The men insist on trying to cook the bean stew, declaring it a day off for the girls, but they make such a mess, slopping the food over the brazier, almost putting the fire out, that Telethusa shoves them aside and takes over. They laugh at her, still interfering while she tries to cook. “You ruin it!” she shrieks in annoyance. “Go away! Shoo!”
Fabia offers to help, but Telethusa gestures at her to stay sitting. “No reason we all suffer,” she says, with a pointed look at Thraso.
“I’m so happy for Beronice,” Dido says to Amara. “Gallus must really love her after all!” Amara smiles in reply, almost too tense to speak. “He won’t forget,” Dido says to her. “I know he won’t.”
Amara is aware that Felix is watching them again. She takes Dido’s hand. “I love you,” she whispers back. “I meant everything I promised.”
After their burnt, mushy stew, Felix declares it a good time to head outside and walk to the Forum. Beronice and Gallus disentangle themselves with reluctance. They have been sitting huddled in a corner, long since abandoning any pretence of joining in with the party.
“Why don’t you just stay behind and fuck her?” Felix says to Gallus in exasperation. “Join us when you’ve got it out of your system.”
They pile onto the streets, muffled up in their cloaks. The shops are shuttered for the festival, but a number of other households are out for a stroll, taking the chance to get some air before the afternoon grows too dark. Amara takes Dido’s arm as they all amble to the Forum. Everyone on the street seems in high spirits, and even Paris is escorting his mother, who looks as if this was the present she has been waiting for the entire Saturnalia. Amara remembers the way Paris carried Simo from the burning bar, as if he were helping him, all the better to slip in the knife. She shudders.
Dido squeezes her arm. “Are you cold?”
Amara shakes her head.
Crowds are milling around the Forum, drinking and laughing, watching street performers and musicians. They stop near a man juggling torches. Amara watches the flames as they rise and fall, the man catching them in his gloved hands.
“I hoped to see you today.”
His voice is a memory from home. Amara has not met Menander in months, but hearing him, it feels like yesterday since she held him. She turns. For once, he doesn’t look entirely sure of himself.
“We said we would meet at the Saturnalia. I know that was some time ago,” he adds, seeing the flustered look on her face. “I’m only here as a friend. I brought you a gift.”
He holds out an object wrapped in cloth. She takes it, unwraps it. Inside is a beautiful clay lamp with a green glaze. The figure on it is familiar. It is a likeness of Aphidnai’s Helen of Troy, the statue from her hometown, the one she loved to look at as a child, when her father pointed it out to her with such pride. Menander made this for her. She stares at the lamp, unable to speak. Then she flings her arms around his neck. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “It’s the most beautiful present anyone has ever given me.”
Dido yanks hard at her arm, and she lets go, but Menander catches hold of her hand. “I know you have a patron, Timarete, I know this,” he says. “But if I were free, if I gained my freedom, would you feel differently?”
Amara withdraws her hand, at last understanding what Dido saw behind him.
“What’s this?”
She has never known Rufus so angry. Terror almost stops her heart. She pushes Menander aside to reach her boyfriend, but he blocks her embrace. “Who is this?” For a moment she is almost afraid he will hit her.
Amara hesitates. There is no question in her mind what she should do, only whether she has the courage. “This?” She turns round to look at Menander as if she has only just noticed him. “He’s nobody! Some boy who wanted to give me a gift on the Saturnalia, because he said I had a pretty face. I don’t even know his name.” She laughs. “Why are you so angry?” she exclaims, taking Rufus’s hand. “Don’t be ridiculous! You cannot possibly imagine you have anything to be jealous about. He’s just some slave boy.” Amara is aware of Philos, standing beside his master, but she ignores him. It’s not Philos she needs to convince. “Look, I’ll prove it to you,” she says, as if humouring a child. “I can just give it back to him, let him give it to some other girl,” she inclines her head, teasing, looking at him from under lowered eyelashes. “Though I’m sorry if you think I’m not the prettiest girl at the Saturnalia, because that’s who he wanted to give it to.”
