The Wolf Den

12

Amara is caught in a river of women, unable to break from the flow, even if she wanted to. There are so many of them, they have burst the banks of the pavements and spilled over into the road. Mud is splashing up her legs, but she doesn’t care. They are a noisy crowd, singing, laughing, wrists and ankles jingling with bells. The sweet smell of mint mingles with the reek of sweat. She would never have suspected Pompeii had so many prostitutes.

Out of sight at the front of the procession, musicians blow their shrill pipes, and her blood pulses to its beat. She squeezes Dido’s fingers. The kohl she drew around her friend’s dark brown eyes has smudged a little but that only makes them look wider. Neither have watched the Vinalia before, still less taken part. The April festival of whores and wine is hardly an event a respectable girl would attend, or even try to glimpse from the window.

Plenty of others are watching though. People stand bunched together outside shopfronts or hang out of balconies to see the women pass. Men loiter at the edges of the procession, drinking and shouting, vying for a chance to grab a kiss or maybe more. Amara knows Felix, Thraso and Gallus will be weaving through the crowds, keeping watch, even when she cannot see them. After all, the women aren’t just here to celebrate but to sell. Everything in Pompeii turns to making a profit.

“Keep up!” Victoria yells, looking back over her shoulder. She is almost naked and has dressed her hair in myrtle, Venus’s own flowers. Amara knows how much this day means to Victoria. To spend your life classed as infamia, unable – even if you win your freedom – to rub off the taint is a shame that can eat into your bones if you let it. But the Vinalia upends the usual order. Today, they own the streets. Nobody can deny the whores’ importance to Pompeii’s most powerful patron.

“Look at the goddess!” Beronice says, pointing. As the road to the Forum rises, they can see the plaster statue of Venus more clearly. Carried on a platform, she stands above the crowd as an immortal should, swaying on the shoulders of her temple’s slaves, draped in garlands. “I’m going to ask her to help me marry Gallus,” Beronice says, glancing round, trying to spy her lover in the crowd. “He’s bought me roses to give her.”

“Gallus bought them?” Amara asks.

“Well, he’s going to buy them,” Beronice replies. “When we get to the Forum.”

“He’ll be lucky if the sellers have any left,” Cressa says.

Beronice doesn’t reply; she has seen her beloved and rushes to the edge to be closer to him. “Won’t Felix notice?” Dido asks, watching her with an anxious frown. “She’s not very subtle.”

“Probably useful for him,” Cressa says. “All that foolishness keeps them both obedient.”

At the Forum, their river hits a bank of humanity. Hawkers ride slipstreams through the crowd, balancing trays on their shoulders, selling everything from garlands to hot pies. And of course, wine. Venus isn’t the only deity worshipped at the Vinalia, it’s also a day to thank Jupiter for Campania’s fruitful vineyards. Although she cannot see it, Amara knows the faithful will be pouring wine on his altar, a sacrifice to please the most libidinous of gods. Although looking at the state of the worshippers, she suspects even more has been poured down their throats. Those who aren’t already too drunk, cheer at the women’s arrival, pressing towards them. The surge brings their procession to a standstill. Ahead, the musicians blast on their pipes more insistently, driving the men back from the goddess. Amara feels a hand grip her arm and whips round. Felix.

“Keep close,” he says, as if she has any choice with his fingers digging into her flesh.

“What about the others?” she asks, realizing she can no longer see Beronice or Victoria. Cressa is stuck with Thraso.

“Gallus has them,” he says, looking down at her and Dido. “Just concentrate on getting to the temple.”

They shuffle forwards, so slowly it’s almost painful. Felix’s presence stops her from getting trampled but also squashes her excitement. His hand on her arm, steering her along, owning her, makes this day more like any other, not the brief moment of freedom she had imagined. In her sweaty fingers, the sprigs of mint and myrtle are already wilting. Fabia went out early to buy their offerings but didn’t bring back any roses. Felix thinks they are overpriced.

At last, the goddess reaches the narrow road that leads to the temple. The plaster Venus dips and jerks as the slaves carry her over the uneven stones. The women follow, squeezing into the passageway. The mud is even deeper here, and Amara doesn’t like to imagine what might be in the damp sludge she is squelching through; everyone is packed so closely together she cannot see her feet. Getting through the arch into the temple grounds feels like she is being pressed through a sieve. On the other side, there’s a little more room to breathe.

Amara has never been here before. The precinct is enormous, perhaps half the size of the Forum, and although the temple itself is only part built, the vast colonnade which encircles it on three sides gives the illusion of opening out onto the sky. In spite of the crowds, from this position, high up on the edge of the hilltop, she can see the glittering sweep of the bay, the blue haze of the mountains. She stands, mesmerized. The first time Amara saw the sea was at the harbour in Piraeus, waiting to be loaded onto the cargo boat with all the other goods. The water had looked dark and frightening then, the savage kingdom of monsters which kept Odysseus from his home, just as she was being taken from hers. But here at Pompeii the sea looks different. From this height, it has the illusion of calm, a burnished silver mirror, reflecting the sky.

Blasts from horn pipes and flutes draw her attention back to the ceremony. The slaves have carried their painted Venus up the steps onto the dais and set her in front of the altar. Facing the crowd, the goddess of love’s eyes are thickly lined with black, giving her a staring, watchful look. She is naked apart from gold jewellery encircling her arms and the garlands draped around her neck. Behind her, the temple is a half-finished shell. Worshippers aren’t usually allowed in here, but the priests seem to hope today’s offerings will encourage the goddess to bless the construction work. Amara catches sight of Victoria and Beronice squashed beside Gallus. Beronice is leaning against her lover, and Amara realizes with a jolt of surprise that she is clutching a single pink rose to her cheek.

More blasts on the pipes, and the ceremony begins. A waft of smoke drifts towards Amara and she breathes in. It smells sweet with the tang of cinnamon. Priests are burning incense, making offerings of grain and wine. One miscalculates the strength of the flames and an attendant has to step in to protect the goddess from flying sparks. People in the crowd murmur and exchange uneasy glances. Surely that’s not a good sign? Amara looks up at Felix, but his face is impassive. She supposes he can’t be especially pious, or he would have bought them better garlands.

The women are called on to approach the steps. For a moment, Amara wonders if Felix is going to come too, but he releases her arm and gestures for her and Dido to go ahead. Cressa joins them, lips moving in prayer, and they walk forwards arm in arm. Amara wonders what Cressa is asking for. She looks down at her own crumpled offering. All the prayers of her childhood were to Athene; she doesn’t know what she should ask her new mistress, doesn’t know how much she believes in the gods at all.

Temple slaves guard the base of the steps to prevent over-zealous worshippers getting too close to the altar. Some of the women are weeping, raising their arms to the statue, milking the moment, others simply drop a sprig and leave. Victoria and Beronice are already at the front. Beronice lobs her rose so hard towards Venus, one of the attendants reprimands her. Victoria is uncharacteristically quiet, unweaving almost all the myrtle from her hair. She kisses it and lets it fall. Cressa lets go of Amara’s arm and pushes ahead. Amara and Dido hang back, uncertain.

“What do we ask for?” Dido whispers.

Amara looks up at Venus. It’s the closest she has been to the statue. Those painted eyes, so black and wide apart, don’t just look watchful but angry. She is not only the goddess of love, Amara thinks, this is a deity who drives men to madness, a destroyer of warriors, author of the fall of Troy.

“We ask her for power over men.”

Amara pulls Dido closer to the steps. She takes her sprig in both hands, crushing it to release the scent. May men fall to me as this offering falls to you, Greatest Aphrodite. May I know love’s power, if never its sweetness. Amara drops her mangled garland on the ever-growing pile of heaped offerings from the desperate whores of Pompeii.

13

Felix’s women loiter at the entrance to the Forum, trying to decide which way to go. The Vinalia has taken hold like a fever. Clumps of drinkers stand around, while street musicians and performers stoke the excitement, urging people to dance. At the edge of the square, wine sellers are busy behind their stalls, making sure nobody goes short. Their master has given the she-wolves permission to stay out until evening – an unheard of amount of freedom. As if to prove his point, Felix has already abandoned them and wandered off to join a group of men. Amara isn’t sure what to do with herself.

“Don’t just stand there!” Cressa says, shooing her and Dido towards the nearest wine seller. “Make the most of it!” Cressa buys herself two flasks of honeyed wine, keeping one in reserve, while she knocks back the other.

“Shall we share one?” Amara suggests. The wine is expensive, the sellers’ obviously pricing in the captive audience and the loss of some of their flasks. Even on a festival day, Amara is reluctant to spend a single penny she might save for her future. Time enough to drink when she’s a free woman.

“I can get the next one,” Dido agrees as Amara takes a flask from the seller’s outstretched tray.

“For fuck’s sake!” Victoria laughs, elbowing her. “Live a little! You’re not old women yet.” She makes a point of buying herself a drink, rolling her eyes at them both as she hands over the money.

“That’s the spirit, goddess,” the seller says, looking Victoria up and down. She has a small piece of cloth tied around her breasts, another round her hips. Her legs and waist are bare. “It’s not often I get to sell to Venus herself,” he continues, smacking his lips. “For a kiss, you can have the next for free.”

“Done,” Victoria says. She downs the flask and thumps it back on his tray, making the dark liquid in the other jars wobble.

“You don’t miss a trick.”

“Do you want that kiss or not?” He leans forwards eagerly, but Victoria steps back. “Drink first.” She points to Amara. “My friend will hold it for me.”

He obliges then takes hold of Victoria with one arm, holding his tray out with the other. Before Amara can warn her, the wine seller’s hand has reached the knot at Victoria’s back. He yanks the material down, trying to expose her breasts. She shoves him off, and he lets go, anxious to save his tray.

Victoria laughs. “These will cost you more than a flask of wine,” she says, hoicking the material back up again. “If you’re in the mood later, you can find me at the Wolf Den. That’s if you can afford it.” She takes the wine from Amara, and the three of them push deeper into the crowd. “Best way to get a drink at the Vinalia,” Victoria says. “You shouldn’t have to pay for more than one.”

“Beronice doesn’t seem to be paying for any,” Dido says. “I just saw Gallus get her a flask.”

“So he should,” Victoria replies. “He’s had enough free fucks off her.” They stop to join a small circle that’s formed around a flute player. A woman is dancing to the music, the men clapping and cheering as she lowers herself to the ground, her backside and thighs quivering. “Drauca!” Victoria exclaims. They stand and watch for a moment, but Victoria is restless. “Here, you can keep this,” she says, handing her drink back to Amara. She shoves her way to the centre of the circle, ignoring the catcalls, and stands in front of her rival. “I’ll show you how to move, bitch!”

Victoria flings herself into the dance, bumping and grinding, shaking herself at her yelling audience. Drauca only hesitates a second before joining in. The flute player ups his tempo, piping so fast it seems impossible the dancers will be able to keep time, but they do. One of the men throws his drink at the women, and others follow, screaming encouragement. Red liquid shining on their skin, dancing with the ferocity of wolves, Victoria and Drauca look less like whores and more like the fevered acolytes of Dionysis about to rip each other limb from limb.

“There you are!” Beronice heads towards them. She is draped over Gallus like a garland, her cheeks shining. Nicandrus trails after them both, holding a small bunch of roses. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She stands on tiptoe to see what all the nearby shrieking is about and recognizes Victoria. “Such a show-off! And she’s taken all her clothes off! Do you like it?” She turns anxiously to Gallus. “I can dance like that for you, if you like? Do you want me to? Would it turn you on?”

Gallus answers by seizing her and sticking his tongue down her throat.

Neither of them look likely to break for air anytime soon, so Nicandrus pushes in front. “These are for you,” he says to Dido.

“Thank you.” She takes the roses and holds them to her heart. “You’re always so kind.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Amara murmurs, half expecting Dido to protest. But perhaps the honeyed wine or the atmosphere has taken the edge off her shyness. She is pleased to see Dido smile as Nicandrus bends to say something to her.

Amara has no idea where she wants to go. The flask of wine Victoria gave her is warm in her hand, and she sips it, wandering slowly through the square, stopping now and then to listen to various players. She wonders if Salvius might be here with his pipe.

The crush is not as intense as in the procession, and the noise of so many competing musicians, the cheers, the laughter, echoes off the stone and rises into the warm air like an offering to the gods. It’s the first time Amara has been completely alone like this in a crowd. She looks briefly at the people she passes, not to attract unwanted attention but to get a sense of those around her. Has she been with any of these men? It’s hard to know. In the brothel, she tries not to focus on their faces.

Amara walks a little faster, back towards the area where she left Dido, aware that she doesn’t want to drift too far from her friends. She is so intent on her purpose that she almost misses him. Menander. He is walking in her direction, staring at all the women he passes, his brow creased with worry. Then he sees her.

“There you are!” he says, his face lighting up. “I knew I’d find you.” His joy and the lack of effort he makes to hide it warm her like wine.

“I bet you say that to all the women at the Vinalia.” She laughs.

“You know that’s not true, Timarete.”

The switch to Greek, as always, hits her harder. “Rusticus is a generous master,” she says. “Letting you wander about a wine festival at will.”

“He is generous. But only to a point. I have an hour, that’s all.”

Amara cannot look away from his face. She thinks about her prayer to Venus Aphrodite. May I know love’s power, if never its sweetness. Perhaps the goddess is punishing her for her arrogance. “Let’s not waste it then,” she says, reaching out to him.

They walk hand in hand through the crowd, not saying anything at first, not even sure where they are going, carried along on a current of shared happiness. “I’ve been to The Sparrow three times since I last saw you,” he says. “That’s every evening I’ve had off. The barman told me you usually only visit during the day.”

“But you kept coming?”

“Of course! A small chance of seeing you is better than none.”

The thought of Menander waiting for her just over the road, while she is powerless to join him, is almost too painful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she says.

“Does your master give you any time off for the games? I think he must do; the first game in July is traditionally for slaves too.”

“July?” Amara asks, horrified at the thought of a date so far in the future.

“Can’t you wait that long for me?”

She knows he is teasing her. He has the same air of confidence she remembers at their first meeting when he claimed the lamp in her hands as his own. She smiles, not wanting to give him everything at once. “I expect so.”

