The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  “Maybe he’s nothing special,” Beronice says. “Might be a rubbish lay.”

  “Oh, don’t be so bitter!” Cressa laughs. “As if you’d turn him down.”

  “I would, I would turn him down!” Beronice insists. “I wouldn’t do that to Gallus.”

  The rest of them laugh. “Even I might be tempted by Celadus,” Dido says. “And that’s saying something.”

  “The feel of his chest!” Victoria sighs. “Like being held by Apollo.”

  Amara shifts on her wooden seat. Even though Dido isn’t very heavy, it’s still uncomfortably hot having her on her knee. Awnings are stretched overhead to keep the sun off, but they also trap the rising heat. Not only will they have the worst view, it’s also sweltering up here. The murmur of so many people talking, reverberating round the arena, makes it sound as if they are in a beehive.

  “What time are you meeting Menander?” Dido asks her.

  “After the first beast hunt.”

  “He must be something special, this boyfriend of yours, for you to miss the gladiators,” Victoria says.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Sorry, that’s the ironmonger isn’t it?”

  Amara rolls her eyes as they all laugh. She and Dido have only had three nights with Salvius and Priscus, but from the way Victoria teases her, it’s as if she’s embroiled in a breathless love affair. It gives her an odd feeling to think of Salvius now, when she is about to see Menander. Her intimacy with the widower has happened almost by accident, through the time they spend playing music together and his unexpected gentleness. But she never forgets that for all his kindness, he is a customer.

  It’s Menander she is attracted to – could imagine loving even – although their relationship has consisted of little more than a few snatched moments and graffiti exchanges outside The Sparrow. That’s how she knows where to meet him. I will wait for you by the second gate, Timarete. May fortune smile on us both! She was the one who suggested the timing underneath. Then she spent hours agonizing over whether that looked too keen or too cool. Would it have been better to have suggested before the games started? Or later, after one of the gladiator fights?

  “Salvius is just a friend,” she says.

  “If he’s just a friend,” Victoria says. “You wouldn’t mind if he did a swap and had Dido next time, would you?”

  Amara winces. “He wouldn’t do that!”

  “You don’t like the idea though, do you?”

  “I think of Priscus as my friend too,” Dido says, coming to her rescue. “They’re just not like that, either of them.”

  “You’ll be saying they’re better lovers than Gallus next!”

  “Oh, fuck off!” Beronice rounds on Victoria. “Just because some gladiator kissed you, doesn’t mean you get to lord it over the rest of us all day like fucking Venus!”

  One or two of the more respectable women sitting on the row in front shuffle disapprovingly, though none is brave enough to risk a direct confrontation with a gang of rowing whores.

  “Just leave it,” Cressa says wearily. “She’s only teasing.”

  The sound of trumpets rings out, and the murmuring hive subsides slightly, though not enough for the opening speeches to be heard clearly from the back. Amara thinks again of Fuscus, imagines how much he must have enjoyed his moment of glory last year. Perhaps he has brought his sons with him today, or would they be too young? She has never met them.

  Cheering and yelling from the crowd alerts them to the beast hunters’ entrance. The three men hold their arms up to the crowds, enjoying the glory before facing the danger.

  “Will that be Celadus?” Amara asks, unable to tell one fighter from another at this distance.

  “He wouldn’t do a beast hunt!” Victoria is outraged. “He’s a combat gladiator!”

  There’s more screaming, a mixture of fear and excitement, as the animals are released into the ring. The women jump to their feet to get a better view.

  “What are they?” Cressa asks, standing on tiptoe. “I can’t see.”

  “Tigers!” Dido says. “They’ve let loose tigers!”

  Amara can see the beasts circling, lean and hungry, while the men stand with their backs together in the centre of the arena. She has never seen a tiger before, but she’s watched enough cats stalk their prey to recognize the low, slow prowl, muscles bunched, ready to spring. Beronice grabs her arm as the first attacks. It moves so fast, she cannot imagine how any of the hunters have time to react, but one catches it with his spear, and the animal sheers off, limping and wounded. Another tiger charges and, this time, lands a blow, knocking a man to the ground.

  The yelling from the crowd is so intense, the action in the arena so frantic, she cannot work out what is happening. Beside her, Beronice is jumping up and down, Victoria is screaming and then she realizes she is too, though she’s not sure who she is shouting for, the men or the beasts. Even Dido is caught up in the hysteria, punching the air when one man saves another, leaping on the back of the attacking tiger as if it were a horse.

  The role of hunter and hunted switches back and forth, sometimes the beasts are in retreat, sometimes the men. The skill of the fighters, the grace of the tigers, all of it is punctuated by acts of savagery which make Amara gasp. She keeps watching, unable to look away, until the last tiger has been slaughtered. Their bodies are dragged from the arena, leaving thick red trails in the sand. One of the men is taken off too, his chest covered in blood from a shoulder wound. The remaining two hunters stand together, throwing their arms up to receive the adulation of the crowds.

  “Doubt the injured one will make it,” Victoria says, raising her voice above the din. “That tiger practically had his arm off!”

  “Will they replace him?” Dido asks. “Or will the next fight just have two hunters?”

