The Wolf Den

1

She holds her hands up as if in prayer, steam evaporating from her skin. The water laps at her neck as she lies back into its warmth. Laughter and female voices surround her, a confusion of sound echoing off the stone. She filters it out, focusing on her fingers, turning them, watching the water drip down, the steam rise. They could be anybody’s hands, she thinks, they could belong to anybody. But they belong to Felix.

Then another’s fingers interlock with hers, breaking her reverie. Victoria drags her upwards, out of the water.

“Amara! You’re getting your hair wet! You can’t lie back like that!” Victoria’s nails pinch her skin as she tries to revive the curls now plastered to Amara’s shoulders. “They’re like rat’s tails. What were you thinking?”

Anxiety surges through her. So much rests on this afternoon; she cannot believe her own thoughtlessness. “I don’t know, I…”

“It doesn’t look so bad.” Amara turns to face Dido who has slid over to join them, a slight frown on her gentle face. “You can hardly notice.”

“The men aren’t here for hair anyway.” It’s a less friendly voice this time. Drauca, Simo’s most valuable woman, is watching them from across the narrow pool. She rises up out of the water, lifting her arms, and sways. The dark waves of her own hair glisten like a raven’s plumage. Behind her, through the curved windows, the sea looks flat and grey. It’s impossible not to stare. Amara thinks of the statue of Helen of Troy back in Aphidnai, back when she had another name, another life.

“Venus Pompeiana!” Victoria gasps, grabbing Amara in exaggerated astonishment. “The goddess walks among us! Oh, shield my eyes from such glory!” Drauca scowls, dropping her arms with a splash. Victoria laughs. “As if nobody else here has a pair of tits,” she says. Though not loud enough for Drauca to hear.

“She is beautiful though,” Dido says, still staring at their rival. “And she’s been here before, hasn’t she? Maybe the men will prefer her, maybe—”

“Apart from Drauca, what do they have that we don’t?” Victoria interrupts, casting a scathing look at Drauca’s three companions. They are taking up most of the pool, splashing about with theatrical laughter, more posed than playful. “You can tell they’re all barmaids. Maria has arms like a litter-bearer.”

Amara isn’t sure they have the right to sneer, given their own lowly status as brothel whores. She-wolves. A familiar knot tightens in her stomach. “I wonder what the men will be like,” she says.

“They’ll be…” But Victoria doesn’t finish her thought, something behind Amara has caught her attention. “Hey!” she calls. “Let go! Let go of her!” She starts wading through the water towards an old woman who is pulling at Cressa’s arm, trying to drag her out of the pool. Victoria stares up at the woman as she successfully hauls a dripping Cressa out onto the side.

The woman leans down and points a gnarled finger in Victoria’s face. “Felix? You Felix?” Nobody replies. The stranger looks at them all, grouped together. Beronice has swum over too, mouth slightly open in surprise. “Felix whores out!” The old woman says impatiently, waving her hand towards the door, motioning for them to leave. Cressa tries to remonstrate, but the old woman pushes her backwards. Simo’s women have stopped splashing and laughing. Amara senses rather than sees that they are all at the far side of the pool. “Felix whores out now,” the woman repeats, jabbing her finger at each of them in turn. When no one moves she grabs Amara’s arm. “Out! Out!” she shrieks. “Get out now!”

Stone scrapes Amara’s skin as the old woman yanks her against the side of the pool. Hard fingers dig into the soft flesh of her upper arm with a grip that’s surprisingly strong. She pushes herself up onto the hot tiles, shaking herself free. The woman continues shouting, threatening to call Vibo if they don’t move quickly. The mention of the bath manager’s name finally convinces them. Felix’s women clamber naked out of the water and hurry through to the next room, shivering at the sudden plunge in lighting and temperature. A cascade splashes down into the cold pool, the noise competing with the old woman’s shouts to hurry. Amara clutches at the bright blue wall to steady herself, trying not to lose her footing, squeezing against paintings of sea creatures, the open mouth of a fish huge by her face as she passes.

Victoria is the only one of the five still arguing when they arrive at the bath’s changing rooms. They didn’t come in this way. Rows of polished wooden lockers are topped by paintings of lovers indulging in every possible sexual position. The women’s clothes have been dumped in a heap on the floor.

“Hurry, hurry!” their tormentor demands, throwing a cloak at Beronice who still looks as stupefied as she did in the pool. Amara needs no further encouragement. She bends down and begins rifling through the mass of material, handing a yellow toga to Dido who is shivering badly, perhaps as much from fear as cold. Dido is new to slavery, and every indignity seems to hit her like a knife to the heart. Victoria is the only one who doesn’t rush. She is still fastening her toga long after everybody else is dressed, gazing at the old woman with pure hate. When Victoria finally looks away, Amara sees the woman make the sign of the evil eye.

A final poke with the bony finger between the shoulder blades and Amara and the other women are bundled outside into the baths’ private courtyard. Drizzle hits their faces, and the wind from the sea is cold. They stand in a huddle, already damp beneath their togas and cloaks. Amara glances around, surprised they are alone, then notices two men sheltering under the colonnade, a pair of incongruous, hulking shapes against the wall’s painted nymphs and roses. One of the men strides over, face thunderous. It’s Thraso, Felix’s steward.

“What’s this? What’s happened?” His hands are balled up, ready to fight. Amara steps back. She knows how hard those fists can fall.

“Better ask him,” Amara says, pointing at the other man left standing in the shadows. “Isn’t he with Simo?”

“Somebody double-crossed Felix,” Victoria adds, as Thraso swivels round. “Simo’s women got to stay; we were all thrown out before the men arrived. Bit convenient don’t you think?”

Thraso doesn’t wait to hear more. He charges across the yard, swinging at the other man’s head. “Balbus! I’ll fucking kill you! You fucking liar!”

Balbus dodges, missing the full force of Thraso’s punch, though he still catches a blow to his ear, making him stagger. Thraso grabs the man’s shoulders, smashing his skull into Balbus’s nose. Balbus roars, breaking free, clutching his bloodied face. Thraso attacks him again, and the two men fall to the ground, throwing punches, biting and screaming. The women watch, unsure what to do.

“Felix isn’t going to like this,” Beronice says, stating the obvious.

Amara glances sidelong at Victoria, hoping for a sarcastic remark, but Victoria looks away.

There’s a commotion from the doorway. A group of male slaves rush out, forcing the women to scramble aside. They run over to the brawling pair, trying to intervene, one taking a kick in the face. Vibo, the bath manager, comes out next, huffing, his portly figure swathed in a green toga. He manhandles Cressa out of his path in his haste to reach the fight.

“Enough!” he shouts. “Or you will answer to your masters for disobedience!”

The two men finally roll apart. Thraso is the first to stand, Balbus has to be helped to his feet by two slaves.

“Are you trying to close down my business?” Vibo demands. “Brawling on my doorstep like dogs in the gutter? I should have you both whipped!” Balbus mutters something, but Amara cannot hear what he says. “I’m not interested!” Vibo shouts. “Clear off now, both of you. And take that rag bag of whores with you.”

The women don’t wait for anyone to move them on. They cross the yard before Thraso can reach them. Amara notices he is limping. Balbus came off worse but must still have landed several hefty blows. Thraso’s lip is split and he’s cradling one arm. Nobody is foolish enough to ask him how he is feeling.

The women climb the steps up to the tall gate, Victoria leading the way, Beronice at the back, not quite quick enough to avoid Thraso’s angry slap. They all know why he’s lashing out. It’s the prospect of Felix’s rage when they get back to the brothel. Amara can feel the fear building, a lump in her throat she cannot swallow.

Stepping onto the street is like rejoining a fast-flowing river. She grips Dido’s hand, and they force their way through the crush of people, heading up the hill to the Forum Gate. The stones are wet and slippery. The first time Amara came to Pompeii was with Dido. It can only have been a few months ago but feels longer. They travelled in on this road, together, after Felix had bought them at the slave market in Puteoli. The weather was warmer then under the clear blue skies of late October. She remembers Felix buying ripe figs for the journey. The fruit smelt so sweet, its insides pink and shining when she split it open, sticky on her fingers. It was almost a moment of happiness. If happiness could exist in a world where she had been bought and sold. Amara still wonders at this act of kindness from Felix. They were not to know, then, how uncharacteristic it would be.

A man carrying a heavy basket of fish on his head shoves past, turning his shoulders into the crowd like a weapon. They follow him under the high archway into the dark, echoing tunnel, the road growing steeper and the crush more intense. Amara glances back to see Cressa, a look of resignation on her face, lugging the puffing Beronice up the hill. Thraso is almost out of sight behind. His leg must be giving him a lot of difficulty or he would be berating Beronice’s slowness. Victoria, of course, has darted ahead. She is the only one of Felix’s five women who was born in this town, and although a slave, she owns the place in a way that none of the others ever will.

Inside the town walls, the road evens out but also becomes wetter, water sloshing over Amara’s shoes. Dido helps her up onto the raised pavement, two fabric sellers muttering at having to shuffle out of their way. A man heaped in garlands of myrtle, offerings for the Temple of Venus, presses close.

“For your goddess? For love? One penny for two. Good price. Bring you good fortune.” He is holding the leaves so close to Dido’s face she instinctively puts her hand up to draw across the veil she no longer wears.

Amara pushes the garlands away. “No.”

The crush thins as they reach the Forum, absorbed into its vast space. Hawkers act like stones, breaking the eddies of the crowd. Some passers-by dawdle to look or haggle, others stride past. At the far end of the square sits the Temple of Jupiter, incense rising from its steps. The building wavers in the heat before the smoke fades out over the blue mountain behind. Amara thinks of her father, of the way he would smile when she asked him if he believed in the gods. Stories have power whether we believe them or not. She shuts out the memory of his voice.

The others are still looking round for Thraso. Dido points him out, sweating his way through the crowd.

“Is his nose broken again?” Beronice asks. “He looks awful.”

“Worse than usual? Are you sure?” Victoria replies. “I think maybe Balbus knocked it back the right way.”

Beronice misses the joke. “No, he looks AWFUL!” she insists, raising her voice even louder to make her point.

Cressa shakes her head. “He’ll hear you.”

Thraso catches up, snapping at them to move it, and they all weave across the square. A group of sailors, probably just docked at the port, whistle as Amara passes, one gesturing what he’d like. She smiles at him then lowers her eyes. The men slap each other and laugh.

The road leading downhill from the Forum is overflowing with rainwater, its surface a broken mosaic of red and yellow, reflecting the painted buildings that line its banks. The women stare as a team of soaked litter-bearers trudge their way through, water sloshing over their knees, their lucky cargo raised up high, safe behind thick curtains. Amara notices the body of a dead dog wedged between two stepping stones, held there by the weight of the stream rushing past. Not all the filth is getting washed away by the morning’s downpour. The women pick their way laboriously along the walkway, turning left into a narrow street that winds round to the brothel. The space to move shrinks further, but the crowds are thinner here too.

As a child, Amara would have enjoyed the thought of returning home out of the wet, of sitting with her mother in front of the brazier, their maid bringing them hot wine with spices to warm up. But the looming bulk of the brothel doesn’t give her any sense of homecoming. There’s no hot drink waiting, just Felix and his anger.

They huddle outside the building, pressed single file against the wall, keeping dry under the overhanging balcony. Thraso looks almost as nervous as the women.

“You two,” he points at Victoria and Amara. “You had plenty to say for yourselves at the baths. You can explain it all to Felix.”

The others slink inside, Dido looking back anxiously. Victoria touches Thraso’s good arm, inclining her head. “I’ll tell Felix how hard you fought,” she says, gazing up at him with a sincerity so earnest Amara almost believes her. “You defended his honour. That will mean something.”

Thraso cannot quite bear to show gratitude to a whore but nods curtly. He glances at Amara, clearly expecting something similar, but she cannot think of anything ingratiating to say. Victoria stares at her, eyes widening with warning. “Yes,” she says at last, nodding at Thraso. “You did. Very brave.” Her Greek accent sounds thick through fright.

Thraso knocks on the wooden door leading to Felix’s apartment above the brothel. It’s answered by Paris, his permanently sour expression topped by a mono-brow. Standing in the doorway, Amara catches a whiff of the latrine hidden in the darkness of the stairwell. She used to feel sorry for Paris, for the loneliness of his young life, shuttling between scrubbing his master’s floors upstairs and servicing customers in the brothel below. But Paris has shown no indication that he wants the she-wolves’ company or friendship.

“Felix,” says Thraso, waving at him with impatience.

“He’s with a client, so you’ll have to wait.”

Paris turns and climbs the stairs. They follow, emerging onto the narrow, covered balcony that surrounds Felix’s flat. It makes her think of a spider’s web, the way the walkway circles her master’s rooms, slowly drawing you further in, not cutting straight to the centre. Amara can hear an unfamiliar male voice, too faint to make out all the words. Though she catches one phrase: pay you. Paris gestures for them to go through to the small waiting room.

Thraso sits heavily on the bench by the brazier, barely leaving space for the two women on either side. They squash in next to him. The balcony lets in daylight but also cold air. The warmth from the fire is feeble. Amara’s heart is thumping. It doesn’t help knowing Felix is currently squeezing some poor debtor for every last penny just down the corridor. Thraso stares straight ahead as if mesmerized by the small tongues of flame near his feet. She can feel the fear coming off him.

Amara stares at the wall. No gambolling nymphs or lovers here. Everything is painted in a geometric pattern of black and white. The sharp-edged lines turn and interlock in an endless maze that’s hard to follow round the room without feeling dizzy.

They sit and wait, not talking, time stretching out. It starts to rain more heavily, water beating down on the roof. It’s impossible to tell over the noise whether Felix and his client are still doing business. Then Amara sees a downcast figure pass the doorway, hears him thud down the stairs. Nobody gets up from the bench.

Paris sticks his head around the door. “You’d best go through.”

Thraso rises, stalking past him. Amara and Victoria follow.

2

The room is large, dominated by red. Their master is sitting behind his desk. He doesn’t rise as they enter. If he is surprised by their arrival so much earlier than expected, he gives no sign. Felix has half Thraso’s bulk but twice his strength. His wiry frame is all bunched muscle. Amara knows there is no softness anywhere on that body hidden beneath the folds of the pale toga. Nothing to give the lie of tenderness when he holds you.

“That was a quick orgy,” he says. “The rich boys couldn’t keep it up for long then? But they paid you double, of course.” Felix looks at Victoria. “That’s what you’re here to tell me, isn’t it, my darling? How much money you made.” Felix is smiling, but Amara can feel his anger vibrate through the sarcasm. The room grows darker. She knows without looking that Paris has just closed the door to the balcony.

Victoria opens her mouth, but Thraso jumps in. “It was Simo,” he says. “Simo betrayed us…”

“He must have been in it with Vibo,” says Victoria. “All Simo’s girls stayed in the pool, but some old crone dragged the rest of us out. She forced us. She said it was Vibo’s orders. That fat slug! We never even saw the punters—”

“Balbus was in on it too,” Thraso interrupts. “I thrashed him for you, the lying little—”

“Thraso only stopped because Vibo made him!” Victoria says. “And Drauca was sneering at us; she knew, I’m sure she did…”

Amara watches Felix as Victoria and Thraso babble on, falling over themselves to shift the blame as far away from themselves as possible, shovelling it aside like shit from a latrine. She knows that if the boss doesn’t interrupt, they will soon start blaming each other. Felix listens in silence, absorbing everything, his anger visibly growing. If there were a way of making herself smaller and less noticeable, she would shrink to the size of a dormouse.

“And you?” Felix turns sharply to Amara, catching her off guard. “Do you have nothing useful to say? Or are you just going to stand there like a dog?”

“It’s… it’s like they said,” she stammers. Felix waits for her to continue, radiating rage. Behind him, the wall glows red. The only sound is the heavy drumbeat of water above. Amara knows her master is just moments from erupting. If she doesn’t fill the silence, there will be nothing between her and the rain of blows that fall. “The old woman forced us out of the baths,” she says. Her eyes avoid his face, skirting instead to the fresco that frames his desk. She tracks up the black plinths, reaching the bulls’ skulls painted at the top. “She used your name. She only wanted the women belonging to you. It was an insult aimed solely at you.” Victoria gives a stifled gasp. Amara glances over, sees the fear in Victoria’s face then looks quickly away. “I don’t think it was an insult from Vibo. What would he have to gain?” Nobody replies. Amara continues, talking to the small bag of coins resting on the desk by Felix’s right hand. “Simo must have bribed him. It’s the only explanation. Simo’s got a nice little deal going on at the baths right now, why would he want to double the women and halve the profits?”

The rain is still falling, and she is almost out of courage. Nobody has ever frightened her more than the man in front of her. Amara looks up from the desk. She always avoids staring directly into his eyes, and so now, when she does, his expression surprises her. He is listening. For one brief moment, she sees him. It’s enough.

“I don’t think it’s Vibo you want to punish,” she says, her voice a little steadier. “He could be valuable. If Simo can pay him off, so can you. That way we could still make money at the baths and show we won’t be put off so easily.” Felix raises his eyebrows. She has surprised him. Amara tries to let go of her fear, imagines it rising from her body like steam, evaporating. “As for Simo, I’m sure you could teach him a lesson. Doesn’t he run a bar? Perhaps it will become less attractive to customers.”

Felix’s expression has barely changed, but she knows the worst of his anger has passed. “You bark a lot for such a little dog,” he says. He nods at Thraso’s swollen, bloodied lip. “And what did you do to Balbus in return for this?”

“I broke his nose.”