They reach the end of the Forum. A musician is playing a slow, melancholy tune on a lyre. Amara watches, imagining the vibration of the strings under her own fingers. “I used to play,” she says. “My father liked me to sing in the evenings. Though only in private,” she adds, hoping he will understand that in Greece, unlike Pompeii, she came from a respectable house.

“Why don’t you ask him to let you borrow it?” Amara laughs, thinking he is joking. “Why not?” he presses. “It’s the Vinalia. You should be free to demand what you like.”

Amara is spared from answering when she spots Dido, now standing alone. Beronice and Gallus are nowhere to be seen. “There’s my friend,” she says, pointing. “We should join her.”

“I remember her,” he says. “She has a beautiful voice.”

Amara introduces them both again. She is pleased to see Dido pretend not to remember Menander. He would never guess they have both spent more hours poring over his name and character than priests divining entrails on an altar. “Where’s Nicandrus?” she asks.

“He only had a few minutes to spare; he just came to give me these.”

The musician on the lyre begins a jauntier song. A couple beside them cheer and start dancing. Dido sways to the music, holding her roses.

“I have to leave soon too.” Menander looks at Amara. “Will you have one dance with me?”

“I’m not sure I know how.” She thinks of a family wedding she attended back home, the childhood glee of spinning round and round with her cousins. “I’ve only ever danced with women.”

He takes both her hands and pulls her closer to the lyre. “Everybody’s drunk,” he says. “We can make it up.” She hesitates, but the clapping, the twirling, the stamping, are infectious. Amara and Menander link arms, turn, stop and clap, faster and faster, over and over, until she collapses against him in laughter. The musician ends his tune with a flourish, holding out the lyre and bowing.

“Ask him now,” Menander says. “I want to see you play before I leave.”

She looks at the lyre with longing but shakes her head. “I can’t.”

Menander lets go of her and heads over to the musician. She sees him greet the man then turn back and gesture towards her. They have an urgent exchange. The musician nods and beckons her over.

“How could I refuse such a request,” the musician says to her in Greek, as she approaches. Amara looks at Menander, wondering what he can have said. “Of course you must play.” He hands over his instrument.

For a moment, Amara feels nothing but panic. Her mind is blank, she cannot remember a tune, cannot remember how to play a note. She looks up and sees people staring, curious, waiting to hear what she will perform. Dido is watching too. “Sing with me!” Amara calls to her, desperation in her voice.

Dido hurries over. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “We can’t sing here!”

“What about that love song Salvius taught us?” Amara’s cheeks are burning at the prospect of handing back the lyre, unplayed.

“I don’t think I can remember it,” Dido says, but Amara has already started strumming the strings with the plectrum. The first notes strike her as shockingly discordant. It’s an unfamiliar instrument, with seven strings, not ten, and it takes her a while to work out which chords will recreate the Campanian folk song. She is concentrating so hard on getting the music right that she forgets about the crowd, even about Menander. With every touch to the strings, her confidence grows a little, and the music sounds a little sweeter. She launches into the first verse. To her relief, Dido joins her.

The crowd clap and several sing along, prompting them to remember the words. She is conscious of Menander smiling, nodding encouragement, but it’s hard to keep sight of him with dancers swirling and stamping past her. Instead, she looks at Dido. The performance has lent her the confidence of a stranger. She is holding herself with a boldness she never manages walking the streets. Amara catches her eye, and they start to sing to one another. It becomes a conversation, the passing of a look, a gesture, a feeling, even as they sing the same words. They repeat the song, but this time Amara stays silent when Dido sings the role of the shepherd, and understanding her, Dido leaves the role of the woman to Amara. They tell the story as a duet, playing up the comic element, Dido ever more pleading, Amara increasingly absurd in her proud rejection. At the end, Dido feigns collapse of a broken heart, sending a ripple of laughter through the small crowd.

Amara laughs too, looking for Menander, hoping to find his approval. She cannot see him. His absence jolts her, but she is too caught up in the moment for sadness to swallow her. Two young men at the front are clapping and chanting, demanding another song. Others join in. Amara looks at the crowd, at the faces watching her. It is a power she has never felt before, this sense that she might shape the expectations of others, hold their desires in check, or release them. She bows.

“We are celebrating the goddess of love,” she says, her voice loud. “Perhaps you would allow us to sing a hymn to our mistress, Aphrodite?” She makes no effort to hide her foreign accent, deliberately calling Venus by her Greek title. The two men at the front yell their approval, and Amara turns to Dido, speaking quietly. “If I sang a verse to you in Greek, line by line, would you be able to sing it back to me?”

“I think so.”

Amara strikes the lyre with the plectrum, the chords swift and insistent. The notes take her back almost instantly to Chremes’s house, and the way he watched her in the lamplight with the greed of a fox waiting for its prey to falter. This was not a song she learnt as a child. The memory is bitter. Amara imagines herself back at the feet of the painted Venus, breathes in, remembers the feel of the myrtle crushed beneath her fingers, its sweet scent.

Dido listens intently, her eyes never leaving Amara’s face. She repeats each line back at a lower pitch, her voice catching the haunting quality of the song. It’s not a tavern favourite, like the folk tune, but their audience is eager to enjoy themselves, swaying to the music, some even clapping as they pick up the rhythm.

At the second verse, one of the young men gives a sudden shout of recognition, slaps his companion on the back. Amara looks at them both more closely. One wears an expensive brooch at the fastening of his cloak. It is bronze, inset with red stones. She smiles, beckoning them towards her. The pair are drunk, but not insensible, and notice her flirtation. They draw a little closer, catcalling. Behind them, she sees a more familiar figure. Not Menander, but Felix. He is flanked by Thraso, watching her and Dido with an expression that she would mistake for fascination, if he were any other man. Perhaps he understands, finally, what they might be worth.

They reach the last verse and just as she hoped, the two young men push themselves forwards. “Sappho?” one says, laying a hand on her arm. “A little grand for the Vinalia, isn’t she? Whose women are you?”

Felix slips between them, swift as smoke. “The girls are mine,” he says, bowing low. Amara has never seen him speak with men of this class before. He is slighter than the two drunks, but she knows who would win in a fist fight.

“Perfect for Zoilus, don’t you think?” The man says to his companion, barely acknowledging her master’s presence.

The other laughs hysterically, slapping his thighs. “You have to, Quintus! You have to!”

Quintus smiles at Felix, the sort of grimace the rich reserve for servants. “How much to rent the pair for the evening?”

“The whole night?” Felix asks. Amara understands he is playing for time, trying to assess how far he can push it. She feels the warmth of Dido’s body press closer to hers. Their proper role in this exchange is silence, but there are other ways to communicate. She answers with a brief brush of the fingertips.

“Of course the whole night, man! We want them to adorn our esteemed host’s party!” His companion again collapses into guffaws. “You must have heard of Zoilus?” Quintus continues with a smirk. “Foremost freedman in Pompeii.”

Felix is himself a freedman. Amara suspects that neither Quintus, nor his friend, have any slaves in their own ancestry. Her master inclines his head graciously. “For such a host,” he says. “Fifty denarii.”

The man called Quintus doesn’t flinch. “Done.”

“Of course, if you want the lyre as well,” Felix replies. “That will be another twenty.”

Even Quintus is not such a fool as to miss the fact he’s been tricked, but he clearly doesn’t wish to haggle like a grocer. “Very well,” he replies. “You can have twenty now as surety for the rest.”

It is Felix’s turn to hesitate. Amara hopes he is not going to whip out a wax tablet, insist the men sign a promise for the extra cash in their own blood. Twenty is already more than she and Dido would earn overnight at the brothel. And surely, he must understand that men like this trade on their names all the time? Felix gives another bow. “For such honoured customers, my pleasure.”

Quintus snaps his fingers and several men in the crowd hurry over. Of course this pair wouldn’t go anywhere without a retinue of slaves for protection. “Twenty for the gentleman,” he says, nodding at Felix, and the oldest slave takes out a purse, well-hidden under his cloak. Thraso steps in beside the line of men, ensuring the trade is screened from view. Behind them, she can see the musician craning to get a look, no longer smiling at her. Gallus is at his elbow. They must have already cut a deal for the gift of his lyre. She hopes it was based on promises rather than threats.

“Quintus Fabius Proculus,” says their temporary master, showing Felix his signet ring. “Where shall I send the payment?”

“To Gaius Terentius Felix Libertus at the establishment opposite The Elephant Inn.”

“The Wolf Den?” Quintus begins laughing so hard, Amara thinks he will choke. “Marcus! We did a deal with the town brothel! Wait until I tell the others we brought Zoilus a pair of she-wolves!”

Felix does not defend his business, the promise of a small fortune no doubt providing enough balm to soothe his pride. Amara knows she should also say nothing but wants to reassert her presence. “I hope we will still be pleasing to you.” She lowers her head, looking up at the men through dark eyelashes. “We only wish to serve.”

“Darlings.” Marcus puts an arm around her and Dido, breathing wine in their faces. “You are perfect.”

14

Dusk has cast its haze over the streets as they walk to Zoilus’s house, the stone buildings darkening into silhouettes against the orange sky. Amara had been surprised by just how many men in the crowd belonged to Marcus and Quintus. Six slaves now follow behind, a silent, protective troop, while two more go ahead with oil lamps. Quintus has her arm; Marcus has taken ownership of Dido.

“What are you doing working for that greasy little pimp?” Quintus asks, helping her over a stepping stone. “You’re both so pretty. Lovely voices too.”

“Thank you,” Amara replies. His denigration of Felix gives her a strange feeling. For all her hatred, she realizes she must share some sense of identification with him. He does own her, after all. “I used to be free. In Attica. My father was a doctor in Aphidnai.”

“Your old pa didn’t teach you Sappho’s songs though,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“No. I learnt that as a concubine.”

“Yes, I’m sure you know plenty of tricks.” He stops to look at her more closely. The slaves in front also come to a halt, attuned to their master’s movements. “Has anyone ever told you what beautiful lips you have? Red, like the heart of a pomegranate.”

Amara understands the role he wants her to play. She smiles, dark eyes promising all he might wish to see.

“Hey!” Marcus complains, thumping his friend on the back to interrupt their kiss. “We’re already late for Zoilus.”

“Fuck’s sake. Not like you’ve got an armful of one of the prettiest fucking whores I’ve ever seen,” Quintus replies, as they start walking again. “You’re lucky I took this one.” He shrugs at Amara in apology. “No offence. She is more beautiful. You just have the sexier mouth. I like that.”

Amara laughs. “And you’re bold,” she says. “I like that too.” Quintus purses his own lips in pleasure. It always amazes her the way men accept flattery from a prostitute. Though in this case it’s not a complete lie. She can see Marcus and Quintus are different from the rich men at the baths. No doubt, by the end of the night, they will expect the same service, but a whole evening of entertainment, conversation and singing is the prelude. Her heart beats faster, and she glances back anxiously at the slaves carrying her lyre. It’s a long time since she has felt this alive.

They have walked down the length of the Via Veneria to the less fashionable end of town, not far from the Palaestra. The two lamp-bearing slaves stop outside a tall doorway, its massive wooden doors set ajar. Light from inside shines dimly on the marble doorstep.

“How are we going to do this?” Quintus asks Marcus. “The clothes are part of the joke, but it’s almost funnier if he doesn’t notice what they are.”

“Isn’t the old man’s wife going to kick up a bit of a stink if we walk in with two naked girls though?” Marcus looks nervously at Dido. Amara wonders what they both talked about on the walk from the Forum.

“It’s the Vinalia! Girls are meant to be naked!” Quintus protests. He turns to Amara. “What do you think?”

Both men are looking at her, waiting for an answer. Briefly, she considers the state of her and Dido’s clothes. The colours are bright, but she knows the fabric marks them out instantly as cheap. There are few crimes as great in Pompeii as poverty. A naked entrance will trumpet their status as prostitutes, but perhaps not as objects of total contempt. She tilts her head towards Dido, a silent question, and gets a little shrug in answer. Amara smiles broadly at Quintus. “I say naked.”

He whoops with delight, helping her out of her cloak and handing it to one of the long-suffering slaves in his retinue. Then he gets to work enthusiastically on her toga, removing it in a couple of tugs. Amara notices the clothes-bearer is the old man with the purse. He averts his eyes rather than look at her.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asks Dido, undoing her brooch, fingers fumbling from drunkenness. “You don’t mind?”

“You’re so kind to ask,” Dido says, head down as she steps out of her toga.

“Perfect.” Quintus turns from one woman to the other, both now standing naked and shivering on the threshold of Zoilus’s house. “In we go.”

They walk over a fine black and white mosaic of a snarling dog, elongated the length of the narrow hallway, and emerge into the biggest atrium Amara has ever seen. It is at least five times larger than the one at Chremes’s house, her only real point of comparison. The mosaic from the entrance ripples outwards in ever more intricate patterns, flowing into other darkened chambers that surround the hall. A table of solid silver stands beside a large pool to collect rainwater. Moonlight from the opening at the ceiling’s centre glows on its polished surface, and its pale reflection wavers in the water. Other precious objects – goblets, plates and lamps – are piled in a heap on top. Many look like gold. Put together, she knows it would cost several times the price Felix paid for her.

Behind her, their new masters’ slaves negotiate with Zoilus’s doorman, identifying the party as invited guests. The doorman doesn’t sound happy about something, no doubt the presence of two naked women. She hears the word actresses repeated in the murmured discussion.

“This way,” Quintus says, waving a hand airily, as if he were leading them into his own home. “The master will be in the dining room with his guests.”

Amara resists the urge to skirt the edge of the atrium, following Quintus with a confidence she doesn’t feel, clamping her teeth together to stop them chattering. When they reach the marble pool and the groaning table of silverware a ferocious barking rings out. She and Dido clutch each other, nearly stumbling into the water with fright. She looks back to see a dog straining against its chain on the far wall, a long way out of reach. The doorman shouts at it to be quiet.

Marcus and Quintus both laugh. “Perfect,” Quintus says, slapping her hard on the backside, a gesture that reminds her of Felix. “You pair are absolutely fucking perfect.” Amara likes him less this time. She stands straighter, still smiling, determined not to be the butt of jokes for the entire evening.

They pass through an enormous garden, walking round the painted colonnade. Scenes from the legends of Hercules flicker in and out of view. In the middle of the lawn, a fountain is illuminated by hanging lamps, its spray falling in the darkness like stars.

