without payment. “What about the ring?” she says, pointing to the cameo Marcella is unconsciously twisting round and round.
Marcella puts her hand behind her back like a child. “No.”
“It would put an end to the payments. We could write off the whole loan today.”
“It was my mother’s. She’s dead. I cannot give it to you.”
Marcella looks fragile, standing alone in the shabby lodgings she shares with her drunken husband. Amara wonders how long it would take Felix to smash up the place, how much damage he could do. “Fires start easily in smoky little bars,” she says. “You should be more careful with that oven downstairs.” She leaves a moment of silence, allowing the threat to hang between them, then holds out her hand. “Give me the ring. If you don’t, I cannot protect you.”
Nobody has ever stared at her with more hatred than Marcella does as she turns the ring round and round her finger for the last time. It takes some time to pull it off – her fingers must be swollen in the heat, and she worries away at her hand, as if fighting with her own flesh over the parting. At last she drops it in Amara’s palm. “Never come back here.”
“Believe me,” Amara says, “I just did you a favour.” She knows it’s true, that Marcella would have lost more than the cameo, but still, the words seem to come from someone else. She realizes she sounds just like Felix.
19
I like not joy bestowed in duty’s fee, I’ll have no woman dutiful to me.
Ovid, The Art of Love II
“Those are the worst verses I have ever heard!”
Priscus is laughing, almost overwhelmed with amusement after hearing the she-wolves sing Cornelius’s hymn to Flora. Dido and Amara laugh too, while Salvius shakes his head. “If I had known what words you were setting to such a beautiful tune, I would never have taught it to you,” he says, his voice grave, though his eyes are smiling.
It is the night of their repayment, but it feels more like a holiday. Salvius’s small dining room twinkles with candles, and the cool of the evening air drifts through the open windows. It is nothing like as grand as the two parties they attended recently – there’s bean stew, a small portion of roasted pigeon – but this feels the closest thing to a family meal that Amara has experienced since she left her father’s house. She suspects it is the same for Dido.
Salvius pours them all more wine, handing the empty jug to his slave to refill. The young boy slips from the room. “So when is your next performance?”
“The last night of the Floralia!” Dido says. “Though we are reciting Ovid this time. Egnatius gave us some verses to learn.”
“I will have to think of some more suitable tunes,” Salvius says. “Unless you know any, Priscus?”
“There’s that one your father always used to play. I love that song.”
“Have you two known each other since childhood then?” Amara asks, dipping a piece of bread into her stew.
“Our fathers were in business together,” Priscus says. “As we were too, until a decade or so ago. Responsible for some of the finest paintings in Pompeii, if I s
ay so myself. My artists repainted half the Forum after the great earthquake. My father-in-law’s men painted the other half,” he gestures at Salvius. “That was after his wife persuaded him to desert us for metal work.” The two men glance at each other, then away. “May she rest in peace.”
Amara is not surprised their music teacher is a widower. It is stranger to think of Priscus with a wife waiting at home. No doubt she is the reason Salvius is the one hosting dinner. For a moment, the missing woman casts a shadow over the cosy pretence that this is an ordinary gathering of friends and equals. “And how did you two both come to Pompeii?” Salvius asks.
“Oh,” Amara replies. “That’s not a very happy story.”
“Neither of you were born slaves, were you?” he says. Amara wonders how he guessed, then remembers Fabia’s words: You still act as if you matter. She is not going to ask the same question again. “You are too educated,” Salvius goes on. “I’m sorry; your current life must no doubt be painful for you both.”
He means it kindly, but Amara wishes he hadn’t said anything. She can sense Dido growing tense beside her. Can he not understand the need, sometimes, to forget?
“And you are far too modest,” Priscus says to Dido, drawing a pointed distinction between them that makes Amara snort with laughter. “Sorry.” He turns to her. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I’m not offended,” Amara says. “And anyway, you are right. I was a concubine before this. She wasn’t.” But I still hate it, she wants to add.
Salvius senses the shift in mood. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Shall we sing?” Dido asks, in the bright, brittle manner Amara recognizes as her brave face. At least she is learning to protect herself, she thinks. It’s better than tears.
“That would be wonderful!” Priscus exclaims.
Salvius fetches his pipe from the top of a chest, where he had obviously laid it ready for the evening. “Shall we start with our old favourite?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but begins piping the tune of the shepherd and his love.
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