“More than that, I hope.” Felix rises from his seat, and the two women step backwards. Thraso stays still. Felix clicks his fingers at Victoria. She hurries over. He runs his hands over her, feeling her body, rearranging her clothes, a critical look on his face. It’s not a man touching a woman, but a salesman checking his goods. He slaps her backside, hard. “Will you make me as much money as Simo’s whores? Hmmm? Will you?” He gestures towards Amara without looking at her. “That one thinks so, but I’m not convinced.” He takes Victoria’s chin between his fingers. “What were you doing at the pool today? Gawping round the place like peasants at the games? Slouching about on your flat arses?”

Victoria can’t shake her head; Felix is holding her too tightly.

“I’ve seen Drauca. That whore has the finest ass in Pompeii. And what do you have? What sort of tits are these?” He lets go of Victoria, pushing her face away. She sways but stays upright. “Simo may have paid Vibo off, but would Vibo have thrown you out if he thought any of you could fuck like Drauca?” He pauses, daring them to answer but neither do. “Our friend Simo’s been bragging he sells the best cunt. So you”—Felix jabs a finger at both his women—“need to show Vibo he’s talking shit. Vibo gets to fuck you whenever he likes, however he likes, no charge, all part of the service. If you’re not his favourite girls after that, I’ll know why.” Amara glances at Victoria, trying to judge her reaction, but her face is blank as wax. “Get moving!” Felix shouts, making them both jump. “I want five denarii each from you lazy, fucking whores. Tell the others they’d better put some effort in.”

Amara almost stumbles over Paris in the doorway in her haste to get out of the room, but Victoria is still quicker. They scuttle along the balcony, shoving their way down the stairs. Victoria reaches the bottom first. She turns round, blocking the door so Amara can’t get back into the street. Amara steadies herself against the wall, jolted as much by Victoria’s obvious anger as the sudden stop. “Why did you do that?” Victoria whispers. “Felix would have dropped Vibo. Why ask him to send us back? What sort of idiot are you?”

“Think of the money,” she whispers back. The pair of them are rammed together at the bottom of the smelly, dark stairwell. “Think of all the rich men! Not like the dregs who come here.”

“You’re crazy. What do you think they’re going to do? Turn up at the baths with bags of gold? They go there to screw, not find a bride!” Victoria’s whisper grows louder with exasperation. “And now we have to put up with Vibo!”

Amara wants to explain that she’s willing to try anything, no matter how far-fetched, however horrible, anything that might get them out of the brothel. Paris’s sharp voice calls down. “What are you both doing?”

“Leaving,” Victoria says, pulling the door towards her. They slip out into the rain and, within a couple of paces, are back inside.

Even though the sky is murky and overcast, it is another level of darkness in the brothel. The shutters in the small cells are locked to keep out the damp and the air is thick with smoke from incense and oil lamps. The space is not that much smaller than Felix’s apartment above, but to Amara, it feels as narrow as a tomb.

Fabia is slopping out, trying to stop the latrine from overflowing with rainwater. The stench, never pleasant at this end of the corridor, is worse than usual. She looks up briefly to greet them, then bends back down to her task. Fabia used to work here as a she-wolf before she grew too old. She even gave birth to the wretched Paris in one of the cells. Fabia barely earns her keep now, but so far Felix has not thrown her out on to the streets to fend for herself.

“What did Felix say?” Cressa asks, as she and the other women emerge from Beronice’s cell.

“He’s going to give it another go with Vibo,” Victoria says. “He wants to persuade him to take us back at the baths, which means the smelly prick will be coming here, and we’ve got to give him whatever he wants.” She folds her arms, and Amara is expecting her to tell everyone whose fault this is. But she doesn’t.

“Vibo’s coming here?” Beronice says. “But he can’t be!”

“Is he that bad?” Amara asks. Any lingering satisfaction she felt at impressing Felix is fast disappearing.

“You two not had him yet?” Cressa asks. Amara and Dido shake their heads. “He’s the worst. Practically strangled me last time.” She raises a hand to her throat, as if remembering his fingers around her neck.

Amara looks at Victoria, full of remorse, but she ignores her. “And the best part,” Victoria says, “is that we’ve all got to earn Our Glorious Master five denarii each by tomorrow.”

Cressa groans.

“Was he joking?” Beronice asks, her face hopeful. She’s never very good at spotting when anyone is being humorous.

“Not joking,” Victoria replies. “Safe to say he was not in a jolly mood.”

“But we’ll never manage it!” Beronice wails. “That’s far too much.”

“We’d better get as close to it as we can.” Cressa’s gaze wanders over to Fabia, still sluicing the latrine. “Though Venus herself would struggle to pick up punters in this weather.”

“I’m not going fishing without food,” Victoria says. “We can start at The Sparrow, have something to eat, and maybe after that, the rain won’t be so bad.”

The five women set about extinguishing most of the oil lamps to save fuel and limit the smoke. The constant smelly fug indoors means the paintings Felix recently paid for – endless sex scenes emblazoned round the top of the walls – are already smeared with soot. The picture above Amara’s cell, of a woman being taken from behind, has a new grimy shadow across the bed. She bends down to put out the terracotta lamp burning beneath it. Like every other light in the brothel, it is modelled in the shape of a penis, flames flickering from the tip. One or two even have a small clay man attached, brandishing an enormous fiery erection. Felix finds it amusing, says the lamps get the customers in the mood. Amara hates them. As if they don’t have enough cocks to put up with.

Gallus, Felix’s freedman, is guarding the main door, directly opposite The Elephant. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he’s better looking than Thraso, though just as brutal in a fight. He grasps hold of Beronice’s arm as they try to pass. “Hang on,” he says. “You can’t all go out at once. One of you has to stay behind. What if I get a customer?”

“Can’t you just come and grab one of us from The Sparrow?” Victoria says. “We’ll only be up the road.”

“No,” Gallus replies. “You know Felix’s orders.” He gives Beronice a shove. “Back in there.”

“What a shit,” Victoria mutters, as they hurry along the pavement. “We’ll have to take her something back.”

“And Fabia,” says Cressa. “She’s looking so thin.” The presence of the older woman, barely hanging on to existence, is like the shadow of a future none of them want to face. For Cressa, who is several years older than the rest of them, Amara suspects Fabia’s fate is even more frightening.

The noise from the tavern opposite is loud even at this time of day. A gigantic mural blazes with colour on its outside wall. It’s an elephant surrounded by dancing pygmies and draped in snakes for good fortune. Underneath reads the boast: Sittius Restored The Elephant! The four women don’t stop to go inside. Picking up customers at The Elephant isn’t impossible, but Sittius rents rooms as well as serving food and wine. In this weather, his guests are more likely to head upstairs with one of the women who work at the inn than troop to a brothel in the rain.

The Sparrow is only a few paces further away. Its painted sign is drenched and darkened by the rain, but Amara can still make out the small bird surrounded by flowers, sitting on its innuendo-laden message. The Sparrow is Satisfied, So may You be! Nobody is loitering in the small square outside today. Instead, the stones shine white in the wet. When Amara first arrived in Pompeii, almost every scrap of pavement in front of the bar seemed to be taken up by drinkers, most standing and talking, some scribbling messages on the wall. She’s seen graffiti about Felix on there before, even some reviews of the brothel. Plenty about Victoria. Nothing about her. She’s not sure whether to be grateful for that or not.

They scurry inside, stamping their feet on the floor to shake off the rain. Victoria saunters over to the bar. She leans against its marble top, undoing her cloak and letting the edge of her yellow toga slip from her shoulder. There are whistles from a table in the corner.

“Busy morning, ladies?” The landlord, Zoskales, has a cloth draped round his neck and his face is shining with sweat. There’s almost no room for him behind the counter, the wall is stacked with wine jars from floor to ceiling, but Amara’s never seen him knock anything over. She has no idea what brought Zoskales all the way to Pompeii from Ethiopia, a place so distant she finds it almost impossible to imagine its existence. He likes to joke to customers it was love of his wife. Amara almost never sees her at the bar, more often in the street, harried by their three small children. She makes an unlikely Siren, luring her man halfway across the world.

“Not as busy as we’d like,” Victoria says. “Anybody here need entertaining?”

“I’m sure if there are, you’ll soon find them.” Zoskales replies. Business between tavern and brothel is always brisk. “I’ll get Nicandrus to bring you hot wine and stew.”

The women make their way to a table near the two wolf-whistlers. Amara feels a flicker of fear. She would have crossed the street to avoid men like this in her hometown, her mother no doubt tugging her along to walk faster, whispering at her to look down. The two men are already drunk, dressed in the stained, weatherworn clothes of travelling traders. She sees the one closest to them is missing his four front teeth. His companion has a thick beard, curled and dressed with cheap oil to hide the grey.

Amara takes a seat on a bench by the wall, and Dido joins her. Victoria tries to pull up stools for her and Cressa, but the man with the missing teeth catches hold of her wrist. “Plenty of room for you to sit here.” White spittle pools in the middle of his lips as he speaks. He spreads his legs out, slapping his knee. His companion snorts with laughter.

“Hope you aren’t bothering the ladies.” Nicandrus arrives with the tray. His tone is light, but he walks deliberately between the tables, forcing the man to let go.

“Oh, they’re no trouble.” Victoria smiles sweetly at the man who just grabbed her. She sits down, moving her cloak so he can see up the length of her thigh, before swiftly covering it. She smiles at him again, and he stares back, flushed. First fish caught, Amara thinks.

Nicandrus puts the bean stew down in front of Dido. “You look cold,” he says.

“It’s so wet out,” she replies.

“Hope this warms you.” He hovers, obviously hoping she will say something more. Amara has noticed the way Nicandrus watches Dido, seen his nervousness whenever an aggressive customer gets too close to her. She almost loves him for it.

“Nicandrus!” Zoskales bellows across the bar. “The wine won’t serve itself!”

Dido bends her head to eat. She is hopeless at fishing. A few short months ago she was a respectable girl from a small suburb of Carthage, never leaving the house with her head uncovered, betrothed to a man chosen by her father, a secluded life of raising children and keeping house stretching out in front of her. Amara feels a pain in her chest. She has been enslaved longer than Dido, but not so long she doesn’t remember the agony of losing her own freedom.

“You’re not from Pompeii,” Victoria says to the two traders. She is making quick work of her stew, dabbing with the bread around the rim, never one to let a potential customer slip away.

“Did you travel by sea?” Cressa says. “I’ve always wanted to travel by sea.” She sips her wine, gazing at the bearded man as if he were the god Poseidon deigning to visit the mortals on shore.

“No. We came over from Puteoli,” he says. “In the meat business. Goats, mainly.”

“Bet you like a bit of meat,” his companion adds, poking Victoria in the leg, the string of saliva between his lips lengthening as he grins. Victoria laughs, covering her mouth prettily with one hand, as if he just said something witty. Amara tries not to wince. Always the same. Why do men never have anything original to say to a prostitute? This pair are moments away from bragging about the size of their cocks.

The toothless man slaps his knee again, and this time Victoria perches on it. Cressa takes a long draught of wine, draining her cup to the bottom, then rises and drapes herself over his companion. Victoria nestles herself back closer against Toothless who is breathing heavily, but Amara notices she is careful not to let his hands wander too far up inside her clothes. There are limits to what Zoskales will tolerate in his bar.

The bearded man is kissing Cressa who breaks away to steal another sip of wine, this time from his cup. He gives her a slap, meant playfully perhaps, but hard enough to make her spill red liquid down her front. “Dirty little she-wolf,” he says.

Cressa exchanges a quick glance with Victoria who bends to whisper in her lover’s ear. After a pause, all four rise, the men a little unsteadily, and they leave the bar.

“That was fast,” Nicandrus says, coming to collect the plates and glasses. “Even for Victoria.” He has switched to speaking Greek, both his and Amara’s mother tongue. Dido speaks it too, though Amara suspects Nicandrus doesn’t realize that Punic, not Greek, is her first language.

“Felix told us to make five denarii each by tomorrow,” Amara replies.

Nicandrus winces. “What brought that on?”

“It didn’t go well at the baths this morning.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says, looking at Dido who still hasn’t spoken. “I hope nobody gave you trouble.”

Dido shakes her head. Nicandrus smiles at her before heading back to the kitchens with his stack of dirty dishes.

Amara looks round the room, trying to see if there are any other potential customers. Three men engrossed in a game of dice ignore her, another drinking alone at the counter scowls when she finally manages to catch his eye. Lunchtime is never the easiest hour. Victoria and Cressa did well to find a pair of willing men.

“We’re going to have to go further afield, aren’t we?” asks Dido, her slim shoulders sagging at the thought.

“There were a few sailors hanging around the Forum earlier,” Amara says. “And the rain’s easing off. It might not take us too long.”

Dido looks at her, her eyes dark. There’s a grief deep enough to drown in, if you let it rise unchecked. Amara never will. She stands up, waits for Dido to join her, holding out her hand with the poise and confidence that belonged to her other life.

3

The sounds of Victoria entertaining the toothless man – and his appreciation – are loud in the street. Felix gave Victoria the room by the main door for precisely this reason, knowing she would be a good sales pitch for passing trade. Gallus slouches by the wall, looking bored.

“Can you give this to Beronice and Fabia?” Amara asks, handing him half a small loaf. “We’re going to try our luck in the Forum.”

“Sure,” Gallus stuffs the bread into a fold in his cloak. She hopes he won’t eat it himself.

The air smells fresher after the downpour, though it’s left the narrow road looking more like a canal. Amara and Dido walk carefully, holding their cloaks up to stop the hems trailing in the water. In the winter, their profession is harder to tell on sight. Hidden underneath the outer layer, they wear togas, the uniform of men and prostitutes. Amara used to feel naked without swathes of fabric shielding her body from head to foot, but over a slippery pavement when agility matters, it’s almost a relief to have her legs free.

The journey gets easier when they reach the wide main street, the Via Veneria, which leads back to the Forum. They switch to walking side by side, rather than single file. Amara takes Dido’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You can’t look down all the time,” she says. “I understand it’s difficult, but we’re meant to be attracting men’s attention not avoiding it.”

“I know,” Dido says. “But it’s really hard.”

“Not really. Your face is already doing half the work for you. You’re easily the most beautiful woman in Pompeii.” Amara has never seen anyone as lovely as Dido. Though it’s a loveliness shot through with fragility, like the exquisite glass statue of the goddess Athene she remembers from her childhood. It was so precious her parents kept it high out of reach.

“I hate it,” Dido says. “I hate men staring. I hate it when…” she trails off. “I guess I’ll get used to it, all of it, eventually.”

“No. Just endure it. Never get used to it.”

They pass a shop selling jewellery, stop a moment to admire the cut glass and cameos. “My mother wore a stone like that,” Dido says, pointing.

“The red one?”

“Yes. She was wearing it the last time I saw her.”

Amara knows the rest of this story. How pirates swept through Dido’s hometown, stealing people to sell as slaves. Dido was kidnapped along with her younger cousin, her uncle killed trying to defend them. Her cousin died on the voyage from Carthage to Puteoli. Dido, like Amara, was completely alone when they first met, lined up, side by side, at the slave market. Amara wants to tell Dido that she may see her mother again one day but finds she can’t. She doesn’t believe it’s true.

They have lingered too long. The shopkeeper comes out to try and persuade them to try on a string of cheap beads, becomes offended when they refuse. They hurry off towards the Forum at the top of the hill. It’s even more crowded than earlier, the street sellers have wasted no time setting up again after the rain. Amara leads Dido towards one of the wide colonnades surrounding the square. “Just smile at everyone,” she says. “Pretend you’re Drauca.”

“Is that what you do? Pretend you are someone else?”

“I am someone else. Amara isn’t even my real name; Dido isn’t yours.”

They walk slowly arm in arm along the brightly painted walkway. For all her bravado, Amara’s heart is beating fast. Nobody pays them much attention. Expensively dressed men, perhaps meeting to discuss the upcoming elections, brush past as if they are invisible. Hawkers ignore them, too busy with their own selling. They’ve no time to buy what the women are offering, not at this time of day. Undeterred, Amara suggests they try another circuit.

They walk again, pausing more often this time. Amara looks everyone in the eye, unwittingly carrying herself with the assurance of a young man rather than a flirt, while Dido occasionally manages a shy smile. They don’t quite hit the mark, neither looking like prostitutes nor respectable women, but this time, a few glance at them out of curiosity. They loiter at a stall for leather shoes, catching its sharp scent of freshly tanned hide. The seller demonstrates the suppleness of a pair of sandals, twisting the straps in his fingers. One man starts to haggle and another, perhaps the customer’s friend, stands waiting. Amara brushes lightly against him, as if by accident. He looks up and sees Dido who manages, somehow, not to look down. For a moment, Amara thinks he is going to see through them, realize they are two frightened women who haven’t any idea what they are doing. But that’s not what he sees. Encouraged that Dido hasn’t walked off, he leans towards her. “Too rough for your lovely little feet, surely?”

“We don’t have far to walk,” Amara answers. “Only a street away.” She stares straight into his eyes so he cannot mistake her meaning. “Why don’t you and your companion join us?”

They are standing so close he can slip his hand inside Dido’s cloak. She stiffens, gripping Amara’s arm until it hurts. It takes all Amara’s willpower not to slap him. She thinks of Felix, thinks of what he might do if they have nothing to give him tomorrow.

“That’s enough,” Amara says, more harshly than she intended. The man drops his hand, surprised. She forces herself into a false, lopsided smile. “Nobody handles goods for free, not if they aren’t buying.”

The man looks them both up and down. “Maybe later, ladies.” He turns his back.

They walk away from the leather stall. This time it is Amara gripping Dido; she feels as if her legs are going to give way. “Do you need to sit down?” Dido asks. She shakes her head. “I had a bad feeling about him,” Dido continues. “It’s just as well.”

