Most of the men push past without responding to their greeting, others stop to trade insults, or try to steal a kiss. Dido is the first to secure a serious customer. She hesitates before leading him home. It’s not how they like to work, splitting up like this, but the brothel is near enough for them to take the risk. Amara nods at her, the signal that she is fine. She doesn’t wait to watch Dido hurry off with her catch, a portly older man. She cannot afford to slacken her own sales pitch – a rival prostitute is at the doorway now. The other woman is much more poorly dressed, her cheeks hollowed out by hunger. Nothing like being undercut, Amara thinks bitterly. Anyone looking at the scrawny creature will know she’s unlikely to charge much.
Sure enough, the starving woman is picked up in no time, no doubt leading her suitor off somewhere no more salubrious than a back alley. Amara calls out more loudly, increasingly aggressive in her approach. She interrupts men’s conversations, pressing her body too close to them.
Two young men stop to return her greeting, taking their time in spite of the cold, their cheeks pink and sweaty. “Need heating up do you?” one says, looking her up and down.
She laughs, pretending to be amused. “Not just me,” she says, stepping back, beckoning them towards her. “Lots of lonely girls.”
“Told you the brothel was just round the corner,” the other man says to his companion. “It’s by a bar too. I remember it from my last time here. We could have a drink afterwards.”
Amara walks swiftly, and they hurry to keep up with her. Not much further, she tells herself. Just get it over with. She passes Simo’s single-cell brothel on the way, its door ajar. The sight of it always gives her an uneasy feeling, but so far, Felix seems to have decided to ignore the insult. Maria is still alive.
Felix didn’t specify how many men she needed to find today. But if she can bring two past the door, surely that should be enough? Gallus is on sentry duty, looking wet and miserable. He shows Amara three fingers. Three women in. “Make sure he knows I brought them,” Amara murmurs, as she passes.
Beronice is waiting in the corridor, bored and chilly in her cloak. One of the men saunters over to claim her. Dido must still be busy. Amara doesn’t even have to ask herself who the third woman is. It will inevitably be Britannica.
Victoria’s room is free, so Amara leads her man in there. Since Felix bought so many women, they have all had to be less particular about where they entertain. I don’t want to do this, Amara thinks, as she draws the curtain. She has lost the sense of horror, the terrible panic that used to overwhelm her. Instead, what she feels is a wordless aversion, a feeling that she has been pushed too far, beyond what she can physically stomach. Think of the money.
She turns and smiles at the man. He is already half-undressed.
“Against the wall,” he says.
*
Amara waits for Philos to collect her. She sits alone on the hard sack of beans in the storeroom, her head resting on the wall, eyes closed. She tries to imagine herself back in Pliny’s garden, tries to recreate the sense of tranquillity, the sound of the fountain. It has been hours since the man from the baths touched her, but she can still feel him. Afterwards, she walked to the well in the rain, struggled back with a bucket of icy water, stripped herself off. She tried to scrub away every trace, the water so cold on her skin it was painful. Perhaps when Rufus tells her he loves her later, the feeling might start to fade.
“I hope you don’t show the posh boy such a fucking miserable face.”
She opens her eyes. Felix is standing in the doorway, watching. She didn’t hear him approach. She resists the urge to put her hand to her neck, to check Balbina’s chain is still hidden. “I told you he’s violent,” she says, not bothering to stand up. “A miserable face makes him happy.”
“As long as he keeps paying,” Felix answers. She looks at him, standing there, an ugly sneer on his face, as if he can still pretend that he is any better than she is. Your mother was a whore and so were you. The words are too potent to risk saying aloud, but just knowing his secret makes her feel stronger. Amara has tried to find out more from Fabia, ingratiating herself with presents of food, asking what the old woman remembers of their master’s childhood. Fabia had opened her mouth, pinching her own tongue between her fingers. “He told me he would cut it out himself,” is all she said.
“Gallus let you know I brought in two customers today?” Amara says.