“This place,” Dido whispers to her. “Where are we?”

“You like the house then, ladies?” Marcus asks.

“It’s beautiful,” Amara replies.

“Zoilus is a freedman,” Quintus says, contempt apparent in the careful way he stresses the word. “Who knows. If you get your freedom one day, maybe you could have a house like this.”

A house with money but no class. The sort of place a whore would find impressive. The meaning behind their visit, which Amara has resisted acknowledging, could not be clearer. She and Dido are intended as an insult to the host, a gift to represent his own low value. She can feel her cheeks burn in the shadows. Whoever Zoilus is, she will try not to disgrace him. Or herself.

They pass into a bigger walled garden, thick with plane trees. It is well lit and even without Quintus as a guide they would be drawn by the growing sound of laughter and conversation. The dining area is at the back, half in the garden, half in a room painted to look like a grotto. Two artificial streams cut through the area, diners sitting and reclining on couches set at the water’s edge.

“Zoilus, my dear fellow,” Quintus says, sounding like a parody of a man of his class, striding towards the host’s couch. “I’m so sorry we are late. My father, sadly, could not come, but he insisted we bring along two of his treasured possessions for your entertainment. A pair of lovely little actresses. What could be more fitting to celebrate the Vinalia?” The background conversation quietens. Amara can hear titters and muttering from the other diners. She stands tall, looking straight ahead, ignoring the wild beating of her heart.

Amara had not formed a clear picture of Zoilus in her mind, but the man lying in front of her is nothing like what she would have imagined. The swathes of expensive fabric, yes, but not the nervous, darting eyes, the thin mouth twitching like a goat when it chews. Now he is staring at her and Dido, his face creased in confusion. Her sense of shame deepens. “Ah,” he stutters at last. “How kind. How kind the young men are, aren’t they, my love? Very modern, don’t you think, Fortunata? To bring actresses.”

Fortunata, who reclines next to Zoilus, has not missed the insult. She has a sharp, intelligent face, marred by thick make-up that sits caked over her forehead in lumps. Slave brands, Amara realizes. Fortunata must be disguising her former humiliation. “Yes, husband,” she says in a loud voice. “Very modern.”

Some of the company laugh. Fortunata smiles coldly at her two new guests, ignoring the naked girls entirely. Quintus smiles back, but Marcus has the decency to look uncomfortable. Zoilus swats at his wife in annoyance. “You’ll have to forgive Fortunata,” he says, the cringe of an apology in his voice. “She’s rather old-fashioned. Please tell your father I am most honoured. I hope he will visit soon, to receive my thanks in person.”

“You must let them sing for you,” Quintus presses. “That would please him most. To know they have pleased you.”

“Very well, very well,” Zoilus says, looking at Amara and Dido without huge enthusiasm. “But first, you must enjoy my new cook’s speciality. We are just about to serve.”

A slave in bright green silk hustles them away to a large empty couch. Amara sees with a pang that they are being placed at one of the most prestigious spots. Zoilus must have really wanted to impress Quintus’s father. The two men recline, and she and Dido join them, draping themselves over the cushioned couch. She is conscious that nearby guests are staring. I am not ashamed, she tells herself as Quintus runs his hand across her breast and down her side. Another slave, dressed in the same lurid green as the first, appears with a silver platter, handing them all glasses of wine.

“Did you see Fortunata’s face?” Quintus murmurs to Marcus, taking a sip. “Jumped up little bitch.” Away from the full glare of his hostess’s anger, Marcus laughs. Amara clutches her glass. Quintus kneads the flesh at her waist. “Drink up darling, this is the most expensive Falernian I’ve ever tasted.”

“Two thousand sesterces a jar,” says a red-faced man loudly from the couch beside them. “Only the best wine with Zoilus. Finest house in town. Bet you were pleased for an invite. Too bad your old dad couldn’t make it.” Quintus rolls his eyes and Marcus snorts into his glass. “So actresses are the thing now?” The older man continues, too drunk to notice their disdain. “Have to say I’m with Fortunata. That’s all a bit modern for me, even for the Vinalia.”

“Wasn’t Fortunata once an actress herself?” Marcus asks.

“I don’t know who told you that!” The old man is indignant. “She’s a respectable freedwoman. The marks… I agree, they’re… well, they’re unfortunate. But that was from childhood. Before she was in the old master’s household. Zoilus’s master, I mean. Old Ampliatus.”

Amara glances up at the couch where the hosts are reclining. A cascade falls into the waterway beneath them, decorated with carved dolphins. So Fortunata was branded as a child. She wonders what her young life must have been. She hopes the former slave is enjoying her wealth now.

“Really?” Quintus says. “How fascinating.”

“He didn’t have to marry her. Zoilus, I mean. But you know what he said to me”—the guest leans closer to them, almost toppling off the couch in his bleary state—“‘Nicia, he said, I couldn’t stand by and have men wipe their dirty hands on my Fortunata’s front at dinner like she’s a fucking napkin. Course I freed her, course I married her.’” Nicia raises his hand in a wobbly toast. “Too fucking right. That’s love, that is.”

“Beautiful,” murmurs Marcus. Amara can feel Quintus shaking bodily with laughter beside her.

“I know many songs about love,” she says. “Few reveal as much true devotion as Zoilus showed Fortunata.”

Nicia nods vigorously. “You’re right, that’s true. That’s true.”

Marcus has to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit. Quintus leans closer, breathing into her ear. “Perfect girl.”

Amara twists round and smiles at him. She understands, finally, how she can entertain all the audiences at this party. Quintus is far too ignorant to understand that she was sincere. She is safe to pay her respects to her host; the men who brought her will only imagine it’s mockery. A little more at ease with herself, Amara taps Dido’s arm. “Can you believe it here?” she whispers. She looks at the other guests, lounging on their couches beside the two streams. Dozens of oil lamps blaze with light and give off a heat that makes her nakedness easier to bear. Nobody else here is short of clothes. Some are sweating under the physical weight of their wealth. One woman wears a headband so heavy with jewels she is struggling to prop herself up on her elbow.

“We can’t sing that old folk song at a party like this,” Dido whispers back. “We can’t.”

“I think you’ll find you can,” Quintus says. “But first, here comes the old man’s novelty dish.” A troop of men in scarlet prance in, carrying an enormous platter on their shoulders, the way you would see slaves carry a litter in the streets. A huge pie sits on top, with a pastry lid crafted to look like a swan.

“Shame you were too late for the seafood.” Nicia sniffs. “Those sea urchins were really something.”

“How do you know Zoilus?” Dido asks him, unable to take her eyes from the monstrous pie.

“He’s my dearest friend. The times we’ve had together!” Nicia sounds maudlin. “Our old masters loved each other as boys. And the pair of them did alright for Zoilus and me in the end. Mine left me my freedom in his will, though not a fortune as well.” He swills his cup, holds it out for more wine. A boy in green scurries over with a large silver wine jug. “Not that old Ampliatus ever had all this. Zoilus can turn anything to gold. Always has done.” Amara cannot imagine Felix leaving her so much as a tunic in his will, let alone her freedom. The thought of him making her his heir is almost comical. “You watch now,” Nicia says to them, gesturing at the giant pie. “You’ll like this.”

The slaves guarding the pie stand aside as another man in red strides towards it brandishing an enormous knife. He bows to his master then skewers the pastry with a flourish, lifting the lid and standing back. He pauses. Something was evidently meant to emerge, but there’s no movement. The cook leans over, poking at the inside with his knife. A handful of sparrows fly out, dazed and twittering. Two don’t make it far from the platter before collapsing.

There’s a mortified silence. “Bravo,” Quintus yells, clapping from his couch. “Bravo!” Other guests join in, hesitantly at first, but then the applause builds to a crescendo. Amara glances over at Zoilus, sees the gratitude on his face. Fortunata looks furious.

“Shame,” Nicia mutters. “It was meant to be a flock of sparrows, flying out for Venus. Must have smothered in the heat. That cook should have made bigger holes.”

Quintus swings his legs from the couch and stands up. “My most esteemed host, while the dish is served, I insist you enjoy the sweet delights of a musical performance.” He beckons over one of his own slaves who presents the lyre with a bow. Amara hopes the light is not strong enough to reveal what a cheap instrument it is. In this house of wrought silver and beaten gold it looks like a peasant’s plaything.

“Yes, thank you,” Zoilus says, nodding vigorously. “Delighted.”

Amara takes the lyre and helps Dido off the couch. They pause a moment, taking strength from one another. “We’ll sing Sappho’s hymn first,” Amara murmurs. “Aphrodite will smile on us; none of her worshippers are as beautiful as you.”

Amara walks purposefully towards the stream then steps over it, avoiding the floating oil lamps. Dido follows so they are standing side by side between the waterways at the centre of the gathering, light from the flames flickering on their skin. She feels grateful now that they left their togas at the door. She is not ashamed of her body the way she would have felt ashamed of her clothes. She whispers to Dido, and they both turn towards the host and bow.

Zoilus and Fortunata lie on their couch, watching. She knows she can neither speak to them with the crudeness of a whore nor the modesty of a doctor’s daughter. There is no language from her past or her present. She will have to fashion a new one.

“Our names are Amara and Dido,” she says, her voice cutting clearly through the tinkle of the water and murmur of the company. “We are your most grateful guests. We are here to celebrate Venus Pompeiiana. And in a garden of such beauty, the goddess of love would imagine herself in the groves of Olympus, should she choose to grace us here now with her presence.” She nods towards Fortunata, who looks away. “We are, as you can see, the lowliest of her servants. But tonight, on the Vinalia, even worshippers like us have our place.”

Amara takes the lyre, positions it in her arms, trying to ignore the plectrum trembling in her fingers. She strikes a chord. “And who better to praise Aphrodite, than the Tenth Muse, the Poetess of Lesbos?” She turns to smile at Quintus.

Amara and Dido begin Sappho’s song, nervously at first, but with each line, as they sing the verses back and forth, they find their own joy in the music. They sway to the rhythm, copying one another’s movements, just as they repeat each other’s phrases. Dido guides Amara to turn as they sing, focusing on different guests, drawing them in. The crowd are not entirely won over – Amara has given Fortunata up as a lost cause – but many of the men are clearly enjoying the performance.

At the end of the song, they bow and Zoilus claps. He looks relieved. Perhaps he had been expecting something else. “Charming, charming,” he says. “Very thoughtful of your father, Quintus.”

“You must let them finish with a comic turn,” Quintus replies. “All the best actresses do.”

Amara glances at Dido, who raises her eyebrows. What choice do they have? Nothing for it but to belt out Salvius’s folk number. Another flowery invocation to Venus feels excessive, so Amara begins strumming the strings of her lyre without explanation. Dido launches straight into the role of the shepherd, clasping her hands to her chest with a wail of mock despair. The guests look at each other, a little uncertain how to take the change in tone, but Amara beams round at them before ramping up the melodrama as the scornful mistress. Quintus and Marcus cheer loudly at each chorus, seeming to enjoy the performance even more than they did at the Forum. Other diners look less amused. But Dido’s collapse at the end manages to raise a few laughs, and best of all, the arrival of the sweet dishes brings their performance to a close without the need for laboured goodbyes.

Amara feels light-headed from nerves, excitement and lack of food as they make their way back to the couch. A third man is now sitting upright between their escorts, dressed in a cloak of midnight blue.

“This is Cornelius,” Marcus says, slurring. He tries to slap his friend on the back and misses. Zoilus’s wine has clearly gone to his head. “Cornelius! A lion in a herd of freedmen! He’s in on our little joke.”

Cornelius is older than Marcus and Quintus, and his stare, when he greets them, is harder and more knowing. He pulls Dido onto his knee, gesturing for Amara to sit beside him. “Aren’t you both lovely,” he says. “I could hardly tell from the first song. But that last number would have stretched the credulity of anyone but Zoilus.” He laughs, resting his free hand on Amara’s thigh, higher up her leg than she would like. “With a little more movement, a few more suitable songs, you could be quite delightful.” He is looking at Dido as he says this, stroking her arm. Her face has taken on the blankness Amara recognizes whenever a man is mauling her. She wants to catch his wrist and stop him. Cornelius turns towards Amara, and she blinks. He smiles, as if he sees through her anger and is amused.

“How would you feel about performing at a real dinner party?”

15

Amara’s head throbs with tiredness and her cheeks ache from laughing. It is a happiness unlike any other, sitting with her fellow she-wolves in The Sparrow, recounting the pleasures of the night before. They have treated themselves to a larger meal than usual. Bowls of chickpeas, bean stew and olives clutter the table.

“The birds in the pie were boiled then?” Beronice shrieks, cackling with laughter. “After all that fuss?”

“Not so loud,” Cressa murmurs, with one hand over her eyes. She is sipping her way through a small glass of wine, trying to recover from her hangover.

“That cook should have taken a few tips from my kitchen,” Zoskales says from behind the bar. “And I could have supplied him with a much more reasonable wine than two thousand sesterces a jar.” He snorts at the absurdity of the sum.

“This Cornelius,” Nicandrus loiters at their table, “the one who liked your singing. He seemed like an honest man?”

Amara and Dido look at each other. “A bit early to tell,” Dido replies, glancing up at him. She has one of the roses he gave her yesterday in her hair. It’s the sole survivor from his garland which spent the night bundled up in her discarded toga.

“Come on!” Victoria says. “What about afterwards?”

Nicandrus moves away, heading back to the kitchen. Amara shrugs. “Not that impressive. I preferred the party.” It had been a strange end to the night. The four of them back at Quintus’s house, all in the same bedroom, slaves wandering in and out to top up the wine, sex just another social exchange.

“You telling me they paid seventy denarii for no poking?” Victoria says. There’s an edge to her voice. She has been laughing along with everyone else, but Amara knows she is devastated to have been excluded from such an exciting night. None of Felix’s women have ever been paid to attend a private house party.

“They were quite drunk,” Dido says.

Beronice and Zoskales laugh. “Money can’t buy you everything,” the landlord says. “Certainly not sense.”

Victoria pulls a disgusted face. “Couldn’t get it up then?”

Dido shakes her head. This isn’t entirely true. Marcus had been unable to perform after the party but had more success in the morning. He had proved an exhausting lover, nagging Dido for constant approval, wanting to know if she was really enjoying herself, would she like it better from behind? Even Quintus had rolled his eyes. Amara guesses Dido would prefer Nicandrus to hear a less eventful version of her exploits whenever the evesdropping Zoskales fills him in.

