Someone steps over the threshold of the brothel. Britannica whips round, shouting at Amara. It sounds more like a command than a warning, but she has no idea what it might be.
“Making friends?”
Felix stands at the doorway, looking in. Britannica bunches up, reminding Amara of the tigers in the arena. She bares her teeth at Felix and hisses. Victoria’s insult comes into her mind, unbidden. Savage.
Their master is unconcerned. He draws a small knife from his tunic. Examines it, as if it needs a clean. Britannica stops hissing, watching him, eyes so wide the whites are showing. Felix gestures with the blade, casual rather than threatening. “You don’t like this, do you?”
“She doesn’t understand any Latin,” Amara says.
“Oh, she understands me,” he replies. “We understand each other perfectly well. Don’t we?” As if in answer, Britannica shrinks back. “You see,” he says to Amara, tucking the knife away. “She speaks my language.”
“She doesn’t understand life here,” Amara says. “She screams all night; it’s not good for business.”
“She’ll get used to it. And if not.” He shrugs. “Some customers like that. Not that you have to worry, not after I got this letter from your posh boy,” Felix holds up a note, a look of amusement on his face. “He is demanding you have lodgings outside the brothel.”
“Rufus?” Amara is stunned.
“How many posh boys do you have? Yes, Rufus. I’ve sent a reply back with Gallus. He’s not offering enough for every night. But I’ve agreed you will only spend two nights a week here, as long as he pays the retainer.”
Amara thinks of Rufus at the theatre, the way he gave her the jasmine, his acceptance of her anger. She feels touched in ways she cannot express, certainly not to Felix.
“Don’t just sit there!” Felix says, irritated by her lack of reaction. “Pack your things up.”
“But where am I going?”
“You can sleep upstairs. In the storeroom with Paris.”
“I can’t leave Britannica alone; I promised Cressa.”
Felix draws the knife again, crosses to Britannica, points it at her face. She flinches, but Amara is surprised she doesn’t show greater physical fear. “You. Stay. Here. Not. Move.” He leans forward, gripping her thigh with his free hand, in an unmistakable gesture of sexual aggression. This time Britannica looks more afraid. Felix stays where he is, until she cowers, no longer meeting his eye. Amara has never despised him more.
He stands up. “You just need to be firm with her,” he says, heading for the door. “Now get your things.”
Amara follows him, looking back briefly at Britannica before leaving the cell. She hopes the hate on her face is meant for Felix alone.
*
Paris is as delighted by the new living arrangements as Amara imagined he might be. Felix’s slave boy doesn’t dare express his discontent in front of their master, especially after the boss makes it clear he doesn’t want any squabbling, but as soon as Felix has left Amara in the storeroom – one more piece of property to be added to the pile – Paris turns on her.
“You can sleep over there,” he says, pointing to some empty sacks in the far corner. “Right over there. I don’t want your smelly cunt anywhere near me.”
“Oh, piss off,” Amara replies, dropping her father’s bag on the sacks. She isn’t going to argue for a space closer to Paris; the further away they are from each other, the better. “As if you don’t have to rent your arse out too. And I bet you don’t just get down on your knees to scrub floors up here.”
“Fuck you,” Paris says, clenching his fist. His face is red with fury.
“No fighting, remember,” Amara says, plonking herself down on the floor by her bag, making it clear she is here to stay. “You heard what Felix just said. If you give me a black eye, just think what he’ll do to you in return.” Amara sees Paris flinch, a look of fear on his face. She presses home her advantage. “He fucks you too, doesn’t he? Just like all the rest of us.”
In that moment, for the first time, Amara sees something of Fabia in her son. It’s there in the cowed stoop of his shoulders, in his wounded expression. She knows he is not much younger than she is, but with his skinny legs and thin frame, he looks like a beaten child. Guilt pricks her. She is about to say something kinder when he speaks.
