The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  Felix slaps Ipstilla hard across the back of the head, and she yelps. She stares at Felix, bewildered, obviously not used to a master with no favourites and no loyalty. “She didn’t brawl in the street like a rabid bitch either,” he says. “Don’t fucking question me again.” They arrive back at the brothel, and Felix greets Paris at the door. “Make sure you take the clothes from them first,” he says, pointing at the women who have returned from the party. “I don’t want them torn.” He clicks his fingers at Amara, and she follows him. She cannot bear to look back at Dido, left behind with the rabble.

  “Little dog,” Ipstilla hisses as she passes. “He will tire of you.”

  Felix says nothing to her as they walk up the stairs, but before she can head to the storeroom he stops her. “Did the dancers earn more than you tonight?” It is the first time they have spoken alone since he told her about his mother.

  “Yes,” Amara says, not wanting to betray any emotion in her answer.

  He leans on the wall, looking her over. She can tell from the hatred in his eyes that he will never forgive her for seeing him as she did, that he will always need to diminish her. “Posh boy today, isn’t it? You’d better get some sleep. You look tired. Like Cressa.” He presses his finger to her cheek, testing its softness, as if she were fruit at the market. “Pretty face. Nobody ages faster than a whore.”

  *

  Drusilla’s dressing table reminds her of the luxurious mornings she spent with Sarah, at Pliny’s house. Amara is conscious of the favour the courtesan is showing her, allowing her into her intimate space. Drusilla’s favourite maid, Thalia, is dressing Amara’s hair. She has dark brown skin like her mistress, and deft, clever fingers. Drusilla has already explained Thalia’s worth, how expensive it was to find a woman who would know the best styles for her own hair. Thalia listened to it all in silence, without betraying how she might feel, or what it meant to her, being shipped all the way from Axum to Pompeii to make a stranger look beautiful.

  “I was only a small child when I came here,” Drusilla says. “I remember almost nothing of my family. My master Veranius became everything to me.” She fingers the gold bracelet on her upper arm. It is the most Amara has ever heard her speak about herself.

  “Was that his gift to you?” she asks.

  In answer, Drusilla slips the bracelet down her arm and hands it to Amara. It is heavier than she expects, shaped like a snake, its eyes glittering gemstones. Inside is an inscription. From the master to his slave girl. Amara admires it then gives it back. “He must have loved you dearly to have made you such a beautiful bracelet,” she says.

  Drusilla slides it back on. “I was the fifth woman in his life to wear it,” she says. “I knew some of those who wore it before me.” She smiles at Amara, seeing the expression on her face. “An early lesson in men. The fourth was Procris, his wife’s maid. She raised me. When I was a grown woman, she had to give this up to me, along with all the favour that went with it. He broke her heart.”

  Amara does not know what to say. Drusilla just told her Veranius meant everything to her, yet the man sounds as monstrous as Felix. “I loved him,” Drusilla says, as if guessing her thoughts. “And I despised him. What else is possible towards the man who gives everything and takes everything?”

  “He must have favoured you the most,” Amara says. “As you kept it, and he freed you.”

  Drusilla laughs. “You can be as naïve as Rufus!” she says. “I survived him, that’s all. Nothing more to it than luck. If he had died when Procris was wearing this, no doubt she would be free, and I would be dressing his widow’s hair.”

  Thalia stands back from Amara, offering her the mirror to see her work. Amara turns her face, admiring her curls. “It’s lovely, thank you,” she says, carefully laying the silver disc on the table. Drusilla nods at Thalia who leaves the room. “Thank you for letting me come here,” Amara says, when the maid has gone. “I could not continue to see Rufus otherwise.”

  “He will never love you more than he does now,” Drusilla replies. Amara puts her hand to her neck, upset because she knows it is true. “I don’t say it to be cruel,” Drusilla continues. “But you need to think carefully about what you want from him. There will never be a better time to ask.”