Felix nods. “I’ll let it pass this time. Next time I want at least three.” She says nothing, not letting her anger show. She hopes now he has thrown his taunt he will leave, but he doesn’t. “Posh boy never leaves any marks. A violent lover usually does.”
“You don’t.”
They stare at each other. Their silence is like that of two tigers, circling one another. Her hatred for this man is more ferocious than desire could ever be.
A loud rapping announces Philos’s arrival on the street below. Felix stands aside to let her pass, but she can feel his animosity follow her, even when she is out of sight and heading down the stairs. She opens the door. Philos, with his cheerful smile and friendly greeting, is like a visitor from another world.
Philos never speaks until they are walking side by side down the street, well out of earshot of the brothel. He turns to her when they are at a safe distance, and she can see the smile in his eyes, even though his face is solemn. “We’re going somewhere new tonight.”
“Not the theatre?”
“It’s a surprise.” He laughs at her curious expression. “More than my life is worth to spoil it.”
Amara feels her pulse quicken with hope. “Is it…?”
“I’ve said too much already!” Philos exclaims, but his broad smile is surely her answer. “Just make sure you look astounded, that’s all I’m saying.”
Amara laughs too. She likes Philos; he has a kind, easy manner. Rufus relies on him for everything, in the way she remembers Pliny relied on Secundus. She suspects Philos is considerably smarter than his master, but far too discreet to show it. “Did you have anything to do with it?” she asks.
“Possibly.”
“Then I know it will be wonderful.” Philos looks pleased by the compliment. Amara knows only too well how little thanks any slave gets for his labour. They walk to the cheaper part of town, and she feels her excitement growing.
“Here we are,” Philos says, stopping at a darkened doorway. She stands close to him, eager to see everything, and he pushes her away slightly, as if they were children jostling over a toy. He gives her the lamp to hold and fishes out some heavy keys, deliberately taking his time with the lock, until she hits him playfully on the arm. Philos turns the key, cranking open the wooden door. They step inside. The small atrium is cold, with a few oil lamps set on the floor, their flickering light dimmed by the moonlight from the opening in the ceiling. She turns to ask Philos where they are, but he has already melted into the shadows.
“Welcome home, darling.”
Rufus is standing in the archway to the garden, his figure cutting a deeper shade of black in the darkness.
Amara flings herself at him with a cry. She can scarcely get the words out, all her love and relief and fear are jumbled together, the threads too tangled to unwind.
“You’re shaking!” Rufus exclaims. He sweeps her up into his arms, relishing the theatricality of the gesture. Amara is perhaps a little heavier than he was expecting, as he stumbles on the first step, but then he regains his footing and strides towards one of the darkened rooms. It is cold and barely furnished. A couch and a burning lamp stand in the corner. More than enough.
There is no pretence to Amara’s happiness. That side of her performance, at least, is genuine. And after she has given him every pleasure his body can bear, Rufus hardly has the chance to tell her he loves her. She has already said the words herself, over and over again.
The chill is too sharp to lie together on the bed for long. “I’m afraid the house is only rented at the moment,” Rufus says, hurrying to get dressed.
“But perhaps we can buy the place if we like it enough.” A sliver of fear prickles Amara, as cold as the sweat drying on her skin. She shivers. Surely this house is more than proof that he will free her? Rufus leans towards her, kissing her again. Slowly, she relaxes. He cups her face in his hands. “We can decide when you belong to nobody but me.”
38
A common night awaits us, we all must walk death’s path.
Horace, The Odes 1.28
Amara stands alone in the brothel corridor. Nobody else is awake yet. She looks at the familiar space, the sooty walls, the paintings above the doorways. A woman on top for Victoria. A man with two cocks for Beronice. All those women on the walls, never taking a break from getting fucked, even when the real whores are sleeping. She wonders how many more nights she will have to spend in this place and hugs herself, thinking of the empty house. Waiting for her.
