The Wolf Den

20

The sun overhead is so hot Amara feels she will faint, only the crush of the crowd and Victoria jabbing her excitedly in the ribs are keeping her upright. This is not how she would have chosen to spend her first proper day off in Pompeii. Up at dawn, trooping to the far end of town, standing out in the cool darkness, watching the sun rise and, later, wilting in the baking heat, all to get the best view of the gladiators’ parade into the amphitheatre. It is the first of July, the day the town’s new elected officials take office and, more importantly, the day free games are held to celebrate it.

Amara wonders if Fuscus is already in the arena, sitting at the front, fretting about whether this extravaganza will overshadow the games he threw last year. He was quite peevish on the subject last time she saw him. Egnatius has done her many favours, but none perhaps as great as introducing her to the duumvir. She and Dido perform regularly at both his and Cornelius’s houses, though Fuscus is a less demanding host. There, they are rarely expected to do much more than sing, mainly because Fuscus’s wife holds greater sway over her husband. It feels strange, how intimate she is now with powerful men. At Cornelius’s house, Fuscus will tell her little details about his life – the fountain he has ordered for his father-in-law, the books his two sons are reading – and of course, she knows exactly what he likes in bed. At his own home, he takes the role of a distant employer, bestowing her on his guests, part of the service to be enjoyed along with the fruit platter. In the street, should they bump into one another, she has no doubt he would ignore her. In that sense her life has not changed at all.

“There he is!” Victoria shrieks. “It’s Celadus!”

Amara would never have heard her if Victoria were not yelling right beside ear. The blast of trumpets as the gladiators approach, the wall of sound from the crowd, makes her feel as if her skull might split open. But at last their long, tedious wait has paid off. They are rammed in, right at the front, just by the amphitheatre entrance.

“Celadus!” Victoria screams. “Celadus!”

He cannot possibly have heard one scream above any other, and yet, at that moment, the Thracian giant turns, as if impelled by the force of Victoria’s will. He takes two strides towards them, lifts Victoria off her feet in a single sweep, and kisses her. She is so astonished that, for once, she doesn’t respond. The crowd around them erupts. Amara is smacked hard on the head by a girl wedged behind, thrusting her arms out, trying to grab at the gladiator’s leather harness, touch his oiled chest.

“Celadus! Celadus!”

The gladiator sets Victoria down, says something in her ear then rejoins the procession, waving both arms at the crowd.

“He would have kissed me,” Beronice shouts at Amara. “He would have kissed me, if I’d been at the front!” Her face is wild, almost unrecognizable in its rage and disappointment. Amara is glad Victoria cannot hear. Instead, she is standing uncharacteristically still, feet rooted exactly where Celadus placed her, buffeted by the passing flow of people now cramming to get into the arena.

“Come on!” Amara yells, grabbing her arm. “Or we won’t get a seat!”

All five of them hold on to each other, clasping hands, grabbing one another’s togas, anything to prevent themselves from being separated. They know their place at these games; they will have to climb all the way to the back row at the very top.

It’s a long queue. They join a slow-moving column of women, all waiting to sit wedged into the worst seats in the arena. Amara’s legs feel like they might give way by the time they get to the top. The back row is filling up fast and there’s a lot of irritable shuffling around until Cressa spots a space where they might all be able to cram together. After a heated exchange with another group of women, they finally manage to sit down, though as the slightest out of the five, Dido is forced to sit half-perched on Amara’s knee.

“You have to tell us what Celadus said,” Amara says to Victoria, who has been resisting answering that question the whole way up the steps.

Victoria smiles, enjoying the secret. “Imagine what it would be like to have a man like that! Just imagine.”

“Maybe he’s nothing special,” Beronice says. “Might be a rubbish lay.”

“Oh, don’t be so bitter!” Cressa laughs. “As if you’d turn him down.”

“I would, I would turn him down!” Beronice insists. “I wouldn’t do that to Gallus.”

The rest of them laugh. “Even I might be tempted by Celadus,” Dido says. “And that’s saying something.”

“The feel of his chest!” Victoria sighs. “Like being held by Apollo.”

Amara shifts on her wooden seat. Even though Dido isn’t very heavy, it’s still uncomfortably hot having her on her knee. Awnings are stretched overhead to keep the sun off, but they also trap the rising heat. Not only will they have the worst view, it’s also sweltering up here. The murmur of so many people talking, reverberating round the arena, makes it sound as if they are in a beehive.

“What time are you meeting Menander?” Dido asks her.

“After the first beast hunt.”

“He must be something special, this boyfriend of yours, for you to miss the gladiators,” Victoria says.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sorry, that’s the ironmonger isn’t it?”

Amara rolls her eyes as they all laugh. She and Dido have only had three nights with Salvius and Priscus, but from the way Victoria teases her, it’s as if she’s embroiled in a breathless love affair. It gives her an odd feeling to think of Salvius now, when she is about to see Menander. Her intimacy with the widower has happened almost by accident, through the time they spend playing music together and his unexpected gentleness. But she never forgets that for all his kindness, he is a customer.

It’s Menander she is attracted to – could imagine loving even – although their relationship has consisted of little more than a few snatched moments and graffiti exchanges outside The Sparrow. That’s how she knows where to meet him. I will wait for you by the second gate, Timarete. May fortune smile on us both! She was the one who suggested the timing underneath. Then she spent hours agonizing over whether that looked too keen or too cool. Would it have been better to have suggested before the games started? Or later, after one of the gladiator fights?

“Salvius is just a friend,” she says.

“If he’s just a friend,” Victoria says. “You wouldn’t mind if he did a swap and had Dido next time, would you?”

Amara winces. “He wouldn’t do that!”

“You don’t like the idea though, do you?”

“I think of Priscus as my friend too,” Dido says, coming to her rescue. “They’re just not like that, either of them.”

“You’ll be saying they’re better lovers than Gallus next!”

“Oh, fuck off!” Beronice rounds on Victoria. “Just because some gladiator kissed you, doesn’t mean you get to lord it over the rest of us all day like fucking Venus!”

One or two of the more respectable women sitting on the row in front shuffle disapprovingly, though none is brave enough to risk a direct confrontation with a gang of rowing whores.

“Just leave it,” Cressa says wearily. “She’s only teasing.”

The sound of trumpets rings out, and the murmuring hive subsides slightly, though not enough for the opening speeches to be heard clearly from the back. Amara thinks again of Fuscus, imagines how much he must have enjoyed his moment of glory last year. Perhaps he has brought his sons with him today, or would they be too young? She has never met them.

Cheering and yelling from the crowd alerts them to the beast hunters’ entrance. The three men hold their arms up to the crowds, enjoying the glory before facing the danger.

“Will that be Celadus?” Amara asks, unable to tell one fighter from another at this distance.

“He wouldn’t do a beast hunt!” Victoria is outraged. “He’s a combat gladiator!”

There’s more screaming, a mixture of fear and excitement, as the animals are released into the ring. The women jump to their feet to get a better view.

“What are they?” Cressa asks, standing on tiptoe. “I can’t see.”

“Tigers!” Dido says. “They’ve let loose tigers!”

Amara can see the beasts circling, lean and hungry, while the men stand with their backs together in the centre of the arena. She has never seen a tiger before, but she’s watched enough cats stalk their prey to recognize the low, slow prowl, muscles bunched, ready to spring. Beronice grabs her arm as the first attacks. It moves so fast, she cannot imagine how any of the hunters have time to react, but one catches it with his spear, and the animal sheers off, limping and wounded. Another tiger charges and, this time, lands a blow, knocking a man to the ground.

The yelling from the crowd is so intense, the action in the arena so frantic, she cannot work out what is happening. Beside her, Beronice is jumping up and down, Victoria is screaming and then she realizes she is too, though she’s not sure who she is shouting for, the men or the beasts. Even Dido is caught up in the hysteria, punching the air when one man saves another, leaping on the back of the attacking tiger as if it were a horse.

The role of hunter and hunted switches back and forth, sometimes the beasts are in retreat, sometimes the men. The skill of the fighters, the grace of the tigers, all of it is punctuated by acts of savagery which make Amara gasp. She keeps watching, unable to look away, until the last tiger has been slaughtered. Their bodies are dragged from the arena, leaving thick red trails in the sand. One of the men is taken off too, his chest covered in blood from a shoulder wound. The remaining two hunters stand together, throwing their arms up to receive the adulation of the crowds.

“Doubt the injured one will make it,” Victoria says, raising her voice above the din. “That tiger practically had his arm off!”

“Will they replace him?” Dido asks. “Or will the next fight just have two hunters?”