  “He is always saying he will marry me,” Amara admits. “But it’s impossible! I would be arrested, the marriage dissolved. Roman citizens don’t marry brothel whores. Life isn’t one of his plays.”

  “I didn’t mean marriage!” Drusilla is amused. “Perhaps aim a little lower.”

  Amara laughs with her, embarrassed to have exposed the heights of her own ambition. “Can I ask you something?” she says, feeling a little shy. “Why did it not work out between Rufus and you?”

  “Rufus wants to give everything to a woman. You could almost say he wants to make her.” Drusilla cups her hands, as if sheltering something precious. “What he wants is a little wounded bird he can hold, feel its wings flutter against his fingers.” Her voice is low and crooning. Amara can almost imagine holding the bird herself, its tiny, frightened heart beating beneath soft feathers. “I was not fragile enough for him. You are.” Amara stares at Drusilla, still sitting with her hands cupped together. There are no words for the pain she feels, knowing it is true. “I have been you,” Drusilla says. “Veranius would never have let me go, only his death did that. But Rufus might be different. You might persuade him that there would be no greater pleasure than opening his fingers, watching the bird fly, knowing every beat of its wings, every breath it takes, it owes to him.” Drusilla opens her hands, and they both stare at the empty air. Then she drops her arms, sadness in her eyes. “At least, you have to try.”

  *

  Amara dines alone with Rufus, served a private dinner in the room with Leda and the Swan. Amara knows Drusilla is entertaining Quintus elsewhere in the house. She feels reassured that Rufus wants to lie with her before eating, at least making love to her is still more exciting than food, but she no longer feels the same comfort when he caresses her afterwards. She keeps thinking of the bird, of what it feels like for him, holding his fragile, tragic little whore.

  “I wish I could spend every evening with you,” he says, tucking into Drusilla’s grilled fish and beans. “If I had my way, we would spend every waking moment together.” He takes her hand and kisses it, looking sentimental. “You know that, don’t you, my darling?”

  Amara’s heart is beating so fast, and her nerves are pulled so tight, she cannot touch her own meal. She won’t beg, not after Pliny, and in any case, she does not want to swap one enslavement for another. “If only I had a home, like Drusilla,” she sighs. “You could visit me whenever you wanted.”

  Rufus kisses her, but she can tell he hasn’t taken her seriously. She tries again. “You are more generous than any man I’ve ever met,” she says. “I cry sometimes, when I’m alone, thinking about how you would marry me, because I know you meant it sincerely when you asked. Even though I could never accept. I would never dishonour your family that way.”

  Rufus kisses her again, more passionately this time, distracted from eating by her adoration. “How I love you!” he murmurs.

  “But if you set me up in a home like this, I could be a second wife for you,” she says. “As your freedwoman.” Amara sees a flash of alarm in Rufus’s eyes, but she has rolled the dice and has to play her hand. “I would exist only for you, never taking from your family. Not now, or in the future. I would need nothing other than to be allowed to love you.”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  “More than anything in the world,” she replies. Her lip is trembling from fear, not love, but Rufus cannot tell the difference.

  “Perhaps it might be possible,” he says, turning from her. He looks distracted, rather than excited by the idea. “It would need some work. This isn’t a small thing, what you’re asking.”

  “I know. But ours isn’t a small love,” Amara says. “And although I cannot bring myself to dishono
ur you by allowing you to have me as a wife, I could love you as a mistress without bringing shame to anyone.”

  “It would be wonderful,” Rufus agrees, beginning to warm to the idea of a constant well of devotion. “And then, even when I marry, if my wife isn’t…” He stops, perhaps realizing that speculating on the desirability of his future wife isn’t very romantic. “Anyway, whatever she were like, I could always spend time with you, whenever we wanted.”

  “Yes,” Amara says. “I would always be waiting for you.”

  “Maybe Drusilla could teach you the harp?” Rufus replies, his face hopeful, like a child. “You two like each other, don’t you? And you’ve no idea how happy it makes me, seeing you lost in your music. I think you would look even lovelier playing the harp than you do with the lyre.”

