Amara finds it easier than she imagined to say nothing to the other women about what happened. When they go to the baths together, she makes up a lie about her and Victoria being used to entertain clients at a bar, surprised at how quickly the tale trips from her tongue. Even if she didn’t find lying so easy, the bar story is soon forgotten, buried by the far more interesting gossip that Felix seems to have chosen Victoria as some sort of wife.
When news of Simo’s death finally reaches them through Gallus, Amara still gives nothing away, feigning shock to match the rest. But although she can bury her feelings in the daytime, at night she struggles to sleep, her heart racing, every fibre taut with fear. Her body relives the terror her mind cannot. She knows that Paris is suffering too, hears him weeping in the dark. But in the morning, he always refuses to speak to her. Whatever guilt he might be feeling, he is clearly determined to bury it.
On the third day after the fire, Felix sends for her. She follows Paris to their master’s study, waits while he pushes open the door. Inside, Victoria is perched on Felix’s lap, sitting with him behind the desk, her arms around his neck. She drops them as soon as Amara walks in, embarrassed, and Amara loves her for that, knowing Victoria doesn’t want to make her feel small.
“Time for you to go back to the brothel,” Felix says. Amara bows her head, goes to walk back out again, but he stops her. “Not you,” he says. “Time for you to go.” He tips Victoria from his knee. She grabs the desk, only just managing to save herself from falling flat on the floor. For a moment, both women think he is joking. Then they realize he isn’t.
Amara knows something has broken in Victoria then; she sees it in her face. Victoria does not beg or even say goodbye. She turns and walks out of the room, her eyes dry, not acknowledging either of them.
When she has gone, Amara and Felix are left looking at one another. “I missed you,” he says. She cannot reply. For the first time since she has known him, Amara senses that Felix does not know what he wants to say. He gestures at the pile of tablets heaped up on her old table. “Who else do I have to do my accounts?”
She sits down, still without speaking, and opens the first tablet.
*
By the eve of the Saturnalia, Rufus has still not told her when he will buy her. The strain of waiting and worrying is so great she is afraid she will break down and beg the next time she sees him. She knows there are no depths she would not sink to, not if it means escaping from Felix. Even a lifetime under the same roof as Hortensius.
She sits at a table in The Sparrow, drinking with her friends, while they discuss what presents they can afford. The whole town is heaving, and street sellers ram the pavements, trying to shift a few more trinkets before the festival starts.
“I can’t wait to see what Gallus has bought me!” Beronice cries, giving Dido a smacking kiss on the cheek. She has had a lot more wine than usual. “Three whole days with him! Oh! Just think of it!”
“One more night, then we get a rest from customers,” Dido says with a sigh. “Are we buying something for Britannica? We ought to.”
“She do nothing,” Ipstilla huffs.
“That’s not really the spirit of the Saturnalia,” Beronice says, frowning. “I don’t mind chipping in. Though I don’t know what she’d like.”
A knife, probably, Amara thinks. But she doesn’t suggest it.
“Getting me anything, girls?” Zoskales calls from the bar. He is in an excellent mood, no doubt looking forward to a day off from his customers too.
“A kiss if you’re lucky!” Beronice shrieks. Everyone laughs, apart from Victoria. Beronice notices her silence. “Maybe Felix will get you something,” she says kindly. Even though Victoria has teased her relentlessly about Gallus for the past year, Beronice has been nothing but supportive over her friend’s heartbreak. Can you imagine, she had said to Amara after Victoria returned to the brothel, the pain of thinking a man’s going to marry you and then he sends you packing! What a shit!
“He always gives us a denarius each,” Victoria replies. “I don’t care anyway. Fuck him.”
“How should we do this?” Amara says to Beronice. “Maybe Dido and I can buy for you, Britannica and Victoria, then you and Victoria buy for Dido and me.” She turns to the Spanish girls. “And do you two want to buy for each other, or do you want a surprise?”