  “They usually replace them if it’s this early, otherwise the hunt doesn’t last long enough,” Cressa says.

  A few women are getting up, making use of the break to go to the latrine. “I think I had better go,” Amara says.

  “Don’t break the ironmonger’s heart,” Victoria says.

  Dido squeezes her arm. “Good luck.”

  Amara’s own heart is thumping with nerves as she makes her way down the outside steps of the arena. What if Menander misunderstood and thought she meant the end of all the beast hunts? What if he doesn’t come? She walks quickly to the gate where they have arranged to meet and can see, even from a distance, that he is already waiting for her.

  Then they are standing together, and nothing else matters.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here,” he says, taking hold of her hand.

  “You too.”

  Neither seem able to do anything but stare at one another, until Menander laughs and breaks the moment. “Shall we get a drink?”

  They walk out into the square. It’s dotted with stalls selling food, drink and souvenirs. Amara no longer minds the heat or notices the noise. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and they both laugh over nothing, amused by everything. They wander aimlessly for a while, before remembering why they went for a walk and buy a glass of wine to share, and some bread, and head off to sit in the shade under the plane trees beside the Palaestra. The rarity of a day off means they are not the only slave couple taking advantage of the time, though the baying of the crowd as the next hunt starts draws some of the loiterers back into the arena. Menander has still not let go of her hand, and when they sit down, he puts his arm round her. Amara rests her head on his shoulder and can feel his heartbeat, as fast and nervous as her own.

  “Would your father have liked me?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” she says, surprised into honesty by his question.

  Menander laughs. “That’s better than a no, I guess.”

  “What about yours?”

  “I think he’d have been quite happy with a doctor’s daughter.”

  “My parents wouldn’t have been too pleased by this sort of behaviour.”
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  “No, I suppose not,” Menander replies, holding her tighter, in case she is minded to honour the dead by sitting further apart. There’s a pause, and she suspects he is thinking, like she is, of all they have lost. “And now I have nothing to offer you,” he says. “No shop to inherit, no freedom.”

  “I think we can agree I have even less to offer you,” Amara replies. She says it as a joke, but it hurts, the distance between her old self and her life now.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, smiling. “You would fetch at least five times as much as me at the market.”

  “But nobody’s buying anyone, not today.”

  “No,” he says. Then he bends to kiss her, quickly, as if he might otherwise lose his nerve. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, Amara thinks, holding him. When you want someone. It’s meant to feel like happiness.

  “Are you alright?” Menander breaks off, looking anxiously into her face. “I hope I didn’t upset you?”

  Amara realizes she is shaking. “No, you didn’t upset me!” she says, holding him closer to reassure him. “I just feel…” She stops, unable to find words for the mixture of happiness and pain. He is looking at her, waiting, still worried. She tries again. “You get used to having nothing, don’t you? And then suddenly to have something, to feel something, it’s…” She trails off.

  “It’s happy–sad?”

  “Yes, because nothing belongs to you, not even the happiness.”

  “Timarete, even slaves own their happiness. Feelings are the only things we do own.” He passes the small flask of wine to her, and she takes a sip. “And I know that this afternoon is short, but we have it, we own it.”

  “Are you going to tell me not to waste it?”

  “No, because talking isn’t wasting it,” he says, taking the wine back from her. “Nobody is telling us what to do today. Just feel whatever you want to feel.” He pauses. “Although I’m hoping that means you might feel like kissing me again.”

  She laughs. “Might do.”

  “I want to know all about your singing too,” he says, brushing the hair from her shoulders. “I half thought you might be too grand to see me now, after all the parties you and Dido go to.”

  “Never,” she says. “And anyway, there wouldn’t be any singing if you hadn’t got the lyre for me.”

  “It was entirely selfish. I just wanted to hear you play,” he says, drawing her closer. His intensity is familiar, pulling on a dark undertow in her body. She has seen desire in so many men and almost every association is painful. But this is Menander! She puts her hand out to touch his face, cupping it in her fingers, to remind herself who he is, remind herself that she has chosen to be with him.

  “I wish I had known you in our other life.”

  “I know.”

  “You try to keep it inside, don’t you, all the different parts of yourself, but they don’t exist anymore. I thought of my mother the other day, what she would think of me, who she would see. If we met now. But she wouldn’t know me. I wouldn’t know me.” Amara is talking fast, trying to rush the words out, hoping she makes sense, not sure why she is even telling him this, aside from the longing she feels to be understood. “Sometimes I think it must be harder for you. Because my life is just completely different, there’s nothing left of the past. But for you, it must be like living on the wrong side of the mirror.”

  “To be the potter’s slave, rather than the potter’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is hard. But I know it’s not harder than your life.” He takes her hand and places it against his cheek again, covering her fingers with his. “You are the same person though. I still see you as the same person.”

  “I miss so many things.” She sighs then smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “The food for a start.”

  Menander makes a face. “Italian cheese! What do they feed their goats?”

  “And that horrible fish sauce on everything!”

  “No beans so bland they can’t be spiced up by rotten anchovies.”

  “And the bread here tastes like somebody tipped grit in it.”