She is sure Rufus will free her soon, he must do. But even if he doesn’t, if he only buys her, it will still be a thousand times better to be his slave than belong to Felix. The prickle of fear returns, but she rubs her arms angrily, as if she can physically brush off her anxiety. A bang from Cressa’s old cell distracts her. Britannica.
The cell’s curtain is moving slightly, swayed by the movement behind it. She bunches the fabric in her hands. It stinks. “It’s Amara,” she says in a low voice, announcing herself before she enters.
Britannica does not look over. Not for the first time, Amara is struck by her strangeness. She is far too tall for a woman, and now her red hair is too short. It grew so matted they had no choice but to cut it. She is almost ugly in her disregard for herself, yet Amara still feels a sense of admiration for Britannica’s body, for its undoubted strength. All the effort the rest of them put into looking desirable seems feeble in comparison.
Amara watches the pale arms, jabbing the air. She wonders when Britannica last left her cell, when she last saw daylight. She thinks of the promise she made Cressa. “You should get out for a while,” Amara says. “Come to the well with me.”
At first, the other woman gives no sign of having heard, but Amara waits. She has learnt that Britannica will always respond eventually. She watches her aiming punches that fall just short of the wall. If she misjudged, she would surely break her hand. Then, without warning, she suddenly stops. Britannica rifles through the blankets on her bed, finds her cloak and flings it on, before picking up a jug on the floor. She tilts her head to one side, looking at Amara, impatient. What are you waiting for?
Amara collects the brothel’s communal bucket from its place by the back door. They walk together down the street. The silence is anything but companionable. Britannica radiates aggression, staring down anyone foolish enough to look at her. Amara wonders if she would actually be glad should one of the men approach – Britannica seems even more eager for a brawl than Paris.
They reach the well. Two men are already there, perhaps slaves from different households, grabbing the chance to chat. Amara waits patiently, even though they are doing nothing more than blocking the way, neither showing any inclination to fill a bucket. Eventually, they deign to notice the women and step aside, but there’s no mistaking the way they stare at her body. She wouldn’t be surprised if they have kept her waiting on purpose.
Amara says nothing but walks forwards, swinging her bucket into the well. It clanks onto the stone. She starts working the pump, aware the men are standing too close. One places his hand on her backside, pushing her. “Need some help?”
Before she has time to turn round and tell him to back off, Britannica has seized him. Amara drops the bucket, splashing herself. The man is almost off his feet, Britannica has lifted him by his scruff like a dog. He takes a swing at her, but she blocks it, grabbing his arm, twisting it hard. He cries out, and Britannica smiles. One of her front teeth is missing, a memento from a violent customer.
“Alright, no need to overreact!” the second man shouts, darting over. “Look,” he points at Amara. “Nobody is touching her!”
Britannica does not respond. She stares at the man she is holding, still smiling her unfriendly smile. Then she lowers him. She waits a moment, like a cat toying with a mouse, before finally letting go. The two men look at her, then each other. It’s clear neither of them has the stomach for a fight with this unnerving stranger. They hurry off down the street.
Britannica watches them go. “Savage,” she says. Her voice is harsh and rasping from lack of use.
“What?” Amara gasps. “What did you say?”
“Sav-Age,” Britannica repeats the Latin word slowly, as if savouring its hard edges. She smiles again, her fierce gap-toothed grin.
“You speak Latin?” Amara exclaims. “You can speak!”
Britannica inclines her head. The barest acknowledgement. It is the closest she and Amara have ever come to genuine communication.
“I knew you could understand! I knew!” Britannica does not look entirely pleased by this effusiveness. She walks past, starts filling up the abandoned bucket. Amara follows, unable to restrain her eagerness. “Please, talk to me. You can trust me. Please.” Britannica does not answer, just gestures impatiently for the jug she left on the ground. Amara hands it to her. “I promised Cressa I would be your friend. I promised her.”
Britannica stiffens at Cressa’s name. She yanks the bucket from the well, dumping it in Amara’s arms with such force that she staggers and almost drops it. Then Britannica picks up the jug and strides back to the brothel. Amara has no choice but to totter after her. The bucket is too full and heavy for her to have any hope of catching the other woman up. By the time she gets back, Britannica has disappeared into her cell.