“Yours was a flop too?” Victoria needles, jigging Amara’s arm. “No action at all?”

She feels irritated at the focus on the least interesting part of the evening. “A few blow jobs,” she replies with a shrug. “The action was the party.” Amara turns back to Dido with a smile. “I still can’t believe we sang that bar song. The look on their faces when you started!”

“And they didn’t even want to swap girls? Having paid for both of you?”

Victoria’s question is interrupted by the arrival of Felix sauntering into the bar, wearing a look of absolute self-satisfaction. “And how are my favourite whores this morning?” he demands, gesturing impatiently for Cressa to move along so he can squash in between Amara and Dido. He kisses them, one after the other, taking their faces in both his hands and squeezing hard. “Your boys paid their debt. Sent their slave round this morning.” He looks elated, Amara thinks. She has never seen him in a mood like this. “Zoskales! Everything for the girls is on me today! Some wine for us all.” He smiles at Beronice, Victoria and the drooping Cressa. “Even if you didn’t all earn it.”

“Poor Dido didn’t even get a fuck out of them,” Victoria sighs. “Her lover was limp as a cabbage.”

“And they still paid!” Felix looks at Dido with renewed respect. “What a girl you are.”

“It wasn’t just about sex,” Amara says. “You heard us sing. That’s what they paid for, that’s what they wanted. To be entertained.”

“They could have dressed up as chickens and ordered a spanking for all I care,” Felix says, taking the wine from Zoskales as he brings it over. “As long as they paid.” Beronice and Victoria snigger. Cressa buries her head in her hands, moaning at the noise. Felix tops up all their glasses. “So what was it like, this party?”

“The house was…” Dido hesitates, trying to find words that will conjure up the scale of the wealth. “Enormous. So much silver and gold! And fountains. And the world’s biggest pie.”

“Apparently the wine cost two thousand sesterces a jar.” Zoskales sets one of his own amphora down behind the bar with a thump. “Madness.”

“Almost everyone at the party was a freedman,” Amara says. “Apart from the posh boys who bought us. And they did nothing but sneer.” She remembers Fortunata and her branded forehead. “If I were rich, I wouldn’t bother inviting men like that to share my wine. Why set yourself up to be laughed at?”

“Yes,” Felix says with feeling. He glances at her then turns away. It is a rare moment of intimacy between them. “But the question is”—he stretches out his arms and puts them around her and Dido—“can you pull this trick off again?”

They both start answering at once, eager to tell him everything about Cornelius, from his blue robe to the songs he requested. “Too much, too much!” Felix points at Amara. “You can explain it upstairs.” He keeps his hand on Dido’s shoulder, pushing her downwards as he rises. “You stay here. It’s quite enough with one mouthy little whore.”

Amara struggles from the bench after her master, looking back at her friends enjoying their free lunch. Beronice is digging into the food again, Cressa seems to have dozed off and Victoria is purposely avoiding her eye. Dido mouths good luck. She walks round the corner to Felix’s flat, trailing behind him on the narrow pavement. Paris opens the door, and their boss shoves past him, pulling Amara up the stairs.

“In here,” he ushers her into his study. The room, which always used to intimidate her, seems small after Zoilus’s house. The painted bulls’ skulls, usually so full of menace, look flat after the exquisite frescoes in Quintus’s bedroom. She is already imagining herself elsewhere. Felix sits down, making himself comfortable. “So when can we expect more from our boys?”

“At the Festival of Flora,” Amara replies, pulling up a stool without being invited. “But it’s a different client. A man called Cornelius. This booking is a sort of… trial. He wants to see if we can do even better. Then he might have us more regularly.”

“Do better?” Felix frowns. “He fucked you too but without paying?”

“No.” Amara tries not to let her irritation show. “He wants us to do better at the singing and dancing. He’s asked us to join him for the first night of the festival next month, for the Floralia, to perform at a private party. He didn’t use either of us.” She thinks of the way Cornelius gripped her thigh, his calculating stare. “Though I’m sure that would be part of the price. He said to tell you it would be seventy for the trial. Ninety for future bookings.”

“All this money for singing,” Felix says, taking his tablets out of a drawer to scribble down the sums she has promised. “Well, whatever works. You and Dido had better practise. You can play up here, so I know what you’re up to.”

“There was something else,” Amara says. She takes a silver coin from her purse, the one Nicia had pressed into her hand as she and Dido left. For your sweet words, he had said. For Fortunata. It is almost physically painful for her to place it on the desk in front of Felix and move her hand away. “A tip,” she says, looking at him. “I would like to spend it on performance clothes for us both, maybe some music lessons.”

“You expect me to be grateful for your honesty?”

“No. I expect you to understand a good investment. These men want a certain style. This”—Amara plucks at the worn material of her toga—“is not it. We performed naked last night. But you can’t play the same trick every time.”

He pushes the coin back towards her. “Take it then. But I want proof of how you spend it.” Felix stretches his arms out behind his head, leaning back and grinning at her. “You’re not the only one who had a successful night.” Amara is slow to hide her surprise. She hadn’t thought they were so intimate. “Not that, for fuck’s sake,” he says, laughing at her expression. “I wouldn’t call a woman a success.” He inclines his head. “Well, maybe if she earns me ninety denarii. No. I mean Simo has finally been taught a lesson.” Amara feels the smile freeze on her face. “Some drunks trashed his bar late last night. Smashed the place up.” He shrugs. “These things happen at the Vinalia. A lot of drunks around. Sadly, pretty little Drauca didn’t move fast enough. Her face doesn’t look so pretty now. Not after a glass took out her eye.”

Amara stares at him, all the air crushed from her lungs. “No,” she says, as if the word can wipe out what he’s done. “No.” She thinks of Drauca at the baths, her perfect body and lovely face. She covers her own in horror. “No!”

“What’s the problem? You were the one who suggested turning over his bar in the first place. You didn’t even like the girl.”

“But Drauca never did anything to you!” Amara shouts, torn between grief and rage. “She’s just a woman! What will happen to her? How will she work? How will she eat? How will she live? Her poor face…” she breaks off, choked by tears. “Her poor beautiful face.”

“She won’t be competition for any of my girls, that’s for sure,” Felix says, completely unmoved by her distress. “Simo will have to spend a lot of money if he wants to invest in another whore like that. And I doubt he can afford to, not with the bar to repair.”

“Was Drauca the real target?” Amara’s sense of horror is growing. In her mind’s eye she can see Drauca dancing with Victoria at the Vinalia last night, full of life, face lit with passion. She feels like she might pass out.

“Amara, come now.” Felix’s voice is soothing. He gets up from his desk and walks over to her, pulling her up from the stool. He holds her upright, gripping her shoulders, not quite in an embrace. “Don’t pretend. You were the one who suggested biding my time, not striking straight after the baths. None of these men can be traced to me. Why do you think I keep so many of my clients private?” He draws her a little closer. “The thing about revenge,” he says, his breath soft in her ear, “is that destroying your enemies is all that matters. Bragging about it, identifying yourself, that’s for children.” He stands back, releasing her slowly so she doesn’t fall. “Now.” He claps his hands as if to wake her from a trance. “Enough. You and Dido need to get yourselves some pretty clothes, start practising your songs.”

“Why tell me? If it’s not bragging, why tell me?”

Felix perches on the edge of his desk, studying her. “Because you have even more to lose if this gets out than I do.” He looks up at the bulls’ skulls on the wall, as if suddenly noticing a new detail in the design. “Or maybe Simo would consider Dido more valuable than you. She is prettier after all.”

Fear grips Amara. She feels it sink deep inside, like a hook piercing a fish, and understands it is a pain that will never let her go. Felix picks up Nicia’s silver coin and uncurls her fingers, pressing it into her palm. She says nothing. He turns his back on her, settling himself behind the desk again.

“Drauca didn’t do anything to you,” Amara says. “She didn’t deserve this.”

Felix laughs. “Nobody gets what they deserve.” He looks genuinely amused. “What do you think it takes to survive in Pompeii? It’s not all sucking cocks and fine dresses. Now off you go, get a fucking move on.”

Outside his flat, Amara leans against the wall of the brothel. She wants to scream, to smash her fists on the door, howl out her anguish. Instead, she stands silent, jaw clenched shut. The need to tell, to share the burden of knowledge, presses against the sides of her skull. She closes her eyes. Nothing will be gained by sharing this. Why should Dido walk in fear too? Every waking moment shadowed by the memory of what Felix has done. She doesn’t consider trusting any of the others, not with a secret this lethal.

You were the one who suggested turning over his bar in the first place. Amara breathes in deeply, rubbing the silver coin between her fingers. There is nothing to be done but imagine it never happened, to try to pretend, even to herself, that she doesn’t know.

The others put her silence down to Felix’s usual tricks when she rejoins them at The Sparrow. Cressa has already left, gone to sleep off her hangover in her darkened cell.

“The man can never give it a rest,” Beronice says, swiping the last of the chickpeas when it’s clear Amara doesn’t want them. “Sodding Felix. Always got to prove his cock’s the biggest.”

Dido squeezes Amara’s hand under the table, and she feels a flood of guilt. Would her friend love her the same if she knew about Drauca? Was she really the one who gave Felix the idea?

“I don’t think I’d be wearing a long face if he sent me out to buy new clothes,” Victoria says. Amara knows what pains Victoria takes with her appearance, the hours she spends on her hair. She looks very upset, almost tearful, and Amara’s sense of guilt deepens.

“If there’s anything left over, we can buy something for everyone to share,” she replies. Beronice and Victoria exchange a little look with each other, more sharp than grateful, and she understands that the sudden, unequal change in fortune is unlikely to bring them all closer together. “I guess we had better get going.” Amara rises from the table again. Dido follows, eager to start shopping.

It’s early afternoon, the sun baking the filth in the road, sharpening the smell of manure left by passing horses and pack mules. “Where should we go?” Dido says. Her face is bright with excitement as they head down the street, the back way that joins onto the Via Pompeiiana. “How many outfits can we buy?”

“I guess just one to start with, in case we don’t get more bookings.”

“Don’t let Felix ruin this.” Dido stops, her expression earnest. “Don’t be unhappy. We have so little.”

“You’re right,” Amara says, making an effort to smile. “Let’s try Cominia’s place. I’ve always wanted to go inside.”

The dressmaker’s is on the town’s main shopping street, not far from Rusticus’s lamp store. All the women like to visit from time to time, to loiter at the front billowing with fabrics, softer and finer than anything they can hope to wear. A small, round portrait of a younger Cominia, painted high up on the second storey, looks over her empire. Dido goes first, pushing through a tunnel of hanging material.

Inside, their eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Cominia herself is busy at the main counter with a customer, a matron whose slave lurks behind, ready to carry the load home. The two she-wolves stand, watching, unsure what to do.

“How can we help you, ladies?” A young assistant appears at Dido’s elbow. She is thin, with a small, sharp-featured face. Her expression is polite but firm. If they cannot afford anything, they had better leave.

“We need clothes suitable for the Floralia,” Amara says. “To entertain at a dinner party.”

“You will be guests?”

“No,” Dido says. “We will be… singing.”

“I understand,” the assistant says with a bow. “I am Gaia. Please come with me.”

They follow Gaia, who parts some heavy grey linens hanging at the back of the shop, revealing another smaller room behind. It is much darker in here, and an oil lamp is burning. “I know exactly what you need.” Gaia’s tone is business-like. She has clearly decided these are not customers who need sweet-talking. “We supply a lot of actresses and concubines. This is by far the most popular fabric.”

She is holding up a silvery material, so fine it is transparent. Gaia runs a hand gently underneath, demonstrating its translucence. “Assyrian silk,” she says. “With a silver weave. You can see everything through it. If you want to tease, you can buy more fabric and fold it, making it opaque as required.” She shows them, deftly manipulating the silk so that her skin is half-hidden in a glittery sheen.

“How do you fasten it?” Amara says, too nervous to touch the flimsy fabric. “Wouldn’t a brooch tear it?”

“We sell special pins. I can show you how to fix it. But it doesn’t tear that easily – the weave is tight.” Gaia looks at them a little impatiently. “Are you going to try it on or not?”

Amara and Dido step out of their togas, letting Gaia dress them. They watch each other closely, trying to memorize how to fold the material when they are alone. Gaia gets out a tray of pins. “We go from the basic model”—her finger points at a round stud—“to something more delicate.” Her hand travels to the other end of the tray, with its shaped birds and dragonflies.

“We could try the bird model for now,” Amara says to Dido. “It fits with singing. Don’t you think?”

Gaia pins the fabric in place for them both. They stand apart, looking each other up and down. “It’s like wearing a cobweb!” Dido says.

“That’s part of the magic,” Gaia replies. “The men love it, trust me.”

“Do that again,” Amara says to Dido who has just moved nearer the light. She obeys. “It’s lit you up! You’ve gone completely silver.”

They both walk round the flame, admiring each other, moving to make the silk change colour, feeling it rustle against their skin. “If you really want to make an impact,” Gaia says, “we have this.” She gets out a small jar from the cabinet, opens it for them both to see. Inside is a thick gold paste. “For the eyes,” she says. “And also to gild the nipples.”

There is very little left from Nicia’s coin when Amara and Dido leave Cominia’s shop. They buy the largest jar of gold paste on offer, planning to decant some into another pot for the others to use.

“We’ll have to give the dresses to Felix,” Dido says, holding her parcel close to her chest. “We can’t risk leaving them lying round the brothel. One of the customers will steal them.”

“He wanted proof of where we spent the money anyway,” Amara replies. They are walking the main road home, and she knows they will soon be passing the lamp shop. She is desperate to stop.

“Isn’t that where Menander works?” Dido says.

“Oh, yes.”

“Give me that.” Dido motions for Amara to hand over her new dress. “Why don’t you go in?”

“I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t.” Amara hesitates, half-craning to get a view into the shop while they tussle with the fabric. Menander is inside. She gives up and lets Dido take her parcel. It takes him a while to see her loitering on the street. He is with a customer and gestures for her to wait.

“We were just passing,” Amara says when he comes out, anxious to include Dido. “And we wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“Yes. Because you got us to sing. Our master was listening, and he bought the lyre.” Amara remembers the street musician’s face and hopes Felix did really pay for it. “And now we are booked to sing at the Floralia. At a party.”