“I shouldn’t have let him touch you,” Amara says. “I should have told him to fuck off.”

Dido laughs, taking her by surprise. “The shortest-lived whores in the business. What an opening line that would be. You can ALL fuck off!”

Dido’s laughter is contagious and soon they are both shaking, trying not to snort out loud, overtaken by hysteria. They clasp their hands round a pillar, swinging and leaning back, giggling like children. Neither care that they are attracting contemptuous stares, suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter.

Eventually, they both calm down and straighten up. “Come on,” Amara says. “Back to the beast hunt.”

They walk with more confidence this time; Dido isn’t even having to force her smile, although the men aren’t to know it’s at their expense. They stop by a group dicing near an archway to the indoor food hall. The air is heavy with the smell of meat and spices. They stand at the edge of the circle and watch. “Good throw,” Amara says, as one man scores a six and scoops up a small pile of coins. His friend slaps him on the back.

The players seem to be split into two teams. They all look like out-of-town traders, speaking with a wealth of accents and languages as they argue over the money. Amara and Dido pretend fascination with the game, slowly leaning more towards the winning side, ingratiating themselves. A flask of wine is passed round, and Dido accepts a sip.

“Throw for us.” One of the men pulls at Amara’s arm. “Go on, you throw.” The winners are in good spirits. After the game, they will need to spend that money somewhere.

Amara squats down and takes the dice. “For Venus,” she says, looking up sidelong at the team who’ve claimed her. She rolls a five, higher than their rivals had just managed. The men cheer.

“It doesn’t count,” says one of the losers, face scrunched in anger, watching eager fingers rake through his last few coins. “You can’t get a whore to throw.”

“You can get a whore to do whatever you like,” Amara retorts. “That’s the whole point.”

Her new friends fall about laughing, one slipping his arm round Amara as she stands up, but her opponent is unamused. “Cheating little Greek,” he spits. The loser gathers up his remaining money, gesturing at his three companions to do the same. They hurry away, and Amara and Dido are left with the winners. Five men whose attention has now turned from dice to other games. Her heartbeat quickens. She would prefer not to be outnumbered like this.

“Pompeii has brought you good fortune,” Dido says, inclining her head in a way that reminds Amara of Victoria. “It pays to serve Venus in the goddess’s own city.”

“You’re from Africa,” one of the men says, noticing her accent.

“Venus has a wide dominion,” Amara replies. “And the road to her house is short, if you care to join us.” The man who urged her to throw the dice still has his arm tightly round her waist, his fingers kneading her flesh. There is no way she and Dido could fight this gang off if the men decided to cut the transaction short by taking without paying. The food hall is still being repaired from earthquake damage, and there are plenty of deserted arches where building work has paused.

Dido steps away from the group. “We share a home with three others,” she says. “Five women! Such a happy chance. You must celebrate with our friends; the goddess of love deserves some thanks after all.”

The men exchange glances, perhaps weighing up the possibility that they are going to be led into a den of thieves by a honeyed bait. “Perhaps you’ve seen our home?” Amara says. “We live by The Elephant.”

“The Wolf Den!” one of them laughs. “We’ve got an invite to the town brothel!”

“Is that what you are?” The man holding Amara loosens his grip, turning her towards him, so he can see her face. “A little Greek she-wolf?”

His skin is tanned, cracked across the cheeks from being out in all weathers, and there is a mark at the bottom of his chin where it must have been nicked by a knife. She knows this man will be no stranger to violence, but then, none of them are. Amara decides to roll the dice again. She leans in to kiss him lightly on the lips then pushes him away, darting just out of reach. “Wolves from Greece, Carthage, Egypt and Italy,” she says over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow. “All worshippers of Venus Pompeiiana.”

Dido swiftly joins her, and they hold hands, walking down the colonnade towards the Via Veneria, aware the men are close behind. “We need to get there quickly,” Dido whispers, her eyes wide with fear.

“Don’t run,” Amara says. She looks back over her shoulder, smiling at the man who until recently had her in an iron grip. He and the other dice players look flushed with excitement rather than anger, enjoying the thrill of the chase.

They weave past the shops and the grand houses on the Via Veneria. The road is still flooded with water. One of the five players, a short, brawny man with a patched cloak, grabs Dido and makes as if to throw her in. She screams and the men roar with laughter. The man sets her back down as a mule cart approaches, and Amara seizes her hand, dragging her further along the pavement.

Amara doesn’t think she has ever been happier to hear the raucous chorus from The Elephant as they round the corner to the brothel. She feels ready to collapse with relief at Gallus’s feet. He collects the money from their five customers. As Amara steps over the threshold, she glances down at his left hand for the signal. Three fingers. Only three women are in. Amara’s heart contracts.

Beronice is waiting in the corridor, wreathed in smoke from the lamps.

“There’s Egypt!” shouts the short man, grabbing her roughly round the hips. “Where are the other two?”

“On their way,” Amara replies, draping her arms round the man with the marked chin. “Fabia will go and fetch them.” The old woman scurries past her, hood pulled up to her face, and darts into the street.

“For fuck’s sake, you promised five!” The two men left without women are furious.

Amara’s customer has already pulled off most of her clothes and is pushing her towards an empty cell. He breaks from kissing her to catch hold of one of his angry companions, drawing him closer. “Stop complaining! You know I always share.”

The stone bed is hard against Amara’s back; there is a terrible ringing in her ears, the rush of blood pounding in her head, the smell of the strange man too close to her, his grip even tighter than she remembers in the Forum, the movement she cannot stop and cannot control. She is drowning.

Amara tries to focus on the curtain pulled across the doorway, count its folds until he has finished, anything to quell the unbearable panic. But the second man is blocking her view, his face contorted. He grips her thigh, stopping her from twisting away. She cannot scream. She cannot breathe. Terror is crushing the air from her lungs. Then the curtain opens. Cressa slips inside the room.

“No need to wait,” she whispers, running her fingers through the second man’s hair.

He pushes her off. “I want that one.” He points at Amara. Cressa moves so she is standing between them.

“No, you don’t.” Cressa slides her hands around his hips, pulling him closer. He tries to resist, but the lure of her naked body is too much. He gives in, allows Cressa to lead him away. Cressa glances back as they leave. The kindness in her eyes speaks another language, reaching Amara across the darkness.

Amara starts to cry. The man with the scarred chin collapses heavily against her. He is finally finished. For a moment, she is forced to lie squashed beneath his weight, then he raises himself on his elbows and steps back from the bed. Amara pulls her legs in towards herself, unable to stop weeping. For a moment, the man stares at her, and she cannot tell if the look of disgust is for her or himself. He leaves without speaking.

4

Night-time at the brothel passes like a scene from Hades: the endless procession of drunken men, the smoke, the soot, angry shouting, pottery smashing, the sound of Dido weeping, the pungent smell of Victoria’s potion as she washes out her insides, the rasp of Beronice’s snoring. When the hour is too late for even the most dedicated Pompeiian to venture out in search of sex, Amara lies alone in the darkness of her cell, unable to sleep, suffocated by rage.

She is woken the next day by Victoria’s singing. It’s like music from another world, the light earthy voice full of hope and good humour. She sits up in bed.

“Couldn’t you let us sleep in for once?” Beronice shouts.

“Look at the sunshine,” Victoria calls back. “It’s like the Festival of Flora!”

Amara smiles in spite of herself. She swings her feet onto the floor, wrapping the blanket round her shoulders. Beronice and Cressa are already out in the corridor, yawning and rubbing their eyes. The three of them head to Victoria’s cell. Amara glances up as she goes in. The painting of two lovers above the door shows the woman on top, a gift from Felix to his hardest-working whore.

“You woke us up!” Beronice says. Victoria is already dressed and styling her hair. It falls in a waterfall of curls about her shoulders. She does not look like a woman who has been up all night, indulging men and deflecting violence. Her eyes are sparkling at the prospect of a new day. Amara has never met anyone like Victoria.

“Where’s Dido?” Victoria asks. “She can’t have slept through you lazy lot yelling and complaining.”

The four of them head to Dido’s cell. She is lying on the bed, her face to the wall. Cressa sits next to her, bends and kisses her on the forehead. It is not only Amara and Nicandrus who feel protective of Felix’s youngest she-wolf. “It’s morning sweetheart,” Cressa says.

Dido sits up. Her face is wet, and her eyes are red from crying. Cressa hugs her, stroking her back. “Were they shits?” she asks.

“One of them broke all the lamps,” Dido says, pointing to a pile of pottery shards that she’s swept into a corner. “He really frightened me.”

“Nasty, shitty little man.” Cressa’s voice wavers and for a moment Amara thinks she is going to struggle to keep her composure.

Victoria sits on the other side of Dido, quickly taking over. “You can’t let him bother you,” she says, smiling. “Not Mr GarlicFarticus.”

“What a stupid name,” says Beronice, looking doubtful. “He can’t really be called that.”

“But he is!” Victoria insists, her face solemn. “It’s Mr GarlicFarticus who runs that fast-food place near the baths!”

“He was kind of smelly.” Dido looks a little brighter as she starts to play the game.

“And garlicky. And farty.” Victoria nods. “Yes, definitely him. Mr GarlicFarticus.”

“I never knew he was called that,” Beronice says, wonderingly. “I thought he was called Manlius.”

“Of course it was Manlius, you idiot!” Cressa snorts.

They all laugh. Even Beronice smiles. Amara wonders for a moment if she might have played dumb on purpose.

“I think we should write him a message on the wall,” Victoria says. “In case he ever comes back.” She bends down and hands a shard of pottery to Amara. “What shall we say? I know! Thrust SLOWLY.”

“Shall I write it in Greek?” Amara asks.

“What’s the point in that?” Victoria retorts. “We want the smelly idiot to read it, don’t we?”

Amara scratches the motto on the wall. They all sit looking at it when she’s finished, smirking with satisfaction.

“I’ll tell you who does thrust slowly,” Beronice says, her face sly. She pauses, making sure all four are giving her their full attention.

“Go on then,” Cressa says. “Who is this Apollo?”

“Gallus.” Beronice beams. “I love him.”

“Gallus?” Victoria shrieks. “He’s a terrible lay!”

“You’ve not even slept with him!” Beronice says, wounded. She looks round at her friends’ embarrassed faces. “Have you?”

“We all have, sweetheart,” Cressa says kindly.

Beronice flushes. “Well, it’s me he loves. He told me he will buy my freedom one day. He loves me! He’s going to marry me, so I don’t have to do this anymore. We spent a whole hour together when you were all out fishing. He’s really kind and loving and gentle and caring. He even asked what I wanted!”

Amara struggles to picture the oafish Gallus being any of these things. She is about to ask Beronice if he gave her the bread yesterday but decides the answer might be too painful.

“Beronice,” Victoria says, her voice low with warning. “You didn’t fuck him for free, did you?” There’s silence. Beronice pouts, not meeting anyone’s eye. “You idiot!” Victoria hisses. “What if Felix finds out? You can’t spend your days rolling around with Gallus for nothing! He has to pay Felix. The prick’s just playing you; he’s using you!”

“He doesn’t want to pay because he’s saving up to buy me!” Beronice says, stung. “And who’s going to tell Felix? Not any of you I hope!”

“Of course none of us would tell Felix,” Amara says. “But are you sure Gallus isn’t taking advantage?”

“He loves me,” Beronice repeats stubbornly. “He told me he’s never met anyone as kind as me, that he can really talk to me, because I listen, and I care about him.” Victoria rolls her eyes. “Why do you have to make everything dark and ugly and twisted?” Beronice snaps at her. “At least I have better taste than you.” The last word is said with such venom that Amara is surprised, but before Victoria can retaliate, Cressa interrupts.

“Nobody is trying to ruin things for you,” she says to Beronice. “We just want you to look after yourself. That’s all.” Beronice frowns and turns away from her, not willing to be won round yet.

Cressa widens her eyes at Victoria, tilting her head at Beronice, willing her to make amends. Victoria sighs. “Of course we’re happy if Gallus loves you,” she says. “But you need to make him pay. He’s stealing from Felix! That’s much too risky – you know it is. For him as much as you.”

Beronice looks crestfallen. “That’s just typical of him,” she says. “Putting himself in danger for me.”

Victoria looks as if she might explode at this version of Gallus the Hero, but Cressa changes the subject. “Does anyone know how much money we made last night?”

“Thraso took over at the door,” Victoria replies. “I spoke to him before turning in. The last count was just over sixteen denarii.”

“That’s a relief,” says Amara, thinking of Felix. “It’s not as far off as I thought it might be.”

“We’ve got to pay to replace those though,” Dido points at the broken lamps.

Cressa bends over to look at the heap of smashed-up clay cocks. “That’s at least three.”

“Four,” Dido says.

“We’ll have to pay for them ourselves,” Victoria says. “We can’t ask Felix for the money, not after yesterday.” Amara feels some of the darkness from last night returning. Felix gives them such a paltry allowance, barely enough for food, especially when they chip in for Fabia. None of them are ever going to save enough for their freedom that way. “It can’t be helped,” Victoria says, as if she can hear Amara’s thoughts. “We’ll make it back.”

Amara stares at their fresh graffiti. Thrust SLOWLY! It doesn’t seem as amusing anymore. Cressa gets to her feet. “We should head to the baths, get cleaned up. Unless you lot want to waft about stinking of man all day.”

It’s a mid-morning ritual at the brothel, their trip to the women’s baths. Amara suspects she isn’t the only one who finds it emotionally as well as physically cleansing. “I’ll stay behind,” Victoria offers. “Somebody else had better go for the lamps.”

There’s a pause. “I’ll go,” Amara offers. She is just as desperate as the others for a wash, but she owes Cressa for rescuing her, Dido had a terrible night and Beronice was trapped inside most of yesterday. Although given her affair with Gallus, this may not have been such a sacrifice after all.

“Take my savings,” says Cressa. “We can split the cost when you get back.”

Fabia is sweeping the floor when they step out into the corridor. Not for the first time, Amara wonders where she slept that night. She has found her huddled on the back doorstep before, wrapped in nothing but her cloak. The old woman smiles at them. “Don’t you all look beautiful,” she says.

Fabia helps the four who are going out to tidy up their hair. Even though they are not fishing, Felix hates his women to wander about town looking a mess. “You’ll never need paste for your lips,” Fabia says to Amara, as she straightens up her yellow toga, fastening it with a cheap pin. “They’re bright as pomegranate seeds. You’re so lucky.” Amara wonders what Fabia looked like when she was young. Her face is not just lined, but beaten, like the ruts in the road where the carts have repeatedly run over the stones. It can’t help that she has such a shit for a son.

“Can I bring you back anything to eat?” Amara asks.

“Gallus brought me some bread yesterday,” Fabia replies. “Don’t you worry.”

Thraso is slumped half asleep on the doorstep when they leave. His lip looks a little better than yesterday, but his nose is still swollen. He asks where they are all going and heaves himself up to check whether the tale of broken lamps is true. Once his surly permission has been granted, they set off. Amara says goodbye to the others a few paces down the road at the entrance to the women’s baths then makes for the pottery shop on the Via Pompeiiana, Cressa’s leather purse tied around her waist.

Last night was dry, and the water level on the road has dropped. It no longer resembles a canal. Instead, the wet surface shines silver in the glare of the late morning light. The town is already busy. It’s not often Amara has an excuse to venture out by herself. She lingers as she passes the doorways of Pompeii’s wealthiest homes, stealing a look inside whenever a tall wooden door is left ajar. She catches the sparkle of fountains, glimpses of winter gardens and elaborate mosaics which sweep up to the edge of the street. Her parent’s house in Aphidnai was not so grand, but some of the homely touches – a woman sitting spinning in the atrium, a sleeping dog – remind her of what she has lost.

The potter’s shop is not too far along the Via Pompeiiana. It’s impossible to miss with its huge mural of Venus surrounded by lamps on the front wall. The painting picks out the warmth of the flames on the goddess’s features, the light reflected in her eyes. Behind her is a pink shell and the pale blue of the sea. Small potters work at her feet, shaping lamps and statues, feeding a tiny kiln, a miniature representation of the business Amara is about to enter.

The shop front is shallow and apparently empty. Through a doorway at the back she can see slaves and the red glow of the kilns. Somebody will be back in a moment. Around her, every possible surface is lined with lamps. She turns to look, careful not to knock into anything. Some are beautiful, so much lovelier than the ones she is here to buy. Amara picks up a small glazed light from the nearest shelf, gently stroking its surface with her finger. An image of Pallas Athene is stamped on it, an owl’s face on her breastplate.

“That’s one of mine.”

She looks up. A slave is watching her. Amara hurries to put the lamp back, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“No, I mean I designed it.” The slave laughs. “I don’t own any of them.” He is very good-looking, Amara realizes. Slim with dark hair and a friendly, open face. He looks nothing like Felix, she thinks. Then she wonders why the comparison would even matter to her. He walks over, takes the lamp back down from the shelf and turns it over. “That’s my mark,” he says, touching a symbol on the back, the Greek letter M. He has a Greek accent too. He almost sounds like he could have come from her hometown.

“Is Pallas Athene your goddess?” Amara asks, switching to Greek.

He is delighted. “Athenian?”

“No, I’m from Aphidnai.” She smiles back.

“The town with the beautiful Helen of Troy.”

“You’ve been there?” Amara stares at the potter’s slave, wondering who he might have been if they had met in their past lives. Did he ever go to her father when he was sick? Was he always enslaved?

“I spent a little time there when I was a child. Many years ago now. I’m from Athens. From Attica.”

Attica. So much in a single word. Pride in where she’s from, pain for what she’s lost. Home. It feels closer, suddenly, standing next to this stranger. “What happened?” she blurts out. “Why are you here?”