Amara is almost carried along by her own performance until she turns to face Menander again. He is staring at her as if she were a stranger. She holds the lamp out, looking into his eyes, willing him to understand. “I’m sorry but I cannot take this.” He does not move. She forces herself to take a step towards him, still holding his gift, offering it to him. Amara’s hand is trembling, and the glaze slips through her fingers. The lamp smashes at Menander’s feet.
The shock of it makes her gasp. She and Menander stare at one another. She understands, seeing his face then, that whatever affection was once between them has ended. Amara looks down at the ground. Shards of glazed clay are scattered at her feet. All that work, engraved with such love, marked with memories of home and who she used to be, gone. She remembers Cressa’s smashed pot at the necropolis, the man dying, the sacrifice Victoria made to save her life. The only choice she can ever make is to survive. “Oops, silly me,” she says, turning to Rufus, biting her lip as if it were a joke. “I seem to have broken it!”
It is perhaps her callous disregard which finally convinces him. He strides over, puts an arm around her. “Sorry, boy,” Rufus says to Menander, reaching into his purse for some coins. “My girlfriend didn’t mean to be clumsy. I hope this compensates you.”
Menander takes the money, not looking at Amara. “You’re very generous, sir,” he says.
Rufus physically turns her, back towards where Philos and Dido are standing, obviously eager to forget the whole incident. “How ridiculous I am,” he says, kissing her. “I’m sorry to have been jealous.”
“I’m flattered you were,” she replies, gazing up at him. She is conscious of Menander walking away, even though she does not see him leave.
They reach Philos, and Amara realizes that Quintus and Lucius are also there, together with a retinue of their slaves. They make quite an audience. “But I do at least have a small present for you myself, my darling,” Rufus says. His tone is theatrical, aimed as much at his friends as at her. Hope makes her heart beat faster. Rufus lowers his voice. “Where’s your wretched pimp?”
Amara knows Felix will not be far away, spots him almost immediately. He must have watched the whole scene unfold, seen how she treated Menander. She hears his voice in her head. Not every woman is a heartless bitch like you. Felix walks over as soon as she catches his eye.
“Honoured,” he says, bowing to Rufus, who recoils.
“I want to make you an offer,” he says, loud enough that the rest of the brothel gather round to listen. “I would like to buy this woman on behalf of a friend.”
Amara looks at him in bewilderment. “A friend?”
Rufus holds up a hand to silence her. “I would like to buy this woman on behalf of Gaius Plinius Secundus, the Admiral of the Roman Fleet.”
Amara gasps at Pliny’s name, but Rufus does not notice. He is caught up in the drama, relishing his role as hero in front of the crowd. “The admiral has considered her price and is prepared to offer you more than she is worth. There can be no haggling, he will not stoop to it. You must take his offer or leave it.” Rufus gestures at Philos, who produces a seal. “This is his pledge, which you may keep if you agree the sale, as a guarantee you will be paid. He is offering you six thousand sesterces for the slave known as Amara.”
It is two thousand more than Felix paid for her. Amara can see Dido and Victoria clutching one another, open-mouthed, staring at Rufus. She looks at Felix, but his face is inscrutable. Surely, he cannot refuse?
Felix bows. All this time, he has n
ot acknowledged her. “I will accept the admiral’s offer.”
Amara says nothing while her master signs the agreement, transferring ownership. Everyone watches in silence, unable to believe what they have just seen. Shock has almost emptied her of feeling. Rufus hands Felix the seal and turns to her, radiant with his own power. “Amara. On behalf of the admiral and in the presence of witnesses and in the sight of the gods, I grant you your freedom. You are now Gaia Plinia Amara, Liberta.”
Amara stares at him, speechless. Then she bursts into tears.
43
Many who Fortuna has raised high, she suddenly throws down, and hurls them headlong
Pompeii graffiti
Amara cannot stop crying. Rufus has to restrain her from flinging herself at his feet, as she sobs out her undying love and gratitude. He kisses away her tears, clearly enjoying the adoration. She embraces Dido and Victoria over and over again, weeping onto both their shoulders, holding their faces in her hands, unable to express all the love she feels. The pain of what she has done to Menander, the ecstasy of freedom, is unlike anything she has ever felt. She laughs with Quintus and Lucius, professes her devoted friendship to Ipstilla and Telethusa − who look less than delighted by her good fortune − and startles Paris into giving her a bony hug. When it is Fabia’s turn, the old woman clings to her, weeping, and Amara finds herself promising to help if she is ever in need. Thraso however, is a step too far. She nods at him, the way a queen might acknowledge a peasant. More than he deserves.