None of it is quite what she wanted to say. But at least she is talking to him. “I’m glad he bought you the lyre,” he says. “You played it so beautifully.”

“Menander!”

“I can’t stay now.” He looks nervously over his shoulder. “Can I write to you? On the wall, outside The Sparrow?” He lowers his voice. “I will use Timarete and Kallias, so nobody knows.”

“Yes,” Amara says. “Yes.”

Menander turns and hurries back inside without saying goodbye.

16

The line at the well stretches along the street. Not that anyone is paying much attention to waiting their turn. Amara and Dido don’t bother to shove ahead with the rest, loitering in the late morning sunshine instead. It’s not the most restful place to stop. Hammering, banging and shouting rings out from one of the grander houses nearby. It has been dilapidated for as long as Amara can remember, the owners killed in a terrible earthquake, or so Victoria told her. Somebody new must have bought it, decided to spend their money on decking it out like a palace. One of the team of builders leans out from his ladder, whistling at her and Dido. They ignore him. He won’t be buying a woman for hours. Barely worth their notice.

“Everyone liked the gold,” Dido says, raising her voice to be heard. “They all used it last night, didn’t they?”

“Beronice certainly did,” Amara says, remembering the way Beronice had smeared it copiously around her eyes, and her fury when Victoria laughed at her. That’s what men in this stupid town expect Egyptian women to look like! Beronice had insisted, face sparkling like a temple statue. Amara cannot imagine how small Pompeii must feel to Beronice after growing up in a great city like Alexandria, although as a slave, perhaps she never saw much more than the house where she worked. Victoria and Cressa had shared the new pot too, but Amara suspects it will take more than gold paste to smooth over the others’ envy. The shift in power to the Wolf Den’s newest women has unsettled everyone. “Felix will want us to practise for Cornelius today,” she says. “We have to come up with some other songs.”

“We could always ask Salvius for help,” Dido says.

“I wouldn’t know where to find him. Do you think Nicandrus might know?”

“He runs the ironmonger’s, the one near Modestus’s bakery. I think he owns it. I spent time with Priscus that night when you were talking to Menander. He told me where they both work.”

Amara feels a sharp tap on her back and spins round, angry, expecting it to be the builder come down from the ladder to try his luck. A young girl steps back in alarm, clutching an enormous bucket to her hip.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says. “But aren’t you from the Wolf Den? I’m sure I’ve seen you both at The Elephant before.”

Amara looks at her. She sees eyes smudged with blue and shoulders stooped with exhaustion. A memory surfaces. The same slight girl scurrying between customers at The Elephant, a nervous smile on her face. “Yes. You’re the waitress, aren’t you?”

“Pitane,” says the girl. “I don’t just wait tables though.”

“No.” Amara remembers Victoria’s taunt to Drauca, about the customers she has to service as well as serve. She turns away, not wanting to think about her former rival or remember her suffering.

“It must be hard work,” Dido says kindly. “The Elephant is always so busy. Have you got friends there?”

“Martha. She was my friend. But she died in childbirth. Hazard of the job, isn’t it?” Pitane is staring at them both, desperation in her face, willing them to understand. “I guess you must both know all about that, about how to avoid it. Or how to…” She trails off.

End it, Amara thinks. “Is it avoiding, you want to ask about?” Pitane shakes her head. Amara glances down at the girl’s waist, taking in her thin figure. “There’s a woman you can see. But don’t wait too long.”

“You don’t keep anything yourselves?”

“The herbs have to be fresh.”

“Amara,” Dido is shaking her head. “Not here.”

“I don’t have the money.” Pitane looks disappointed. “I thought you might keep the herbs, that you might spare me some, let me pay you back over time.”

“But why? Wouldn’t your master be pleased?” Amara says. “They’re usually happy to have home-grown slaves.”

“Martha took three days to die,” Pitane says. Amara and Dido exchange glances. Every woman understands the danger, the horror that childbirth can bring.

They have missed their place in the queue, but none of the three women rush to push back in. “If it’s money you need,” Amara says. “Then we might be able to help. But you have to be very sure you can pay it back.”

On their walk to the ironmonger’s Dido does not mention the deal Amara has just done, does not ask her whether Marcella has paid her debt yet, or when it’s due. But Amara can feel her palms sweating at the thought. She tells herself that there’s still time for Marcella to deliver, her debt isn’t late yet. And perhaps finding Pitane will incline Felix to patience.

They pass the bakery and stop at the ironmonger’s, listening to the clang of metalwork inside. “Do you think Salvius will even remember us?” Dido says.

“How many beautiful singers do you imagine he meets?” Amara replies, shifting the lyre higher in her arms, covering her nerves with bravado. It had been difficult to wrest the instrument from Paris. They had to pretend their music lesson was already arranged. No doubt he will drop them in it with Felix if the visit proves a failure. “Of course he will remember.”

They walk past the front counter where a slave is busy with customers and head deeper inside. The flute player is at the back supervising an apprentice, helping him fashion a lamp stand, holding it steady while the boy hammers at the legs and giving the odd word of encouragement. He is as Amara remembers, the same kind manner and greying hair. The two women wait, not wanting to disturb him.

When Salvius looks up, she can see him take a moment to place them, but then he smiles. “This is unexpected,” he says. “The lovely singing sparrows. What can I do for you?”

“We wanted to ask a favour.” Amara holds up the lyre as an explanation, hoping to pique his curiosity.

Salvius walks over, wiping oil from his hands onto his leather apron. “If you’re looking for an accompanist, I only play the flute.”

“I would be playing,” Amara says. “We were hoping you might teach us some tunes.”

“We would pay for your time,” Dido adds.

“Flavius,” he calls to his apprentice. “Keep working on the feet, please. Just how I showed you.” He turns back to the two women. “Let’s talk.”

They follow him, climbing the narrow wooden stairway to the floor above. “I’m not much of a musician,” he says. “You might be disappointed. Where will you be playing?”

Salvius’s living room is painted in warm shades of yellow. A procession of swans fly from panel to panel and tiny larks are painted around the skirting. He sits on a bench, inviting them to take the one opposite. “It’s a party, much grander than anything at The Sparrow,” Amara says. “On the first day of the Floralia. We were thinking of setting poetry to some popular tunes.”

“Mixing high and low?” Salvius asks.

“Yes,” Dido nods.

“Sounds fun. But what will you pay me? Or should I ask how will you pay me.”

“That depends what you would prefer.” Amara slips her toga off one shoulder, not far enough to show much but enough to make her point. She hopes he will take the bait. Salvius is not an unattractive man, but her reason for wanting him has little to do with desire and everything to do with saving money.

“Deferred payment would suit me best,” Salvius replies. “An evening or two of your company, here, at my house.” He nods at Dido. “I will invite Priscus.”

Amara has no idea how Felix will react to this proposal, evenings are their most lucrative hours, but before she can suggest seeking their master’s approval, Dido answers. “We would be delighted.”

“I cannot spare too long today. Perhaps enough time to teach you a couple of tunes depending how quick you are.” He rises, walking to a desk covered in clutter. His back is turned. They can hear him rifling through pots and boxes before he returns with the flute. “There are so many songs about spring,” he says. “This one is Oscan. I don’t suppose either of you speak the language?” Salvius looks hopeful, and Amara wonders if Campania’s ancient tongue is also his own.

“No.”

“Nevermind. You can adapt the tune as you wish.”

Salvius begins piping. He is a more skilled musician than Amara remembers. She can hear the trill of birdsong in his tune, the sigh of the wind, and imagines Flora dancing, half glimpsed through the trees, in the repeated haunting melody. He stops, taking the flute from his lips. “Again? Or shall we go through it, line by line?”

Amara is nervous she will not match him. She picks up the lyre. “Let’s go through it.”

He is a patient teacher. He breaks the tune down for them, waiting for Amara to find the corresponding notes, nodding when she chooses chords that fit. Dido sings the melody note by note, committing it to memory. Their version is nothing like as lovely as his reed pipe solo, but it is enough to take away and polish.

“How about something a little more playful?” Salvius asks. They nod. He pauses, breathing in deeply, flute poised. Then he begins. This time he bobs and sways, closing his eyes at the higher notes. It is not beautiful like the first tune, but Amara can immediately see the potential. It is a tease of a song, perfect for her and Dido to play to one another. She takes up the lyre, daring to join Salvius as she anticipates the repeated melody. “I thought you might like that,” he says, when they reach the end.

He begins again, not breaking it up this time, instead, letting them pick up the tune as he plays, as if they were back at The Sparrow. Amara throws herself into the music, even forgetting for a few moments that they are together for work rather than pleasure. She is expecting to perform it a third time, but Salvius stops a few notes in, almost as if he has forgotten what comes next. Dido’s voice trails off into the silence.

“That should be enough for now.” He turns his back to them, returning the flute to its box. Then he stands, resting his hands on the desk. “We can leave it there.” His tone is not unfriendly, but something has shifted. Amara wonders if they offended him in some way, or if he has simply remembered his work.

He faces them again, making an effort to smile. “I hope that gives you something to work on.”

Amara and Dido talk over each other in their effort to mollify him.

“It does! It was so helpful…”

“We’re very grateful, I hope we didn’t…”

Salvius waves away their thanks, ushering them both to the stairs. “I will send your master a message, to explain the arrangement.” They wait, expecting him to go down first, but he holds out his arm as a gesture for them to leave. “I have some business up here. Be careful how you go.”

At the brothel, Amara lets Dido do most of the talking. She watches Felix, his smile, the way he listens, his nods of encouragement. She sees Dido relax, lulled into thinking he is in a good mood, but all she can think about is Drauca. Destroying your enemies is all that matters. She stares at the bulls’ skulls on the wall, the shadows of their empty sockets. It is not until Felix turns to her that she realizes Dido has just offered to perform for him, and they are both waiting for her to pick up the lyre. She finds she cannot move.

“No need to be shy,” Felix says.

“We haven’t chosen the words yet,” she stammers. “Maybe we could practise a little first?”

“Music means nothing to me,” Felix shrugs. “I just want to know you’re working. Play next door if you like.”

Dido helps her up. “Thank you,” she says, answering for Amara who hasn’t spoken. “We appreciate it.” They walk out onto the balcony, and Dido slips an arm around her. “You shouldn’t be so afraid. He wasn’t angry today.”

“I don’t think you can ever know with Felix,” she mutters as they head down the corridor.

“Amara.”

His voice stops them. Felix is standing in the doorway of his room. “A moment, before your singing. There is something I forgot to ask. No, not you,” he says as Dido turns to go back with her. “Take the lyre for her.”

Amara watches her own feet cross the painted wooden floor as she walks towards him. He takes her hand, guiding her over the threshold. “You didn’t tell her,” he says when they are inside. Amara says nothing. She knows it isn’t a question. He takes her chin between his finger and thumb, forcing her to look up. “There are many ways to spill a secret. Especially if you sit there like a quivering sheep. Do you understand?”

“You are threatening me not to be frightened?”

“That’s better. A bit of temper.”

She isn’t sure what she hates more, feeling afraid of him or sliding into familiarity. She pushes his hand away. “One of the waitresses at The Elephant wants a loan from you,” she says. “Two denarii.”

“Two denarii? Why chase small change like that when you will be making me seventy next week?”

“It’s all money. Nobody got rich turning down a deal.”

“What’s the debt for?”

“An abortion.”

“And she can afford it?”

“She says so.”

“Like your fast-food seller.” Felix crosses to the desk, looks through the drawers until he finds the agreement with Marcella. “We’re still waiting for her. I didn’t think you were meant to be taking on any more debtors until the first had paid up?”

“But her loan isn’t due yet.”

“Don’t try it. You know her instalments have been too light. And I never accept late payments, particularly not from a woman.” He smiles, as if suddenly remembering he is not meant to be threatening. “But then, of course, it’s you who is collecting her payment, isn’t it? So she is quite safe. Until the day it’s late. Then the debt is mine.”

17

The room still holds the heat of the spring day and is much more crowded than Amara was expecting. A troop of mime actresses, all of them naked save for garlands of flowers, are practising their routine. She and Dido look overdressed in comparison, with their silvery robes and gilded bodies. One of the actresses glances at them sidelong then turns back to her friends, laughing through pretty fingers.

“I didn’t know there would be so many other performers,” Dido whispers.

Amara’s own fingers are sticky with paste. They had tried to decorate the lyre, and although it now shines golden, so do the palms of her hands. “It’s as well we look different,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Dido. “We couldn’t all be naked.”

“A few more flowers and you will be perfect.” It is a deep boom of a voice. Egnatius, the self-declared master of Cornelius’s entertainments. Amara is startled by his interruption; she didn’t notice his return, but there is no sign he took their mutterings amiss. Instead, he is now fussing with Dido’s hair, weaving the white roses he went to fetch between her curls. She has never seen a man wear so much make-up. His eyes are lined with kohl and the thick powder on his cheeks is cracked like badly dried plaster. The grooves cut deeper every time he smiles, which is often. “Such a pretty little thing,” he says, standing back to admire Dido. “I never saw a face more exquisite.” He turns to Amara, teasing his remaining flowers into her hair. “Except yours, of course, darling,” he drawls, raising his eyebrows. She finds herself laughing. Egnatius purses his lips, pleased to have amused her. He is standing so close, his breath is warm on her cheek and the smell of acacia pomade in his hair is almost overpowering. He tweaks the last rose behind her ear. “Now!” He claps his hands together in a theatrical gesture of excitement. “What will you two nymphs be singing for us this evening?”

“Several verses from Sappho,” Amara says. “A medley of songs about Flora and the spring and the tale of Crocus and Smilax.”

Egnatius nods. “Very pretty. Perhaps you could sing me a line or two, so I know where to place you?”

Amara begins to play Salvius’s Oscan song, which she and Dido have set to a well-known hymn to Flora. The mime actresses break off their own rehearsal out of curiosity, and Amara is gratified to see their expressions change from amusement to grudging recognition. She couldn’t ask for a higher compliment.

“Delightful!” Egnatius beams. “Your voices are as sweet as flowers falling from the mouth of Flora herself! Have you read any Ovid? Oh, you must, you must,” he declares when they both shake their heads. “I will write you out some of Cornelius’s favourite verses for next time.”