He looks startled. Slaves do not usually ask each other about the past without invitation. Nobody wants their grief dragged up unexpectedly into the light.

“My family ran out of money,” he says. “And I was the last thing they had to sell.” His voice is unchanged, and he has the same easy manner as before, but she can feel his sadness. Amara wants to tell him that she understands, that the story of her life is the same, but she can’t find the words. He looks embarrassed by her silence. “Is this the lamp you wanted?” he asks.

She blushes. Her cloak is hiding her gaudy toga. He has no idea what she is. And now she is going to have to ask this beautiful Athenian stranger for a load of cock lamps. “My master lives opposite The Elephant,” she says slowly. There is a flicker of understanding on his face. She ploughs on. “My name in this country is Amara. I used to worship Pallas Athene, but since I was brought here, I have been subject to Venus. I have no choice. She is the goddess my master serves.”

“Amara,” the stranger says, putting his hand over hers, stopping her from continuing. “I understand. None of us has a choice here.” They stare at each other. Then he moves away, as if only just noticing he is touching her.

“Menander!” a voice calls from the back. “What are you doing out there? I only wanted… Ah, I see, a customer. Forgive me, forgive me.” Rusticus, the potter, is standing in the doorway. He frowns at Amara, trying to place her. She stares back. In her mind’s eye she sees his large naked arse, bobbing up and down, glimpsed through a half-open curtain. He is one of Victoria’s regulars. “Well.” He chuckles, recognition finally dawning. He turns to Menander. “No wonder you were taking your time.” He leans one elbow on the counter, his previous posture of respectful service gone. “And what can we do for you, little wolf.”

Amara is so hot that she feels on fire. “Four lamps, not glazed, of…” She stops, not wanting to say the words. “Of Priapus.” Rusticus smirks, enjoying her humiliation. She has a flash of anger and defiance. “So that will be four cocks,” she adds loudly. There’s a snort. She turns and stares at Menander. Is he laughing? He sees her face, and his expression changes instantly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

She sweeps past him to the counter, as if he hadn’t said a word. “My master does not like to be kept waiting,” she says coldly to Rusticus, as if she has been sent by the Emperor and not some small-town pimp.

“Of course,” Rusticus replies, snapping his fingers at Menander who hurries to gather up the cock lamps from a shelf in the corner. Amara says nothing. She stands rigid, bristling with fury, as Menander wraps the lamps in pieces of old cloth, tying them together to make it easier for her to carry. He is trying desperately to catch her eye, but she refuses to look at him, even when he hands the bundle over. Rusticus is struggling not to laugh. “Never mind,” he says in a mock whisper to his slave. “Maybe you can save your pennies and speak to the fine lady for longer next time.”

Amara hands over Cressa’s money and strides out of the shop without thanking either of them. She walks quickly along the street, clutching the lamps to her chest, hating herself. She is no different from Beronice, swallowing Menander’s charm, as if he would be interested in talking to a she-wolf. Life at the brothel is hard enough, without making a fool of herself.

5

When she gets back, it’s Paris on the door. The way he stands, scrawny chest puffed out and legs akimbo, makes him recognizable long before she reaches the brothel. It’s rare for Paris to be put on door duty; he’s far too slight to make a convincing guard. He looks years younger than his age and is desperate to grow a beard, hoping that then Felix will finally release him from his duties as a prostitute. The only person in the world who loves Paris is his mother, Fabia, and he treats her with a cruelty that makes Amara’s heart ache.

“Felix wants you,” he says as she approaches.

“Did he say why?”

Paris shrugs, trying to imitate Thraso’s easy indifference. Instead, he looks like a petulant teenager.

Amara hurries into the brothel. “Felix is asking for me,” she says, handing the bundle of lamps to Victoria before she can open her mouth for a greeting. “I’ve not even had a bath. He hates that. He’s going to be so angry!”

“You can borrow some of my rose water.” Victoria nods towards her cell as she starts unwrapping the lamps. “Just help yourself. And try not to worry. He almost never asks for a full service, not at this time of day.”

Amara finds the small bottle in Victoria’s cell, dabs a tiny amount of the rose perfume on her neck. She knows one of Victoria’s customers gives her various potions as a tip and doesn’t want to take too much. The thought of climbing the stairs to see Felix again makes her feel nauseous. It had confused her when she first came to Pompeii, why he wanted any of his women. He never seemed prompted by desire, let alone anything more tender. After a few weeks, she understood. All of them are afraid of him, both dreading his summons and dreading being ignored. Like everything else about Felix – it is the exercise of power.

Victoria comes into the cell, pinches her cheeks to give them more colour and fusses with her hair. “What if it’s something else?” Amara asks. “What if he’s angry with me?”

“It will all be fine,” Victoria says. “I promise. Just don’t keep him waiting.”

Paris lets her in, taking the keys from his cloak as they stand together in the street. “You’re to go straight through to his study,” he says, shoving the door open and walking off, as if stopping to talk to her would add a terrible burden to his busy day.

Amara is left alone in the hallway, surprised not to be sent to the bedroom. She wonders what Felix might mean by it. She walks up the stairs and creeps round the corridor to the end. She stops, knocks gently, then carefully opens the door. To her confusion, she sees he already has company. She is about to step back, but Felix raises his hand in a gesture for her to stay. His client turns round to see who it is. When he understands he’s being watched by a prostitute, he flinches. “If this isn’t a good time…” he says.

“Please continue,” Felix replies, offering no explanation for the presence of one of his women. Amara slides into the room. “You were explaining why you want to take out a second loan without paying for the first.”

“I can offer you this,” the man says, taking out a pair of earrings. “They belong to my mother-in-law. Pure silver, made in Herculaneum.”

Felix takes the earrings, examining them briefly, before dropping them on his desk. “This will cover the previous debt. What about the new loan?”

“They’re worth far more than just the first loan!” the man protests. “This should cover at least half the value of the next one too!”

“They cover the first loan, but not the interest.”

“Please, Felix,” the man says, lowering his voice. “Please be reasonable. I can get you more money as soon as the shipment is in. Just give me a little time. You know I always come through.”

Felix sighs, like a disappointed father. “We’ve been doing business for so many years Celer. And still you take me for a fool.” He points at the earrings. “I’m assuming Salvia wants them back?” Celer is silent. “And I imagine it would be a terrible shock for your parents-in-law if my men had to turn up at their fabric store uninvited and take back what you owe me in yards of silk?”

“Felix, please, you can’t, you know that I—”

“You can have ten denarii,” Felix says. “Until the shipment comes in. Then if you’ve kept up with the other payments, we can consider that second loan.”

“But that won’t cover the earrings!”

“These”—Felix says, picking up the jewellery and dangling them at him—“are for the first loan. The offer of ten denarii is pure generosity on my part. Take it or take nothing.”

Amara watches as Celer signs another agreement, scratching his name in the wax. Felix looks bored. When Celer is finished, Felix folds the tablets away and takes out the money from a drawer. Celer thanks him, his voice almost inaudible. His face, when he passes Amara, is flushed with humiliation.

Felix and Amara are left alone. He files away Celer’s agreement, ignoring her for some minutes while he’s busy at his desk. She knows better than to open her mouth.

“Yesterday, I asked what happened at the baths,” he says, finally looking up. “I didn’t ask for advice. What made you offer it?”

His tone has not changed since he spoke to Celer. She can read nothing in his face. “I must have misunderstood what you wanted,” she says.

“No, you didn’t.” He waves her lie away with a flick of his hand. “And then you recommended I do a deal with Vibo, a man who’s hated by every whore in Pompeii. Why?”

“Vibo is the only way into the private baths,” Amara says, trying to match his blank face with her own. “We can earn more money there. The men are much richer.”

“So you want to suck a superior class of cock, is that it?” Felix laughs. She knows better than to react to his sarcasm. “What a selfless whore you are. I can’t believe you’re trying to make me richer.” He glances at the silver earrings which he left out on his desk. “You can’t think you would see that extra money? You’re not as smart as you look if you imagine I’m going to share the profits.” Felix beckons her closer, his manner conspiratorial. “So tell me, what was it about?”

Amara is wary. “I don’t know.”

“Come along,” Felix says, “I’m not going to be cross. I’m asking because I’m interested. So tell me.”

Amara twists her hands, still uncertain what to say. They have never had a conversation like this. Often when she sees Felix, he doesn’t talk at all. Except, of course, to tell her afterwards how bad her performance was, how he cannot imagine why any man would pay money for that. Even though she hates him, his contempt is still wounding. It hurts, the way he touches her as if she were nothing. And now he’s gazing into her eyes as if he’s interested in what she has to say, as if what she thinks is important. All her instincts tell her it’s a ruse, but she’s desperate for it to be true. Perhaps she can reach him.

“Why did you buy me?” she asks. “I was sold as a concubine. I’m educated, play the lyre. I know that cost you more. If you didn’t want all those skills for yourself, then why? What sort of investment am I if I grind out the rest of my days in the cells downstairs?” Amara thinks of Gallus, of the self-assured way he stands when he’s getting customers to pay up at the door. She tries to hold herself a little taller. “I could make you a lot more money than that, if you let me.”

For an unbearable period of time, Felix says nothing. Amara waits, the fear she has tried to squash mushrooming in the silence. “Why did I buy you?” He rests his elbows on the table, cupping his chin in his hands. It’s a gesture of familiarity, almost as if they were equals. “It wasn’t for your marvellous tits; let’s be honest, we’ve both seen better. And I wasn’t dazzled by your beauty.” He pauses, letting his words sink in as he looks her up and down. “You weren’t much prettier than all the other girls standing naked in a row. You’re no Dido.” Felix stares into her eyes. “But I couldn’t look anywhere else from the moment I saw you. There you were, being auctioned off as a common whore, but you could have been the goddess Diana, from the way you held yourself. As if at any moment, you would call on your hunting dogs to tear apart every man who had dared to see you naked.”

Felix crosses from behind the desk. Amara watches him walk towards her, forcing herself to stay still, even though she wants to back away. When he is very close, he puts his hands lightly on her neck. “And you would, wouldn’t you? Tear them all apart.” Felix tightens his grip, pressing down on her throat. “Would you like to tear me apart?” Amara struggles to breathe, and dark spots form at the sides of her vision. Panic seizes her, and she puts her hands over his, unable to supress the instinct to claw them away. He lets go, and she collapses over the desk, gasping for air. “Do you know what happens to people who betray me, Amara?” She nods her head, unable to speak. “You do, don’t you? You didn’t hesitate to encourage me to punish Simo.” Amara is slowly getting her breath back but doesn’t dare stand upright. She stays crouched over the desk, leaning as far away from him as possible. “You are not the goddess Diana.” Felix circles round her. “Or Artemis, as you Greeks would have her.” He draws out the foreign words, mocking her accent. “Porna eis. You are a common whore. Even if you do play the lyre.” He pushes her down on the floor so that she is kneeling in front of him. “And I own you. Don’t ever think you are cleverer than me.”

In the women’s baths with Victoria, the steam cannot hide her tears. Amara wants to dive under water, for it to swallow her so that she never has to surface. She stands by a large communal basin, sweating in the heat. Victoria gently wipes Amara’s face, cupping cool water in her hands, splashing her friend’s cheeks.

“You can’t let every encounter upset you like this,” she says, her fingers gentle on Amara’s skin. “It’s just fucking. It’s just your body; it’s not you. You’re strong. I know you are.”

It’s noisier and more crowded than at Vibo’s, and the decoration is nothing like as grand, but even without a huge warm pool to soak in, the women’s baths are still more relaxing. Men cannot come here, not even Felix. “It’s not every encounter. Felix is different,” Amara replies. “It’s not just what he does, though that’s bad enough. It’s what he says. How does he know what will hurt the most?”

Victoria splashes herself with water, sloshing it over her neck and arms. “Felix is different, you’re right.” She is jostled by a pair of matrons flanked by slaves carrying private tubs. The matrons settle themselves nearby, taking pains not to look at the women at the basin. They saw how Victoria and Amara rubbed each other down earlier, too poor to have attendants do it for them. “You might be rich,” Victoria mutters, too quiet for the other women to hear. “But look at your arses.” Amara doesn’t laugh. She would exchange beauty for money in a heartbeat. “I know what you mean,” Victoria continues. “Felix gets under your skin. He does it to everyone. It’s not just you.”

“I thought he was going to kill me.”

“Oh, he would never do that!” Victoria says indignantly. “Think of the money he would lose!” She peers at Amara’s neck and its faint row of bruises. “Very unusual for him to leave any marks though. You must have made him really angry.”

“Everything makes him angry!” Amara says. “Just looking at him sends him into a rage. He’s impossible.”

“You did go on and on yesterday, telling him what to do. He hates that.”

“I gave him good advice,” Amara says. “What was there to be angry about?”

“Sweetheart,” Victoria says. “He does not want advice from his whores.”

“He told me I can’t even…” Amara falters, shame preventing her from repeating exactly what Felix had said. “He said I don’t give him enough pleasure. That I should ask you about it, because you know what you’re doing.”

“He said that?” Victoria is clearly pleased by the compliment.

“He said you’re the only one who really knows what they’re doing,” Amara says. She does not add what else Felix said. That Victoria was half as pretty but had ten times the skill. “I think he actually enjoys it with you. He didn’t say so, but I got that impression.”

“So he should,” Victoria says. “I put the work in. Not that you don’t,” she adds, quickly. Amara is surprised at how happy praise from Felix has made Victoria. It saddens her to think of the power he has. Two more matrons and a teenage girl bump up beside them at the basin, talking loudly about the elections. One of their husbands is standing. The girl, probably a daughter, looks bored and uncomfortable. She glances shyly over at the two beautiful she-wolves, clearly unaware of who they are. “I think we’ll save the advice on technique until we get home,” Victoria says. “But you shouldn’t be too upset. He might have been angry today, but over time, he will like you better for not being a coward. He likes a bit of spirit.” She blushes, looking for a moment as shy as the young girl beside them. “He’s told me before that’s why I’m his favourite whore.” She says the last words quietly, close to Amara’s ear, so their neighbours can’t hear.

Amara suddenly feels claustrophobic in the hot, crowded room. She steps away from the basin. Victoria follows. “The only reason I’d want to be his favourite,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is so he wouldn’t see the knife coming when I kill him.”

Victoria laughs, thinking she’s joking.

6

The winter sky is clear, the sun high overhead, and although there is little warmth from its blinding light, the brightness is cheering. Amara enjoys the feeling of being clean, even takes some pleasure in Fabia doing up her hair. The old woman’s fingers are deft and gentle. In a different life she could have been a skilled maid serving a grand mistress. Amara tries to let go of the morning’s pain. Like the bruises, she tells herself, the humiliation will fade.

They discuss where to go fishing and decide on the harbour. It’s always good for customers, and the walk will be a pleasure in the sunshine. Cressa offers to stay behind. “I’ve got Fabia for company,” she says, refusing the others’ gratitude. “We can put our feet up together; it will be lovely.” Fabia looks thrilled by the compliment. The old woman is as starved of affection as she is of food. Amara knows Cressa is in for a dreary afternoon of sitting in the dark, hearing endless tales of the wretched Paris’s childhood.

“Cressa’s so kind,” Amara says as they start off down the street. “She’s a born mother.”

“Don’t ever say that!” Beronice looks horrified.

“Why not?”

“Cressa is a mother,” Victoria answers, hurrying them further away from the brothel. “She had a little boy. Felix sold him last year when he was three.” Amara and Dido gasp, and Victoria nods, her expression grim. “We were all amazed he let her keep him that long; it would have been kinder to have exposed the baby when it was born. Before she got attached.”

“That’s terrible!” Dido exclaims. “Poor Cressa.”

“He was called Cosmus,” Victoria says. “Sweet enough child. Fabia used to have him when we were working. Cressa adored him. I didn’t think she was going to survive when Thraso took the boy away. Felix had to lock her upstairs, she was screaming so much. She was up there for days. And then after she came down, she never spoke about Cosmus again.”

“I don’t think she can bear to,” Beronice says.

Amara thinks about the way Cressa saved her from the dice player, her kindness, her endless patience with Fabia. She is amazed Cressa has any compassion left to give after losing her child. “But she’s always so thoughtful,” Amara says. “I would never have guessed she carried all that grief. I had no idea.”

Beronice and Victoria exchange glances. “I think she finds ways of drowning it out,” Victoria says. “You must have seen how much she drinks.”

“You can’t blame her though,” Beronice adds quickly. “And she doesn’t drink that much. Not really.”

“That’s why I always use my herbs at the end of the night,” Victoria says. “Kill off everything inside before it can take hold.”

They have reached the Via Veneria and walk in pairs along the wider pavement. Victoria and Amara in front, Beronice and Dido behind. Victoria changes the subject from Cressa, as if eager to leave their friend’s sadness behind. She points out the clothes of the wealthy women who pass them by, admiring the styles she likes, laughing at the ones she doesn’t. The journey to the harbour is short, but the roads are so busy it takes a while to arrive. The closer they get to the sea, the fresher the air becomes. Amara can almost taste the salt.

They stop to buy their one meal of the day at a roadside stall outside town. Victoria chooses, picking out bread, olives and anchovies, the dried fish stiff with brine. After walking a little further downhill, they reach the water. It is even busier here, merchants are unloading, there’s the yell of sailors and the scrape of cargo, and the constant slap of the waves against the stone walls. A little way off from the busy docks, a colonnade stretches round in a semicircle. From its roof, statues of the gods look out at incoming ships, while in the water itself, at the centre of the harbour, is a giant marble column. Venus Pompeiiana stands naked at the top. She gazes out over the vast expanse of blue, the guardian of her town.