It is the only time she has ever seen Felix look truly surprised. He must have realized that all her tales about Rufus and violence were lies. Perhaps he is wondering what else she has lied about. She turns her back. Let him wonder, she thinks. He cannot hurt her now.
Amara wants to wait for Beronice, desperate to share the news, but Rufus is less keen. “My darling,” he says. “I think I may have had enough of whores and pimps for one night. Delightful as I’m sure this other girl is.” He looks at her companions from the brothel, both friends and enemies, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. Quintus and Lucius laugh, obviously eager to return home too.
Amara feels a jolt. Of course, this is the other side of the deal. A Saturnalia spent without Dido, without any of the women she loves. She wants to go back, to hug them one last time, but Rufus is leading her firmly away. She catches Dido’s eye, hopes she understands it as a reminder of the promise she made.
Leaving is not easy in the press of the crowd. Philos and the other slaves try to go ahead first, clear the path, but nobody is inclined towards deference on the Saturnalia. While they are fighting their way through, a heavy-set man carrying bells dances between them, dressed as the Lord of Misrule. He is wearing a horned satyr mask, dressed all in red. He capers closer, brandishing the bells in Amara’s face. Rufus draws her away, putting his arm around her. For a moment, it looks like the masked man is going to be a nuisance, but Quintus, Lucius and the rich men’s phalanx of slaves are too formidable a barrier.
The satyr dances off. People cheer him and nudge one another to make space. Amara watches. She realizes, as the satyr prances about, stopping now and then to make people laugh, that he is not moving at random. He is slowly heading towards Felix. Her feeling of unease curdles into fear.
She yanks at Rufus, forcing him to stop. Victoria is standing near her boss. Amara shouts at her, but her voice is swallowed by the noise of the crowd. Felix is already aware of the danger. As the red satyr comes towards him, he draws his knife. The red satyr draws too. He is twice Felix’s size, but Amara suspects he has none of her former master’s speed or agility. The satyr lunges at Felix, but he feints, and the blow falls wide, narrowly missing Victoria. She scrambles back, disappearing into the safety of the crowd.
The two men are swiping at each other, and it could almost look as if they are dancing, if it weren’t for the deadly flash of silver. The crowd don’t seem to realize what’s going on, or perhaps mistake the fight for a staged part of the misrule celebrations. They have cleared a small space and are all wedged together, cheering the pair on.
“We should leave,” Rufus says. “He’s nothing to you now.”
“Where’s Dido?” Amara says. “I can’t see her! Where is she?”
“The others will look after her,” Rufus says, losing patience. “This is no place for you.”
She turns back to look again, too afraid to obey him. She can see Ipstilla and Telethusa, arms locked, managing to make a break for it.
“There she is,” Amara cries. “Over there!”
Dido is clearly trapped, alone, unable to scramble her way back into the crowd like Victoria, forced to watch as Felix and the satyr swipe at one another, sickeningly close. A drunk has hold of her arm and is trying to kiss her, unaware of the danger they are both in. Thraso is hovering near Felix, not wanting to get his boss killed by intervening. She spots Britannica on the other side of the circle, close by, avidly watching the fight, unaware of Dido’s distress. Paris and Fabia are nowhere to be seen.
Amara looks desperately at Lucius, the man who promised to find Dido’s family, who has spent so many nights with her at Drusilla’s house. “Can’t you help her? Please!”
Lucius looks uncomfortable but doesn’t answer. Amara feels a surge of anger at his cowardice. She tears her arm from Rufus, shoving her way back towards the fight. “Britannica!” she screams. “Britannica, help me!”
For a moment, Amara thinks she is going to drown in a sea of arms and elbows, crushed in the chaos, then the tall woman is reaching down, grabbing her by the scruff of her cloak, pulling her to safety.