Amara wishes she had known Cornelius had a favourite poet before this evening but is touched by Egnatius’s generosity. “Thank you,” she says.

“You are too kind,” Dido adds, laying her hand on his arm. Her sincerity is unmistakably genuine.

“You know,” Egnatius continues, “my master is something of a poet himself. He has composed a few lines for the Floralia, if you could find some way of weaving them in…” He reaches inside the folds of his cloak and brings out a roll of parchment.

Amara restrains herself from seizing it. “We would be more than delighted.”

Egnatius hands over the small scroll. Amara unrolls it, and she and Dido huddle round. For a moment, she cannot believe what she is reading. Then the words bring a stab of fear. She looks up sharply at Egnatius. “You are certain he will be pleased to hear this recited.”

He meets her eyes, and the unspeakable truth passes between them. “I am certain.” He bows. Then Egnatius gestures towards the mime actresses who are still busy with their rehearsal. “Ladies, goddesses and nymphs, I look forward to being entertained by you all. You will be sent for in the order you are required.” He turns back to Amara and Dido. “I will make sure you have enough time to learn the verses.”

“But it’s terrible,” Dido says, when he has gone. “How can we stand there and sing this stuff?”

Amara can feel herself sweating under her flimsy clothes. “We will just have to make it work. At least it’s not very long. That last song Salvius taught us, could we sing it to this?”

“I suppose,” Dido says, looking miserable. “But when?”

“At the end. When most of the guests are drunk.”

The mime actresses are standing crowded together in their cloaks to escape the evening chill by the time Egnatius returns to call Amara and Dido in to dinner. There are not many oil lamps where they have been waiting, and Amara finds herself blinking as they pass into the brighter parts of the house.

“You look glorious,” he says, leading them through a bewildering procession of rooms. The place is so large they did not even hear the guests arrive. Somewhere in this labyrinth, she knows Paris and Gallus are waiting out the long night to escort them safely home. Their value to Felix has gone up substantially. “Quite ravishing. Both as lovely as Flora herself.”

Amara has the feeling Egnatius compliments everyone who comes to perform for Cornelius but is still grateful for his encouragement. They are walking too quickly for her to absorb all her surroundings. There is immense wealth here, but no table groaning with silver at the entrance as there was at Zoilus’s house, instead when they reach the main hall, panel portraits of Cornelius’s ancestors line the walls. She can hear laughter and snatches of song.

“Through to the garden,” Egnatius murmurs, ushering them along. “I find it works best if you move between couches as you perform. And don’t be afraid to involve the guests. Or to accept any invitations.”

Dido looks at Amara. Neither of them are sure whether Egnatius means an invitation to share the wine or something else. The air is heavily scented with roses. Their branches have been trained around the walls in trellises, making a pattern of green splashed with colour, reminding Amara of her mother’s skill in weaving the threads on her loom. Cornelius’s dining room is open to the garden on two sides, its walls and ceiling painted with the same flowering rose trees which grow in the front courtyard. The garden behind is so vast it is almost a meadow.

They draw closer. The guests’ bright clothes blur and shimmer, seen through a screen of water. A fountain cascades from a giant conch shell held up by three marble nymphs. Amara realizes that the details on their naked bodies are gilded, not unlike the gold she and Dido have smeared on themselves.

Egnatius nods at the fountain. “I told you you were perfect,” he says, raising his eyebrows. They walk past the nymphs and wait at the edge of the gathering. The atmosphere is more relaxed than their last party. There is also a clear imbalance towards men, with only four or five women present. Cornelius is laughing loudly at something his neighbour has said, at ease with his role as host. She sees him flick his eyes in their direction, but he waits for another guest to finish his anecdote before acknowledging their presence.

“My dear friends,” he says, raising his voice. “We have Marcus and Quintus to thank for finding us these two lovely musicians.” Amara follows the direction of his finger as he points across the room. She sees their Vinalia lovers reclining on a couch, both looking rather less keen to be associated with the she-wolves now than they did at Zoilus’s house. “Our boys were quite taken by these two songbirds.” Cornelius beckons her and Dido over. “Or would that be nymphs of Flora?”

Egnatius has stepped back, melting into the other attendants serving the party. “Yes,” Amara says, picking up on the host’s playful tone. “We learnt our songs from the goddess of spring herself.” She glances back at the fountain. “In our former life as dryads.”

“So many nymphs these days have a taste for gold,” Cornelius replies. “Will you earn yours this evening?”

Both women bow. “Flora is a goddess of pure pleasure,” Amara replies, striking her lyre with the plectrum. “And that is all we intend to give.”

She and Dido slowly walk over to where their former lovers are reclining, while Amara plays the first notes of Salvius’s spring tune. Amara sits on the edge of the couch, smiling coyly at the two men. They both laugh, less nervous now. Quintus rests one hand on her knee, pinching the silk between his fingers. Her closest neighbours are all listening, but she notices that some across the room are still chatting. She begins to play in earnest, and Dido takes up the melody. Her voice rings out clear and sweet, silencing more of the company.

They arranged the Oscan song almost solely for Dido’s voice. She weaves through the couches as she sings, plucking flowers from her hair and handing them to guests as she passes. For a moment, Amara worries she looks almost too pure and graceful – Flora is the goddess of sex not poetry – but Dido has been working long enough for Felix to know how to behave. There is more than a hint of Victoria in the way she bends to drop a rose in Cornelius’s lap.

“You should have given one to my wife,” he says, pulling Dido closer to kiss her when the song is finished. “For all the children she’s given me.” It should be a compliment, but Amara can sense an unpleasant edge to his tone.

“You have a fine son,” a woman replies from another couch, her voice querulous. She is younger than Cornelius and painfully thin. Even the brightly coloured dress she wears, bunched in fat folds of expensive fabric, cannot hide how tiny she is underneath. Lying beside her is another woman, a little older, scowling ferociously. A friend, or perhaps even her mother. Amara still finds it difficult to understand the Roman custom of respectable women attending mixed dinner parties. Her own father would never have insulted his family by insisting they join him.

“Thank you, Calpurnia. Yes, one son after an abundance of girls.”

“And delightful girls they are too,” another man declares. “A credit to you both.”

“Women have their uses,” Cornelius replies, letting go of Dido. “Will you sing another song, little dryad?”

“Would you like a story?” Dido asks, glancing over her shoulder at him as she walks back towards Amara. “We can tell you the tale of Crocus and his love for Smilax.”

“And we will sing of the goddess Flora who gave the unhappy lovers new life,” Amara adds, finally breaking away from Quintus whose wandering hands have made her fearful for her expensive clothes.

Dido heads towards the fountain and Amara follows. In the lamplight, their figures must blend with the marble nymphs, she thinks, the hint of nakedness, the sparkle of gold on their bodies. She begins to play and, as always, watches Dido’s transformation with wonder. The way she stands, so unlike herself, is both comic and somehow sinister. She could almost be one of their customers at the brothel, singing the role of the mortal Crocus in a parody of thwarted masculine lust.

Amara is Smilax, her voice deliberately shrill in rejection. Nobody is meant to have sympathy for the nymph, after all. She exaggerates the comedy, at times pausing her playing and holding up the lyre between them as a physical barrier. The guests laugh as Dido chases her, the song becoming more and more ridiculous, until they shift into another tune, allowing Flora to transform Crocus into a beautiful flower and Smilax into ugly bindweed. Dido sings the last notes, lifting her arms up like petals to the sun, until she stops, as still as the statues behind them.

The guests cheer, and Amara feels a flood of relief. She looks round at the unfamiliar faces, shining with wine and enjoyment. She smiles, bowing low. Egnatius is beside her when she straightens up, whispering that they must join the diners for a while. He leads them both, leaving Amara at one couch and taking Dido on to another.

“I always say Greek girls are the best,” declares one of the two men she is now sitting between. He reminds her of an overfilled wineskin, not quite contained in the tight folds of his clothes.

“I like a bit of Gallic passion myself,” replies the other, sipping his drink. His thick beard is curled, the black shot through with grey and ginger. “Though that was a lovely little number you sang just now. Not heard those words before.”

“It’s from a Greek poem,” Amara replies. “The tune is local to Campania.”

“Fuscus will like that,” the first man says, nodding at his companion. “Always interested in poetry. More time to enjoy it now his stint as duumvir is finished.” Amara turns to Fuscus and smiles, trying not to make her sudden interest in an influential man too obvious. The duoviri are the town’s most powerful elected officials. Fuscus has a mildness to his face, she thinks. Perhaps he will be kind. Surely that’s more important than the fact his hair is thinning? “Can’t say I know so much poetry myself,” the larger man continues. “I’m Umbricius,” he adds, as if expecting her to be able to identify him by name alone.

“Forgive me,” Amara replies in her thickest Greek accent. “I only just arrived in Pompeii.”

“Oldest fish sauce business in town,” Umbricius says. “And the best.” He picks up a small jug from the side table and pours it liberally onto the plate of meat in front of them. Then he tears a strip off and holds it out for her on his knife. “Tell me what you think.”

Amara takes it, eating the unknown food smothered in fish sauce as daintily as she can. It tastes like fermented anchovies left out too long in the sun. “Delicious!” she exclaims.

“What other Greek poems will you be singing?” Fuscus asks.

He is watching her lick the last of the sauce from her fingers. “Sappho,” she says, leaning closer.

“Not very original.” Fuscus stares through the transparent fabric of her dress. “But still a goddess among poets.”

“What about some Latin?” Umbricius sniffs, clearly irritated at being overlooked.

“We will be performing a few lines by our host.”

The two men laugh. “Oh, you poor girls,” Fuscus says. “Do you have to?”

Amara knows it is one thing for Cornelius’s friends to mock him, quite something else for her to join them. “It is always a pleasure to honour our host.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Fuscus says, rolling his eyes. “Well, I shall look forward to Sappho, at any rate.” He takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her fingers in an insistent, circular motion. “And perhaps you will join me again, afterwards.”

The atmosphere of the evening shifts as the hours pass and the wine flows. After every song, the guests become freer with her and Dido, their comments lewder. Fuscus exchanges words – or perhaps money – with Egnatius, who makes it clear that she is now the duumvir’s special ‘guest’. As the men become louder, the small group of wives play less and less of a role, retreating into their own self-contained gathering across two couches. Not that this assuages Cornelius’s bitterness towards his wife. He contradicts everything she says – if she enjoys the honey-glazed dormouse, he finds it too sweet, her hopes of sunshine tomorrow are scorned. Even when she is silent, he cannot leave her alone, finding reason to mock her posture, her spinning, the way she holds her glass.

Already small, she seems to shrink further with every comment. Amara notices that her hand, when she raises the wine to her lips, is shaking. “I find I am exhausted,” Calpurnia says at last. “I am sorry to leave you all.”

Cornelius says nothing, as if she hasn’t spoken. Thin and pale, his wife slips from her own dining room, looking more like a servant than the hostess.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t just divorce the poor girl,” Fuscus says to Umbricius. “Put her out of her misery.”

“Severus would ask for the whole dowry back if he had to take his daughter home. He’s told me so himself.” Changing his focus, Umbricius nods towards the older scowling woman who was sharing Calpurnia’s couch and is now stabbing at the fruit on her plate with vicious determination. “My wife dotes on Calpurnia. I’ll be getting a fucking earful after this, I can tell you. She’ll be nagging me all night to talk to Cornelius. I’ve told her it makes him worse. But women never listen.”

“That’s why I left mine at home,” Fuscus replies, his arm draped round Amara.

“You’ll be staying then?” There’s more than a hint of envy in Umbricius’s voice.

“Oh, I think so, don’t you?” Fuscus replies, drawing Amara a little closer. “I think so.”

She smiles at him, hoping to convey how irresistible she finds the idea. Behind his head, she can see Dido sitting with Quintus and Marcus. The three of them are laughing together, like a pastoral scene of young lovers. She feels a pang of envy then reminds herself what a powerful friend Fuscus may prove to be. Neither of the Vinalia boys have shown much promise as regular patrons.

“Time for the mime, don’t you think?” Cornelius’s voice is loud over the hubbub. He is slurring badly.

“Not yet, not yet,” Fuscus, shouts back. “I think the two little sparrows have a final present for you.” He squeezes Amara’s arm. “Sorry, darling,” he whispers. “I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s the parting I cannot forgive you for,” Amara says as she gets up from the couch, letting go of his hand with a show of reluctance. She joins Dido back by the fountain, the blood beating loud in her ears. Neither of them have drunk much wine, but the same cannot be said for anyone else. Which is just as well. Cornelius’s verses would be impossible to sit through sober.

“In honour of our gracious host,” Amara says. “We have been bold enough to set your own hymn to music.” She does not wait to hear the room’s reaction but loudly strikes up on the lyre, at a much faster pace than when she played the same tune earlier. She and Dido sing in unison, as quickly as they can without gabbling.

Cornelius either does not care that everyone is laughing when they reach the final refrain or is too drunk to realize. He smiles as they all applaud, waving a hand as if to deprecate the admiration. “Just a trifle, a trifle,” he says. “Though the girls sang it very prettily.”

“Mime, mime, mine!” A number of people are stamping their feet, impatient for the final performance.

One of the nearby guests staggers up and takes hold of Dido, almost pulling her over in the effort to get her onto his couch. Amara hurries back to Fuscus.

“He must mean it as a parody, surely?” Umbricius is saying. “Fucking and shucking? It’s parody.”

Fuscus pulls her onto his knee. “Whatever it was, you looked adorable,” he says, kissing her.

Egnatius leads in the eight mime actresses, two carrying long flutes which Amara had not seen them play in their rehearsal. She settles back against Fuscus, curious to watch them perform. “My wife won’t like this,” Umbricius mutters. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The two flautists let out piercing blasts and the actresses leap into action, more cavorting than dancing. What story there is to the play seems to revolve around some prank played by Flora on her nymphs, though the dialogue is thin and hard to follow. Victoria would be better at this than any of them, Amara thinks, watching the lead actress leap into the fountain like a frog and splash the others who shriek with pre-rehearsed alarm. An unwanted memory of Victoria dancing with Drauca slips into her mind, and she shrinks back instinctively against Fuscus.

He misunderstands her. “Soon, little one,” he whispers in her ear.