  Amara smiles, relieved he has so easily succumbed to the image of her as the mistress singing in her gilded cage. But his words set off an unwelcome echo, and without wanting to remember, Menander’s rival fantasy plays through her mind. She sees herself as he did, waiting for him in his father’s house. The shared life they will never have together in Attica.

  She leans over and kisses Rufus gently on the lips then gazes up at him, not as Timarete, the woman he will never know, but as Amara, the woman she is now. “Whatever you want.”

  “I’ll do it.” He sounds more determined. “There must be a way of managing it. And I wouldn’t have to pay for you all the time then, not after the initial outlay.” He stops, wincing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, my darling, that sounded unforgivably crude. What I meant was, if it makes financial sense, even my father might see it’s a good idea.”

  “You are the best man in the world,” Amara says, clasping her hands.

  He smiles at her, but she can see the same distracted look on his face. She leans her head against his shoulder, the blood pounding in her ears, hoping that he means what he says and that she has not just sped up her descent and exit from his life.

  DECEMBER

  37

  Now, my little love, entrust your happiness to the wind Trust me, the nature of men is fickle

  Pompeii graffiti

  It is cold in Balbina’s small atrium. A film of ice covers the rainwater in the central pool. Amara and the other two women huddle together in their woollen cloaks, trying to come to an agreement. It cost her dearly, paying off some of Terentia’s interest to Felix, but now it may finally be worth it. The fruit seller has introduced her to another client.

  “I will keep the contract safe for you both,” Terentia is saying. “I found her fair, more than fair.”

  Balbina has run up a dicing debt and doesn’t want her husband to know. Perfect, as far as Amara is concerned, provided Balbina can hand over enough surety.

  “Let me see the necklace,” she says, softening her command with a smile. The chain slips through her fingers, light and supple. She lacks the expertise to know whether it is worth the same amount as the loan, but she suspects the cameo pendant, at least, would fetch something. Amara loops the chain around her own neck, tucking it under the woollen cloak, then hands Balbina a purse. “You may want to check it’s the agreed amount,” she says.

  Balbina counts the coins out twice, while Terentia and Amara watch. Then Terentia holds out the tablets for them both to sign. “Much better rate of interest than I got.” Terentia sighs.

  “I know,” Amara says. “But this is much riskier for me.” What she has just done is worse than risky, and she knows it. Should Felix ever discover the betrayal, the consequences are unimaginable. She tells herself that brokering this loan is a safety net, a means of earning extra cash if Rufus disappoints her. But she knows this is only partly why she has taken such a terrible risk. The real reason is the pleasure she gets from cheating Felix, the fierce joy of outwitting him. Ever since Cressa died, the hostility between them has been relentless, a battle of wits she is determined to win. I am better at this than he is, she thinks.

  Amara turns to Terentia. “We are both trusting you with the contract,” she says. “So please keep it safe.” She has sweetened that trust by five asses though no need to tell Balbina that. If the gambling wife is wise, she will have given the fruit seller her own bribe. “When the interest is paid,” she says to Balbina, who has already tucked the purse out of sight. “I will return the necklace.”

  “I’ll pay it in no time,” Balbina says, sounding tetchy. “I just got unlucky, that’s all.”

  Nobody wants to linger, so after a curt goodbye, Amara and Terentia step out onto the street. “Good job you have the necklace,” Terentia says. “She’ll have to get very lucky at dice to pay that off in one go.”

  “Thank you for arranging it,” Amara replies.

  “I’ll expect the same interest myself next time,” Terentia says, hurrying off down the street. “Your master’s a skinflint.”

  Dido is standing across the street, loitering outside a bakery, pretending to form part of the queue. “Thanks for waiting,” Amara says, joining her, stamping her feet on the cold pavement. “I guess we should get something to eat.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Dido replies. “How your nerves can stand it.”