The she-wolves find a sunny patch on the colonnade, dangling their legs over the side. They eat their food quickly to avoid the gulls that swoop overhead. Victoria watches a troop of oar slaves walk up onto the docks for a brief respite. They stand bent and blinking in the light. “What a miserable life that would be.” Victoria says. She stretches back, palms resting on the warm stone, her face to the sun. “Who is luckier than us in Pompeii right now? All this time to enjoy ourselves, no back-breaking loads to carry.” She swings her legs up. “I shouldn’t even be alive. You know I was a rubbish-heap baby? Left out to die in the shit and the fish guts. But here I am. Here we all are.”

“Here we all are,” Amara says. “Four penniless slaves, sucking off idiots for bread and olives. What a life.”

Victoria laughs. “So bitter! You can’t still be mad about Felix,” she says. “That was ages ago.”

“Not just Felix,” Amara replies, looking at one of the larger merchant ships navigating its way into dock. She thinks about her own voyage over from Greece. The cold nights out on deck under the stars, rammed together with other slaves. The smell of vomit, the weeping, the terror of what awaited should they survive the journey. “You started life on a rubbish heap,” Amara says, “but I had a home. I was a doctor’s daughter. I had a life.” She has never told anyone in Pompeii – except Dido – about her past.

“Your father was a doctor?” Beronice asks in surprise. “What are you doing in a brothel?”

The doctor’s daughter. The role she inhabited for the first half of her life. A cocoon as warm as her parents’ love, shielding her from the world. “He died,” Amara says. She knows the others will respect her silence if she leaves it here, but now she’s opened the door to the past, she doesn’t want to close it. “My mother struggled on alone for a few years, helped out by family. Then her cousin, our main protector, died too. We sold everything we owned.” She thinks of her home, of each beloved object being stripped away. The valuable glass statue of Athene was the first to go. By the end, they only had one plate left, not even beds to sleep on. “It was too late to marry me off. There had been no dowry to start with, and by then, we were destitute.” Amara doesn’t want to recount the end of the story, but now it’s impossible to stop. They are all looking at her, waiting for her to finish. “So she sold me.”

Dido is upset. Amara already knows she finds this impossible to imagine, but for Beronice and Victoria who were born into slavery, it is less shocking. “Who did she sell you to?” Victoria asks.

“A local man called Chremes. One of my father’s former patients. My mother thought he would be more respectful because he had known my father. Chremes promised her I would be a protected house slave, that eventually I could regain my freedom.” Even then, as a girl with no experience of men, Amara had suspected that this was a lie. She had seen the sly way Chremes had looked at her as a child, complimenting her father on such a fine daughter. His eyes made her uncomfortable although she could not name the reason. “My mother asked Chremes to buy her too. He refused.” Amara cannot bear to think of her mother any longer. “So, it’s not just Felix,” she says. “He’s not the only man I hate.”

“These fish are so salty.” Beronice stands up. “I’m going to the water fountain for a drink.”

The others barely notice her leave; they are too caught up in Amara’s story. “Chremes obviously had you as a concubine,” Victoria says, her understanding of the world a thousand times sharper than Amara’s mother’s. “I just don’t understand why he sold you. You’re young; you’re beautiful. He can’t possibly have got bored that quickly.”

“His wife Niobe was jealous. She insisted.” Amara prefers not to remember that Chremes never even said goodbye, or the moment she understood Niobe had sold her not as a house slave, but as a whore.

“I don’t like to disrespect your mother,” Dido says. “But I can’t understand her. Better to have starved together. A woman’s honour is the most precious gift she has.” She looks out to sea, as if she half expects to see the North African coastline instead of endless blue. “Every day I want to be home – I dream of it, I see it, I hear my parents’ voices. But it’s impossible. The shame of who I am now. If I went back, it would kill them.”

“My parents didn’t believe all the stories of the gods,” Amara replies. She looks at Dido’s earnest face and for once feels distant from her. She thinks of her father’s work, of his patients – those he saved and those he didn’t – and of the agony of his own death when he knew he was leaving his family behind. She understands the grief Dido feels at the loss of her innocence but doesn’t share the profundity of her shame. “We only have life, nothing else matters beyond that,” she says. “Not honour, not anything. My mother sold me to ensure my survival.”

“And you’re alive,” Victoria says. She reaches over to take Amara’s hand, her grip fierce. Then she smiles, lifting the darkness of the conversation. “But I still think I win this one. You say men are the worst, but it isn’t true! The worst person in this story is that bitch, Niobe. Chremes was just like any other fool, thinking with his cock. Men are so predictable.” Amara looks at Victoria, her profile backlit by the sun, chin raised. Unconquered, she thinks, like her name.

“How do you know you were a rubbish-heap baby?” Dido asks.

“That’s what the other slaves in the house told me,” Victoria replies. “I was the only one who never had a mother.” She shrugs at Dido’s horrified face. “It’s not that bad. Lots of slaves don’t have any parents. Though I did ask why not once, and the cook told me she picked me up when she went to the dump one morning. Thought I was dead until I started screaming. Nearly dropped me with fright.” Victoria glances at Amara. “Your mother was wrong to think being a house slave is a better life than being a concubine. Ask Beronice about her first mistress in Alexandria, if you don’t believe me.”

They turn round to where Beronice was sitting then realize she is still not back. “She’s been a long time getting a drink,” Dido says.

“Shit,” Victoria scrambles to her feet. The others follow. They never make solo trips to the harbour, a group is always safer. So many men who have been cooped up at sea are roaming around, suddenly released on shore, hungry for what they can get. A recipe for violence.

The three of them walk swiftly along the colonnade towards the water fountain, calling Beronice’s name. There’s no sign of her. They go back along the waterfront and the docks, ignoring the whistles and attention from the men they should be trying to catch. “Perhaps she went for more food?” Amara suggests. They head towards town, walking through the narrow alleyways of the fishermen’s quarters. It’s almost empty here, most of the men are out at sea. They are about to turn back when they hear a woman screaming.

“Beronice!” Victoria yells. They run further in, and there, under an arch in a narrow side street, is Beronice. She is on her knees trying to fend off two men. Victoria starts shrieking, making an astonishing amount of noise for one small woman. Amara and Dido join in, yelling as loud as they can. “Murder, murder!” Victoria wails. A few doors open. The two men back off.

“For fuck’s sake,” one bellows at the screeching trio. “She was selling!”

“And you weren’t paying!” Beronice shouts back, getting to her feet.

Both men look round, unhappy at the sudden attention. One spits at Beronice. “Fuck you, you lying Egyptian whore!” He scrabbles in his leather purse and throws down a coin before running off, his companion close at his heels. Beronice bends to pick up the money.

Victoria runs over to her as she straightens up, but instead of embracing her, she slaps Beronice hard across the face. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“There was only one customer!” Beronice protests, clutching her cheek. “Then his friend tried to get in for free.”

The few people who had ventured out to see what was going on realize it’s just a women’s brawl rather than the excitement of a dead body. They head back to their lives, grumbling at the false alarm. “You could have been killed!” Dido says. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s for Gallus! I don’t want him getting in trouble for not paying.” Beronice’s three friends gawp at her. She is wide-eyed, her hair wild where one of the men must have grabbed it. She puts both hands to her chest with passionate sincerity. “He loves me,” she says. “Don’t you understand? He loves me.”

Victoria stands with her hands on her hips, facing Beronice, ready for battle, but the sight of her foe clutching her heart like a tragic actress turns her anger into amusement. “Beronice, you amaze me. Of all the whores in the world, you’re the only one stupid enough to pay her own customers.” She turns and the rest of the women follow, heading back to the harbour where there are still men waiting to be caught.

7

The days pass, the weather grows warmer, The Sparrow’s vegetable stews become more varied, campaign slogans spring up across town for the March elections. Life in the brothel rolls on in all its bleak monotony. Amara tries to learn from Victoria, watches how she charms men, attracting the same locals back time after time. Rusticus the potter, Phoebus the perfume seller, Manlius from the fast-food store. All of them tipping her with gifts and treats rather than money, goods that Felix won’t take. Amara observes Victoria’s every movement, until she knows her friend’s face and body better than her own. She even tries to copy the way she moans.

She gets better at pretending, but Amara is never satisfied. The desire to escape takes hold, its roots digging deep under her skin, breaking her apart. There are days when even fear of Felix doesn’t crush the urge to run away. What stops her is the certainty she would die on the road.

The only person who hates life in the brothel even more violently than Amara is Paris. His continued presence in the cells twice a week is a strain for everyone.

“I don’t think I could bear it if Gallus had to do that,” Beronice says. All of them save Paris and Cressa are ‘unoccupied’, hanging about in the smoky corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of Fabia’s son and his customer sweating it out nearby. They are supposed to be naked, but the March nights are still cold, so they huddle together wrapped in blankets. “I just couldn’t look at him the same. For a man to be on the receiving end. The shame!”

“Oh shut up,” Victoria says. “Think what Gallus might say, if that’s the way you’re going. I couldn’t bear MY precious cock in her mouth; think of all the OTHER cocks she’s sucked!”

“It’s not the same thing at all!” Beronice says. “Gallus would never say that about me.” She fusses with her hair. “Though he does get jealous, obviously.”

“What does he say?” Dido asks.

“He says he’d like to kill all the grubby men who lay a finger on me. That’s why he’s going to buy me. So he can have me all to himself. Then nobody else will be allowed to touch me. Not even…” She breaks off, unable to say their boss’s name, but looks up at the ceiling so they understand who she means. Beronice smiles. “That’s how much he loves me.”

Amara doesn’t disbelieve Beronice when she says these things. She is a bit on the dim side though surely not a liar. But it’s a struggle to picture Gallus coming out with these flowery phrases. Does he clasp his breast too? Kiss the hem of Beronice’s robe? He’s clearly a more enterprising little shit than he looks. Absolutely none of the other she-wolves – not even Dido – have ever considered the possibility Gallus might be genuine rather than devious.

“Does he tell you how much his mother would have adored you?” Victoria asks.

“Yes!” Beronice says. “He does! He told me I remind him of her, that I have the same kind eyes, that…” She stops when she realizes the others are trying to suppress their sniggers. A man reels in through the doorway, no doubt fresh from one of the nearby taverns. Beronice stalks towards him, almost bundling him into her cell in her hurry to get away from her friends. “You’re all just jealous!” she shouts, before dragging the curtain across with a scrape.

“You shouldn’t tease her so much,” Amara says.

“I know, I know. But she’s too easy to tease.”

“Like his mother!” Dido is still incredulous at Gallus’s love talk.

“What a weasel,” Victoria says. “He’s got no shame at all.” A stifled, not altogether happy, yelp comes from the direction of Beronice’s cell. Beronice herself is ominously quiet. “She’s really cross, isn’t she? That one won’t be bringing his cock back here in a hurry.”

“In this way.” It’s Thraso’s voice. “We’ll make sure you’re well entertained.”

The women look at each other, suddenly alert. Thraso doesn’t normally give the punters an introduction. A large figure steps over the threshold, flickering into view in the light of the oil lamps. A cloak, a flash of green. Vibo.

“Oh!” Victoria gasps, flinging off her blanket. “Who is this vision? He must be for me!”

“Felix said to be sure to fuck the one called Amara.” Vibo’s voice is not friendly.

“But of course! You can’t have just one woman.” Victoria is already winding herself round him, kissing him, helping him off with his clothes. She glances back at the others. “You must have three! Look!” She snaps her fingers. For a moment, Amara cannot think what to do. Then she grabs Dido’s hand, spinning her round. It’s not the most graceful move, but the pair of them end up pressed against Vibo in a bare-limbed tangle which she hopes will give him the right idea.

“Three? All at once?” He doesn’t sound altogether certain. “Two would be fine.”

“You must have us all!” Victoria whispers, her voice husky, as if tormented by desire. “You can’t be stingy, keeping yourself to just two. Not when we all want to fuck you. You have to let us all fuck you!” She lets out a whimpering moan.

It is the most ridiculous performance Amara has ever seen. She cannot believe the man will fall for it. But Vibo’s expression softens, and he pulls Victoria to him, clasping her backside. “What a naughty little wolf you are.”

Victoria needs no further encouragement. She has manoeuvred Vibo into her cell, disrobed him and laid him out flat on his back, all by the time Amara and Dido are drawing the curtain. The bath manager is hung like a snail, but Victoria shrieks in rapture at the sight, leaping nimbly on top. Vibo groans.

“Oh! Don’t be greedy!” Amara squeals. She flings herself at Vibo squashing her breasts in his face.

“But I want to sit there!” Dido tries to push Amara aside, panting in her efforts to clamber up onto the bed.

Victoria is bouncing away vigorously, determined not to let the ordeal last longer than necessary, and Vibo, gasping for breath, is not entirely thrilled by the idea of being completely buried under a pile of women.

“No, no,” he says to Dido. “You two enjoy each other. I’d rather watch.”

It’s not the first time Amara and Dido have had this request. They writhe about theatrically, trying not to meet each other’s eye. Vibo doesn’t last long. Taking their cue from Victoria, all three reach a crescendo of screams at the proper moment then drape themselves over the beached bath manager, sighing with fake contentment. Amara is just on the verge of getting a dead arm from lying in the same position for so long when Vibo heaves himself up. “You are,” he says, his sweaty face glistening with pleasure, “the most wonderful girls. Wonderful.”

“Oh, thank you,” Victoria breathes. She takes Vibo’s hand and kisses it as if he were the Emperor. “We adore you.”

“We do, we do!” Dido says, rolling over and gazing at him with delight.

Amara doesn’t trust herself to speak, so lets out what she hopes is a seductive sigh. Victoria slowly helps Vibo into his clothes. They all crowd round the door of the cell to give him lingering kisses goodbye, feigning desolation at his departure. Vibo leaves the brothel in a much better mood than when he came in.

Dido is about to start giggling, but Victoria puts her finger to her lips. “Not yet,” she says. “Wait.”

They sit huddled together on the bed, leaving enough time to be sure that Vibo has really gone. Then Dido whispers in a small voice, “We adore you!” and the three of them collapse with laughter.

It’s no longer Thraso on the door when they saunter out in their cloaks to see if Vibo left a tip. Gallus greets them with a grin. “I don’t know what you ladies did, but for saying that was supposed to be a free fuck, he just doubled the night’s takings.”

Victoria lets out a whoop of triumph. “And for that,” she says, laying her head on Gallus’s shoulder in an intimate gesture that would make Beronice seethe, “we deserve a little break at The Sparrow.” He hesitates. “Oh, come on!” Victoria punches his arm. “It’s quiet! You’ve got three in. We’ll just stir up some customers and bring them over.”

“Go on then.” Gallus sighs.

“He’s not so bad,” Dido whispers to Amara as they head across the road. “Maybe Beronice is right about him.”

“She’s got kind eyes like his mother?” Amara asks, raising an eyebrow.

Dido grimaces. “Or maybe not.”

The Sparrow is packed. Lamps are hanging from the doorway and the rafters, shining off the brass pots Zoskales has fixed to the wall. It’s a confusion of light and noise. Nicandrus is busy serving drinks and has been joined in his duties by Sava, a house slave who also works nights as a waitress. Zoskales is telling a long-winded story about his wife at the bar, making the customers laugh.

Victoria is not here to fish, whatever she told Gallus. She shoves her way to a free spot at a table where three men are dicing. “How much are you playing for?”

“How much are you selling for?” one of the men snorts, trying to put his hand on her thigh.

Victoria waves him away in irritation, all her usual flirtatiousness gone. She is a serious gambler, aided by her own weighted dice. “I can raise three asses.”

Amara and Dido watch Victoria muscle her way into the game, the men eventually giving way to the force of her determination to play. “She’s going to win,” Amara says. “They won’t know what’s hit them.”

Nicandrus spots Dido. He smiles, beckoning them across the room, forcing some other customers to make space for the pair of them on a bench. “Hot wine? With honey?” He is already heading to the bar.

“Thank you,” Dido says.

“Here for the night?” It’s one of the men who made room for them. His question is friendly rather than suggestive. He has a pleasant face and black hair that’s greying at the temples. There’s a small reed flute on the table in front of him, his fingers just resting on it as if to keep it safe.

“We might be if you play,” Amara says.

He laughs. “Are you singers?”

“Yes.”

Dido shoots her a look. Both women were taught music at home, but the respectable songs they’re familiar with are unlikely to be bellowed out in a bar. “Honoured to meet two fellow musicians,” the man says. “I’m Salvius.” He points to his companion. “This is Priscus.”

Priscus bows his head in greeting.

“Amara and Dido. May I?” She picks up the flute. “My father had one like this,” Amara says. She does not add that, for her father, it was the very least of his instruments, that she herself had learnt to play the lyre.

She hands the flute back to Salvius who puts it to his lips and starts to play. He’s more skilled than she expects. It’s a popular tune from Campania, a few lively verses about a shepherd longing for his love. Priscus starts to sing, encouraging the women to join in. Amara listens a few times to catch the words then sings with him. She has a strong, clear voice, and some of the customers break off talking and begin clapping in time.

When they come to an end, the cry goes round for more. Salvius starts piping again, a famous tune about Flora and the spring. “Sing with me,” Amara says to Dido. “You know this one!”

Dido’s voice is not as strong as Amara’s though much sweeter. She begins hesitantly, but as they repeat the song again, joy takes her over. Her face is lit up in a way Amara has never seen before. Nicandrus is gazing at her, still holding the honeyed wine, not daring to put it down in case he breaks the spell. Priscus pushes the table back, urging the women to stand up. “Another song!” he shouts.