By the end of the performance, the eight actresses have ended up sprawled over various men. Egnatius stands in the corner, taking stock of the room, sending a huddled group of slaves off to help where needed. It’s the end of the dinner, but some guests show no signs of leaving, while others rise to say their goodbyes or collect their wives. Many are so drunk, their slaves have to act as human walking sticks. Umbricius stands up, groaning as he takes the weight on his knees. “Best get the old girl home,” he says. “See you next week, Fuscus.” Amara watches him stagger over to his wife whose face suggests she won’t be waiting until they are home to share her thoughts about the evening.

Egnatius is hovering at the side of the couch. “Will you be joining the others?” he asks Fuscus.

“You know I never like to be watched.” Fuscus is a little unsteady as he pushes himself upright.

“Of course.” Egnatius helps Amara from the couch. He follows the direction of her anxious gaze. Quintus is arguing over Dido with the guest who claimed her at the end of their last song. “I will make sure she is safe,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her eyes meeting his as she stands. “For everything.” Egnatius winks. He is as sober as she is.

“The boy will show you both somewhere more relaxing,” he says, beckoning over one of the slaves.

Amara does not look back as the stranger leads her and Fuscus from the heaving dining room. They step into the cool night air, following their guide through the rose garden and into the darkened house.

18

Amara wakes to the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight on her face. She is alone on the bed. For a moment, she cannot remember where she is, then memories from last night hit her in a rush. She sits upright, clasping the sheets to her chest.

There is no sign of Felix. He must have left for the Palaestra without waking her.

Amara breathes out. The sounds of the street outside the brothel are loud, carts rattling, the babble of conversations. She must have slept until the afternoon.

She follows her memories of the night, like a series of scenes painted round a room. It was Gallus who brought her back to the brothel by torchlight in the early hours, after Fuscus had finished. They came alone, as Dido was still busy entertaining. She had not been expecting Gallus to show her upstairs, but presumed Felix wanted to claim any tips. At that time, it was no surprise to find him in bed, more surprising that he had waited up.

Amara feels her cheeks grow hotter. It had been a pleasure to boast about the success of the night, Egnatius’s promise to book them again, the tip Fuscus had given her. She had almost forgotten Drauca, sitting there with Felix, seeing his excitement at the money mirror her own. It was all the coins spread out on the bed that turned him on, she’s sure of that, and the sex wasn’t even that different from complying to his usual demands, though the lateness of the hour gave it an intimacy which was hard to ignore.

Even though she is alone, Amara covers her face with her hands in shame. When did she realize he wanted her to stay afterwards? Did she want to stay? Did she linger too long? Remembering her feelings is like opening a door onto the darkest part of herself. Felix had held her hand so tightly, was still holding it, so far as she knows, after she fell asleep.

“I hate him,” she tells the empty room. “I hate him.”

She trawls through her memories, remembering every cruelty, the times he has raped her, his violence. Drauca. But other images push through like weeds. The figs he bought her and Dido, the laughter in his eyes when she met him at the Palaestra, his excitement at her stories last night. The fit of his fingers in hers. Amara flops back on the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes. “I hate him,” she says again.

In the bright spots and blackness behind her eyelids, she conjures another memory, one that never existed, a vision brought to life solely by Felix’s voice. You could have been the goddess Diana, from the way you held yourself. As if you would call on your hunting dogs to tear apart every man who had dared to see you naked.

Amara feels her breathing grow easier, soothed by more familiar feelings. The rage she had been searching for is still burning. Felix has seen her, seen all her loneliness and need, but she will not be torn apart by him. “I hate you,” she says. “I will always hate you.”

She swings her legs out over the bed, the wood cool beneath her feet as she stands. Her expensive silk clothes are still folded in a neat pile on a nearby chair. She cannot wear those; it will have to be nothing but her cloak. With the palms of her hands, she smooths out the bed, flattening it, hoping to wipe out all trace of her presence. Then she slips from the room.

Dido is alone in the brothel when she goes downstairs. At the sound of Amara’s footsteps, she rushes into the corridor.

“Are you alright?” They ask one another the same question at the same time, then laugh.

“Did you spend the whole night with Fuscus then?” Dido says, leaning her back on the wall. She looks tired. “He seemed very keen.”

“I had to see Felix afterwards.” Amara says, glad she does not have to meet Dido’s eye as she changes into her toga. “But that was nothing; he was fine, pleased we had earned so much,” She changes the subject. “I want to know what happened to you! Egnatius said he would look after you; I hope he did.”

“He did,” Dido says. “As much as he could. You wouldn’t believe how odd that house is. Cornelius has a whole brothel at the end of his garden! A lot more luxurious than this place, and the paintings are better. But it’s a corridor with cells, hidden behind the baths. And the finest room has a window looking into another cell.” She makes a face. “He likes to watch.”

“I should think he was too drunk to do anything but watch,” Amara replies, grateful she only had Fuscus to entertain. He had been a dull lover but not a taxing one. Again, she can feel the warmth of Felix’s body lying close to hers and pushes the memory aside.

“It’s more than that,” Dido says, with a certainty about men’s tastes that would have been unthinkable a few months ago. “He’s a watcher. I’m not sure he ever does anything else, drunk or not.”

“Did you have to entertain a lot of customers?” Amara asks. “I hope they all tipped.”

“It was mainly Quintus,” Dido replies. “Cornelius wouldn’t let that really drunk one in. I think he just wanted to watch the women with younger men.”

“His poor wife,” Amara says, imagining all Calpurnia must have endured with such a husband. “Did you hear the way he spoke to her?”

“She has a family, wealth, the respect of other women,” Dido replies with surprising sharpness. “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her.”

All the things Dido wants, Amara thinks. And the two she wants most, she will never have. Amara knows she herself would gladly settle for wealth at the expense of the rest. Respect and family did not, in the end, save her or her mother in Aphidnai.

The voices of the other three women float through the window moments before they step into the brothel.

“You won’t believe the news!” Beronice exclaims as soon as she is inside. “Drauca is dead!”

“Dead?” Amara repeats with genuine surprise.

Life is cheap and a slave’s life most of all. Dido, who didn’t know about the fight, is curious but not shocked. “I didn’t know she was ill,” she says.

“She wasn’t sick,” Victoria says. “Murdered.”

“No!” Dido grips Amara’s arm. This hits closer to home. The threat of a violent customer always casts a long shadow.

“Some drunks turned over Simo’s bar at the Vinalia,” Victoria goes on, as all the others huddle round. “Drauca got caught up in it.”

“She died on the Vinalia?” Dido asks.

“No, a couple of days ago,” Cressa chips in. “She was in a bad way. Maria was at the baths today. She thinks Simo did it, though he denies it. He couldn’t bear to look at her face anymore. It was all…” She trails off.

“She lost an eye,” Victoria says. “Some cunt took out her fucking eye.”

Amara understands the anger. Victoria didn’t like Drauca, hated her even, but this is violence against one of their own. That a man held Drauca’s life so cheap, reflects on all of them. “I imagine Felix would have done the same as Simo,” she says. “If it had been one of us.”

Victoria explodes. “Why do you have to make it about Felix?” she shouts. “Simo kills Drauca, and you turn it on Felix! Can’t you give it a fucking rest for once?”

There are tears in Victoria’s eyes. Her hands, as she pulls them through her hair, shake with agitation. She knows it’s true, Amara thinks.

“We should go out,” Cressa says, moving between them. “Amara, come with me.”

Amara obeys, her own emotions too churned up to do anything but follow. They set off, passing the afternoon crowd at the fountain. Amara’s heart feels heavier to drag along than an overflowing bucket.

“Where are we going?” she asks at last, as they cross the Via Veneria. It’s a sweltering day, the afternoon sky almost white in the heat. They walk on the shady side of the road, hugging the walls of the buildings they pass.

“I don’t know,” Cressa says. “A bar, if you like? I could do with a drink.”

“There’s a fast-food place near the theatre,” Amara says. “I know the landlady.”

“Fine,” Cressa says. She takes Amara’s hand and squeezes it. “Don’t take it personally with Victoria, will you? She was just upset.”

“She’s upset because she knows it’s true. Felix doesn’t give a shit about any of us!” A respectable wife swerves out of their way, tutting. Amara has a sudden, vivid image of meeting her own mother on the pavement. What would she think of her daughter, swearing like a whore on a street corner? I am a whore on a street corner, Amara thinks. The absurdity almost makes her want to laugh.

“Can’t you feel sorry for her then?” Cressa says. “Considering.”

“I suppose,” Amara replies, not sure why Victoria’s anger is more deserving of sympathy than anyone else’s. A sudden wrench of anxiety stops her, and she rests her hand against the wall to steady herself. Unless Victoria has guessed who is really responsible for trashing Simo’s bar and blames Amara? You were the one who suggested turning his bar over in the first place. They were both with Felix when Amara hinted Simo should pay for the slight at the baths. Does Victoria remember what was said?

“She’ll get over it,” Cressa says, mistaking the drawn look on Amara’s face. “Let’s just have a drink. It will make you feel better.”

Marcella’s place makes The Sparrow look grand. It’s nestled in a side street to catch passing trade from the theatre, with very little room to do anything but stand and nurse a flask of wine or else take away one of the greasy-looking pies frying at the back. Cressa doesn’t seem to care. She slumps at the counter. “A small wine. Whatever’s cheapest.”

The slave girl serving is red-cheeked and sweating, slowly roasting in the heat from the oven behind.

“Your mistress not here?” Amara says.

“Back in a minute,” the girl replies. “What you having?”

“I’ll wait until Marcella is back.”

The girl shrugs and pours out Cressa’s drink. She’s careful not to overfill the measure. “Barely an acorn cup,” Cressa complains, showing it to Amara. She takes a sip and pulls a face. “Strong enough to knock out a mule.” She downs it and pushes the flask back towards the girl. “Another.” The girl pours out more wine, and Amara is relieved to see Cressa doesn’t knock this one straight back too. “You know Drauca had a little girl?”

“No,” Amara says, her heart sinking at the thought.

“Simo kept her. She’s about five now, works doing odd jobs at the tavern in the day.”

Amara knows Cressa never talks about the child she lost but, somehow, not mentioning him, not acknowledging her pain, feels even worse. “I’m so sorry about…”

“Don’t,” Cressa stops her. “Don’t say it. I just can’t.” They sit in silence.

Amara fidgets. Cressa is shielding her eyes with her hand, as if to shade them from the sun, but really, Amara suspects, to hide her grief. It’s uncomfortably hot, between the simmering pies and the sun. She feels strung out with nervous energy, waiting for her debtor, still not sure how she is going to persuade her to pay but knowing she must.

Marcella rounds the corner, and Amara darts forwards, blocking her path. “There you are!” she exclaims, taking the other woman by surprise, not giving her a chance to escape. “What a day! The sun’s scorching, isn’t it?” She gestures at the bar. “Gellius still leaving it all to you?”

“What do you want?” Marcella asks, eyes flicking to her slave girl, well aware why Amara is there.

“Just to see how you are. I can’t believe Gellius isn’t here! You have to do all the work.” Amara moves in closer as Marcella edges away. She lowers her voice, as if in sympathy, drawing on her memories of that first overheard conversation at the baths. “Does he even know what goes on at the bar? This bar, I mean. He probably wouldn’t notice if half the stock went missing, would he?”

“Mind the store,” Marcella says to the slave at the counter. “I’m just going to have a talk with… my friend.”

“You’re not having a drink?” Cressa asks, surprised at being abandoned.

“In a minute.” Amara smiles, squeezing Cressa’s shoulder as she passes. She follows Marcella up the narrow ladder to the rooms above the bar. It’s even hotter here, a small airless space that adds to Amara’s tension. It is hard to know who is more agitated, her or Marcella.

“You have to pay up,” she says, anxiety making her voice sound harsh.

“No, you have to stop this,” Marcella hisses back. “I’ve fiddled the takings as much as I can. Either take less or give me longer! Your master must understand. The rate was never reasonable.”

“Then you shouldn’t have signed for it.” Amara gazes around the room. There is very little of value here, at least not on display. She wonders where the amber necklace came from. Perhaps the sisters’ family fell on hard times, like she and her mother did. Anyone’s fortune can turn on a knife edge.

“Keep the necklace then,” Marcella says, her voice cracking. “I can’t pay any faster.”

“The necklace doesn’t cover the interest.”

Marcella looks at her, for a moment, too shocked to speak. “You can’t be serious!”

Heat is radiating up through the floor, and Amara is now pouring with sweat. The smell of hot pies and the smothering sensation of guilt make her feel nauseous. She thinks of Drauca, of all Felix might do to the woman in front of her. She cannot leave without payment. “What about the ring?” she says, pointing to the cameo Marcella is unconsciously twisting round and round.

Marcella puts her hand behind her back like a child. “No.”

“It would put an end to the payments. We could write off the whole loan today.”

“It was my mother’s. She’s dead. I cannot give it to you.”

Marcella looks fragile, standing alone in the shabby lodgings she shares with her drunken husband. Amara wonders how long it would take Felix to smash up the place, how much damage he could do. “Fires start easily in smoky little bars,” she says. “You should be more careful with that oven downstairs.” She leaves a moment of silence, allowing the threat to hang between them, then holds out her hand. “Give me the ring. If you don’t, I cannot protect you.”

Nobody has ever stared at her with more hatred than Marcella does as she turns the ring round and round her finger for the last time. It takes some time to pull it off – her fingers must be swollen in the heat, and she worries away at her hand, as if fighting with her own flesh over the parting. At last she drops it in Amara’s palm. “Never come back here.”

“Believe me,” Amara says, “I just did you a favour.” She knows it’s true, that Marcella would have lost more than the cameo, but still, the words seem to come from someone else. She realizes she sounds just like Felix.

19

“Those are the worst verses I have ever heard!”

Priscus is laughing, almost overwhelmed with amusement after hearing the she-wolves sing Cornelius’s hymn to Flora. Dido and Amara laugh too, while Salvius shakes his head. “If I had known what words you were setting to such a beautiful tune, I would never have taught it to you,” he says, his voice grave, though his eyes are smiling.

It is the night of their repayment, but it feels more like a holiday. Salvius’s small dining room twinkles with candles, and the cool of the evening air drifts through the open windows. It is nothing like as grand as the two parties they attended recently – there’s bean stew, a small portion of roasted pigeon – but this feels the closest thing to a family meal that Amara has experienced since she left her father’s house. She suspects it is the same for Dido.