“We buy,” Telethusa says emphatically, looking askance at Amara’s cheap wooden beads, her token present from Rufus. Clearly, she doesn’t trust the other women’s taste.
“No more than five asses each,” Beronice says. “Let’s not go mad. Then we’ll split the costs of it all afterwards.”
They finish the last of their wine, taking their time, then part ways to go shopping. Amara and Dido stroll towards the Forum. “What would Britannica like?” Dido says. “She’s not going to want beads or anything pretty.”
“I can think of something,” Amara replies. “There was a hawker selling amulets of gladiators’ blood. To pass on their courage.”
It takes them a while to find the seller; he must have moved since the last time Amara saw him. It’s hard to walk in the crush; everywhere, people are jostling at stalls, haggling loudly to get a better price. It seems most of Pompeii has left their gift buying until the last moment. Eventually, Amara spots the man with his gruesome trophies, a range of goods soaked in the blood of gladiators killed in the arena. They range in price, depending on the fame of the dead. The women can only afford an unknown fighter, killed on his first appearance, though Amara tries to haggle for something better. There is nothing pretty about the leather amulet they choose, engraved with a roughly drawn sword. Amara suspects Britannica will like it.
Their enthusiasm for shopping has been exhausted from walking round and round searching for the amulet seller, but at least the other women are easier to buy for. A cheap hair clip for Victoria, some ankle beads for Beronice.
“I’m so happy that Rufus is buying you,” Dido says, as they start walking back home. “But I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I don’t know for sure that he will,” Amara says. “He hasn’t given me a day. I don’t understand why he hasn’t done it already, if he really means to.”
“Perhaps he wants to make a grand gesture during the festival,” Dido says, taking her arm. “That would be very like him.”
Dido is so kind, wanting to reassure her, but Amara can tell she is upset. She hates herself for not being more considerate; she should have paid greater attention to Dido’s feelings over the past few days. She would be desperate if their roles were reversed. “I will do everything I can to get you out,” she says. “Everything. I promise. I love you. You are everything to me.”
“I love you too,” Dido replies. She is on the verge of tears.
Dido is the only person Amara has told about her plans, but even she doesn’t know where the new house is. Amara had worried about the risk of them being followed, but now she realizes this will leave Dido with no way of finding her, no way of leaving a message. “Do you want to know where it is? The house, I mean,” she says, her voice quiet, even though it’s unlikely anyone is listening. “Then if Rufus keeps his word, you can visit.” Dido nods.
They walk single file, Amara leading the way across town. She remembers the first time Philos brought her to the house. She has never been down the road in daylight. Even on the eve of the Saturnalia it is relatively quiet. Living here will mark a big change from the brothel’s noisy crossroads. The thought of escaping brings her a rush of excitement, and when they stand outside the tall building with its golden doorframe, she finds herself believing that life might be kind after all. She raps on the wood, not expecting anyone to answer, but Philos opens it. He is astonished to see her.
“Come in!” he exclaims, hurrying them both inside. He shuts the door behind them. “Is anything wrong? Are you alright?”
“I wanted Dido to know where to find me,” Amara says. “If Rufus really does mean for me to stay here.”
> Philos gestures at the atrium behind him. Vitalio is staggering past with a table. “I think you can see that he does. Has he not said anything?”
Amara shakes her head. “I didn’t like to presume.”
“You’ve no need to worry,” Philos replies. “He has every intention of buying you. Don’t distress yourself.”
“I told you it was fine,” Dido says, smiling at her. “And what a beautiful place this is!”
Vitalio walks back into the atrium, now relieved of his burden. He scowls at Amara. “Let’s see how long this one lasts,” he shouts, stomping up the stairs.
Amara stares after him. “What did he mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing. You know Vitalio; he’s always bad-tempered.” Philos smiles, but he looks uncomfortable. Vitalio’s outburst was too extreme for this to be a reasonable explanation, and they all know it.
“No,” Amara says, feeling nervous. “He meant something in particular. What did he mean? Please tell me. Please.”