“You disgust me,” he says, his face screwed up with malice. “All of you. Dirty fucking whores. And if I find you’ve touched any of my things with your nasty, grubby fingers when I’m out, I’ll kill you!”
Paris stomps from the room, leaving Amara to wonder if Rufus did her such a favour after all. She shifts on the hot, dusty sacks. They are not going to be much more comfortable than the stone bed in Dido’s cell, but at least she will be able to sleep, not work all night. It feels strange being in the quiet of the storeroom, knowing the brothel is downstairs. Cressa’s cell must be right below her, or maybe Beronice’s. She looks up at the shelves in the narrow room, stacked with jars and bundles of cloth. On the floor beside her, there’s a half-empty bag of beans she might be able to use as a pillow. A few spill out from a small hole in the corner as she moves it. She hopes there aren’t too many mice. Or rats.
Amara gets up and creeps to the door. She doesn’t know much about what goes on in Felix’s flat. She supposes the room next door must be where Gallus and Thraso sleep. She regrets not being friendlier with Paris, if only to try and get more information out of him.
Already Amara misses her friends downstairs, and it has only been a few minutes. She wonders if Thraso will even tell them what’s happened, why Felix has moved her. For a moment, the strangeness of being alone makes her feel emotional. She leans her head against the wooden door jamb, trying to clear her thoughts. There’s no point being miserable and wasting her time up here; it’s impossible to say how long Rufus will keep her, whether his interest will ever pay off. But she could use this time to learn more about how Felix runs his loans, see if she can convince him to use her that way, rather than selling her. It would at least be a better life than the one in the brothel. She sets off down the corridor.
His study door is ajar, to let in a breeze in the summer heat. He must have spotted her shadow, because he calls out before she even has a chance to knock.
“What do you want?” His tone is not inviting.
Amara steps into the room but doesn’t approach too close to his desk. “That girl from The Elephant who paid off her loan. Pitane. She mentioned to me that she might have another customer for you. I thought I could use this time to do some business.”
“I can’t spare anyone to go with you.”
“Couldn’t I go on my own?” Amara asks. “It’s only to The Elephant. I could make a note and see if you like the terms.”
She waits for Felix to answer, palms sweating. “It’s like a never-ending itch for you, isn’t it?” he says. “Making money.”
If Felix were a different man, if she thought he would be pleased by the comparison, she would say: As it is for you. Instead, she shrugs. “Everyone wants to make money. Though in this case I’m making it for you.”
“Go then,” he says, turning back to his accounts, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
*
The Elephant is a grander bar than The Sparrow, attached as it is to a large inn. A copper lantern shaped like an elephant hangs over the doorway, dangling with chiming bells, and the walls inside are lined with pictures of the giant beasts pitted against gladiators in the arena.
There is a fair exchange in trade between the brothel and the inn, and Sittius, the landlord, gives Amara a nod of recognition when she leans against the bar.
“Not many customers in for you today,” he says.
“I wondered if Pitane might be free for a moment,” she answers.
“She’s in the courtyard,” he replies. “But if you’re going to keep her chatting, best get a drink.”
Amara buys the smallest wine she can, missing the easy charm of Zoskales
at The Sparrow. Sittius is notoriously tight. She walks through to the small courtyard behind the bar. It is partly shaded by a vine growing over a trellis and dotted with outdoor tables. A couple of guests sit drinking in a corner. Pitane is busy sweeping the flagstones. She brightens as soon as she sees Amara.
Amara did not just get the waitress a loan but her undying gratitude along with it. The abortion worked, and Amara paid off the last few pennies of the interest when it looked like Pitane wouldn’t manage it. Without telling Felix. It is not only that she couldn’t bear to endure another Marcella; she guessed it would be worth the money to build up a few favours. Felix might be able to rely on brute force, but she needs a different model, if she is going to win any clients.
“You look very well,” Amara says to her.
“I am!” Pitane replies, then lowers her voice. “And I’ve been using that sponge just as you suggested,” she whispers, with a sidelong look at the drinkers in the corner.