Salvius pours them all more wine, handing the empty jug to his slave to refill. The young boy slips from the room. “So when is your next performance?”

“The last night of the Floralia!” Dido says. “Though we are reciting Ovid this time. Egnatius gave us some verses to learn.”

“I will have to think of some more suitable tunes,” Salvius says. “Unless you know any, Priscus?”

“There’s that one your father always used to play. I love that song.”

“Have you two known each other since childhood then?” Amara asks, dipping a piece of bread into her stew.

“Our fathers were in business together,” Priscus says. “As we were too, until a decade or so ago. Responsible for some of the finest paintings in Pompeii, if I say so myself. My artists repainted half the Forum after the great earthquake. My father-in-law’s men painted the other half,” he gestures at Salvius. “That was after his wife persuaded him to desert us for metal work.” The two men glance at each other, then away. “May she rest in peace.”

Amara is not surprised their music teacher is a widower. It is stranger to think of Priscus with a wife waiting at home. No doubt she is the reason Salvius is the one hosting dinner. For a moment, the missing woman casts a shadow over the cosy pretence that this is an ordinary gathering of friends and equals. “And how did you two both come to Pompeii?” Salvius asks.

“Oh,” Amara replies. “That’s not a very happy story.”

“Neither of you were born slaves, were you?” he says. Amara wonders how he guessed, then remembers Fabia’s words: You still act as if you matter. She is not going to ask the same question again. “You are too educated,” Salvius goes on. “I’m sorry; your current life must no doubt be painful for you both.”

He means it kindly, but Amara wishes he hadn’t said anything. She can sense Dido growing tense beside her. Can he not understand the need, sometimes, to forget?

“And you are far too modest,” Priscus says to Dido, drawing a pointed distinction between them that makes Amara snort with laughter. “Sorry.” He turns to her. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“I’m not offended,” Amara says. “And anyway, you are right. I was a concubine before this. She wasn’t.” But I still hate it, she wants to add.

Salvius senses the shift in mood. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Shall we sing?” Dido asks, in the bright, brittle manner Amara recognizes as her brave face. At least she is learning to protect herself, she thinks. It’s better than tears.

“That would be wonderful!” Priscus exclaims.

Salvius fetches his pipe from the top of a chest, where he had obviously laid it ready for the evening. “Shall we start with our old favourite?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but begins piping the tune of the shepherd and his love.

They all begin to sing, and after the first verse, the awkwardness and sadness begin to fall away. Amara looks at Dido, at the joy on her face, and realizes there is nobody she loves more. Warmth spreads through her. She has never had a friend like Dido. She is the light in the darkness of her life.

They sing song after song, learning new ones from Salvius and performing the tale of Crocus and Smilax for the two men. Aided by their high spirits, it’s an even better performance than the one Cornelius paid for. Amara can feel her cheeks grow hotter, heat spreading through her limbs as she allows herself to drink too much. Is this what life might be like if she were a free woman in Pompeii?

The slave boy is almost falling asleep in the corner and the night sky bright with stars when Priscus finally says, “I should be going home soon.” There is a pause, and the two men look at each other, the signal of a pre-agreed arrangement. Priscus turns to Dido. “Would you do me the honour…? Would you be kind enough to join me for a little while?” At least he has the decency to ask as if refusal might be an option, Amara thinks.

“Of course,” Dido says, taking his hand. He leads her from the room, leaving Salvius and Amara alone at the table.

“Would you like some more wine?”

She realizes he is nervous. “Only to join you. Otherwise, I am fine.”

He pours them both a top-up. “I haven’t been with a woman in two years. Since my wife died.” He stops. Amara senses he is not waiting for a reply, only trying to find the right words, so she says nothing. “Sabina loved music,” he says. “You remind me a little of her.”

“I’m sorry. It is terrible to lose one you love.”

Salvius waves a hand, as if to minimize his grief. “I am sure you have lost family too.” She inclines her head, not wishing to speak of her parents, or Aphidnai. He drains his glass and stands. “Well then.” Amara puts her own glass down, untouched, and rises. The slave boy jolts awake as they pass then gets up wearily to clear the table.

Salvius takes a candle to light the way to his bedroom. It’s dark in the narrow corridor, and she picks her way carefully behind him. He pushes open the door. The room is gloomy after the well-lit dinner, but Amara’s eyes adjust, and she makes out a woman’s clothes spread over the bed. She does not ask who they belong to.

Salvius sets down the candle on a small table and picks up his wife’s robe. “Would you perhaps mind…?”

She takes it from him. He turns away as she changes. It makes her shiver, wrapping herself in a dead woman’s clothes. The sadness of her own loneliness, of Salvius’s grief, brings a lump to her throat.

“That’s her perfume over there.” Amara picks up the bottle, dabs a little on her neck. Salvius stares at her. “You look so like her.” He sighs. “Is there someone you would like me to… I mean, I can pretend to be someone else, if that’s easier?”

Of all the things Amara expected him to say, this was perhaps the last. The wall outside The Sparrow blazes into her mind, the new graffiti she spotted there only this morning. Kallias greets his Timarete. “No,” she says, emphatically. “That wouldn’t help.”

“I’m sorry,” Salvius says. “But is there, perhaps, at least a memory of being with somebody you liked?”

“No.”

“You have never been with a man by choice?”

“No.” The simplicity of his question and the truth of her answer hits her with unexpected force. She turns her face away.

“I’m sorry,” Salvius says. He sits down on the bed. Amara sits beside him, unsure what to say.

“It’s not your fault,” she says at last. “I am still happy to be here with you.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, taking her hand. “You must have to do a lot of pretending.” She doesn’t contradict him. “Have you ever… felt anything?”

Has she ever felt anything? What a question. A thousand answers crowd her mind. All the sensations of her life as a prostitute: disgust, panic, the obliterating blankness. An aversion to being touched so intense she is amazed she has got through a single night at the brothel without screaming, without fighting the men off. But she knows this is not what Salvius is asking. “No,” she says quietly. “I never feel anything.”

They sit together in silence. “Sabina was very afraid at first,” he says. “It took her a long time to get used to being together.” He puts his arms around her, drawing her closer. She wonders who he is seeing when he looks at her – the woman in front of him, or his dead wife. “Amara,” he says, as if answering her question. “I will try and make this pleasant for you. All I ask is that you don’t pretend,” He brushes a strand of hair from her face, correcting himself. “Don’t feel you have to pretend.”

Victoria’s singing wakes her in the morning. For a while, Amara lies in her cell, listening to the sound, the sweetness of the voice so at odds with the harsh reality of the singer’s life. She knows almost nothing about Victoria’s past. At least she and Dido were loved once, and she knows Beronice and Cressa spent the first few years of childhood with their mothers, but Victoria has never belonged to anyone but an owner. Yet every morning, she sings her heart out, filling this dark place with joy. Amara wonders where Victoria learnt so many tunes. She realizes how much she has missed their friendship since her change of fortune at the Vinalia.

She gets out of bed, dressing herself quickly, and slips into the corridor. The compacted mud floor under her feet is hard and cool. She stands at Victoria’s door a moment before drawing the curtain back. “Can I come in?”

Victoria’s singing stops abruptly. “Suit yourself.”

“What was last night like?”

“The usual. Have a nice party?”

“It was dinner above the ironmonger’s. Not really a party.”

“Still. Dinner, though,” Victoria says, face turned aside as she does her hair. “In a house. With free wine. Better than one meal a day.”

Amara pauses, wondering how much she owes Salvius for his kindness last night. “The customer got me to dress up as his dead wife. In this musty old robe.” She sees Victoria hesitate, knows there’s nothing she finds so irresistible as a ridiculous sex story. “Had the perfume out ready and everything.”

Victoria gives in to curiosity, puts down the hairbrush. “You’re joking.”

“Asked who I wanted him to pretend to be.”

Victoria laughs. “I hope you said Jupiter. In his form as a pile of fucking gold.”

“What are you two sniggering about?” Beronice stands, bleary-eyed in the doorway.

“Just a customer,” Victoria says. “Remember what they are? Before Gallus?”

“You know I had at least three last night,” Beronice says, offended. “Including that really annoying idiot from the laundry. What’s his name again?”

“Fabius,” Victoria says. Amara wonders how she keeps track of all the names. “He’s not so bad.”

“She got drunk again,” Beronice mutters, leaning out into the corridor and looking back at Cressa’s cell. “I don’t know where she finds the money. She’ll drink every last penny she’s ever saved at this rate.”

“Wasn’t Cosmus born about this time of year? She’s probably missing him.” Victoria goes back to brushing her hair. “Did Fabius have his usual cry afterwards?”

Beronice sits down heavily on the bed. “So boring,” she says.

“That’s why you have to get them in the right mood!” Victoria says. “You can’t blame him for crying, not if you’re lying there with your sour I’d-rather-be-with-my-boyfriend face. At least make a bit of effort.”

Beronice doesn’t defend herself but lies in a slump. “He slapped me,” she says.

“What? Fabius?” Victoria is shocked. “He’s such a weed!”

“No. Gallus,” Beronice looks miserable. “He says I enjoy it too much. The other men, I mean.”

“What does he expect you to do? Wail and moan about your lost virtue all night? Prick.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Amara blurts out. They both stare at her.

“What a question!” Victoria says. “You sound like a customer, Amara.”

“But, I mean…” She stops, unsure what she wants to say. Last night with Salvius had hardly been a revelation. She didn’t feel pleasure, in spite of his considerable efforts. But it hadn’t been totally unpleasant either. For the first time, she had had an inkling that it might be different, if the man were different.

“Was there more to this dead-wife fuck than you’re telling us?” Victoria asks.

“Dead wife?” Beronice says.

“You told them about Salvius then?” It’s Dido leaning against the doorway. Victoria shoves Beronice along to make room for Dido to sit on the bed, leaving Amara the only one standing. All three of them are looking at her.

“Please don’t tell us you’re in love with a man who gets you to dress up as his dead wife,” Victoria says.

“No!” Amara says. “Although, I do quite like him. As a friend.”

“A friend?” Beronice repeats in disbelief.

“Would you marry him if he asked you to be wife number two?” Victoria is enjoying her role as prosecutor.

“Yes, but that’s not love. I’d just rather be a freedwoman running an ironmonger’s than a slave working for Felix. Wouldn’t you?”

“Is he an amazing lay?”

Amara pauses.

“He is an amazing lay!” Victoria yells. The other two start laughing, and Amara finds herself laughing too.

“He just made an effort, that’s all. Customers don’t normally, do they?”

“That’s why you steer them,” Victoria says. “You can take some control of the situation.”

“I’m not sure,” Beronice says, frowning. “I know what she means.”

“Nobody wants to hear what a great lover Gallus is,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes. “Please spare us.”

“Yes, but, it is different, if the man makes an effort. It just is,” Beronice says. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s never any different,” Dido says.

“You can’t rely on the man to give you any pleasure,” Victoria states, as if this were obvious. “You just have to do what you like and take them along.”

“What if you don’t like any of it?” Dido asks.

“Then,” says Victoria, putting an arm round her like a conspirator, “you just have to hope, one day, if you are really lucky, an ironmonger asks you to dress up as his dead wife.”

Amara looks at the three of them falling about on the bed, hooting with laughter, and smiles. Perhaps there are some pleasures in the life of a whore, after all.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Paris glowers in the doorway. Ever since Victoria offered him the golden paste and asked if he wanted to gild his arsehole, he has been even less friendly than usual.

“Oh, is laughing forbidden now?” Victoria asks. “I didn’t realize. But I’m afraid a scowl isn’t going to scare the customers away. They can’t see your face from behind.”

Paris moves so fast none of the others have a chance to try and stop him. He punches Victoria hard in the face then swings back to hit her again. Beronice leaps, shrieking, onto his back, clawing at his arms, and he staggers, blow landing wide. Amara and Dido scramble in front of Victoria, holding their hands up, screaming at him to stop. Paris tries to dislodge Beronice, but she’s clinging to his neck, putting pressure on his windpipe. Cressa runs into the room, tugging at Beronice, trying to stop her from strangling Paris, yelling at her to let go.

“What the fuck is going on?”

At the sound of Felix’s voice, the screaming stops, and Beronice drops to the floor like a stone. Paris rubs his neck, gasping.

“I said what the fuck is this?”

“He hit her face!” Amara says, pointing at Victoria. “He hit her in the face!” It is the unbreakable rule at the Wolf Den. Neither Felix nor any of the other men are allowed to mark their faces.

Felix does not have to ask if it’s true. Victoria is cradling her eye, the skin on her cheek bright red. “Let me see.” He crosses swiftly to the bed. Amara and Dido scramble out of the way. Felix takes Victoria’s hand from her face, examining the damage, pressing his finger against her cheekbone. She winces. “Nothing’s broken,” he says, standing up. “It will mend.” He walks over to Paris, shoving him. “What the fuck were you thinking? Not such a big man now, are you? Get the fuck out of here.”

Paris doesn’t wait to be asked again; he lurches from the cell.

“And you,” Felix says, turning back to Victoria who quails against the wall. “Mind your mouth. I know what will have happened. You provoked him. Didn’t you?” She says nothing, and he grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her. “Didn’t you?”

Amara looks at the pots of perfume lined up on Victoria’s windowsill, imagines grabbing one, smashing it on Felix’s head, pictures herself yelling at him to stop. But she does nothing. Just shrinks terrified against the wall, like all the other women.

Felix lets go of Victoria who pushes herself to safety, clambering away from him on the bed. The pain on her face grips Amara’s heart, but Victoria’s eyes are dry. Amara realizes she has never seen her friend cry.

“You watch your fucking mouths, all of you,” Felix says. “I don’t want a Drauca on my hands, with a useless, ugly face. Look at you.” He spits the words at Victoria. “No man is going to want to touch you for days.” He flings the curtain aside and storms out of the brothel.

“Don’t,” Victoria says, raising her hand to prevent Dido coming near. “Don’t say anything. Just leave me.”

All the women go back to their own cells, as if seeking comfort from one another would diminish Victoria’s suffering. Amara sits alone on the bed, staring at her father’s mouldy bag. She thinks of Felix upstairs, Marcella’s cameo ring in his desk drawer, the smile on his face when she handed it over, and she closes her eyes.