Salvius plays festival music, perhaps guessing their unfamiliarity with local folk tunes. Amara and Dido sing together, and for the first time since coming to Pompeii, Amara is almost happy. Some of the customers leer, and one shouts at them to get their tits out, but mainly, everyone is enjoying the music too much to be a nuisance. Eventually Salvius grows tired and puts down the flute, promising to start again when he’s had a drink. Priscus turns animatedly to Dido, leaning across Nicandrus before he has a chance to say anything, asking which other tunes she knows. She sits down politely to answer him.

“That was beautiful.” Amara turns at a familiar voice, one she cannot immediately place. It is Menander, the potter’s slave.

The blood rushes to her face. “What are you doing here?”

“You said you worked nearby.” He leans closer so she can hear over the noise. “This is the second time I’ve been in here, hoping to catch you. And now I have.”

“Only two visits? Not very determined.”

Menander laughs. “I’m a slave. Rusticus is a generous master but not that generous.”

His mention of the potter reminds Amara of her humiliation in the shop. She glances over at Victoria, still deep in her game, wonders if the master jokes to the slave about his own visits to the brothel. “Lucky you,” she says coldly.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says. “But it was very funny, the way you stared him out like that. I’ve never seen a woman do that before.” He pauses. “You were magnificent.”

“So I asked for four cocks magnificently?” Amara says, trying not to laugh. They are standing close together in the crush. She takes a sip of the honeyed wine, already a little drunk on singing and attention. “Good to know.”

“You stood your ground. That was magnificent,” Menander replies, switching to Greek. “The cocks were incidental.”

“I wish they were.”

She says it to make him laugh, but Menander catches the dark undercurrent. His eyes meet hers, and she understands that he shares her grief, that her losses are also his. He puts his hand over his heart in greeting, bowing his head, as if they have only just met. “My name is Kallias,” he says. “I am the son of Kleitos, the finest potter in Athens. One day, I will take over my father’s business and sell my work all over Attica, including the beautiful town of Aphidnai. What is your name?”

Nobody in Pompeii has ever dared ask her this. It’s the last remnant of privacy, of self, that a slave who was once freeborn possesses. Their real name. It’s so loud in the crush that she almost has to shout, but still, she doesn’t hesitate to give this boy from Athens what he asks for. “My name is Timarete,” she says. “I am the only child of Timaios, the most learned doctor of Aphidnai, and the most loved. To him, I am both a daughter and a son.”

“You see,” Menander says, lightly brushing a curl of hair from her face. “Incidental.”

“But I’m also Amara.” She switches back to Latin, playfully moving his hand away. “Because otherwise I would never have set foot in a tavern, still less have sung for a crowd of men or talked to you!”

Menander smiles and is about to reply when Dido grabs her arm. “Amara! Is that Gallus?”

The familiar figure is bent over the gaming table, gesticulating at Victoria who is trying to scramble her winnings together while she argues with both him and the other gamblers. He smacks his head on a low-hanging oil lamp as he stands up, looking furiously round the room. He spots Amara and Dido. “Get back now!” he shouts.

A few drinkers turn round to discover who he’s yelling at, see the two she-wolves and laugh. “I might come along with you,” one slurs, getting to his feet. “Pretty little lips. Maybe you’ll sing for me.” He says this to Dido, obviously thinking Amara is already with a client.

Menander takes hold of her hand, covering it with both of his. For one moment, she is afraid he will ask to join her at the brothel. He leans in, lowering his voice. “Please take care of yourself, Timarete.”

8

“Almost two denarii! That’s how much I won. Those dice are the best investment I ever made! And you should have seen the other players’ faces. Perfection.”

Victoria is gloating about her victory at the gaming table. All of the women, save Dido, are sitting on the stone bench that hugs the walls of the warm room, listening to her boasts without huge enthusiasm. This section of the women’s baths is always a gossip chamber, and a low babble of voices swells up to the vaulted ceiling. Cracks fan out across its surface and the stucco is chipped. When everyone’s clothes are removed, it’s harder to tell who is citizen, freedwoman or slave; the she-wolves might almost be mistaken for a group of young wives.

Amara usually finds the warm room a pleasant break before braving higher temperatures, but instead of feeling relaxed in the heat, her every sinew is knotted with tension. She found the aftermath of the bar unbearable. The claustrophobia of being back at the brothel, forced to put up with the parade of drunken men and their endless, thankless demands, felt infinitely more painful after her brief time with Kallias. Menander, she tells herself, his slave name is Menander. Just like yours is Amara.

“And then early this morning Felix asked for me for the second day running! A whole hour. That’s how long he had me working for him. And I don’t like to boast,” Victoria says, “but I made him last ages. I think a few tricks even took him by surprise.” She could not look more pleased with herself if she were Psyche recounting a visit from Eros. “I think that must be the longest time he’s wanted to spend with anyone.”

“I don’t know why that’s something to brag about,” Beronice says. Her cheeks are shining in the heat, which makes her look cross, and strands of hair are stuck to her face with sweat. “Felix is such a chore. And he’s always such an ungrateful bastard afterwards. Hardly worth the effort. Not like Gallus. He always…” Beronice sees the others smirking and stops herself. She looks down at her feet and heaves a sigh, obviously desperate to share all the pent-up devotion in her heart but reluctant to face the ridicule. Amara feels sorry they’ve teased her so much.

Victoria smiles slightly but doesn’t say anything. Amara realizes Felix must have complimented her. He understands perfectly how to manipulate us all, she thinks.

“I don’t think Felix has sent for me in weeks,” Cressa says. She is slumped against the wall, arms folded over her breasts, hiding the stretch marks.

“Lucky you,” Beronice retorts, entirely missing the anxiety in Cressa’s voice.

Amara edges away on the bench and closes her eyes. Even outside the brothel, its wretched, violent world wraps round her like a shroud. She tries to tune out her friends’ voices, listening to another conversation.

“…you can’t let your sister make demands like that! Tell her you don’t have the money.”

“I can’t, her husband’s family are impossible. I don’t know what they’ll do to her.”

“You don’t mean...?”

She half opens her eyes, taking in the two women speaking beside her. They are seemingly without attendants and both have tired, careworn faces. One of them is sitting so close to Amara their thighs are almost touching. Her dyed red curls have smudged along her hairline in the heat. She is constantly fiddling with something on her left hand. A cameo ring.

“You’ve heard the rumours about his first wife,” says the redhead. “And the slaves are too frightened to talk. Fulvia says he beat her on their wedding night. What sort of monster does that? And always complaining about the dowry, even though he spent every penny.”

“Gellius will never notice if you take a bit more out of the takings, I suppose.”

“Even Gellius is going to notice eventually. And no point asking him for help. He barely moves his fat arse out of the tavern. All day I’m sweating away behind that counter. Just so he can drink the profits.”

“I’m sorry that I can’t help either,” the other woman fans herself. “I would give you the loan myself, but my husband keeps me so short. And business is always worse at this time of year.”

The redhead’s face falls, and Amara knows that she must have been hoping her friend would put up the money. She recognizes that look of humiliation, shot through with resentment. It reminds her painfully of her mother. After Amara’s father died, her mother asked everyone they knew for help, measuring out what she could afford to entertain her guests in exchange. How far would a handful of dates stretch? Would her father’s former patron be offended by the chipped plate? When the visitors were captive in the house, she would recount the hardships of widowhood, holding back tears while trying not to sound too desperate. Amara would sit quietly, head bowed at her mother’s instruction, watching the flow of sympathy and money slowly dry up. By the end, her mother would have accepted a loan from anyone, whatever the terms.

“Forgive me, mistress,” Amara says in a low voice. “But I may be able to help you.” The two women turn in surprise. She tilts her head politely without being too servile. Let them wonder if she is freedwoman or slave. “I act as agent for my master, he understands the little difficulties we can all face. I would be happy to ask if he would be willing to arrange a loan. Discreetly, of course.”

“And why would your master employ a woman as his agent?” It’s the redhead’s stingy companion. Her face is hard and suspicious.

“The contract would be drawn up by his steward,” Amara says, thinking on her feet. She will need to ask Felix for Gallus, not Thraso. No point scaring this pair away at the last moment by turning up with a thug. She smiles at the redhead who seems less hostile than her friend. “But it’s easier for women to do business with each other. We have so many concerns men are incapable of understanding.”

The redhead is twisting her ring, over and over. “You say he is discreet?”

Amara nods. “As am I.”

“I run a fast-food store,” the redhead says. “He can’t be turning up, asking for me. My husband wouldn’t like it.”

“You need only deal with me,” Amara says. She shoots a look at the sour-faced companion who is shaking her head. “That’s the advantage of a female agent.”

“I don’t like it Marcella,” says Sour Face. “Who is this girl? What’s her master’s business?”

“Forgive me,” Amara replies. “But discretion is the cornerstone of my master’s business. Loans are not his main concern, and he takes great care not to expose his clients.” She turns back to Marcella. “If you want to secure a loan, tell me the amount, and I will meet you with the proposed agreement and my master’s steward at the Temple of Apollo tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t do it,” Sour Face hisses. “Fulvia will just have to look after herself! You’ve done enough for her as it is. She’s a married woman now; she’s not your responsibility.”

“She’s my sister,” Marcella says. “I can’t just abandon her! I promised our mother.”

“I don’t want to be party to this,” Sour Face says, standing up. “I’ll meet you in the steam room.” She walks off without looking back. Marcella watches her go, shoulders hunched with anxiety.

“I understand your hesitation,” Amara says, lightly touching her arm to return her to the present. “But sometimes we have to take the opportunities Fortuna grants us.”

Marcella chews her lip, staring at the floor as if the answer will be written across the small diamond tiles. “Twenty denarii,” she says at last. “That’s what I need. And I can bring a necklace as surety.”

Amara knows exactly where Felix will be at this time of day. There’s an unspoken rule among the women to steer clear of the Palaestra, precisely to avoid him. She hopes he isn’t so angered by her presence that he doesn’t listen to her proposal. She goes over the details of the deal in her head as she walks swiftly along the Via Veneria. Surely, he will see the opportunity it offers?

It was difficult to hide her reasons for needing time off from her friends, but an offer to stay in for the entire day in return eventually secured their help without too many questions. They had set out as if in pairs, to fool Thraso, then met up again so that Dido wouldn’t be alone. She didn’t ask Amara anything, just pressed her hand and begged her to be careful. Amara knows Dido imagines she is going to see Menander, as if love could be the only possible reason for secrecy. Her friend’s naivety feels like a reproach. Amara knows Dido would never try to make extra money without telling the others. Even Victoria is open about her gambling. Amara walks faster, guilt pricking at her heart. It’s not a feeling she can afford, not if she wants to escape from the brothel.

The Palaestra is at the opposite end of Pompeii, a public park surrounded by a forbidding walled enclosure. Amara tells herself her breathlessness is due to the long walk, rather than nerves. A couple of men slouching by the entrance break off their chat to stare at her as she passes through the gate. Inside, she is greeted by high, piping voices. A gaggle of young boys sit learning their letters at the corner of the colonnade. She skirts between them, attracting a disapproving look from their schoolmaster. It’s clear he knows what she is.

Only men are permitted within the exercise grounds. She hopes Felix is on the track rather than in the pool, as brazening her way past the tall plane trees that surround it would be impossible. She waits at the very edge of the track. It’s warm here, the sun high overhead. The Palaestra is open to the public for a few set hours and is always crowded. Young men jostle each other, running circuits. She picks out Felix as he sprints past, bare torso shining with sweat. He doesn’t see her. She watches him as he runs the length of the grounds. His movements are so fluid and graceful, he looks like a stag in a herd of cattle. It’s painful, now, to remember how she felt when he bought her. Her sense of relief that at least he was attractive. What a limited imagination she had then when it came to human nature.

The second time Felix passes, one of his cronies spots her staring after him and smacks his arm, laughing. The men slow down. They stop just off the edge of the track, looking back at her. Felix is flanked by three others. There’s so much she doesn’t know about his business or his life. Could these be clients? Friends? Rivals even? Fortunately, whoever the other men are, they seem to find the idea of Felix being trailed by a jealous, lovesick whore hilarious.

“You didn’t fuck her hard enough,” one says, slapping him on the back. “She wants more of your dick.”

“Maybe she’ll pay you.”

Felix shrugs them off, but the attention doesn’t seem to have annoyed him. He jogs towards her. His friends whistle and call after him, yelling out their advice before starting up their circuits again. Felix stops, resting his hands on his thighs to get his breath back. “What’s this?” He looks up, amused and curious, not a hint of his usual cruelty. Perhaps Victoria really did put him in a good mood.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” she says, trying to sound as relaxed as he does, but failing. Felix straightens up, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “There’s a woman called Marcella. She runs a fast-food store near the theatre, lots of business, regular income. But her husband drinks too much, and there’s nothing to spare for a loan to her sister. She needs twenty denarii.”

“And you want me to do this friend of yours a favour?” Felix sounds incredulous rather than angry, but she knows his rage can rest on a knife edge.

“No, no!” Amara protests. “I only met her this morning at the baths. It’s a business deal.”

“You came all this way, interrupted my day, to do a deal for twenty denarii?”

“But it’s not just this deal, is it?” Amara says. “Women are never going to come to you; they’re not even allowed to. But women still need money. So what do we do? We talk to each other; we lend to each other. But if Marcella, or anyone else, does business with me, she does business with you.”

Felix’s friends run past on the track, whooping. He swears, making them laugh. They keep going, and he turns back to her. “And what do you expect to get from this?”

“Same commission as we all get for sex,” she replies. “I know Victoria gets extra because she brings in more business, and that’s only fair. But if I get you more money through loans, rather than men, what’s the difference?”

“How did you leave it with this woman, with this Marcella?” Felix sounds dismissive, but she knows he’s interested. He has the same look on his face as he did when he took ownership of her and Dido at the slave market. The sweet anticipation of making money.

“I told her I would be at the Temple of Apollo tomorrow morning with your steward, Gallus, and a contract. She doesn’t know about the brothel; I thought it best she sees the cash before I tell her who you are. Once the money is in her hands, once she can smell it, she won’t be able to say no.”

Felix grins at her, a look of such genuine warmth that she understands for a moment why Victoria is so addicted to pleasing him. “Amara, do you have any idea what happens to people who can’t pay me?”

She thinks of Celer begging Felix for money, of the threats that her master made to Celer’s family business. Marcella will be able to pay, she tells herself; nothing bad is going to happen to her. I won’t let anything bad happen to her. “I can guess,” she says.

“Enough of the fucking lover’s chat!”

Felix’s companions have stopped running and are stretching at the side of the track a few feet away. The amusement value of their friend’s tryst is obviously wearing thin. “Your girlfriend can suck you off another time,” says one, wandering over. He has a mark down the length of his face, a white line that his beard refuses to grow through. “You should try my dick,” he says to Amara, rocking his pelvis. “You won’t be wanting him to fuck you after that.”

Felix laughs, but Amara senses he is irritated. More, she suspects, at being asked to hurry his business along than at any slight to his manhood. “Your cock’s so small, none of my whores can even find it,” Felix says, pulling her towards him, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her face. He kisses her, long enough for the others to start whistling, then slaps her on the backside in an obvious sign of dismissal. “Mind how you go,” he says, already walking away. “I can’t have anything happening to my favourite whore.”

9

The cell is the cold, dark of night-time, even though the sun is still bright outside. Stone walls muffle the noise from the street, making it seem more distant. Amara catches the odd word as voices, raised in argument, pass her window. The hustle and excitement of the Palaestra feels like another world. Lying here on the hard bed, the air still stale with last night’s smoke, she could have passed into Hades, the kingdom of the dead.

The only colour on the walls is the light reflected through Victoria’s treasured bottles of perfume, lined up carefully on the windowsill. Everyone uses Victoria’s cell when they work alone here; it’s the biggest and closest to the street. Outside the door, she can hear Fabia sweeping the corridor. The old woman must have scrubbed the entrance to the cell several times over, desperate to be invited in for company and food. Amara thinks of Cressa and heaves herself upright, swinging her legs off the bed.

“Would you like to share some lunch, Fabia?”

There’s the clatter of the broom dropping. The old woman scurries inside. “Only if you have some to spare.”

Fabia sits beside her, watching as Amara portions up the bread, olives and cheese. She says nothing, but her eyes follow every morsel like a starving dog waiting for a careless guest to drop a crumb from the table. The bones of Fabia’s thin hands bulge through her skin as she clasps them together. Amara suspects she is having to physically restrain herself from starting to eat before all the food has been shared out. Lunch with Fabia is never enjoyable. Either you have to eat at the same speed, meaning it’s over too quickly, or endure her agonized staring while she watches you finish. Amara chooses to eat quickly.

Fabia tears into the bread first, demolishing it in a few mouthfuls. It’s not clear how she manages to chew so fast without choking. Amara is never going to be able to keep up. “I always liked this cell best,” Fabia says, worrying away at an olive, extracting every last scrap of green flesh with her teeth. “It used to be Mola’s. She’s long dead now. That there, in the corner, is where I used to draw for Paris.”

Amara follows the line of her pointing finger to the very bottom of the wall. She squints and the crude scratch marks take on the shape of a dog. “It must have been hard, raising a child here.”

“My little boy,” Fabia says. “He didn’t always hate me. Everyone made such a fuss of him when he was small. All the other girls, they doted on him.” She discards another olive. “But the old pimp, the master here before Felix, he rented him out to work in the kitchens across the way when he was four.” Fabia pauses, contemplating the remaining bread and cheese on her knee. “I wish he’d sold him. But he never did. My boy was too pretty.” She gives in to hunger, gobbling down the last scraps of food, sucking her fingers and wiping them on her knees. “That’s what I tell Cressa. It’s better if they’re sold. Then you can imagine things turned out well for them. Better the heartbreak now, than later.”