“They usually replace them if it’s this early, otherwise the hunt doesn’t last long enough,” Cressa says.

A few women are getting up, making use of the break to go to the latrine. “I think I had better go,” Amara says.

“Don’t break the ironmonger’s heart,” Victoria says.

Dido squeezes her arm. “Good luck.”

Amara’s own heart is thumping with nerves as she makes her way down the outside steps of the arena. What if Menander misunderstood and thought she meant the end of all the beast hunts? What if he doesn’t come? She walks quickly to the gate where they have arranged to meet and can see, even from a distance, that he is already waiting for her.

Then they are standing together, and nothing else matters.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he says, taking hold of her hand.

“You too.”

Neither seem able to do anything but stare at one another, until Menander laughs and breaks the moment. “Shall we get a drink?”

They walk out into the square. It’s dotted with stalls selling food, drink and souvenirs. Amara no longer minds the heat or notices the noise. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and they both laugh over nothing, amused by everything. They wander aimlessly for a while, before remembering why they went for a walk and buy a glass of wine to share, and some bread, and head off to sit in the shade under the plane trees beside the Palaestra. The rarity of a day off means they are not the only slave couple taking advantage of the time, though the baying of the crowd as the next hunt starts draws some of the loiterers back into the arena. Menander has still not let go of her hand, and when they sit down, he puts his arm round her. Amara rests her head on his shoulder and can feel his heartbeat, as fast and nervous as her own.

“Would your father have liked me?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, surprised into honesty by his question.

Menander laughs. “That’s better than a no, I guess.”

“What about yours?”

“I think he’d have been quite happy with a doctor’s daughter.”

“My parents wouldn’t have been too pleased by this sort of behaviour.”

“No, I suppose not,” Menander replies, holding her tighter, in case she is minded to honour the dead by sitting further apart. There’s a pause, and she suspects he is thinking, like she is, of all they have lost. “And now I have nothing to offer you,” he says. “No shop to inherit, no freedom.”

“I think we can agree I have even less to offer you,” Amara replies. She says it as a joke, but it hurts, the distance between her old self and her life now.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, smiling. “You would fetch at least five times as much as me at the market.”

“But nobody’s buying anyone, not today.”

“No,” he says. Then he bends to kiss her, quickly, as if he might otherwise lose his nerve. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, Amara thinks, holding him. When you want someone. It’s meant to feel like happiness.

“Are you alright?” Menander breaks off, looking anxiously into her face. “I hope I didn’t upset you?”

Amara realizes she is shaking. “No, you didn’t upset me!” she says, holding him closer to reassure him. “I just feel…” She stops, unable to find words for the mixture of happiness and pain. He is looking at her, waiting, still worried. She tries again. “You get used to having nothing, don’t you? And then suddenly to have something, to feel something, it’s…” She trails off.

“It’s happy–sad?”

“Yes, because nothing belongs to you, not even the happiness.”

“Timarete, even slaves own their happiness. Feelings are the only things we do own.” He passes the small flask of wine to her, and she takes a sip. “And I know that this afternoon is short, but we have it, we own it.”

“Are you going to tell me not to waste it?”

“No, because talking isn’t wasting it,” he says, taking the wine back from her. “Nobody is telling us what to do today. Just feel whatever you want to feel.” He pauses. “Although I’m hoping that means you might feel like kissing me again.”

She laughs. “Might do.”

“I want to know all about your singing too,” he says, brushing the hair from her shoulders. “I half thought you might be too grand to see me now, after all the parties you and Dido go to.”

“Never,” she says. “And anyway, there wouldn’t be any singing if you hadn’t got the lyre for me.”

“It was entirely selfish. I just wanted to hear you play,” he says, drawing her closer. His intensity is familiar, pulling on a dark undertow in her body. She has seen desire in so many men and almost every association is painful. But this is Menander! She puts her hand out to touch his face, cupping it in her fingers, to remind herself who he is, remind herself that she has chosen to be with him.

“I wish I had known you in our other life.”

“I know.”

“You try to keep it inside, don’t you, all the different parts of yourself, but they don’t exist anymore. I thought of my mother the other day, what she would think of me, who she would see. If we met now. But she wouldn’t know me. I wouldn’t know me.” Amara is talking fast, trying to rush the words out, hoping she makes sense, not sure why she is even telling him this, aside from the longing she feels to be understood. “Sometimes I think it must be harder for you. Because my life is just completely different, there’s nothing left of the past. But for you, it must be like living on the wrong side of the mirror.”

“To be the potter’s slave, rather than the potter’s son?”

“Yes.”

“It is hard. But I know it’s not harder than your life.” He takes her hand and places it against his cheek again, covering her fingers with his. “You are the same person though. I still see you as the same person.”

“I miss so many things.” She sighs then smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “The food for a start.”

Menander makes a face. “Italian cheese! What do they feed their goats?”

“And that horrible fish sauce on everything!”

“No beans so bland they can’t be spiced up by rotten anchovies.”

“And the bread here tastes like somebody tipped grit in it.”

“It does, doesn’t it!” Menander says wonderingly. “What do they put in the flour?”

“I miss my mother’s stew.”

“Me too.” He shoots her a sly look. “Bet mine’s was better.”

“Nobody makes better stew than the women in Aphidnai.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Might be.”

Menander kisses her again, and this time, the darkness stays at the edges, unable to break through.

The afternoon, which always drags so painfully in the brothel, seems to end moments after she has sat down with Menander, even though hours have passed.

“Amara! There you are! You were meant to meet us after the second gladiator fight! We’ve been wandering round and round for ages!”

She has never been sorry to see Dido’s face before, but now, the sight makes her heart drop through her stomach. She stares up at her four friends, ranged round, and instinctively grips Menander’s hand. “It can’t be time to head back, not yet!”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Victoria says, looking furious. “Celadus hasn’t even been on yet!”

Felix had ordered them all to leave in good time, to make sure they missed the crowds and were back at the brothel to pick up the inevitable surge in trade after the event. As the most famous gladiator, Celadus’s duel must have been left until the end.

Menander rests his hand on her arm. “We’ll see each other soon,” he says gently.

“But we won’t! You know we won’t!”

He hugs her, crushing her against him. “We will have another whole day, just for ourselves. I promise. Even if we have to wait until the Saturnalia.”

“Amara,” Cressa says. “We can’t be late.”

She doesn’t say goodbye and neither does he. Letting go of Menander, standing up, walking away from him, knowing what she will now have to face instead, almost stops her breath. The pain is physical in its ferocity. She cannot bear to look back. She tells herself it is easier not to want, not to feel. When you cannot make your own choices, what good is wanting anything, or anyone?

Dido takes her hand. “I’m here,” she says, squeezing Amara’s fingers.

21

The stall selling flowers and garlands is on the shady side of the street, but the heat of the late afternoon has still caused many of the blooms to wilt. Amara and Dido whisper together, trying to pick out the freshest stems from buckets of water, watched by the hovering shop assistant.

“Can we afford lilies?”

“We should probably make the effort, if we want Aurelius to book us again.”

It’s only the second time they have been to the wine seller’s house. Aurelius is a friend of Fuscus, but not Cornelius, and his tastes seem more decorous. A secret brothel at the end of his garden is an unthinkable idea.

They buy the lilies and wander slowly back. The streets are less crowded than usual, nobody who doesn’t have to be out is braving the heat, and if last night at the brothel is any indication, half Pompeii has a hangover. Amara rubs her arm where she knows a bruise marks the skin, a gift from a particularly aggressive customer last night. It will be a nuisance to hide the blemish tonight.

“Are you feeling better?” Dido looks anxiously at her arm. “I know last night was difficult.”

“I almost wish I hadn’t seen him now,” Amara says, and they both know she isn’t referring to the customer. But it hurts too much to talk about Menander directly. “It makes everything feel so much worse.”

“I told Nicandrus this.”

“Were you meant to see him yesterday too?” Amara is surprised Dido didn’t tell her.

Dido nods, then they pause their conversation to let a cart pass, standing close against the wall to avoid the dust. “What can we give each other?” Dido asks, as they start walking again. “Apart from a moment’s kindness. When you cannot be with someone, is it worth the pain, pretending it’s any different? I’m sorry,” she says, seeing Amara’s stricken face. “But I’m not sure what loving Menander gives you? If it were Salvius even, I would understand. Might he not buy you one day? At least it’s possible. Another slave… there’s nothing he can give any woman, however much he might want to.”

“I know,” Amara says, trying not to think of the feel of Menander’s arm around her or the laughter in his eyes. “I know he can’t.”

“Do you think Salvius would ever buy you?”

