When everyone is ready, they leave Ipstilla and Telethusa at the brothel and walk in a silent line to The Sparrow. The Spanish girls passed a miserable night, quiet for once, cowed by the frenzy of mourning for a woman they barely knew.
As soon as they walk in, it’s clear Zoskales has already heard the news. Amara suspects half the neighbourhood must know by now, after they threw their own customers out. The landlord orders them wine and food on the house. He brings it to their table himself. “For the memory of your friend,” he says, pressing each of their hands in turn, his voice deep with sincerity. “For Cressa. May her shade rest easier in the other world.”
They thank him, Beronice weeping, but Amara fears Cressa will not rest, wherever her spirit is now. They cannot even bury her; there is nothing they can do to ease her passing.
“To Cressa,” Victoria says, knocking back the wine. The others follow. Amara tries to give Britannica a flask, but she turns her head. The Briton has not made a sound since she learnt her only friend had died. Her silence disturbs Amara far more than the wild grief she expected. She feels an even greater sense of responsibility for Britannica now. It was, after all, the last request Cressa ever made, that they should care for her.
“Her pain is over,” Victoria says. “It was her choice. We should respect that.”
“Hardly a choice,” Amara replies, remembering Cressa’s face turned to hers in the harsh light of the harbour, and the misery in her eyes. “She didn’t want to lose her baby. Whose fault was that?”
“Don’t,” Dido says, shaking her head. “Please don’t. It doesn’t help.”
“It could have been any of us,” Amara continues, ignoring her. “Any of us. We don’t matter to anyone.” Beronice starts crying again, slumping down on the table, her shoulders shaking.
“Just stop,” Dido says.
“Sorry,” Amara replies. She looks guiltily at Beronice, who is wiping her eyes, trying to control herself, while Dido puts an arm round her.
“We should mark a spot for Cressa,” Victoria says. “Use her savings for some offerings, have the rites performed. All pay towards it if we need to.”
The others nod. “And we need to look after Britannica,” Amara adds. “It was the last thing Cressa asked me. She wanted us to be kinder to her.” This proposal is met with less enthusiasm. Paying respects to a shade is an easier task than caring for a large, angry Briton.
“I hope Ipstilla and Telethusa are alright,” Dido says. “They seemed very quiet this morning. It must be strange for them.”
“Pair of complete bitches,” Victoria replies. “I doubt they have any feelings at all. You should have seen them outside the baths yesterday. Shameless! I thought they were going to start screwing a man against the wall, in broad daylight.” She looks at Amara, her expression not entirely kind. “You’re in for a fun night tonight.”
Amara and Dido are due to perform at Cornelius’s house, but they won’t be going alone. Ipstilla and Telethusa have also been booked to dance.
“They can’t be that bad,” Amara says.
“Well,” Victoria says, “you’ll just have to tell us all about the party tomorrow. I’m sure none of us can wait.”
Amara knows it is grief making Victoria lash out, but the look she exchanges with Beronice suggests the bitterness the two women feel runs deep. She understands, watching them both, that there will have been many other conversations like this when they vented their jealousy in her and Dido’s absence. Perhaps Cressa joined in too. Amara knocks back her wine, wanting to blot out the thought.
*
Amara has never seen Egnatius make a scene like the one he puts on for Ipstilla and Telethusa. He bursts into the chilly waiting room, unable to contain his excitement at meeting the new girls. They all gabble in Spanish together, and Amara can see what an unfeigned joy it is for him to speak his native language. She knows that feeling, remembers what it was like the first time she spoke with Menander, the sense of instant recognition and understanding.
She and Dido practise quietly in the corner. It’s more Ovid tonight; they have set some of his Art of Love to music. Verses about dancing, to blend with the Spaniards’ performance. Egnatius pays them very little attention, and she remembers the first time she came here. Then the fuss was all for her and Dido, and the mime actresses were largely expected to fend for themselves. There is nothing like the lure of the new.