“You said there was another woman who might need help.” Amara perches on the edge of a table in the shade, sipping her wine. She makes a face. Sittius has given her the cheapest vintage. It tastes like vinegar. She is becoming spoiled by all the Falernian the rich men drink.
Pitane nods, clearly delighted to be called on. “It’s Terentia. You know, who runs the fruit stall, the last one on the corner before the Forum? Well,” she lowers her voice again, enjoying the chance to gossip. “She made a loss last month – some bastard sold her a rotten batch. She was telling me when I got our supplies for the inn, and I said I knew someone who could get her a loan, so she can get more stock in, make it back sooner.”
“Fancy selling rotten fruit! What a crook.” Amara tuts. “How much does she want?”
“Ten denarii.”
Amara calculates Felix’s extortionate rate of interest in her head. She hopes Terentia will be able to pay up – her own savings would never stretch that far. “I think I can help,” Amara replies. “I will call on her this week.”
“Beronice was telling me you and Dido go to so many parties these days!” Pitane says, clearly reluctant to let Amara go. “It must be exciting.”
“It makes a change.’ Amara smiles. She spends some more time chatting with Pitane, enjoying being out in the sunny courtyard rather than cooped up in the dusty storeroom. The guests in the corner fall silent and watch them, curious. Amara’s toga makes her low status obvious, and Pitane has no doubt had to serve them already, yet here the two women are, ignoring the chance of picking up an extra tip.
“Hey ladies,” one calls. “What does a man need to do around here to get a bit of attention?”
Amara thinks of Rufus’s retainer and feels warm with gratitude. She doesn’t have to entertain any idiots today. “I’d better let you get back to work,” she says to Pitane, giving the two men behind her an unfriendly stare.
“Oh,” Pitane is crestfallen. “I suppose so, yes. See you around.” She heads over to the guests, narrow shoulders drooping, her fun over for the morning.
29
Vouchsafe no easy promise to his prayer Nor yet reject it with a ruthless air; Blend hopes with fears; but hopes must grow more bright.
Ovid, The Art of Love III
Amara’s life above the brothel takes on its own disjointed rhythm. It is a huge relief to spend her nights unmolested, something she has not enjoyed since her stay with Pliny. Not that she sleeps as well as she did under the admiral’s protection. The sacks are scratchy and uncomfortable, the mice scrabble, and she can hear the sounds of her friends working below, which fills her with both guilt and relief.
Some nights she dreams of Menander, and when she wakes, his absence is like a weight on her chest. In the dark of the storeroom, she relives every moment she has spent with him, finds herself turning the memories over in her mind like precious stones, until they start to lose their sharpness and she cannot be sure where fantasy and reality meet. Then she will remember Dido’s warning about wasted love and forces herself to relive the last time she saw him, when he was powerless to protect her, or himself.
Paris is a largely silent companion, often ignoring Amara if she tries to speak with him. She suspects their master has warned him off, not wanting a repeat of the black eye he gave Victoria. Even so, she is never sorry to have the storeroom to herself when he has to work in the brothel. Worse are the nights when Felix lends him to Thraso. Paris is completely unresisting, as if Thraso were having sex with a corpse. Amara curls up as small as possible, facing the wall, trying to give Paris some dignity. She finds his total silence almost as disturbing as Britannica’s screaming. The first time it happens, after Thraso has left, she risks asking Paris if he is alright. “It should have been you,” is all he says.
She tries to meet her friends at The Sparrow as before, but apart from Dido, conversation is strained. Victoria has barely spoken to her since their row over Britannica. Returning to the brothel to work, she finds the Briton’s resistance has permanently changed the atmosphere. Everyone is on edge, trying to shield her from customers, for their own sake as much as hers. The rare times anyone shares a joke, Amara no longer feels part of the banter. On the evening she and Dido are sent to entertain at Cornelius’s house, Amara is so happy to see Egnatius, with his absurd compliments and eternal good temper, she almost kisses him.