“No. I mean, I have wondered about it,” she admits. “But you should hear him talk about Sabina, her extraordinary virtue, her shyness. He’s not the type to keep me as a concubine, and it’s obvious I’m not someone he might think of as a wife.” She hesitates. “What about Priscus?”

“No chance!” Dido laughs. “What would he do? Keep me at Salvius’s house as a secret lover? He has that already.”

They reach the brothel and knock at the door to Felix’s flat. Paris answers.

“Master’s busy,” he says, scowling at them both.

“Doesn’t matter,” Amara answers, giving the door an impatient shove. “We’re here to practise for this evening. He knows about it.”

“No need to be a bitch and kick the door down!” Paris snaps, stepping aside to let them enter.

“Doesn’t he ever get lonely?” Dido whispers, after they’ve climbed the stairs. “I don’t think he has any friends.”

“Not surprising, with that attitude,” Amara replies, not bothering to lower her voice.

The lyre is kept in the small living area off Felix’s bedroom. As soon as they walk in, they realize he has company next door. It’s Victoria. Amara would recognize her ecstatic moaning anywhere, although it sounds like she is putting in an extra effort for the boss.

Dido grabs her arm, stopping her from walking further in. “Should we be here?” she whispers.

“Not like we don’t hear her every night.”

“Yes, but that’s different; she doesn’t know we’re here now!”

Their deliberations are interrupted by a sound neither have ever heard before. “Is that Felix?” Amara asks, incredulous. They forget their scruples and listen, looking at each other in astonishment. It’s unquestionably Felix groaning in pleasure.

“I can’t believe it!” Dido says. “This is the face I normally get.” She stands, imitating Felix’s swagger, and pulls a look of pompous disdain, as if staring down at the top of an imaginary woman’s head.

Amara snorts with laughter then claps a hand over her mouth to cover the noise. They both try to suppress their giggles, but the effort not to laugh only makes it worse, and soon, they are shaking with silent hysteria.

“I love you; I would die for you. I love you. I love you…”

“She’s really overdoing it now!” Amara says. “He’ll never fall for that, surely?” From the sounds next door however, it seems she has overestimated Felix’s powers of discernment.

She and Dido wait. The shrieking and moaning finally comes to an end, but still, Victoria doesn’t stop with her protestations of devotion.

“I love you so much; you’re everything to me. I love you. I love you…”

There is a pleading, debased sound to her voice that Amara can barely recognise. It almost sounds as if she is crying. Felix’s voice is soothing in answer but too low to make out the words.

“She’s some actress,” Amara whispers. “He seems to have bought it all!”

“We really shouldn’t be hearing this.” Dido looks uncomfortable. She tiptoes to the corridor door and slams it open as if they have just come in. “Shall we get dressed first, or do you want to play?” she demands loudly.

Instantly, the voices next door fall silent. Amara and Dido tramp about, getting their clothes out of the chest, running through their first song. Felix opens the door, stripped to the waist, unconcerned to see them both. “You can go now,” he says, calling back into the room.

Victoria hurries past, clothes dishevelled, her face damp, perhaps with sweat. Amara tries to catch her eye and wink, but she avoids looking at her, instead stepping into the corridor and softly closing the door.

Reclining modestly on Aurelius’s amply upholstered couch, Amara is grateful she and Dido decided to wear their gauzy dresses folded, making the fabric as opaque as possible. She is not sitting with Fuscus tonight. Instead, in what she suspects is a touch of teasing mischief by the host, Aurelius has placed her on a couch with one of his oldest friends: Pliny, the Admiral of the Fleet.

He is an austere-looking man, with dark grey hair and a hard-set jaw. Aurelius tries to draw him out with anecdotes of military life, but Pliny seems to be that rare person who prefers to observe rather than talk about himself. “I would be delighted,” he says to Aurelius, who offers to take him on a pleasure tour of his vineyards. “But you might find me rather dull. I’m hoping to travel a little further inland towards Vesuvius, to see some of the rarer plants. Though of course, my research touches on wine as well.”

“Wine is for drinking, not researching!” Aurelius laughs. “But we can venture further inland if you wish.”

Pliny has said nothing to Amara all evening, save a brief compliment on her and Dido’s presentation of Sappho, and so it is a surprise when he addresses her directly. “You don’t share our host’s view?”

“I’m sorry…?” Amara is bewildered by the question.

“Your wine. You’ve barely touched it all night.”

Amara looks at her glass. It stands beside her companion’s which is equally full. “Ah,” she says. “Well, I find drinking too much is akin to falling asleep, and I prefer to be awake to whatever life offers.”

He stares at her. “Interesting,” he says. “We are of the same view.”

Having caught his attention, she is quick to press further. “Are you studying the medicinal quality of plants?”

Pliny’s mouth twitches, a dismissive look she does not like. “Are you going to tell me all the special properties they have for women?”

“I wasn’t talking about love potions,” Amara says, her cheeks flushing. “My father was a disciple of Herophilos.”

“Herophilos? Is he a favourite of yours? Perhaps you could set him to music.”

There is laughter from the guests, who have been listening to their conversation with amusement. Amara has endured so many insults, usually dressed as compliments, from the men at these dinners. She knows it is irrational, as well as foolish, for this one man to provoke her above any other, but her heart is racing, and she cannot stop herself from retaliating. “When health is absent,” she says, raising her voice and switching to Greek, “wisdom cannot reveal itself, art cannot become manifest, strength cannot be exerted, wealth is useless and reason is powerless. I would not set Herophilus to music, sir, but I would live my life by his wisdom.”

“I have offended you.” There is surprise, not anger on Pliny’s face. He looks at her, almost as if she were a dog that had started talking. “Forgive me. There is no reason why you should not have read Herophilos. What did your father teach you about him?”

His question snuffs out the flame of Amara’s anger. She feels afraid of having exposed herself. “I should not have presumed…” she murmurs.

“Of course you should have presumed! Why should you let me be pompous?” Pliny sounds irritated. “Enough with the false modesty. Just answer my question.”

“My father, Timaios, was a doctor in Aphidnai,” she says. “He had no son, and he wanted a companion to read to him. Which I did.” Pliny is silent, so she continues. “He was particularly interested in Herophilos’s theory of the circulation of the blood.” Amara pauses. “May I?” She motions permission to take Pliny’s hand. She takes his wrist, feeling for the pulse, senses it quicken at the light touch of her fingers. “That is your blood’s rhythm, driven by your heart,” she says. “Or at least, that is what Herophilos believed.”

“Careful! Don’t let her bleed you!” one of the guests jokes.

Amara lets go of Pliny’s wrist, and they both laugh. The conversation moves on, she and Dido get up to perform another song. Pliny says nothing when she rejoins him on the couch. But even though he does not speak, she can sense his intense awareness of her.

She is not surprised that he chooses to leave early, but before he rises, he addresses her again. “Would your master spare you for a week? I should like to take you home.”

He makes his request so casually, no more than if he were asking to borrow a coat, that it takes her a moment to understand. “I’m certain he could spare me,” she says.

“Good.”

Across the room, she can see Dido staring at her. Amara’s eyes dart to Pliny and then back to Dido again. Explain to Felix. Dido nods.

There is a great deal of smirking between guests as she follows Pliny from the room, though none are quite bold enough to tease the admiral outright. Aurelius comes closest. “I hope you have a delightful night, my dear friend,” he says, with a pointed look at Amara. “I’m glad the dinner pleased you.”

Pliny thanks him serenely, choosing to ignore or, perhaps, oblivious to his hint. They walk through to the atrium, Amara following at a distance, joining his silent retinue of slaves. One of them has picked up her lyre. The porter helps her on with her cloak. Then she steps out into the moonlit street.

22

The house Pliny takes her to is near the Forum, only a short walk from the brothel, but stepping over its threshold is like entering another world. A delicate fountain of a faun greets them as they enter the atrium, starlight reflected on its waters. The air is heavy with the smell of jasmine.

“My friends were kind enough to let me have the run of the house while they are in Rome,” Pliny says, taking a lamp from a slave and leading her across the darkened hall. “It’s this way.” They climb the stairs, walking along an interior balcony, until he pushes open a door. The smell of jasmine is particularly intense here, and she can hear the splash of another fountain. Amara guesses the room must overlook the garden.

“Here we are.” He gestures for her to enter. She had expected him to be attended by slaves so is a little nervous to step into the room alone. The walls are painted with maritime scenes, tiny boats in picturesque battles, plumes of smoke rising from the defeated enemy fleet. She wonders if Pliny visits regularly, if this room was painted specially for him. Travelling cases overflowing with scrolls and wax tablets trail across the floor. Another pile sits on the large bed. Pliny lifts them off carefully.