  It’s true that Dido looks more anxious than Amara. The risk she is running is so great, she has moved beyond fear. Instead, she is high on the sense of betrayal. Deceiving Felix is even more satisfying than she anticipated. “It should be fine,” she says. “Rufus will keep the surety safe for me.” He had also provided her with the purse full of cash, yet another test of his love. She told him it was for a friend who had got into debt, and he did not question her. He has no need to know about this side of her life. When she is installed in their love nest, she doesn’t want to rely on him for everything; it’s better if she has some means to support herself.

  Dido is looking at her strangely. “What is it?” Amara asks, putting her hand to her neck, worried the chain might be showing. “What’s wrong?”

  Dido shakes her head, embarrassed. “Nothing, it’s just…” She pauses, obviously not wanting to say.

  “What?” They have reached the front of the line, and it will be their turn at the counter soon. Amara is impatient to know.

  “I know how much you feel things, because I know you. But you look so cold sometimes. You look like…” Dido falters again.

  Amara is annoyed by her dithering. “Like what?” she snaps.

  “You look like Felix,” Dido blurts out. “I’m sorry. But you do.”

  The words sting, but she doesn’t want to show it. “I suppose slaves get like their masters,” she says, tossing her head as if she doesn’t care. “At least he’s good at business.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Dido says, knowing her too well not to notice Amara is offended. “You could never be cruel like him – that’s not what I meant.”

  They are interrupted by their arrival at the counter. Dido orders the bread, buying a little extra for Fabia and Britannica who cannot afford their own. Amara says nothing, still upset by the comparison with Felix. She thinks back to her dealings with Balbina, how different it felt to that first loan with Marcella, how much less she cared this time. I don’t have a choice, she tells herself. He is free, and I am not.

  It is starting to sleet when they step back on the street. They pull their cloaks up, trying to protect themselves from the wet and the cold, hurrying along the slippery pavement. Amara takes Dido’s arm to show she’s forgiven her. “I don’t know how we’re meant to pick anyone up in this,” she grumbles.

  “Aren’t you seeing Rufus tonight?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Felix says I have to start earning something on these days too, or he will charge Rufus double. I can’t risk costing him yet more money.” She feels a sense of weariness, the exhilaration of the loan already fading. Rufus has promised he will buy her, but there always seems to be some excuse to delay. Now he says it will be the Saturnalia, that it will soften the blow for his parents if his indiscretion is lost in the ce
lebrations. She hopes he means it. Every day she spends in Felix’s service is like another stone added to the growing pile that weighs down her heart. However clever she is, however often she outwits him, he still holds all the power.

  “The baths might be our best chance. At least the customers won’t have to walk far.” Dido looks tired too. Guilt pricks Amara. Whatever anxieties she has, Dido’s worries are surely worse. Egnatius is booking them less frequently, Aurelius and Fuscus were only ever occasional clients, and Drusilla’s friend and former lover Lucius has largely proved a disappointment. He does still pay for Dido’s company at Drusilla’s house, but nothing like as often as Rufus does. And he has never said anything more about finding her family. “If Rufus doesn’t let me down,” Amara says, taking her arm, “I promise I won’t leave you there. I will get you out too.” It is a promise she has made a thousand times before.

  “If Felix lets you,” Dido says, looking depressed. They both know buying her freedom is likely to be out of Amara’s gift, unless Rufus showers her with gold.

  The square outside the baths is much less busy than usual, nobody caring to linger in the sleet. They press close to the men’s entrance, sheltering under a wine shop’s balcony. As the men come out, still red-faced from the heat of the steam room, they wish them good day, trying to make eye contact. Dido has been in Pompeii over a year now, and almost no trace of the shy girl from Carthage remains, or at least not now, when she is focused on picking up clients. It is a brutal waste of her acting talents, Amara thinks, remembering the way Dido dances, the sweetness of her singing voice, her ability to inhabit a character. All that skill used to play a street whore.