  “It does, doesn’t it!” Menander says wonderingly. “What do they put in the flour?”

  “I miss my mother’s stew.”

  “Me too.” He shoots her a sly look. “Bet mine’s was better.”

  “Nobody makes better stew than the women in Aphidnai.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Might be.”

  Menander kisses her again, and this time, the darkness stays at the edges, unable to break through.

  *

  The afternoon, which always drags so painfully in the brothel, seems to end moments after she has sat down with Menander, even though hours have passed.

  “Amara! There you are! You were meant to meet us after the second gladiator fight! We’ve been wandering round and round for ages!”

  She has never been sorry to see Dido’s face before, but now, the sight makes her heart drop through her stomach. She stares up at her four friends, ranged round, and instinctively grips Menander’s hand. “It can’t be time to head back, not yet!”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Victoria says, looking furious. “Celadus hasn’t even been on yet!”

  Felix had ordered them all to leave in good time, to make sure they missed the crowds and were back at the brothel to pick up the inevitable surge in trade after the event. As the most famous gladiator, Celadus’s duel must have been left until the end.

  Menander rests his hand on her arm. “We’ll see each other soon,” he says gently.

  “But we won’t! You know we won’t!”

  He hugs her, crushing her against him. “We will have another whole day, just for ourselves. I promise. Even if we have to wait until the Saturnalia.”

  “Amara,” Cressa says. “We can’t be late.”

  She doesn’t say goodbye and neither does he. Letting go of Menander, standing up, walking away from him, knowing what she will now have to face instead, almost stops her breath. The pain is physical in its ferocity. She cannot bear to look back. She tells herself it is easier not to want, not to feel. When you cannot make your own choices, what good is wanting anything, or anyone?

  Dido takes her hand. “I’m here,” she says, squeezing Amara’s fingers.

  21

  For assuredly to live is to be awake.

  Pliny the Elder, Natural History

  The stall selling flowers and garlands is on the shady side of the street, but the heat of the late afternoon has still caused many of the blooms to wilt. Amara and Dido whisper together, trying to pick out the freshest stems from buckets of water, watched by the hovering shop assistant.

  “Can we afford lilies?”

  “We should probably make the effort, if we want Aurelius to book us again.”

  It’s only the second time they have been to the wine seller’s house. Aurelius is a friend of Fuscus, but not Cornelius, and his tastes seem more decorous. A secret brothel at the end of his garden is an unthinkable idea.

  They buy the lilies and wander slowly back. The streets are less crowded than usual, nobody who doesn’t have to be out is braving the heat, and if last night at the brothel is any indication, half Pompeii has a hangover. Amara rubs her arm where she knows a bruise marks the skin, a gift from a particularly aggressive customer last night. It will be a nuisance to hide the blemish tonight.

  “Are you feeling better?” Dido looks anxiously at her arm. “I know last night was difficult.”

  “I almost wish I hadn’t seen him now,” Amara says, and they both know she isn’t referring to the customer. But it hurts too much to talk about Menander directly. “It makes everything feel so much worse.”

  “I told Nicandrus this.”

  “Were you meant to see him yesterday too?” Amara is surprised Dido didn’t tell her.

  Dido nods, then they pause their conversation to let a cart pass, standing close against the wall to avoid the dust. “What can we give each oth
er?” Dido asks, as they start walking again. “Apart from a moment’s kindness. When you cannot be with someone, is it worth the pain, pretending it’s any different? I’m sorry,” she says, seeing Amara’s stricken face. “But I’m not sure what loving Menander gives you? If it were Salvius even, I would understand. Might he not buy you one day? At least it’s possible. Another slave… there’s nothing he can give any woman, however much he might want to.”

  “I know,” Amara says, trying not to think of the feel of Menander’s arm around her or the laughter in his eyes. “I know he can’t.”

  “Do you think Salvius would ever buy you?”

  “No. I mean, I have wondered about it,” she admits. “But you should hear him talk about Sabina, her extraordinary virtue, her shyness. He’s not the type to keep me as a concubine, and it’s obvious I’m not someone he might think of as a wife.” She hesitates. “What about Priscus?”

  “No chance!” Dido laughs. “What would he do? Keep me at Salvius’s house as a secret lover? He has that already.”

  They reach the brothel and knock at the door to Felix’s flat. Paris answers.

  “Master’s busy,” he says, scowling at them both.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Amara answers, giving the door an impatient shove. “We’re here to practise for this evening. He knows about it.”

  “No need to be a bitch and kick the door down!” Paris snaps, stepping aside to let them enter.

  “Doesn’t he ever get lonely?” Dido whispers, after they’ve climbed the stairs. “I don’t think he has any friends.”

  “Not surprising, with that attitude,” Amara replies, not bothering to lower her voice.

  The lyre is kept in the small living area off Felix’s bedroom. As soon as they walk in, they realize he has company next door. It’s Victoria. Amara would recognize her ecstatic moaning anywhere, although it sounds like she is putting in an extra effort for the boss.

  Dido grabs her arm, stopping her from walking further in. “Should we be here?” she whispers.

  “Not like we don’t hear her every night.”