“If you could get undressed,” he says, turning to fuss over his tablets while she does so.

There’s no point doing a seductive striptease if he’s not even watching. She removes the cloak, carefully folds up the silk dress and undoes her hair. Then she arranges it artfully over one shoulder and perches at the end of the bed.

Pliny is a while flipping through his notes but eventually turns back to her, a wax booklet and stylus in hand. They look at each other. “Could I get a better view?” he says.

Amara is nonplussed. Is her pose not sexy enough? What is it he wants to see? She arches her back, pouting.

“No, no,” he says. “Not that. Just lie down or something, so I can take a better look. See more of you.”

She lies back on the bed, feeling more nervous by the minute. Pliny looks her over, scratching away at his tablets. He is taking notes, she realizes. The thought is so funny, she has to cough to hide the laugh that rises up her throat.

“May I?” he asks, putting down the tablets, gesturing he would like to touch her. He runs his hands over her whole body, frowning with concentration, tutting slightly to himself when he gets to the bruise on her arm. She flinches when he touches her between her legs, not sure what to expect, but he doesn’t linger any longer than he did on her elbow or her chin. “I’m glad to see you don’t remove all the hair,” he says, approvingly. “Disgusting habit.” He pats her calf. “Though that’s all nice and smooth, as it should be. Thank you,” he says, sitting down on the bed. “You can sit up now.”

Amara does as he asks, not sitting too close to him. She is not sure that even Victoria is going to believe her when she recounts this night.

“I’ve talked to a number of courtesans for my research,” he says, dignifying her with a more illustrious title than they both know she deserves. “I would be interested to know about your herbal knowledge. I wasn’t, in fact, scoffing about love potions earlier.”

“What would you like to know,” she says.

He is poised with his tablets. “Do you do anything to prevent pregnancy?”

“I insert a sponge. Soaked with honey when I can afford it. I use it as a barrier. My father let me read all of Herophilos, including his book on midwifery. He thought it would be useful to me when I married.”

Pliny nods. “Very sensible. So you don’t use any charms?”

“No, though some of the others at my establishment do. Another washes herself out with wine and vinegar. The companion I sang with this evening also uses a sponge, like me.”

He scratches away on the wax. “How did you become a… courtesan?”

“Which part of the story do you want?”

“Well,” he says, frowning. “All of it. You started out reading Herophilos to your father in Attica, and now, here you are in Pompeii. I should like to hear everything.”

He is asking for nothing other than her entire life laid bare. Amara isn’t sure whether sex might have been easier. “My father was a doctor in Aphidnai,” she says. “I was his only child. He died when I was fifteen. A disease he caught from one of his patients. My mother tried to support us for a number of years, and when this was no longer possible, she sold me as a house slave to one of my father’s former patrons.”

“Wait a moment.” Pliny holds up his hand. “This makes no sense at all. Why did your mother not simply marry you off as quickly as possible? They must have been expecting you would marry soon anyway, at that age. You were an only child, what about the dowry?”

He has managed, inevitably, to hit on one of the most shameful parts of her story. “My father did not always charge his patients as he should have,” she says, feeling the need even now to defend him for his neglect. “The debts we expected to call in were never paid. And he had significant debts of his own. What dowry there was, my mother spent to provide for us both.”

Pliny is outraged. “But this was the most terrible negligence! From both of them!” He sees the distress on her face. “No, I am sorry, go on. You were sold as a house slave. What then.”

“My mother left the money she was paid for my sale with my possessions,” Amara says, wanting at least to clear her mother of greed. “But my new master took it, and he did not use me as a house slave, as promised, but as a concubine.” Pliny rolls his eyes, as if amazed anyone could have been duped into imagining otherwise. “I was there perhaps a year, but his wife became jealous and sold me as a whore. I was taken to Puteoli and sold there at the market to the pimp who runs the town brothel. That is how I am here.”

“The journey of the mind is always stranger than that of the body,” Pliny says, cryptically. “How have you adjusted? You must have spent your early life imagining becoming… what? A respected wife? A mother?”

“I knew that was my duty.”

“What did you want then, if not that?”

“What I wanted was idle daydreaming,” she says. Pliny huffs, impatient at her quibbling. Amara gives up. “I wanted to be a doctor,” she says. “Like my father. I just assumed this was going to happen because of all the hours he had me spend reading his texts. I had not understood. Then when I mentioned it one day, he explained that, of course, this was not possible.”

“That isn’t strictly true,” Pliny replies. “Certainly, you could not have practised medicine like your father, but there have always been women scholars, philosophers, living modest enough lives. Especially in Attica. But I understand his concern at the irregularity. Though,” he mutters, clearly still irritated by her parents, “that was all the more reason to have saved up the dowry.” He puts down the tablets, glancing round at his books. “Do you have a good reading voice?”

“I suppose I must have.”

“Excellent. You can help me a little, while you are here.” He switches to Greek. “We can even read Herophilos, if you wish. I’m minded to include him in my Natural History.”

Pliny’s accent is appalling, but his Greek is perfectly fluent. “I should like that so much,” she says, smiling at him. “It would be a pleasure for me.”

He smiles too, evidently satisfied with how the evening has gone. “Now, I will be up reading for a few hours,” he says, getting off the bed. “But please don’t let that disturb you. Feel free to sleep while I work.”

“Where would you like me to… sleep?”

“On the bed, of course,” Pliny says, exasperation creeping into his voice. He sits at his desk. It’s angled so that he can still see her. Amara makes a show of getting under the covers and half closes her eyes, watching him from under lowered eyelashes. Pleased to see her settled, Pliny turns back to his scrolls and ignores her. She fully intends to stay awake, but the rustle of parchment, the sound of the fountain and the smell of jasmine are all so soothing, she has soon drifted off.

She is still half asleep when she feels his fingers run through her hair. “You’ve not left me much room,” he whispers.

Instantly, she is alert. “Oh!” she exclaims, realizing she must have sprawled across the entire bed in her sleep. “Sorry,” she scrambles to the other side.

Pliny slips in beside her. “It’s a gift, to sleep well,” is all he says.

They lie next to each other in the dark. Amara has no idea what time of night, or perhaps morning, it is. She can sense from his extreme stillness and shallow breathing that Pliny is also fully awake. It is difficult to know what he might want, but Amara feels she had better suspect the obvious rather than offend him. She shuffles over, placing her hand gently on his arm. “I’m so grateful you invited me,” she says.

“You are a delightful girl,” he replies. Amara knows he is looking at her, but his face is obscured in the darkness. She leans over and kisses him. He has dry, papery lips. Pliny doesn’t respond to her kiss, but he doesn’t shove her off either. She relaxes, letting her body rest on his, while her hand travels across his thigh. Immediately, he stops her, catching her by the wrist. “There’s… no need.”

“I only want to please you,” she says, moving away, so she is no longer lying against him. “I didn’t mean to presume.”

“I understand,” he says, kissing her hand with his dry lips and releasing her wrist. “But there’s no need. It’s a pleasure for me simply to have you here.” He stretches out his own hand and rests it on her waist. It’s the only part of their bodies that is touching, though he is so close she can see the dark of his eyes and feel the warmth of his breath. “What lovely soft skin you have,” he says.

Amara remains braced in the same position, expecting that perhaps he wanted to be the one doing the seducing, until she realizes, as his hand grows heavier and his breathing deeper, that he is asleep.

She gently lifts his arm, moving his hand from her body and placing it on the bed, then shuffles away slightly, not wanting to roll into him later by mistake. Amara closes her eyes. She thinks this is going to be a very pleasant week.

23

Pliny is stroking his fingers through her hair. The sensation wakes her. She opens her eyes to see him staring down at her. Daylight is less forgiving of his age. There is grey hair on his bare chest and an oddly intent expression on his face. She wonders how long he has been watching her.

“I’m so glad you don’t dye your hair like so many silly women,” he says, by way of greeting. “Yours is such a lovely natural shade. Soft like a squirrel.” He leans over and gives her a dry kiss on the nose.

He is such a bewildering mixture of affectionate and creepy, Amara isn’t sure what to say. “Thank you,” she manages, hoping he will stop looming over her soon, so she can sit upright and move away.

He leans down again, this time kissing her on the forehead. Then he sits up, swinging his legs over his side of the bed.

“I need to write this morning,” he says. “But I should like you to read to me in the afternoon. In the meantime, take a scroll or two and enjoy the gardens. Secundus will bring you anything you might need; he knows you are staying for the week.” Pliny has been dressing himself as he talks – again she is surprised by the absence of slaves in his private room – but when he sees her pick up the transparent silk robe, he stops. “You’re not wearing that, are you?”