“Dido!” Amara screams, pointing at where she is trapped. Britannica’s eyes widen. She drops Amara and shoves a man aside, punching him in the throat when he doesn’t get out of her way quick enough.
Britannica tries to charge through the crowd, but her strength is no match for so many people. Amara can see her struggling, surrounded. The space for the fight is getting smaller and smaller, pushing Dido ever closer towards the violence. More and more people must be pouring into the Forum, packing everyone together. Amara tries to push towards Dido herself, but people are too drunk or disinterested to let her pass. She drops to her knees, crawling her way through, almost stifled by her fear of being trampled. She reaches the edge of the crowd. The fight is on top of her, and the satyr nearly stamps on her fingers, but she is too low down to be in range. She can see Britannica yelling, held back by a group of drunken, angry men. Just a short distance away, Dido is scrambling, not facing Amara, instead, trying to claw past the crowd, away from the knives, the drunkard still holding her around the waist.
The men have almost run out of room to fight. Felix is so close, she could almost reach out and touch him. There is no fear on his face, but he looks vulnerable, his body more exposed than the satyr’s in his heavy, protective costume. Amara watches, willing Felix to kill his rival, willing him to end it. Instead, Felix swings round and stumbles over someone’s foot, almost crashing into Dido. The red satyr sees his chance, swiping the knife towards his opponent while he is off balance. Felix dives out of the way. The satyr stabs Dido in the back, burying the knife between her shoulder blades. The drunk holding her lets go in shock. Now, when it is too late, people draw back, letting Dido pass. She takes two steps forwards and collapses.
Somebody in the crowd screams, then another. Finally, it is dawning on the gathering that this is not a performance. A group of men rush forwards, seizing the red stayr, tearing off his mask. His face is familiar. It is Balbus, Simo’s freedman. He disappears into the mob, mouth open in terror, buried in a frenzy of kicks and punches. The crowd is clearing, some pushing forwards to watch Balbus die, others fleeing from the violence. Amara reaches Dido. Britannica is already holding her, cradling her in her arms.
“I’m here!” Amara cries, dropping down beside her. She takes Dido’s hand. “We’re all here. You’re safe now.”
Dido does not answer. Blood is coming from her mouth. She looks
at Amara, pain and terror in her eyes.
All the times they have exchanged messages without words, only with glances, and Amara knows she cannot hide her own anguish. She kisses Dido on the forehead. In her head, she hears her father’s voice. Nobody should die in fear.
“I’ve seen people recover from worse than this,” she says. “All those patients my father treated. You’ll get better; I know you will.” Dido’s hand is cold, so she holds it against her own body to warm it. “You’re going to be alright, I promise.” Victoria arrives, breathless, and sits down beside her. “And Victoria’s here now too. When Beronice comes, she can get Gallus to fetch a doctor.”
“We’re here with you,” Victoria says. “You’re not on your own. We’re here.”
Dido closes her eyes. “You can have a rest,” Amara says. “It’s alright to have a rest.” She lies the palm of her hand against Dido’s cheek so her friend can feel her, even though she cannot see her. She is still cupping Dido’s face in her fingers, long after she knows she has died.
“She is gone,” Britannica says. Nobody remarks on the fact that she can speak.
Amara shushes her. “Just a moment,” she says, not wanting to let go of Dido. “Not yet. She’s not gone yet.”
“She’s dead, my love,” Victoria says, putting her hand on Amara’s knee. “She’s gone now.” Amara cannot see, tears are blinding her. Victoria drags Amara’s arm around her own shoulders, pulling her upright. Amara realizes a man is watching them. Felix.
“You did this!” she screams. In her grief and rage she knows she could kill him, tear him apart where he stands, but Victoria is holding her, preventing her. “That knife was meant for you. You killed her! You did this!” Felix is silent as Amara shouts at him, threatening him, screaming out her hatred until her voice breaks.
Then a man is picking her up, lifting her over his shoulder, taking her away. She thinks it is Rufus, beats her fists against his back, sobbing, ordering him to put her down, to let her go back. Eventually, she gives up, collapsing against him. It is only when they reach the edge of the Forum and she sees Rufus standing, waiting for her, that she realizes who is carrying her. It is Philos.
The Wolf Den Page 35