Philos does not look at her. “Rufus was fond of Vitalio’s daughter for a while.”
“His daughter? Is she part of the family household?” Dido takes Amara’s hand, trying to lead her away, to calm her down, but Amara shakes her off. “Tell me.” She stares at Philos, willing him to obey, and the sadness in his grey eyes strikes her with fear.
“You’ve met her a few times,” he says. “It’s Faustilla, the serving girl.”
At first, Amara cannot imagine who he means, the only maid she can remember is a shy young thing who never spoke. “But it can’t be the girl I met; she’s so young,” she says. “And Rufus never seemed to notice her. A few times she was even there when…” Amara puts her hand over her mouth, too shocked to continue. Dido puts an arm round her, and this time, she doesn’t push her away.
“Rufus is no different to any young man of his class,” Philos says, sounding a little defensive of his master. “You know they all sleep with their slaves. Whatever happened between them was never any reflection on his feelings for you.”
“That’s not what I’m upset about!” Amara says, although it’s a lie, because she had believed Rufus was different. She thinks of his disarming smile, the way he has always seemed so beguilingly sincere. The way he tells her he loves her. “I’m upset about the girl,” she insists. “No wonder Vitalio hates me. His daughter having to serve the woman who took her place. Did she love him?” Philos does not reply, but he doesn’t need to. “Of course she loved him. She must have thought he was the kindest man she’d ever met.” Amara thinks of the way Felix treats Victoria, his deliberate cruelty. But Rufus is no less cruel to Faustilla, even if he doesn’t mean to be. “Had it even finished between them when Rufus met me?”
“Amara,” Philos says, his voice low, “just remember you have to live with my answers. And so do I.”
“He’s still sleeping with her,” she says, understanding him. “Of course he is. You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I don’t think that at all.” Philos has the studiously blank expression of the slave who is habituated to hiding his feelings. She remembers what he said to her when they were alone. When you’re young, they fuck you; when you’re old, they fuck you over.
“Well,” she says to Dido, with false cheer. “He didn’t rent her a house. So hopefully, I have a little time before I’m serving wine to his next mistress.”
“Just think of Felix,” Dido says. “Think how much safer you will be here. It’s paradise in comparison.”
“She’s right,” Philos agrees, eager to repair the damage. “And I truly believe he loves you. I’ve never seen him do this much for any other woman. Not even close.”
Amara thinks of Hortensius, how he hurt her, insulted her, and yet Rufus said nothing. “The love a master has for his slave,” she says, looking at Philos who quails at the bitterness in her voice. “I suppose it’s as much as any of us can hope to build a life on.”
42
The Saturnalia, the best of days!
Catullus, Poem 14
Felix’s study is crammed, his entire motley household of whores and thugs spread around on various stools and blankets like Pompeii’s most peculiar family. Felix himself sits on his desk, an unlikely Paterfamilias, while Thraso and Gallus serve Paris and the women with sweet buns and wine. According to the true Saturnalian spirit, it should be Felix serving everyone, but nobody questions this departure from tradition.
“I’ll have another, maybe two more!” Fabia declares, ransacking Gallus’s basket for a bigger helping. He sighs but doesn’t push her scrawny arms away.
“That’s enough!” Paris snaps. Fabia recoils from her son, dropping the fifth bun back into the basket.
“Be nice to your fucking mother,” Felix says. “Surely you can manage not to be a complete shit for one day?”
Paris hands Fabia back the bun she took, his cheeks flaming. Then he gets up and goes to sit on the opposite side of the room.
“Presents!” Ipstilla says, clapping her hands together. “Is time for presents, yes?”
They all go through the performance of Felix’s gift giving, passing round a purse, taking out a denarius each. He quickly gets bored of all the thanks, waving it away. By the time it is Amara’s turn to take the money, he isn’t even looking. She is sitting in the corner with Dido, her stomach too churned up to eat the sweet pastry. They told Philos the whole brothel would be heading to the Forum in the late afternoon. She cannot relax, wondering if today is the day Rufus will buy her. Every moment, she is expecting a knock at the door, dreading the thought it won’t come.