Eventually, Egnatius remembers them. He heads over, semi-apologetic, to dress their hair with garlands. “They’re quite perfect!” he gushes, tucking some leaves behind Dido’s ear. “Your master bought exactly the type of girls I requested.”
“That you requested?” Amara is stunned.
“Slave girls trained in Cadiz.” He nods. “Oh! I remember seeing them in my youth. No other dancing like it in the world. It takes years to learn the skill.” He raises an eyebrow, sly with innuendo. “Trained in other arts too, of course.”
Amara and Dido exchange a horrified look. Who is going to be interested in a pair of sparrows when there are two phoenixes in the room? Egnatius picks up on their alarm, perhaps realizing his lack of tact. “But nothing like your enchanting performance!” he exclaims, without a trace of sincerity. “My fair, innocent little nymphs!”
He prances off, exchanging what is clearly a filthy joke with the Spanish girls as he leaves. All three of them cackle.
“Shit,” Amara says.
“We haven’t even got any new tunes tonight,” Dido whispers. It’s true. Salvius has given them all the songs he knows, or perhaps all the songs he wants to share, and now, they have to spice up their routine with fresh words, but familiar music.
“It will be alright,” Amara says, convincing neither of them. “We’re just different from each other. It’s fine.”
“Did you know Felix was speaking directly to Egnatius?”
Amara shakes her head. All those days she has spent with him, working on his accounts, and he has never mentioned it. “No,” she says.
*
At first, Amara thinks it will be alright. She is soothed that Fuscus is there, that he has still requested her to lie on his couch for at least part of the meal. It has been many, many weeks since he paid for her company for the entire dinner. They chat about his sons, his business, even his wife, and he caresses her in a lazy, familiar way. But isn’t that how it should be? There’s not the same urgency when you’ve known a lover for a while.
Amara has a niggling sense of unease that there are fewer guests than usual, and no wives are present, not even their hostess, Calpurnia. Even so, much of the dinner feels reassuringly predictable. She and Dido perform, everyone seems to enjoy their singing, and Egnatius graciously steers them around the room. But Ipstilla and Telethusa are not left until the end of the meal like the mime actresses. Instead, Egnatius brings them in as the high point, just when everyone’s spirits have built to an especially convivial pitch.
Amara is reclining on a couch with a man she doesn’t know when they enter. He hasn’t spoken to her directly, but she thinks he might be called Trebius. He runs a tannery and is droning on about leather to his equally dull companion when Cornelius starts talking, his voice loud over the murmur of his guests.
“My friends,” he exclaims, “I think you may enjoy the next course. A Spanish dish with extra spice.”
There is expectant laughter, and Amara realizes that everyone has been waiting for this. She and Dido were only here to whet the guests’ appetites. The entire evening has been based on the new women’s performance.
Ipstilla and Telethusa whirl their way past the fountain of nymphs, clacking their red castanets. Even the tedious Trebius has stopped talking, suddenly interested and alert. The two dancers are naked, though Amara realizes they have made liberal use of the gold paste she and Dido unwisely left unattended in the waiting room.
Their initial flourish over, the two women begin grinding in earnest. Amara stares. She has never seen dancing like this. It makes Victoria’s per
formance at the Vinalia look matronly. She is not even sure how they manage all that shaking and quivering, lowering themselves to the floor but not quite touching it, without toppling over. And the singing is worse. It’s a medley of wordless wailing and moaning, the least subtle imitation of sex she’s ever heard.
Trebius grabs her leg, and she flinches. She turns to look up at him, but he is not looking back at her, does not even seem conscious of her; his hand is grasping the flesh of her thigh purely because he wants to touch a female body while he watches the dancing. She resists an overwhelming instinct to prise his fingers from her skin, preferably bending them back until the bones snap, and instead glances round desperately for Fuscus. He too is mesmerized by the dancing. She keeps her eyes focused on him, willing him to notice her, sending out a silent plea. Eventually, he glances over. She locks eyes with him, determined that he should understand. He motions to Egnatius, pointing towards the couch where she is trapped with Trebius.