“Making yourself useful?” Victoria steps out from the latrine. She leans against the small wall, rubbing her abdomen. “Only good thing about a period is it means you’re not pregnant.”
“Britannica just spoke to me!” Amara says, dumping the bucket. “She just spoke Latin!”
Victoria is surprised. “Really? What did she say?”
“Savage!”
“Savage?” Victoria wrinkles her nose. “Nothing else?”
“No, that was it.”
“That’s not talking then. She’s just repeating sounds she’s heard.”
“She understands though.” Amara looks over at Cressa’s old cell and lowers her voice. “She got upset when I mentioned Cressa.”
The dead woman’s name has a dampening effect on them both. “We should visit her grave,” Victoria says, easing herself down from the steps into the corridor. “None of us have been in ages.”
“Do you want to go now?”
Victoria glances down the corridor, with all its closed curtains. “I suppose so. Why not? We can stop by The Sparrow. Get some wine to offer her.” She goes into her cell, comes out in her cloak, holding a small clay pot. It’s an old one of Cressa’s. “Come on.”
They walk the short distance to the tavern on the square. Amara tries to ignore the wall with its tapestry of graffiti. It pains her to remember Menander writing to her on it; she doesn’t want to see the traces of his last message. Nicandrus is busy at the bar, setting up for the day’s business. He greets them with a smile. “How’s Dido?”
“Fine,” Amara says, feeling awkward.
“You never give up, do you?” Victoria sighs.
“I would if there were another man,” he says. “But there isn’t.” He looks at them nervously. “Is there?”
“No,” Amara replies.
“We wanted to buy some wine for Cressa.” Victoria hands over the pot. “How much?”
Nicandrus fills it then looks over his shoulder, checking Zoskales is out of sight. He shakes his head, the meaning plain. No charge.
“Thank you.” Amara is touched by his gesture.
“Cressa was a good woman,” he says. “We all miss her.”
They leave the bar and walk down the street, bunched close together so they are side by side. “I don’t understand Dido,” Victoria says,
gripping the pot. “He’s a sweetheart. Imagine the effort he would make! She might finally have a decent time.”
“She doesn’t want to break her heart loving a man she can never have,” Amara replies. Victoria says nothing. She knows they are both thinking of Felix.
The streets fill up as they wander towards the gate that leads to the town of Nola. Most of the traffic is going in the opposite direction, traders arriving to sell at the Forum or deliver stock to the shops. Those lucky enough to have a cart make a racket over the stones, others trudge along with goods piled up in baskets on their backs. A gaggle of squealing hogs run by, darting between the rolling wheels of their owner’s wagon. Amara watches them scurry off up the street, tails frisking, as if eager for their own slaughter. Victoria nudges her, pointing at a mule cart rumbling up from the other direction. She holds Amara’s arm and stands on tiptoe to get a better look, admiring its rolls of brightly coloured fabric. The muleteer sees them and cracks his whip, laughing as they both jump.
Amara feels less safe here at the edge of town. There are so many strangers drifting into Pompeii only to vanish again like smoke. They wait for a line of wagons to pass, piled up with blocks of masonry, no doubt part of the town’s never-ending building work, then walk under the high stone arch, crossing from the city of the living into the city of the dead. The road here is lined with enormous colourful tombs, some almost as big as the brothel where they work. Only the rich can afford to be remembered this close to the gate. In the doorways of their own graves, the once powerful dead stare out, their brightly painted statues watching the living pass by.
The she-wolves could never have bought Cressa a memorial here, even the smallest would be unimaginably expensive. Instead, Victoria and Amara walk further and further out of town, until the road widens and the crowds thin. They pass a group of mourners gathered round a marble urn in their finest clothes, burning offerings to appease the dead. Amara thinks of her own parents, of all she owes their shades but cannot give, and looks away.
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