“I don’t have anything else,” she replies, amazed such a clever man is capable of being so obtuse.

“I suppose not.” He looks round absently, as if expecting sensible women’s clothes to sprout from one of the travel cases. “It will have to do for now. Maybe…” He frowns, watching her. “Maybe fold it a few more times?”

Amara doesn’t trust herself to reply. When she is dressed, he fusses round her while she chooses a scroll or rather accepts the bundle he gives her, then he escorts her to the door, seemingly now anxious for her to leave so he can work. She steps out onto the interior balcony, the glorious sweep of the gardens below. “Just take the stairs,” he says with a vague gesture before disappearing back into his study.

She walks slowly down into the garden with a sense of total enchantment. It is the cool of early morning but already the sky is blue, a promise of the blazing day ahead. The scent of flowers she cannot name is sweet in the air, and the fountain sparkles as it falls, the gentle rhythm of its splash like light footsteps. The balcony of the upper floor forms part of the shaded colonnade, and there are a number of benches, already strewn with cushions for whoever might wish to rest. Amara stands and stares, unable to believe what she sees. All this is hers for the day. She has nothing else to do than sit and read and look at this beautiful garden.

“Would you like some refreshment, mistress?”

A man, who may or may not be the Secundus Pliny mentioned, is standing a polite distance away.

Amara is embarrassed by the formality of his address. She clutches the scrolls to her chest, hoping to cover the thin fabric. “That would be very kind, thank you.”

The man leaves, and she sits down on one of the benches, facing the fountain. It’s a little chilly in the shade. She inspects the scrolls Pliny has given her. Both are Greek. Homer, she is familiar with, even though her family only owned a copy of two sections of The Odyssey, but she has never seen Apollonius’s The Argonautica. She unravels the top carefully and starts to read, when the same man comes back with a tray and a blanket.

“I thought you might be cold,” he says.

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you,” Amara replies, wrapping the throw round her shoulders. “Are you Secundus?”

“Yes.”

“I am Amara. It is very nice to meet you.”

His mouth twitches slightly in amusement, but he remains studiously polite. “Nice to meet you too, Mistress Amara.”

“Thank you,” she says again, as he sets down his tray on a small table beside the bench. “Do you know what music the admiral likes? I am hoping to play for him later; he has been so kind to me. I should very much like to sing something he might enjoy?”

“I am certain the admiral would be delighted to hear whatever you might wish to sing,” Secundus says, gravely. “Given he has been pleased to invite you here as his guest.” He bows and leaves her.

When he’s safely out of sight, Amara eagerly inspects the tray. It contains a piece of soft crumbling bread with honey spread on top, a glass of water and a plate of fruit – apricots and damsons. She tries not to eat it all too fast or too greedily then gets up to dip her fingers in the fountain. She is certain Pliny would not like honey or damson stains on his parchment. Then she settles back to the cushions with a sigh and begins The Argonautica.

It is a morning unlike any other in Amara’s life. Even at her father’s house she never knew such leisure and luxury. Secundus appears with another light tray of food – cheese, olives and more bread, a small glass of sweet wine – but otherwise, she is left completely undisturbed. She reads, she strolls round the garden inspecting the flowers, admiring the jasmine that she knows will smell even sweeter in the evening. She looks at the paintings around the colonnade – exquisite garden scenes, wild birds in flight, a dove resting at a fountain that mirrors the real one which splashes gently through the day. She knows she is near the hustle of the street, but very little of its noise disturbs her tranquillity.

By late afternoon, the sun’s heat has warmed every corner of the garden, and she has discarded the blanket Secundus brought her. She is beginning to feel a little anxious that Pliny has forgotten her, when he arrives, followed by a slave carrying a trunk. “How have you enjoyed the gardens?” he asks, joining her in the shaded colonnade.

“They are wonderful,” she says. “I’ve never known such happiness.”

He nods, looking pleased. “If you would read a little to me now,” he says; “I will be able to tell if I find your voice easy to listen to or not.” The slave hands her a scroll. “I brought Herophilos’s On Pulses; I need to study him in any case, and it helps if you are familiar with the text.”

The scroll in Amara’s hands is a thousand times finer than the one from her father’s house, but she feels a flood of emotion unrolling it. “Is there a section you would prefer?” she asks.

“Start from the beginning,” Pliny says wryly. “I generally find that helps.”

Amara begins to read. The text is more complete than the one her father owned, but the phrases and cadences are still familiar. It is like recounting a prayer, an incantation to all she used to hold dear. She has been reading for some minutes, with Pliny scribbling notes, when he stops her. “Go back a little,” he says. “Just a couple of lines.” She obliges, and he nods, satisfied. She continues, reading solidly for several hours, helped by the odd glass of water brought by the ever diligent Secundus. Eventually, they break for dinner.

“You have a musical voice,” Pliny says. “Not too cloying. I can see why your father found you so useful. I find many women’s voices hard to listen to for long periods, but yours has just the right quality.”

“Will you let me sing for you?” she asks.

“I’m not sure I’m really a man to be serenaded with Sappho,” he says, sounding amused rather than unkind.

“I wasn’t going to,” she replies. “I used to sing a version of Nausicaa’s meeting with Odysseus for my parents. I thought you might find it pleasant.”

“By all means then,” he says, though his tone suggests he has agreed more through politeness than eagerness.

Amara and Pliny have dinner in the garden. With only the two of them present, there is no question of the dining room. He asks her about The Argonautica, about her views of Apollonius’s depiction of the love between Jason and Medea. She is grateful to have read enough to discuss it. After they have eaten, one of the slaves brings her the lyre, and she plays for him, a tune that takes her back to her childhood and the affectionate gaze of her parents.

She looks at him expectantly when she finishes, hoping he has enjoyed it. But the expression she sees on his face is one of immense sadness.

“Your parents did not serve you well, Amara,” he says at last. “You are a lovely girl. They should have ensured you had a dowry.”

“Please,” she says. “They are both dead. I cannot think badly of them.”

Pliny inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I understand. Forgive me.”

When it is too dark and chill to stay longer in the garden, they walk back up to Pliny’s room. There are even more scrolls scattered about than she remembers. “Ah, I forgot,” he says, pointing to a pile of women’s clothes. “I had them find you some more suitable things.”

“Thank you,” she says, resisting the urge to pick them up and see what he has given her. “I will wear them tomorrow. You are so kind to me.”

He watches her get undressed, with the same intent expression that she remembers from the morning. Amara hopes that he wants her, that this evening he will not move away. She knows that it is not him she has fallen in love with – it is the gardens, the beauty of the life he possesses – but there is no focus for her desire other than the man in front of her. In spite of her efforts undressing, he does not join her on the bed, instead sitting down at his desk to work.

“Could I not read for you?” she asks

“You must be tired,” he answers. “I would not expect you to sit up reading all night.”

“Please,” she says. “I would like to.”

He hesitates then passes her the scroll he is studying. “From there,” he says, indicating the point in the text with his thumb.

This time there is no Secundus to bring her discreet glasses of water and the treatise on plants is unfamiliar and even worse, the scribe’s handwriting is cramped and hard to decipher. More than once, she hears Pliny wince or tut impatiently as she stumbles over a phrase, but still, Amara reads on and on, until she thinks she will lose her voice or fall asleep exhausted over the parchment. Finally, he has had enough and gets ready for bed. “I see we are alike in our avoidance of sleep,” he says. “It always seems a kind of death to me.”

She lies closer to him as he gets in beside her, hoping he will put an arm round her. He doesn’t. “Amara is not a name I have heard before,” he says, when they are lying facing one another in the dark. “I take it it is not your real name.”

“My master gave it to me,” she says, and the mention of Felix is like the cold of a knife laid flat against her heart. “He told me it is halfway between love and bitterness.”

“Yes, amare, amarum,” he says. “A bit poetic for a pimp.”

Pliny rests his hand in the hollow of her waist, the same as he did last night, and she is afraid he is going to fall asleep. She leans towards him, so that his hand slides into the small of her back and kisses him. His lips are as dry and unmoving as before. She kisses him again, trying to imagine he is Menander, that he will respond to her like Menander, but instead, he pushes her gently away.

“I just want to please you.” It’s a line that she has repeated endlessly to so many customers without a trace of sincerity. This time she wishes the need wasn’t so abject in her voice.

“You do please me,” he says, as if humouring a child. “I like looking at you; you are very lovely.” He runs his fingers slowly through her hair, the same way he did when he woke her in the morning. “I don’t feel the need for more.”