Amara has barely said a word but still has a small pile of food left. She eats it as fast as she can, conscious of Fabia watching. “Is this the only brothel you worked in?” she mumbles through a mouthful of cheese.

“I suppose,” Fabia replies. “I started as a house slave. Had two little babies for the master, not that he cared, the ungrateful shit. Two little girls I never got to see grow up. After the second child, I thought he’d let me marry another slave in the household, the odd-job man. I quite liked him. He was kind, anyway. But then he died, and the master rented me out. It was only guests, family members, that sort of thing. But once they do that, rent you out I mean, you know they’ll sell you on.” Amara thinks of her time as a slave in Chremes’ household. It does not cheer her to see parallels between her past and that of the destitute old woman beside her. “You didn’t start life as a slave, did you?” Fabia asks, perhaps sensing her discomfort. “I can always tell.”

“How can you tell?”

“You still act like you matter.”

Amara knows Fabia doesn’t mean to be hurtful, but still, her last mouthful of food feels like a stone as she swallows it. “That bread was dry, wasn’t it?” she says, changing the subject. She reaches down to pick up the jug by her feet. “Would you mind fetching us some more water, please? Also, I think the other cells will need some more for this evening.”

Fabia takes the jug. She looks at Amara, the hunger still in her eyes. “What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?”

“Being free. What does it feel like?”

What did it feel like to be Timarete? Amara’s past life blazes into her mind’s eye, with all its love, innocence and hope. “When you see a bird flying,” she says, “that moment when it chooses to swoop lower or soar higher, when there’s nothing but air stopping it, that’s what freedom feels like.” She pauses, knowing that this isn’t the whole truth. The memory she tries to keep buried, the agony of her last day as a free woman rises to the surface. “But hunger feels the same, Fabia. Whether you are slave or free, hunger is the same.”

Fabia nods, satisfied. Hunger is something she understands. She leaves the cell, and the sound of her footsteps is swallowed up almost instantly by the thickness of the stone. Amara stays sitting on the bed, conscious of the world washing past the walls outside, even though she cannot see it. Out there, over unimaginable distance, her hometown still exists. People she knew: her neighbours, her father’s patients, the baker who always spared her bread, Chremes, Niobe. All the figures of her past will still be living out their lives in Aphidnai. But not her mother. Amara knows that her mother is dead.

She knew it on her first day as a slave. After the trauma of saying goodbye, Chremes took her to his bedroom. But instead of stripping her naked as she had feared, he seized the small bundle of belongings she had brought with her. Amara watched, bewildered and afraid, as Chremes rifled through her father’s old leather bag until he found what he was looking for. Inside, her mother had hidden the money she had been paid for her only child. A well-known trick, Chremes said as he counted out the coins, for naïve parents selling their children. A way to give them a head start towards buying back their own freedom.

Amara stands up. She doesn’t want to remember the rest of that day.

Everything her parents had hoped for, every gift they gave her, including her mother’s last desperate act of love, has been taken from her. Timarete no longer exists, except as a brief reflection in the eyes of a boy from Athens. She will have to survive as Amara.

One relic from the past is here with her. Her father’s battered, mouldering bag is hanging from a hook on the wall. When the leather was bright and flexible, he would take it to visit patients, all his herbs and instruments parcelled up inside. She lifts it from the wall. Sitting back down on the bed, she counts out the savings she has managed to collect at the brothel. At most it’s enough for a few day’s food. Nothing like the enormous sum she would need to buy herself from Felix. Amara tries to calculate the number of Marcellas she will have to bring him to get anywhere close. It’s impossible. Not unless her value drops over the years like Fabia’s. Then she might well only be worth the price of a week’s bread. Amara doesn’t pursue that thought. Perhaps she will earn more at the baths, if Vibo ever has them back? For a moment, she allows herself to daydream about meeting a fantastically wealthy patron, a man who would be fascinated by her conversation, somebody who would want her to charm him and not just screw her.

“Beronice?” It’s Gallus, calling softly from the corridor. Amara walks to the doorway and sticks her head out. “Oh. It’s you.” He’s disappointed. No free fuck for him today.

“We thought it was Thraso on the door, so I agreed to stay in.”

“Felix swapped him onto the night watch,” Gallus replies. “Is Beronice coming back later?”

“Only if she has a customer.”

“Right.” Gallus looks uncomfortable. Amara feels irritated by his awkwardness. She’s had sex with the man at least twice, surely a brief conversation is not too taxing. “Does Beronice talk about me much?”

She studies him, trying to work out if it’s a trick question. Perhaps he wants to discover if Beronice has exposed his financial dishonesty towards Felix. But she can see nothing in his face other than hopefulness. Amara relents. “She loves you.”

“Well,” he says, looking smug. “I knew that.” He saunters back to the door.

She retreats into the cell, amused in spite of herself. Victoria and Dido will enjoy that story later. The walls surrounding her are covered in the same predictable attitude. Gallus is hardly alone. She runs her fingers over the scratches. I fucked loads of girls here! She remembers the man who scrawled that message; he had been keen to tell her how she compared to her friends. He works at the laundry. What’s his name again? She should remember it; he visits regularly. Amara realizes she knows exactly what sort of blow job the man likes, but not what he’s called.

She scans the walls, reading all the familiar phrases. Hey Fabia! That one makes her wince, thinking of how little life changes. On 15th June, Hermeros, Phileterus and Caphisus fucked here. She is happy to have missed that particular night – handling a group of men is usually hideous. She passes on to happier messages. Hail, Victoria the Conqueror! Victoria, Unconquered! The praise makes her smile. She wouldn’t be surprised if Victoria dictated it herself. Amara squats on the floor, looking for her favourite scrawl. An anonymous act of rebellion half-hidden at the base of the bed. Felix takes it up the arse for 5 asses. She wonders what happened to the woman who wrote it.

Another message catches her eye, its letters large and jagged. I FUCKED. She stares at it. The words look like an act of physical aggression, a reminder of her own powerlessness. She opens her father’s bag, searching for the broken stylus she once picked up in the street. It has already come in useful. She used it to draw a bird in her own cell the other day, a small act of defiance against the endless fucking and sucking that hems her in. She walks over to the message, starts to gouge into the stone, her hand shaking with anger. A man’s profile takes shape, the letters of the boast becoming his forehead, transforming his own words into a slave brand.

She steps back to look at her picture. But all her rage was spent in the carving, and now it’s done, she finds that staring at a branded face doesn’t make her feel better. Victoria will probably hate it. She flops down on the floor. How long is it since she left the Palaestra? One hour? Two? The day feels endless.

Amara leans back against the stone bed. At home, she would have had actual books to read: her father’s medical texts, natural history, poetry – verses of idealized love, rather than the crude variety now splattered all over her walls. She starts to recite Odysseus’s meeting with Nausicaa from memory, but the sound of her own voice makes her feel even lonelier. She remembers singing a version of that story for her parents. Amara closes her eyes. She holds her arms out, imagining the shape of her old lyre, moves her fingers over the non-existent strings.

“First door on the left!” It’s Gallus. He is warning her to expect company as much as giving directions to the customer. She scrambles to her feet. A stranger appears in the doorway, making the cell even darker. Amara smiles at him, tilting her head the way Victoria does, letting her cloak slip off one shoulder.

“You’d better be worth the money,” he says.

Amara hurries to draw the curtain behind them both. “But of course,” she says in a husky voice that nobody in Aphidnai would recognize. She lets the cloak drop to the floor, waits to see the impact her body has on him. Then she beckons the strange man over to the bed, unsure if her feeling of light-headedness is due to dread or relief from boredom.

10

The noise grows, like the buzz from a hive, the deeper they push into the crowd. It isn’t an official market day at the Forum but, as always, various chancers have arrived here early with their wares bundled up in blankets to spread on the pavement. Gallus and Amara weave between the makeshift stalls, heading for the towering bulk of Apollo’s Temple. At the steps to the god’s sanctuary, a salesman is beating on a copper pot, bellowing out its price. Several more metal pots and jars, in varying sizes, are stacked in piles by his feet.

It takes Amara a while to recognize the woman she is here to meet. Marcella looks more formidable in her clothes. Her red hair is no longer smudging her skin. Instead, the curls are piled up neatly on her head. She looks at Amara with sharper eyes than she did at the baths. Amara knows she cuts a much shabbier figure in the full glare of the marketplace. She is afraid she looks like what she is: a prostitute working for a loan shark.

“Is this the steward?” Marcella nods at Gallus. He looks even more disreputable than usual, having tipped an absurd amount of oil into his hair. It’s a style he’s newly copied from Felix, but where the boss achieves an air of slicked-back menace, Gallus looks more like he got soaked in the street by a slave slopping out an upstairs room.

“Yeah.” Gallus sidesteps to avoid an ironmonger shoving past with his tray. Amara worries he might start a row, but he catches her eyes and thinks better of it. Felix made it clear that Amara was to be in charge of the business side of this deal, a role reversal neither Amara nor Gallus quite know how to navigate.

“We brought some surety.” Another woman, standing just behind Marcella, steps forwards. She must be Fulvia, the younger sister. Blonde as her name, she is thin and fragile-looking. When the copper seller starts clanging his pot again, she flinches.

“Let’s see.” Amara holds out her hand before Marcella can intervene. Fulvia is clearly the weaker of the two. She smells of need and desperation. Amara tries not to imagine why she might want the money. Fulvia unwinds a long rope of amber beads from her neck, placing it carefully into Amara’s palm. The stones are perfectly round, a couple shot through with twisted, sparkling strands. It is years since she has touched anything this valuable.

“It more than covers the loan,” Marcella says.

She’s correct, but Amara is not going to concede the point. “Not the interest though.” She gestures at Gallus to hand her Felix’s wax tablets. “This is my master’s proposal.” She gives the tablets to Marcella. “And here’s the money.” Gallus fumbles at his belt for the purse, nearly dropping it. Amara snatches it before it falls, handing it to Fulvia while her sister pores over the agreement. As Amara anticipated, the feel of the money in her hands has a physical effect on Fulvia. She looks close to tears.

“This rate is very steep,” Marcella says, frowning. “I’ll be paying almost double the value of the loan!”

“We can be flexible about the time period,” Amara says, unsure if Felix will agree but eager to seal the deal. She can persuade him to extend the repayments later, she tells herself. Just as long as Marcella signs.

“Marcella, please,” Fulvia begs. “Please think about what he’ll do if I don’t have the money.”

“But this is too much!” Marcella hisses back. “You’re risking mother’s necklace and all for a rate that’s going to punch a giant hole in my accounts.”

Fulvia clutches the purse to her chest. “Please, I’m begging you. Please.”

“Let me look at it again.”

The two women huddle anxiously over the tablets. Fulvia’s distress makes Amara feel edgy. She understands the terrible, ceaseless pressure of never being able to make as much money as you need, of knowing you are running out of things to sell. After all, it’s the reason she’s here herself. “If it’s too much…” she begins, gesturing for Fulvia to give back the coins.

Marcella puts a hand out in front of her sister, preventing Amara from stepping closer. “Alright, I’ll sign it,” she says. “I’ll sign. But tell your master he needs to give me a few more months.” Amara and Gallus watch as Marcella scratches into the tablet with the stylus. “Where is your master’s business?”

“Opposite The Elephant Inn,” Gallus replies, taking the tablet and snapping the wooden frame together. Fulvia and Marcella exchange glances.

“Not the…?”

“I will visit to take the first payment in two weeks,” Amara says with a bow.

She and Gallus head back swiftly through the Forum, leaving the two unhappy sisters to their recriminations. “I’ll take that,” Gallus says, gesturing for the amber necklace. He stuffs it into a bag as they walk.

“Don’t scratch the beads.”

“Least of our worries,” he replies. “What were you doing telling that poor bitch Felix would give her more time?”

“What difference will another month make if he gets the money?”

“This is Felix we’re talking about.”

The guilt Amara had been trying to ignore starts to surface, making her feel sick. “I’ll think of something,” she says. Gallus shakes his head. “What will you tell Beronice?”

“I won’t tell her anything!” Gallus snaps. “I’m not a fucking woman. I never talk about Felix’s business. And neither should you, not if you want to live out the year.”

They almost miss the turning off the Via Veneria with their bickering. Amara waits to let Gallus go first, and they walk in single file onto the narrower pavement. To her surprise, as they round the corner, she sees Felix standing in the street outside the brothel.

“Get a move on,” he calls, as they hurry to meet him. “Fabia’s gone to round up the others. You’ve all got another chance with Vibo.” He peers at Amara, frowning. “Do something with your hair; you look like a slut.” He turns his back on her, taking the tablets from Gallus. “All signed?” Gallus nods. Amara waits for Felix to acknowledge her part in the transaction or ask what happened, but when he sees she is still standing in the street, he loses his temper. “What are you staring at?” He grabs her by the hair, pulling her towards him before shoving her back towards the brothel. “I told you to fucking move!”

The splash of the warm water as she slides into the pool brings back memories of their last ill-fated visit. On the domed ceiling above her, light ripples over an elaborate mosaic. It’s Europa, her naked body wreathed in flowers, being carried across the sea by the god Jupiter in his form as a Bull. Amara had forgotten how opulent this place is. Beronice drops down heavily beside her. The light on the ceiling dances, reflecting back the waves she’s made. All Felix’s women are more flustered than usual. Victoria wouldn’t let them leave until everyone’s hair had been styled, so instead of having messy curls, they are flushed and sweaty from rushing to make it in time.

“Already had a busy morning, ladies,” Drauca calls. She is draped languidly against the side, both arms resting on the ledge of the large open window at her back. Simo’s other two women, Maria and Attice, are floating either side of her like a pair of bodyguards. A third woman, whose name Amara doesn’t know, lurks sullenly in the corner.

“We’re always in demand,” Victoria replies.

“I’m sure you must have picked up a few tricks at the Wolf Den,” Drauca says. “But have any of you had a man in water?” None of Felix’s women reply. “Just try not to drown. That’s my advice.”

“Is she serious?” Beronice whispers, as Drauca and Attice laugh. “I don’t want some idiot sticking my head underwater.”

“She’s just being a bitch,” Amara says, though the threat of drowning has done nothing to calm her own nerves. It’s an ugly secret she carries, the panic which so often threatens to overwhelm her. A terrible sensation of being unable to breathe, unable to move. The horror began that first time with Chremes and has never left her. It’s bad enough when it happens with a customer in her cell. She couldn’t bear the humiliation of crying here, in front of Drauca.

She looks round the room for the others. Dido and Cressa haven’t joined them in the water but are sitting on a marble bench not far from the side of the pool. Felix sent for Dido this morning while Amara was in the Forum. The thought makes her feel guilty in ways she cannot explain. Dido hasn’t said what happened, but Amara knows she is upset. She looks like a wounded bird. Not that the customers will care. Dido’s vulnerability always seems to attract the greediest men, like wasps to honey.

“I suppose coming here makes a lovely change for you,” Victoria says to Drauca. “A break from all that slopping out and changing the sheets when customers have pissed in them.” She turns to Beronice and Amara in mock sympathy. “Imagine working all hours in a bar and having to screw the customers! Exhausting!”

“Fuck you,” says Attice. “At least our master isn’t a total shit. When was the last time Felix-the-tight-arse let you keep any tips?”

“You’re right he does have a tight arse,” Victoria replies. “A hard, tight arse, like an apple. Such a shame we have to serve a master who looks like Apollo. I’d so much rather be squashed under fat old Simo with his bad breath and bald patch.”

“Yeah, must be brilliant for you all,” Maria says. She points at Dido, raising her voice. “That one looks like she’s loving life.”

Dido turns her face away, in no mood to fight back, but Cressa is angry. “Why don’t you just keep your big mouth shut?” She flaps a hand at Maria. “As if you’ve never cried over a man. Sure, Felix is a dick. So is Simo. Big deal.”

“Simo might be a dick,” Drauca sighs, turning her pretty face to look out over the sea as if she’s bored. “But at least he tips. That’s the point.”

“I suppose he gave you extra to have us thrown out last time,” Amara says, still annoyed at the thought of being cheated. “Shame that didn’t work out for you.”

“Oh,” says Victoria. “I don’t think it was the money.” She stands up on the steps where she has been sitting in the water, nimbly hopping up onto the heated floor. She flexes her body, not in the coy way Drauca does, but like an athlete, showing off her strength as well as her beauty. “Are you scared of the competition? Afraid those legendary tits of yours aren’t going to look as good next to mine?”

“I think you’ll find the men are looking for Venus not Hercules,” Drauca sneers. Simo’s other women laugh, but Amara can see Drauca is rattled. She stares at Victoria who is now doing backflips, a small crease on her beautiful forehead.

“Shut up!” Beronice hisses. “Listen.” The women fall silent. An echo of male voices reaches the pool.

“Here they come.” Victoria splashes back down into the water. She is flushed with excitement. It’s not about sex, Amara realizes, looking at her. Her eyes take on that same look at the gaming table. The ferocious will to win.

Six men walk through an archway encrusted with coloured shells, bare feet slapping on the stone. Their faces are red, and their bodies shine with sweat. They must have come from the steam room. Amara watches as they drift towards the pool, chatting, unhurried, not yet acknowledging the women’s presence.

Drauca may have picked the most scenic spot, but Victoria, sprawled over the steps, beats her by proximity. “You’re new,” says a young man as he eases himself into the water next to her.

“Victoria,” she breathes in his ear, twisting herself round his body like a vine. She starts kissing him to forestall any further conversation.

“Lucius got a lively one,” laughs another man, following his companion down the steps. He wades towards Drauca. “And how’s my lovely girl?”