“Now for the rest of them!” Beronice gets out the small bundle of gifts, all wrapped in a blanket. Her cheeks are shining from the wine, and she looks by far the happiest person in the room. Gallus sits down beside her, getting as close as possible, childlike in his eagerness. Perhaps he does love her after all, Amara thinks. Or maybe he just wants a present. “Not yet! Don’t be greedy,” Beronice says, kissing him.
Amara glances over at Felix, but he seems completely unconcerned by this outburst of affection. She remembers what Cressa said at the Vinalia, that a master never minds a love which keeps his servants obedient. The thought of her dead friend, and her short brutal life, hurts Amara’s heart.
“Right, this one’s yours Fabia,” Beronice says, handing her some coins wrapped in a piece of cloth. They had decided the penniless old woman would prefer five asses in cash rather than some overpriced trinket. “This is yours, this is for you…” Beronice hands out all the other gifts, enjoying her role.
Amara unwraps her gift from its scrap of cloth. It’s a cheap hair clip, not unlike the one she and Dido bought for Victoria. Dido has been given the same. Britannica is staring at her pendant with a frown, dangling it between her fingers. “It’s been dipped in the blood of a gladiator, of a fighter, to give you strength,” Amara explains. She knows Britannica has understood even though she does not thank or even look at her. The Briton slips it on, tucking it under her toga, and rests her hand on her chest. Then her eyes flick over to Amara and Dido. She gives them the briefest nod of acknowledgement.
The men have all bought each other extra wine, more expensive than the sweetened variety the women have been served. Thraso pours it out, tipping an especially generous portion into his own flask. With a stab of remorse, Amara realizes everyone has forgotten Paris. He is sitting slightly away from the gathering, holding his thin knees in his arms, face pinched with disappointment. Fabia is waving at him from across the room, motioning that he can have her five asses. Paris ignores her. As ever, it’s not his mother’s attention that he wants. Gallus nudges Thraso’s elbow as he pours out more wine, gesturing at the forgotten slave.
“Is he really a man though?” Thraso says. “Couldn’t one of the girls have given him a hair clip or something?” He laughs at Paris’s expense, clearly expecting Felix to join in. Their boss doesn’t smile at the joke.
“Give the boy some wine,” he says. “He earned it this
year.”
Gallus sits down again beside Beronice. He gives her a quick kiss. “This is for you,” he says, handing over a parcel. She takes it, and he looms over her, getting in the way, almost unwrapping it himself in his excitement to see her reaction.
Beronice gasps. “But it’s beautiful!” She holds it up for everyone to see. It is a cameo pendant, a tiny one, but still by far the most expensive gift anyone has produced. “Oh, I love you!” Beronice exclaims, flinging her arms around him. Then she pulls back. “And I only got you some pomade!”
Victoria is stuck, sitting beside the lovers who are now kissing noisily. She looks down, her shoulders hunched over. All that mockery, and Gallus has done more for Beronice than anyone could ever have imagined. Felix slips off the desk, crouching on the floor beside her. “For my favourite whore,” he says, handing Victoria a packet. She glances at him, eyes full of hope, then slips the contents out into her fingers. It is a string of wooden beads. Victoria gazes up at Felix, the love on her face painful to witness. She beams round at everyone, proud to have been singled out in front of them all. Amara smiles back, not wanting to ruin her happiness. Beronice catches Amara’s eye. Victoria has no idea that her friends pity her, that where she imagines love, they only see cruelty.
The day rolls on, everyone getting increasingly drunk. Everyone, that is, except Amara and Felix. It seems neither is prepared to relinquish control of themselves, not even on the Saturnalia. She is aware of him watching her and wonders if he suspects something, though he surely cannot know about Rufus or Balbina’s loan. She’s been so careful. If he were any other man, she would have said he was looking at her with lust, but she knows this is impossible.
The Wolf Den Page 34