He must be impotent, she thinks, and finds the idea neither disturbs nor reassures her. She is too exhausted and the bed is too comfortable for her to mind anymore about the puzzle of Pliny. She falls asleep, lulled by the sensation of him still stroking her head.

Time passes like a silk ribbon through her fingers. Every hour spent as Pliny’s guest sees her fall more deeply in love with his life, her days an endless procession of pleasures. She bathes alone in the private bath suite, has her hair dressed each morning, eats freely without considering the price of the food. Slowly, she feels her own body return to her. Nobody touches her without permission, still less with violence. In the beautiful garden, the brothel’s ugliness starts to take on a sense of unreality. But she still knows it is there, like the fading bruise on her arm.

Pliny becomes the obsessive focus of her hopes. She never spends as much time with him as she did on her first day – he is often busy receiving guests or dining out – but every night, she reads to him and falls asleep under the weight of his hand. She sits in the shadow of the colonnade, watching silently when guests call on him in the garden, trying to learn more about his habits, his views, anything that might allow her to make herself indispensable to him. He would be a good master, she tells herself, imagining her life as his secretary. Even if he lost interest in her, if she became a half-forgotten beautiful object in his home, something to set alongside the flowers or the fountains, her voice would still be useful to him, he would still treat her with kindness. Sometimes, alone in the garden, she thinks of the other women, of Dido most of all, and she longs to talk to her. Then she is flooded by guilt at her planned abandonment. She tells herself elaborate lies: that if Pliny bought her, she would persuade him to buy Dido too, that her own good fortune could be shared. She tries not to think of Menander, the memories are as painful to hold as burning firewood.

On her sixth day at Pliny’s house, her fear of being sent back to the brothel is so intense, she cannot read. He has said nothing about her leaving but has not mentioned extending her stay either. She is sitting silently in the garden, hidden in the shadows, when two of Pliny’s acquaintances visit.

They stand gossiping by the fountain as they wait for him. It is a while before she realizes what they are talking about.

“… I don’t know why he picked her up. Only Pliny could be so eccentric, taking home some funny little Greek girl who sang at a party.”

Startled, she turns her attention to the speaker. He is much younger than Pliny, with an arrogant, self-satisfied air. He reminds her of Quintus.

His companion has his back to her, but she can hear the amusement in his voice. “Caecilius saw her when he dropped in this week. Quite pretty, he said, but perfectly ridiculous. So lovelorn she was practically quivering, gazing at the admiral with tragic dormouse eyes. And Pliny paid her no mind at all!”

The first man snorts with stifled laugher. “Well, you have to hand it to him. I’ll be quite happy if I can fuck a whore into a state of devotion at that age.”

“The old boy’s put a bit of weight on. Let’s hope she doesn’t give him a heart attack.”

The men’s mockery doesn’t hurt Amara, but her powerlessness does. Across the garden, standing silently in the colonnade, she realizes Secundus is also listening. His exact role in Pliny’s life is unclear to her, but she soon guessed that he is more than a steward – he is his master’s eyes and ears. She can see from his face, usually so inscrutable, that he is angry. The two men carry on chatting idly at the fountain, oblivious to the two slaves listening. Secundus looks at her. He has always known she was there. He smiles, inclining his head slightly towards the men. She knows then that whatever favour the pair came to seek from the admiral today will not be granted.

It is Secundus who tells her later that Pliny will dine alone with her that night.

“Do you think he would like me to sing for him?” she asks.

“I think he enjoys your reading voice most,” Secundus replies, tactfully. “He has told me how helpful you have been, reading to him for hours, long into the night without any complaint.”

“It has only been a pleasure for me.”

The look Secundus gives her has more than a little pity in it. Her sense of foreboding grows.

Pliny is in a good mood at dinner, more than usually solicitous about what she has been reading, complimenting her, even, at one point, kissing her hand, the only sign of physical affection he has ever shown her outside his bedroom.

He is saying goodbye to me, she thinks. She watches Pliny’s mouth move as he talks. There is no cruelty in his face. The merry splash of the fountain mingles with his well-considered words, the air is scented with jasmine. She cannot imagine going back to Felix, back to the brothel with all its darkness, its daily violence. It will kill her.

“I shall miss you,” Pliny says at last, when one of the slaves brings out a large bowl of fruit. He takes an apple. “It has been a pleasure to have you here.”

“Don’t send me back,” Amara says, the words coming unprepared and unbidden. “I beg you, please, please don’t.” He looks at her in surprise, and her sense of desperation grows. She clasps his hand, pressing it against her heart. “I would be loyal to you; I would give my life to your service, I would be the most devoted secretary you could ever wish. I would be anything you wanted, go anywhere you asked.”

“My dear girl,” Pliny says, “there is no need for this…”

“Please don’t send me away from you,” Amara says, losing all sense of dignity, falling to her knees and weeping into the palms of his hands. “Please. You could buy me from my master. I would read to you every night, dedicate every hour to your work. I would never sleep in your service.”

“You do have the most beautiful voice,” Pliny says. She looks up at him and sees that for a moment he is wavering, considering her offer. Then he looks down. “But I already have a number of secretaries. I don’t know what place there would be for you. I have already asked you everything I need to know for my work. And you know I’m not a man to keep a concubine, enchanting as you are.” He helps her to her feet, seats her beside him. “It is very sweet of you to make such an offer. I am touched by your loyalty. But I cannot accept.”

She collapses, weeping, onto the couch beside him. He rests a hand on her shoulder. “Amara, please, control yourself. There is no sense to this at all.”

But she cannot control herself, and the beautiful garden is filled with the ugly sound of her hysterical crying. Eventually, when she is completely exhausted and her eyes too swollen for more tears, he suggests retiring to bed. He seems weary, irritated even, by her emotion.

“It’s a shame to have wasted your last evening,” he says, watching her undress. “I’ve already explained it to you. It’s not that I don’t find you delightful, but there’s just no place for you in my household. And really, I’m an old man. You must want something else, surely? Plenty of courtesans end up married, or settled in some way, in the end.”

“I don’t want anything else,” Amara says, lying down heavily on the bed, her limbs weighted with misery. She can already feel the walls of the brothel closing in on her.

For once, he does not head straight to his books but lies down beside her. He props himself on one elbow, leaning over her, and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re an intelligent girl. You must understand.”

Amara closes her eyes, tears leaking from beneath the lashes. She feels the warmth of him as he comes closer, his papery lips planting a kiss on her forehead. She turns away, curling into a ball, hiding her face in her hands. He sighs loudly with annoyance and thumps off the bed.

She hears him mutter the word ridiculous as he sits down at his desk. Amara is exhausted by unhappiness. She falls asleep, as she did on the first night, to the sound of Pliny working, the splash of the fountain in the garden below.

24

When Amara wakes, Pliny is already sitting at his desk, watching her. From his expression, she knows there is no point in repeating her humiliation from last night.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour,” she says, sitting up, holding the covers to her chest. “I did not mean to repay your kindness in such a way. I hope you are not offended.”

Pliny relaxes, obviously relieved to find her calm. He walks over, takes her hand and pats it. “I know women are naturally emotional creatures,” he says. “There was nothing offensive about your offer. I’m only glad you understand. Now,” he ushers her out of bed and shoos her towards her clothes, perhaps nervous she might become tearful again. “I have been thinking this morning about a favour you may be able to do for me. The nephew of a dear friend is calling on me shortly. If you are willing, I should like you to be a friend to him.”

Amara pauses in her dressing. “A friend?”

“All young men need some experience with a woman before they marry,” he says, with a shrug. “A father can only hope his boy doesn’t land on some coarse, unintelligent whore who runs through the family money. Of course, Rufus is rather romantic, a little naïve I suspect. I am trusting you to be a loyal, helpful friend to him. One who always understands her place. No hysterics. Can I rely on you to do that?”

Amara nods. “I would perform any service for you,” she says.

“I hope not too onerous a service,” he says. “Rufus is a pleasant enough boy.” Pliny peers at her face. “Perhaps it might be wise to see the maid this morning. I will meet you in the garden.”

Amara walks out onto the interior balcony, heading to the small room at the front of the house where Sarah, a maid belonging to Pliny’s hosts, has dressed her hair each day. She takes in Amara’s reddened eyes and, without asking any questions, soaks a scrap of cloth in cold water. She motions for her to sit down at the dressing table. “Hold this against your eyelids,” she says. “It will help.”