Amara realizes she has unconsciously shrunk back against the side, away from where the customers are getting in. She thinks of Felix, of Vibo, of all she has gone through to get this second chance. There’s no point wasting her time by allowing nobodies like Maria and Attice to upstage her. Swallowing down the feeling of dread, she swims towards two older men who are sitting talking at the side of the pool, their thin legs dangling in the water.

“So I told him, at that price, we will look for another supplier. People need bread, but the city won’t pay for grain at any cost…” He trails off, noticing Amara leaning against the side next to him. “Not now.” He shoos her away. “Maybe later.” She freezes, not sure what to do.

“Maybe this one doesn’t speak Latin,” says the other man. He turns to her, enunciating slowly, as if she is stupid. “You. Greek. Whore. Yes?” The man’s white hair is stuck to his head in sweaty tufts like a newborn duckling. His pale eyes stare at her with a lack of focus, as if he doesn’t expect to see anyone looking back.

Amara thinks of her father. The crooked way he would smile when he talked about the power of the Roman state. Everything they have is borrowed from us, Timarete. Always remember that. “I am from Aphidnai,” she replies, speaking fluent Latin. “Twelfth city of Attica, once the home of Helen of Troy.” She inclines her head graciously, one hand over her heart in greeting, her father’s smile on her face. “In this country, I am called Amara. I wish nothing other than to be of service to you both.”

Duckling Head is not charmed. “Aphidnai didn’t keep hold of Helen for long, if your myths are true.”

His companion laughs. “Don’t be so bad-tempered Gaius.” He looks at Amara with more interest. She looks back under lowered lashes. He is old, it’s true, but not entirely unattractive. His square jaw and iron-grey hair at least make him more prepossessing than his rude companion. She glances downwards. There are gold rings on his fingers, the flesh around them swollen in the heat. Her heart flutters. Could this be the patron she has been hoping for? Can he see how much she has to offer? In her imagination, she leaps forwards in time, sees him devotedly draping her in jewels, entranced by her every word… “You have a pretty mouth, Amara from Aphidnai. Don’t waste it talking to him.” He parts his legs in a not very subtle sign of what he wants. Of course, it’s not interest in his eyes. It’s nothing more than the drunk look of lust she has seen so many times before. Amara hesitates, the disappointment of reality taking a few seconds to dissipate her fantasy. Then she bends her head to oblige.

Duckling Head harrumphs in annoyance. “Not very entertaining for me, and now you’ve gone and taken the last pretty one.”

“Don’t make a fuss,” groans his companion. “That fat one over there isn’t doing anything. It’s not like you have to look at their faces anyway!”

The men shout at Maria to join them. Amara finds it distracting to have to work next to her. Duckling Head does nothing but complain, threatening to shove Maria’s head under the water if she doesn’t make more effort. It seems Drauca’s warning wasn’t a joke. The rage Amara feels is blinding. For a moment, she thinks of Felix. Imagines what it must be like to have the power to act on your anger rather than bury it.

Amara’s customer – whose name she still doesn’t know – finishes with a whimper. He pulls his legs up out of the water and rises unsteadily. He waits for Duckling Head then helps him get to his feet. They walk off without offering any thanks.

“Is it always like this?” Amara asks Maria.

“Like what?” Maria snaps, wiping her face. There are red marks on her cheek where her customer must have dug his fingernails into her skin.

Amara glances round the luxurious room which is now reverberating with the women’s fake gasps and moans. Victoria is the loudest, but she seems far more interested in what Drauca is up to than in the man beneath her. The two women are showing off and out-performing each other, their customers the unknowing recipients of their rivalry. Amara looks over at the window then looks away – she isn’t sure she wants to know what two men are doing with Beronice over there. Dido and Cressa have the easiest deal, giving a double massage to a man sprawled over the bench they were sitting on.

“I thought maybe…” Amara trails off, silenced by Maria’s angry, uncomprehending stare. She isn’t sure what she would say anyway. That she was hoping for a watery symposium, impressing rich men with her conversation like the courtesans of Greek high society? Her humiliation feels worse for being self-inflicted. Better to expect nothing than be made a fool.

There’s laughter as three more customers walk into the baths from the steam room. This time, Amara doesn’t wait. She leaves Maria, wading towards the men. It isn’t Victoria she imitates as climbs the steps, water dripping off her. She remembers the way Felix moved at the Palaestra, the sharp lines of his body as he ran past his rivals, the violence and the rage.

She stalks towards the men, interrupting their conversation without apology. “I am Amara of Aphidnai,” she says. “Twelfth city of Attica, home of Helen of Troy. Which of you imagines he may command my attention?” The three men look at each other, amused but not entirely sure how to respond. The illusion of power she has created is fragile; she knows any one of them could force her if they choose to. Rather than frighten her, the knowledge makes her even more aggressive. She holds out her hand to the most confident-looking man, the one she hopes will have the least to prove by humiliating her.

“Who could refuse such an Amazon?” he says, smirking. He takes her hand and follows her to an empty bench.

Amara has learnt more than enough about the mechanics of sex to understand what will give pleasure. All that matters now is severing herself completely from her body. She runs through the repertoire, the line between fear and anger stretched taut across her heart. The only time panic threatens to pull her into the present is at the end when he tries to wrest her onto her back. She cedes control, telling herself it will be quicker that way.

Afterwards she doesn’t wait to see if his reaction will be gratitude or indifference. She turns her back and walks to the pool. Down the steps, the water rises past her waist then higher as she plunges all the way in, swimming to the window. Amara looks out to the sea. If she didn’t know the scene behind her, if she couldn’t hear it, she could imagine that the horizon stretching out ahead belonged to her. Instead, she knows that she is as confined here, in the air and the light, as she is in the narrow darkness of her cell.

11

Amara holds Dido as she cries. They sit huddled together on Dido’s narrow bed. Over her friend’s heaving shoulder, she can read the Thrust SLOWLY! command she carved into the wall. She cannot imagine now why it ever seemed funny. Beside it, the curtain is half-drawn to give them a little privacy. She doesn’t dare pull it across completely. Victoria’s voice is loud in the corridor, praising some man to get him in the mood. At any moment, they will be interrupted by a customer. The women have no time for themselves at night, not even for grief.

“I can’t live like this,” Dido gasps out between sobs. “I can’t go on. I can’t bear my life; I can’t bear it.”

“But you did so well at the baths earlier,” Amara says, stroking her hair. “Second most popular after Victoria. All those tips.” At the time, she had felt a stab of jealousy, but now she wishes Dido had out-earned her by twice as much. She holds her closer. “You just need to keep thinking about making enough to escape. Nothing else matters.”

“We’re never going to escape!” Dido says, pushing her away. “This is it! It’s all our lives will ever be.” Her voice is rising, almost hysterical. “If I had any real virtue, I would have killed myself before allowing any man to touch me!”

“Please don’t,” Amara says. “Please don’t say things like that.”

“Everything good about me died in this cell; Felix made sure of that,” Dido puts her hands over her face, either to stem the tears or to blot out the memory. “Eight Denarii. That’s what he was paid for my virginity. That’s what my honour was worth.”

“You didn’t have any choice,” Amara says. “It’s not your fault.”

“Do you know what he told me this morning?” Amara doesn’t reply. She had suspected Dido’s despair might have been prompted by their pimp’s cruelty. “He asked me if I thought my mother was dead. I said I thought she must be. Then he said I shouldn’t worry. If she was as beautiful as me, the pirates wouldn’t have killed her; some man was probably fucking her as a whore somewhere, right at the same time as he was fucking me.” Dido starts crying again. “He doesn’t leave you anything; he has to destroy everything.”

Amara stares at the smoke billowing from one of the clay lamps in the corner of the cell. A savage, grinning little Priapus, one of the models she bought from Rusticus. It has almost burnt out. If she were Victoria, she would tell Dido not to pay attention, to ignore Felix. “I wish I could kill him for you,” she says, her voice flat. “I’ve imagined it enough times. But I know what happens to slaves who murder their masters.” In the flickering glow, the whites of Dido’s eyes shine. Amara shrugs. “Better than killing yourself, if you have to end it all.” She cannot read the expression on her friend’s face. “So you see, you’re not such a bad person, are you? I know you’ve never thought of hurting anyone. Not even Felix.”

“Perhaps I should have.”

“No.” Amara takes her hand. “You are one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. It’s why I love you so much.”

“More than the potter’s slave?” Dido wipes her face with her free hand. “I know that’s who you went to see the other day.”

The smoking lamp stutters out. Next door, they can hear Beronice’s customer shouting, presumably with pleasure. The busiest hours of the night are approaching. Amara glances at the curtain. Every second alone is time they have stolen. “I didn’t go to see Menander. Though I wanted to.”

“Where then?”

“I went to see Felix at the Palaestra.”

Dido looks more shocked than when Amara confessed her longing to murder him. “But why?”

“For money. Because I’m trying to act as his agent, arranging loans for desperate women. They’re not quite as desperate as me, but still, I’m not proud of it.” She shifts herself up further onto the bed, crossing her legs. “Either we choose to stay alive, or we give up. And if it’s living we choose, then we do whatever it takes.”

“I’m not as strong as you.”

“You’re stronger,” Amara replies. “You lost everything in a single day. I had years to get used to my losses. I cannot imagine what it was like for you – one moment safe with your family, the next dragged off onto that ship. All the things you saw. But you survived.”

Dido picks at the fabric on the bed, not looking up. “Sometimes I think I brought it on myself.” She tugs a thread lose and winds it round and round her finger. It digs deep into her skin. “I didn’t want to marry the husband my father chose for me. I was complaining about him to my cousin before the pirates attacked. Until then, being tied to an ugly man who sold cheese was the worst thing I could imagine.”

Amara almost wants to laugh, but Dido’s stricken face stops her. Before she can think of what to say, Thraso sticks his head round the door. “Some fucking drunk just threw up in the corridor. We need more water.”

“What about Fabia?” Amara says.

“She’s already trying to clean it up, she can’t do everything. Anyway, why are you moaning? You’ve barely sucked a cock all night, you lazy bitch.” Thraso takes a step forwards, but Amara jumps off the bed before he can raise his hand to slap her.

She ducks past him, grabbing the bucket from the doorway. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry; I’m going.” Dido picks up one of the oil lamps and hurries after her. The stench hits them as soon as they leave the cell. They step around the vomit splattered on the floor, bumping into Fabia as she straightens up.

“I’ll need that bucket as full as you can manage,” she says, flicking an angry look at the culprit.

The sick-stained drunk is pawing at Cressa, trying to persuade her to take him into her cell, even though he can hardly stand upright. “So pretty…” he murmurs, insensible to her look of revulsion.

Amara and Dido take the back way onto the street, passing the door to Felix’s apartment. Dido goes ahead, holding up the clay lamp to show the way. The flare sends their shadows lurching. At first the light and noise from The Elephant follows them, but soon, they are enveloped in almost total darkness. Moonlight picks out the bare shape of the houses, leaving unknown pools of black. Amara’s heart beats loud in her ears. She has always hated being out in the dark.

They walk slowly and painstakingly, taking care not to stumble. Wooden shutters seal up the shops and houses that they pass. If it’s not to visit a tavern or brothel, few people venture out at this hour. Unless they are thieves. Amara knows their poverty is no protection, plenty of men would steal what Felix sells. She glances up at one of the bolted windows. There’s little chance anyone would rush outside to help a screaming woman at this time of night.

The well is at the end of the street. “Hold it up for me,” she whispers to Dido, nodding at the lamp. Amara leans over the side, putting her weight into the groove in the stone, sunken under the pressure of so many hands. The flame flickers over the carved face as she cranks the arm of the well. Water pours from the stone mouth. It has never seemed to take so long to fill a bucket.

“Somebody is coming!” Dido hisses.

Amara straightens up, not wanting to leave her back exposed to whatever is approaching. She and Dido press together. There’s the brisk clip of feet, more certain than their mouse-like shuffle up the street, and soon, a single flame bobs into view. It’s a man with a bucket. Nicandrus.

He looks startled. “What are you doing out here?” The light from Dido’s lamp shakes wildly. Her hand is trembling with fright. Nicandrus puts down his bucket with a clank and rushes over. “It’s alright,” he says, putting an arm round her to hold her steady. “It’s alright.” He looks at them both shivering in their togas. “You’ve not even put your cloaks on!”

“We didn’t have time, we…” Amara trails off. What is there to say? That they ran off half-dressed because they were afraid of Thraso?

The sudden kindness is too much for Dido. All her emotion, already so close to the surface, spills over, and she starts to cry again. Nicandrus gently takes the lamp from her and hands both lights to Amara. “It’s alright,” he says, holding her close. “You’re alright.”

It’s not alright, Amara thinks, feeling foolish as she illuminates the pair of them, huddled like lovers in the dark. Nothing about our lives is alright.

Dido buries her face in his shoulder in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all.” And indeed, Nicandrus looks far from sorry at the situation. “Why don’t you take my cloak?” He says, unfastening it. He looks over at Amara. “I mean, you can both share it, maybe?”

“I think I’d better keep hold of the lamps.”

Nicandrus wraps Dido in his cloak. He takes his time, smoothing it over her shoulders, reluctant to let go of her. “I can get the water,” he says. He heads to the well, starts refilling their bucket. It takes him half the time to work the pump that it took Amara. He hauls their pail out and clanks his own into the trough. “It’s not safe for you both out here, Zoskales would never send Sava out at this time of night.”

“Zoskales isn’t Thraso,” Amara replies. “Or Felix.”

“I know.” Nicandrus lifts out the second bucket. “I’m sorry.” He looks at them both – Dido muffled in his cloak, Amara standing rigid with her two lights like a lamp stand. “I wish I could… I wish…” They stare back at him, waiting for him to finish. “You don’t deserve any of it,” he says to Dido, as if Amara wasn’t there. He picks up both buckets. “I guess we should get going. Zoskales always moans if I take too long.”

Amara hands Dido one of the oil lamps and sends her ahead. Nicandrus follows, and she takes up the rear with the second light. It’s brighter with two flames, and although one skinny man would be small protection against thieves, it still feels safer with Nicandrus than it had without him.

At the back door to the brothel, Amara is prepared to slip inside and give her friend a moment alone, but Dido stands on the threshold, blocking her way. She passes Amara the lamp, her hand no longer shaking, and takes off the cloak, giving it back to Nicandrus. Then she leans over and grabs the bucket from him, holding it like a shield across her front, spilling some water on her shoes. “Thank you,” she says, not looking him in the eye.

All three stand in the doorway. It’s painfully obvious that Nicandrus wants to hold Dido, to kiss her, anything to recapture the intimacy at the well. But it’s also obvious the moment has passed. “Anytime,” he says bowing his head, before turning and walking back to the tavern.

Amara feels sad, watching him go. “I think he was hoping for…”

“I know what he was hoping,” Dido says.

“Don’t you like him? I think he really cares for you.”

“I do like him.”

“Then why not?”

Dido turns to her. Her face is drawn. “I can’t bear any man touching me. They all feel like Felix.” She is gripping the bucket. “Even when he had his arms round me, when I wanted to hug him back, I kept thinking he was going to hurt me.”

Amara is about to answer, to say Nicandrus would never hurt her, but then she realizes she doesn’t know that for sure. Perhaps he is like other men, after all. “I understand,” she says.

They step inside the brothel. “At last,” Fabia exclaims, taking the bucket from Dido. She sloshes it over the floor and starts to brush the vomit towards the front door. A man, who has been hovering at the entrance, dances to avoid the splash.

“Fucking watch it, you old crone!” He looks up at Dido and Amara. “Which one of you is mine?” Amara feels like she has met this man a thousand times before, even though his face is not familiar. Dishevelled, drunk, no doubt rough with his hands. She thinks of Cressa, of the way her kindness once reached across the darkness, of what that had meant when she was afraid.

“My cell is here,” she says, pointing to the open door.

The man staggers his way over the wet floor, avoiding Fabia’s busy, darting brush. Dido leans in towards her, speaking quietly so he cannot hear. “Thank you.”

The customer pushes between them, and Dido turns away. Amara follows him into her cell, drawing the curtain. He sits heavily on the bed. “I’m Publius,” he says.

“Lovely to meet you Publius,” she says. “I’m Amara.”

She starts to undress, taking her time, not to titillate him but to give herself a small delay. This is where Victoria would be running through her patter to get him in the mood. But there is no need. Publius is looking at her naked body in wonder. “You’re lovely,” he says.

Amara almost feels sorry for him, this man who cannot see her bitterness. She smiles. “Thank you.” She walks to the bed and kneels on the floor, unfastens his boots, easing them off his feet. “You’re tired,” she says, without thinking.

“It was a long day at the bakery,” he replies.

She carries on undressing him. At least he is not such a monster as the wealthy old men at the baths. The memory brings a flush to her cheeks. All that effort and she barely made a denarius in tips. If anything, the day has shown her rich men are meaner than poor ones. She cannot believe she was stupid enough to think a place run by a man like Vibo would ever provide her with a way out.

Amara climbs up onto the bed beside Publius. She thinks of brokering the loan in the Forum, the feeling she had when Marcella signed. Not just guilt but elation. She lets Publius kiss her, lying passive as a stone. It’s supposed to be her making the effort here, not him, but he doesn’t seem to care. The anger that is always just beneath the surface of her skin flickers into life. Why should he care? He’s lucky to be able to touch her at all.

She hears Felix’s voice in her head. And you would, wouldn’t you? Tear them all apart.

He seems nice enough, this Publius, the baker’s man. Perhaps he has a wife at home, a family. Would she tear him apart? Amara doesn’t even have to ask herself the question. She rises, looking down on her breathless lover, eyes glittering orange in the lamplight. If the only way out requires working with Felix, then so be it. Whatever it takes.