Amara has rarely felt more grateful to see Egnatius sidle over. “Please forgive me,” he murmurs to Trebius. “a most terrible oversight, this one is booked elsewhere…” Trebius looks at Amara, almost surprised to see his own hand touching her. “Take it,” he says impatiently, almost shoving her off the couch. “You’re blocking my view.”
Amara reclines next to Fuscus whose expression is smug. “Did the dancing put you in the mood for me, little sparrow?” he asks, hoicking her closer to him, breathing heavily in her ear.
“I couldn’t be with anyone else!” She sighs. Let the foolish man imagine she was longing for his body rather than his protection. At least she knows him. Even if he has no real affection for her, he won’t hurt her, he won’t use her body without any thought there might be a living woman attached to it.
She looks round for Dido, ashamed that she has only just remembered her friend. She spots her near the fountain with a man she does not recognize. At least he seems to be leaving her largely alone, too caught up in the women dancing to notice the one next to him.
Dinner is, unsurprisingly, a shorter affair than usual. It is less of a saunter to Cornelius’s brothel, more a stampede. Other hired women are already waiting, no doubt booked by Egnatius to make sure none of the guests go short. Amara is disappointed Fuscus does not take her to a private room; she supposes he has made an exception to his usual preference not to be watched, confident that the other men, like him, will be more interested in watching the dancers than each other. Ipstilla and Telethusa flit between the lavish cells, putting on a performance for the men while they have sex, but not, Amara thinks bitterly, having to endure being used themselves.
She is not afraid of Fuscus, but when he manoeuvres her into a painfully awkward position, purely to get a better view of Telethusa, she realizes the distance between him and Trebius is not as great as she imagined. Her body, which is too familiar to be exciting on its own, is a means to heighten his pleasure in the dancers. She is trapped by him, his weight like the waves of the sea, pushing her under. She thinks of Cressa, lost beneath the water, and turns her face to the side, gripping the expensive fabric on the bed. At the edge of her vision, she can see the flash of Telethusa’s legs as she dances. Felix put this woman here, she thinks. All the gold she has earned him, and he spent it on diminishing her value. He destroys everything in the end.
36
Suns when they sink can rise again, But we, when our brief light has shone Must sleep the long night on and on.
Catullus, Poem 5
Amara can hear Thraso before she sees him. Gallus is leading them back home in the dark, although this street, with its bars and brothel, is never so dark as the others. A small crowd is gathered around the foot of a ladder. It stands propped against the wall, just round the corner from their own front door, and a shrieking woman is trying to shake it, stopped only by drunken bystanders. At the top, Thraso bellows down at her, clinging onto a rung with one hand and waving a hammer with the other.
“What the fuck?” Gallus says, raising his lamp to illuminate the scene.
Amara takes Dido’s hand, and they draw closer together, but Ipstilla and Telethusa seem excited at the prospect of a row, bouncing up and down to get a better view. Both are still ecstatic over their success at Cornelius’s house. Even Egnatius tipped them for their performance, something Amara has never seen him do before.
“What’s this?” Gallus yells, barging into the crowd. He grabs the shrieking woman’s shoulder. “Are you trying to fucking kill him?”
The woman turns round, still screaming, and Amara recognizes her. It’s Maria, Simo’s least valuable woman. She stops yelling when she sees Amara and Dido, then screws her face up, spitting at their feet. “For Drauca,” she says, her eyes bright with hatred. She turns back to Gallus, flinging her arm up with anger. “Get him to stop! Look at him! He’s destroying my master’s property!”
Thraso is swinging his hammer at a stone cock that has sprouted high up on the wall. Amara hadn’t noticed it before, but then there are so many in Pompeii. Maria takes advantage of everyone staring upwards to give the ladder a violent shake. Thraso clings on, swearing at her. “You’ve no right!” she shrieks. “Stop it!”
“Bitch,” Thraso yells back, brandishing the hammer. “Mind I don’t drop this on your fucking head!”
Ipstilla steps forwards, yanking at Maria’s toga to move her out of danger, shouting at her in Spanish. The two women grapple with one another, and the crowd cheer, delighted by the night’s unexpected entertainment.