Amara wonders what Sarah thinks of Pliny sending her a prostitute to look after. She has never been anything but polite. Amara sits obediently in the darkness, the cloth pressed to her closed eyes, while Sarah does her hair. When she has finished, Sarah takes Amara’s hands from her face. “Better,” she says. “Now dry them.”

Sarah picks up the kohl and a slender brush, drawing delicate lines around Amara’s eyes with swift, deft movements then dabs a dark grey powder on her eyelids. A glass vial sits on the dresser, jasmine distilled from the garden. She passes it to Amara who unstoppers the lid and rubs the scent along her neck. Sarah takes it back, hands her the small silver mirror, the final rite in their ritual. Amara looks at her reflection. In the respectable clothes Pliny has given her – no doubt also chosen by Sarah – she does not look like a young woman who works in a brothel.

“Thank you,” Amara says. “For everything.” Sarah nods, polite but not inclined to talk. Whatever she really thinks of Pliny’s guest, it is impossible to guess.

Pliny himself is reading a scroll when she joins him in the garden. She sits down silently, trying not to think about how soon she has to leave this place. She wonders what Rufus will be like, tries to summon the energy to charm him, muster the will to seize the opportunity Pliny has laid out for her. Secundus arrives with bread and fruit. He has not served food since the first day of her visit, when she suspects his real purpose was to examine her, so she is surprised to see him with the tray.

Secundus looks at Amara, as if appraising what is wrong with the scene. “Shall I bring you your lyre, mistress?”

“Thank you,” she says, grateful to be given something to do.

She has breakfast – Pliny is still too engrossed in his scroll to talk to her – then begins to play. The feel of the strings beneath her fingers, the chance to lose herself in singing, is a relief. An hour passes, the sun warming the garden, the flowers opening their faces to its light.

She plays tirelessly to Pliny as he reads, as if she were his devoted daughter.

“Rufus is here.” Secundus is standing by his master. As always, she did not hear his approach.

Amara deliberately carries on playing, only glancing up briefly to see a young man hovering by the fountain. He is gazing at her, clearly not expecting to see anyone but the admiral.

Pliny beckons him over. “Rufus! How is Julius? I was sorry to miss him in Misenum.”

“He sends you his warmest greetings,” Rufus says. “As do my parents. They are spending the summer at Baiae, or else they would have called on you while you are staying in Pompeii.”

“Be sure to send them my best regards,” Pliny says. “Baiae is delightful at this time of year.” He glances over at Amara. “Your uncle told me you are very fond of the theatre these days. This is Amara, a little guest of mine; she is a gifted musician.”

It is the first time Pliny has expressed any interest in her music. Amara stops playing, bowing her head modestly to Rufus. The young man looks a little uncertain, perhaps having heard the jokes about Pliny and his new Greek girl. “Lovely to meet you,” he says.

The two men chat for a while, but it is clear that, aside from a shared affection for Rufus’s uncle, Julius, who served with Pliny in the army, they have little in common. Secundus appears again, murmuring something in his master’s ear. Pliny excuses himself, asking Rufus to wait a moment while he sees a client.

Rufus and Amara sit in silence, both at a loss over how to navigate this particular social circumstance.

“That was a pretty tune,” Rufus finally says to her. “Might you sing something else?”

Amara obliges, playing one of the more haunting melodies Salvius taught her. She has never performed it in public – she and Dido decided it was too melancholy – but Rufus is enchanted.

“What a lovely voice you have!” he exclaims, like a delighted child. He seems so much younger than her, she thinks, even though he is almost certainly older. He is not exactly handsome, his nose is too big and his face too broad, but he is tall, and his smile is so open and friendly she finds it hard not to smile back. He does not have the careless arrogance of a Quintus or Marcus.

“Thank you.”

“How did you… er… meet the admiral?” Clearly, he has heard the rumours.

“I was performing at a dinner,” she says. “The admiral was interested in the work of my late father, who was a doctor, and asked me to assist him for a few days with his work on natural history.”

“Right,” says Rufus, looking dumbfounded.

“The admiral is a man who is interested in the pursuit of knowledge above all else,” she continues. “He does not have the prejudices or assumptions of lesser men. Meaning,” she looks directly at Rufus, “he does not pick up whores at parties for the purposes others might imagine.”

He blushes deep red. “No! Of course! I mean, I didn’t think…”

She quickly interrupts to save his embarrassment. “Forgive me,” she says. “The admiral’s respect means a great deal to me, and he has been so very kind.” She looks down, as if ashamed. “I should not have spoken so bluntly.”

Rufus looks even more discombobulated by the switch back to virtue than he did at the mention of whores. “How long are you staying to… help him with his studies?”

“I am leaving today,” Amara says, and this time there is nothing artful to her sadness.

“That’s a shame!” he exclaims. “Will you be leaving Pompeii altogether?”

“No, I live in the town.” She can see Rufus is intrigued. She needs to press his interest past the tipping point. “I was interested to hear you enjoy the theatre. Which plays do you like?”

His face lights up. “There’s nothing more truthful than a play, is there? I love them all, but do you know, I think comedies are braver somehow. All of life up there on the stage, and actors have the courage to say what one cannot say elsewhere.” He stops, looking a little embarrassed for gushing. “But you must know all this already, doing what you do. I must say, I rather envy you for being a performer.”

The thought that this wealthy young man, with the entire world at his feet, might envy a penniless slave who sings to lecherous punters at parties is so absurd Amara cannot, at first, think of a reply. But he is gazing at her earnestly without any idea how ridiculous he sounds. “That’s so sweet of you,” she says. “I particularly enjoy arranging the words to music, finding ways to tell the story.”

“What fun you must have,” Rufus says, disarming her with his infectious smile. “Do you get the chance to go to the theatre much yourself?”

“No, sadly,” Amara says. “Though I should like to. It has been such happiness for me here, having time to read. But losing yourself in the story of a play is another pleasure entirely.”

“You must let me take you one night,” Rufus says. “That is, if you are really sure it wouldn’t be stepping on Pliny’s toes.”

For the first time since they began talking, Amara sees a degree of calculation in the way Rufus is looking at her. He still thinks Pliny had her, she realizes. “I used to live a very different life,” she says carefully. “I was a doctor’s daughter. The admiral is the first man to have treated me as if my past were still my present. At no time has he shown me anything other than a fatherly kindness.” It is a lie, and yet, as she says it, she knows there is also truth in it. None of the usual rules quite apply to her relationship with Pliny. Amara remembers last night, the humiliation of begging, his uncomprehending rejection and, for a moment, fears she might cry again.

Rufus mistakes her sudden emotion and rushes to sit beside her. “I’m sorry,” he says, clasping her hand. “What an oaf I am. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He gazes into her eyes. His own are hazel, wide now with concern. “What a tragic life you must have! And how insensitive I have been, asking you such things.”

He wants a sob story, Amara thinks, so he can rescue me. She has acted many parts, she tells herself. At least this one has the virtue of mirroring real life. “No, you are very kind.” She looks down in what she hopes is a show of shyness. “I am only sad because I must return to my master today and leave the admiral’s protection.”

“Where is your master’s house?”

Amara hesitates, wondering if it is too soon to relay the crucial information. “The Wolf Den.”

“The town brothel?” Rufus recoils.

Amara hides her face in her hands, defeated. Reality has proved a plot twist too far.

“You poor girl,” Rufus says. “How utterly tragic.” He takes her hands from her face. “Please don’t cry. I won’t think any less of you, I promise. I will call at… I will call and take you to the theatre. It would be a pleasure to know you better.”

Amara is in danger of crying genuine tears of relief. “I should like that so much,” she says.

He leans closer, his hand resting on the bench, close to her knee. There is a more familiar look on his face. “Might I kiss you?”

She feels a flash of annoyance. After everything she has told him about her past, about the way Pliny has treated her, he still wants to own her after five minutes’ conversation. She lifts her hand for him to kiss.

“Of course,” he says, taking it. “Of course, not in the admiral’s house.”

“Thank you,” she says, giving him what she hopes is an adoring smile. “It means everything to be treated with kindness.”

“You deserve nothing less,” he says, gallantly. They sit awkwardly for a moment. “I’m going to have to leave now though.” He stands up. “Perhaps you could pass on my goodbyes to Pliny. I promise I will call on you this week.”

“Thank you,” Amara replies. “Don’t leave it too long.”

When he has left, Amara sits in the garden, lifted by a current of hope. She is looking forward to thanking Pliny for the introduction. Then she sees Secundus step from the shadow of the colonnade. He is carrying a small bundle. Her things. Instantly, she understands. Pliny will not be coming back to say goodbye.