And then there is Rufus. He has not called for her quite as often as she would have hoped – no more than twice a week – but every time she sees him, she feels a little more confident in his attachment. Her own feelings are growing like bindweed, tangling her thoughts, threatening to choke her scheming. He makes such an effort to be charming, his manner is so gentle, it is hard not to care too much. But she is always aware of the imbalance in power, and fear is her affection’s shadow. She lives with the knowledge that he could tear her life apart on a whim, while she could do him no more damage than a pebble dropped in a pond.
It is her third week living above the brothel when Rufus’s slave Philos calls round on the Thursday morning, warning her to be ready for his master in the evening. She hears Felix take the message – and the money – then the creak of his footsteps as he approaches the storeroom. Amara scrambles to her feet, dusting off her toga.
“I take it you heard that?” Felix says, sticking his head around the door. “You can at least make yourself useful until then.”
“Of course,” she replies, following him out into the corridor and walking to his study.
This is the strangest part of her new life, all the hours she spends with her master. She takes her customary seat near the doorway, tucked in beside a small table. Felix has never asked her to share his bed again, but eventually, he relented and let her help with his accounts. It started with Terentia’s loan, when he got her to draw up the contract and write the records. Now he has her working on a number of files. She wonders how he ever managed to do it all himself.
Amara has always thought of her master as a thug, but she is forced to acknowledge the charm, as well as the threats, he deploys in his money lending. Clients visit, not noticing the small bent figure in the corner recording their conversations, and Felix treats the men to wine, using jokes and flattery, drawing out their hopes and their secrets. “There’s no such thing as useless information,” he tells her, after one client leaves having lamented about his mother-in-law for half an hour.
He is meticulous with his accounts, all the prostitution money gets ploughed into the loan-sharking, and he takes very little out for pleasure. In fact, pleasure seems to rank low in his life altogether. He hangs out with cronies in bars some evenings, probably the same men she saw that day at the Palaestra, but she is unsure how much he likes anyone, or if he has any real friends.
She tries to let go of her hatred for a while, to study him the way she has watched him study other people. If he were a stranger what would she notice? His love of money, his determination, his cruelty, his surprising fascination with the thoughts and feelings of others. His total lack of compas
sion. The last, she almost cannot admit to herself: his loneliness.
She is trying to work out the interest payments on a loan, setting it against the information Felix has gleaned about the debtor’s assets, when she realizes he is looking at her.
“Have you still not fucked the posh boy yet?”
“No.”
“Cold-hearted bitch.” There is laughter in his voice, and she knows the insult is meant as a compliment. “I wouldn’t leave it too long. The novelty of rejection wears off after a while. And you’re a whore, not a wife.”
He has read her own anxieties as if they were branded on her body. “I’m afraid of him,” Amara lies. “I think he might enjoy violence.”
“You’ll manage,” Felix says, going back to his accounts. “Not like you haven’t had plenty of practise. And I can charge more if it’s anything extreme, so make sure you tell me.”
“Now who’s cold-hearted?” Amara asks, raising her eyebrows. “What if he killed me?”
“I’d be sorry to lose such a valuable whore.”
“How sorry?”
“Don’t beg for crumbs,” he says with a look of distaste. “It doesn’t suit you.”
His words bring back painful memories of Pliny, of her abject pleading with him to buy her. That has surely cured her of ever being tempted to beg again. She steals a look at Felix’s desk. The scroll of Herophilos is still sitting on it, no doubt left there deliberately to torment her. She has never given him the satisfaction of asking if she can read it.
“I think you could charge this one a little more,” she says, referring to the account she’s been looking over. “When you think about his business, Manlius definitely has other assets he could draw on. You’ve noted here that the brooch on his cloak was bronze.”
“It’s his third loan,” Felix says. “And he’s never late. He’s too safe a bet to squeeze too hard. Only go for blood if you think they can’t afford to come back again.”
The Wolf Den Page 24