“Get Felix,” Gallus says to Amara and Dido. “Now.”
They run back to the brothel. It’s no distance away, but the carousing outside The Elephant is so raucous that the noise of the row, just a few houses down, is lost in the chaos. Paris is on the door and is startled to see them charging up the street on their own.
“You need to get Felix,” Amara says. “There’s trouble with one of Simo’s whores. He’ll know what I mean.”
Paris hurries to the flat, banging on the door and yelling. The door opens, and he disappears inside. A few moments later, Felix comes out armed with a metal rod. Paris slinks out behind, obviously being sent back to guard the brothel rather than join in the action.
“Where are the dancers?” Felix asks, surprised to see them on their own.
“They stayed with Gallus,” Dido replies, as they trot behind him.
Felix shakes his head, irritated. “Better take them back with you.”
They reach the ladder, and the crowd parts, more out respect for the weaponry than the man carrying it. Maria and Ipstilla are still scrapping, Gallus trying to get between them, but at the sight of Felix, they all pull apart. Gallus bundles Ipstilla out of the way. “Fucking women,” he mutters.
“What’s this?” Felix asks. He sounds casual, almost bored, leaning on the metal rod as if it were a staff.
Maria squares up to him, shoulders heaving from her recent exertion. “You tell me!” she shouts. “Your thug’s smashing up my master’s business! Simo rents this room; it’s his. You have no right.”
“This room?” Felix says, swinging the rod towards the small darkened cell that opens directly onto the street. He wrinkles his nose, as if he can smell its stale odour. “Simo rents this room?”
Maria steps protectively in front of the doorway. Amara cannot help admiring her courage. “You know he does. That’s why that bastard’s been trying to smash the sign.”
Felix smiles at Thraso, who has just descended the ladder. “I think we can leave the lady her sign,” he says. “Though that’s a big fucking cock for a very small brothel, isn’t it? What’s your master hoping? Some of the dregs from my business will swill down the road?” Felix turns round to the watching drunks. “Which women would you rather fuck? That fat one there”—he points at Maria—“or my girls here.” Some of the crowd laugh, and Ipstilla with them, but Telethusa looks less impressed. Amara suspects she doesn’t fancy a night with any of the drunks on display. At least there they can agree
.
“You can mouth off all you like,” Maria says, jutting out her chin. “You don’t impress me. Think I’ve never been called fat before? Well, my big, fat arse is staying right here.”
This time it’s Maria who raises the laugh. Felix nods, and Amara recognizes his smiling expression as one of pure cruelty. “No doorman though, is there?” he says, looking theatrically up and down the road for her non-existent protector. “Simo can’t think much of you if he’s selling cunt straight on the street. Anything could happen. You leave your goods for a moment and”—he snaps his fingers—“somebody’s stolen them. Or smashed them.” He is staring at Maria as he says this, so that she cannot mistake his meaning.
For the first time, Amara can see that Maria is afraid, but she chooses to cover it with bravado. “If I’m so fucking ugly, not worth your while to threaten me, is it?”
Felix bows. “I’m sure, for your performance tonight, you will have the pick of all the men here.” In answer, a couple of the drunken bystanders jostle towards Maria’s small, dark cell, and Felix watches her discomfort as she realizes she will have no means of limiting or controlling her customers. He must really hate her, Amara thinks, to frighten her at the expense of making Simo some money. She thinks of Drauca and feels afraid of what might happen to Maria. Felix turns to the remaining men. “If you prefer wine to water, the brothel’s this way.”
Most were only there for the spectacle and slope off, not willing to pay for their fun, but a couple tag along. They walk along the narrow pavement in a gaggle. Ipstilla and Telethusa exchange anxious glances. Surely, the master doesn’t expect them to entertain drunks like this, not after their performance at the grand house? Ipstilla catches his arm. “Why does she go upstairs?” She points at Amara. “She is better in brothel. We make you much more money tonight.”
The Wolf Den Page 29