Secundus walks over and sits next to her on the bench, putting her clothes down between them. “When he brought you here,” he says, looking straight ahead to the fountain, “I told him he would be lucky if you didn’t demand your weight’s worth in gifts every day. At the very least you would leave here with one priceless jewel. He wagered me a denarius I was wrong.” He smiles at her. “So you cost me a denarius.”

She smiles back at him. “Sorry.” The thought of asking Pliny for gifts had in fact crossed her mind. But she knew Felix would only have taken them all. “Did he tell you what I did ask from him?”

“Your undying service. That’s a gift though. Not a demand.” He turns away from her. “We both know what service costs.”

They sit, united briefly by the unspoken understanding one slave has for another. “I also heard you crying last night. I think the whole house heard you.” He looks at her, not unkindly but with determination. “That cannot happen today.”

She blushes. “It won’t.” Secundus nods, satisfied. “You know, it wasn’t just for the life,” she says, gesturing at the fountain, the garden. “I mean, of course it was for that. But I believe I love him too.”

Secundus does not immediately reply. Then he stands, and she knows he is going to leave, that she will have to leave. Amara bites her lip, determined not to embarrass herself with more tears.

“You didn’t ask for a gift,” he says. “But he has chosen a gift for you, nonetheless. I have put it with your clothes.” He pauses. “I will give you a moment, so you can have the privacy of your thoughts before you leave. But it can only be a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” she says.

Secundus bows and walks away.

Amara picks up the bundle of clothes, expecting to find coins slipped between her robes. But whatever it is, it is much heavier. She draws out the scroll Pliny has left her. On Pulses by Herophilos.

25

“Look who it is! Look who it is!” Beronice screams as Amara steps into the brothel. “We thought you were never coming home!”

Victoria and Dido rush out into the corridor to join her. “I’m so happy you’re back; I’m so happy to see you,” Dido flings her arms round her, crying into her neck. “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

“It was only a week!” Amara says, torn between happiness at seeing Dido and guilt from knowing she spent yesterday begging never to return here.

“What was he like then?” Victoria also looks very pleased to see Amara but would never be so soft as to say so. “Bet he was a total pervert; the old ones always are.”

Amara hesitates. She had so looked forward to laughing with Victoria about that first, ridiculous night with Pliny, but now it feels too private. The thought of mocking him only makes her sad. “He was the kindest man I’ve ever met,” she replies, her voice quavering.

“Oh, look at her!” Victoria laughs. “You’re all welling up. We’ve had the weird ironmonger, and now you’re in love with some doddery old granddad. You have the worst taste in men I have ever known!”

“That guy she met at the games was alright,” Beronice says, defending her. “He wasn’t bad at all.”

“Say that louder, and Gallus might hear you,” Victoria whispers, and they all laugh as Beronice whips round.

“Fuck you,” Beronice says to Victoria, but she is laughing too.

“And what’s all this?” Victoria gestures at her to hand over the clothes. “How many new outfits did he give you?”

“Three,” Amara says, passing them round. “I guess I’ll have to give them all to Felix.”

“Lovely material,” Victoria says, stroking one of the dresses. “But you do look a bit matronly.” She squints at the respectable clothes Amara is wearing. “I shouldn’t think anyone would dare ask for a shag if you swanned around in that.” An idea strikes her. “Please don’t tell me the old man wanted you to dress up as his dead wife too!”

“No.” Amara laughs. “Nothing like that.”

“What then?” Beronice says. “Must have been something special to buy you for a week.”

“He wanted me to read to him.”

“Sexy books?” Victoria is too shocked to make a joke out of it. “Is that it?”

“No! I mean we went to bed together,” Amara says defensively, thinking of the nights she spent lying naked beside Pliny, his hand resting on her while they both slept. “Just that…” She trails off, not knowing how to explain what happened or how she feels about it.

“It’s alright,” Dido says, hugging her again. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Went to bed together,” Victoria says, copying her coy phrase. “I’ve heard it all now.”

Amara feels suddenly exhausted. After so much time alone, it is going to be a strain returning to the total lack of privacy. “I might just have a rest so I’m not too tired tonight.”

“Oh, you can’t go in there…” Victoria says as Amara draws the curtain to her own cell.

“Who’s this?” Amara asks in surprise. An unfamiliar woman is sitting on her bed. She is shockingly pale and has a tangled mass of long red hair. At the sight of the others, she springs up, towering over them, babbling urgently in a strange, guttural language. Amara cannot tell if she is furious or terrified. She steps back into the corridor in alarm.

“Sit!” Victoria shouts, pointing at the bed. “Sit!”

The stranger goes back into the cell, still talking in her incomprehensible tongue, gesturing at them.

“Felix bought her with your old man’s money,” Victoria says. “He told us it’s because you and Dido are out so much, we need more bodies in the brothel.”

“Where am I sleeping then?”

“You can come in with me,” Dido says. “Makes sense.”

“Doesn’t speak a word of Latin,” Victoria says. “We’ve called her Britannica, because that’s where she’s from. Cressa’s the only one she seems to like. She’s off buying more food for the greedy thing now.”

“I thought all the Britons had blue faces,” Beronice says, looking at Britannica with disappointment. “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? Blue-faced Britons.”

“She’s certainly a savage,” Victoria says. “She just screams all night, scratching the men, biting. She punched one yesterday! Like some sort of animal!”

Amara doesn’t like the way Victoria is talking about Britannica, even if the other woman doesn’t understand. She glances at her again. The Briton is silent now. She certainly looks like a wildcat, with her mane of red hair and green eyes. But the emotion in them is all too human. Rage at her confinement.

“Are you all just standing there talking about her again?”

It’s Cressa, carrying a lump of bread. She shoves them out of the way so she can get in the cell. “You might have a little compassion.”

Britannica’s face lights up at the sight of Cressa, and she begins gabbling. Cressa sits beside her, talking soothingly to her as if she were a small child, stroking her hair. She gives the bread to Britannica who wolfs it down. “Sorry, Amara, I didn’t realize you were back,” she says, finally noticing her.

“That’s alright,” she replies. “I remember my father telling me about the women in Britain. A lot of them are warriors. Maybe Britannica was a soldier.”

“The women go to war?” Dido says.

“Not all of them. My father told me they had a famous queen; I don’t know her name. But she destroyed a Roman army.”

Beronice makes the sign of the evil eye. “Women aren’t meant to rule. It’s unnatural.”

“Britannica’s hardly a warrior queen! She can’t even defeat a drunken sailor,” Victoria says, though Amara notices that she eyes the stranger with a new, wary respect.

“Were you a warrior?” Cressa asks Britannica gently. “Is that why you hate it here so much?” Britannica smiles at her, not understanding the words, only the kindness behind them.

“Amara!” Thraso is shouting from the doorway of the brothel. “Are you still in there? I told you to go up to Felix.”

“I’m just coming,” she calls back.

“No, you’re not,” he snaps, barging inside and grabbing her hard by the arm. She cries out in pain. “You’re a fucking timewaster. Move it.” He lets go of her and stomps off again.

“He’s just annoyed Balbus gave him a black eye yesterday,” Victoria whispers. “Some stupid fight about Drauca.”

“What about her?” Amara asks, suddenly anxious.

“Who knows,” Victoria shrugs. “Thraso would start a fight about anything.”

It is a room she had hoped never to see again. The red glow, the bulls’ skulls. She stands, saying nothing, as Felix goes through her new clothes.

“Is this all he gave you? After a week?”

“There was this as well,” she says, holding up the scroll but not handing it over.

Felix gestures impatiently, and she gives it to him. He unravels it clumsily, looking for hidden coins or jewellery. “Anatomy?” He frowns, looking more closely at one of the illustrations. Amara doesn’t answer. If Felix understands her attachment to Pliny’s gift, he will only use it against her. He hands it back, and she takes it, rolling it up again, trying not to let the relief show on her face. “Not much after such a long stay.”

“He introduced me to a new client though. So those dresses will come in useful.”

“What new client?”

“A man called Rufus. He will be calling on you to buy me for an evening.” She hesitates, knowing how much Felix hates being given advice. “I’m hoping that he is a long-term investment, so I think we might be better not charging too much at first, so that he continues paying.”

“You’re running the business now, are you?”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t mean…”

“Amara,” Felix says, grinning. “I was joking. You’ve done well. The old man paid a fair price.” He picks up one of the dresses. “If this new one turns into a regular client, you can keep these to wear out with him. If not, I will sell them.” He waves a hand at the clothes she still has on. “But you certainly don’t need to be wearing them now.”

Amara had guessed he might make her change and has brought her old gaudy toga up from downstairs. She strips off, handing him the new clothes.

“You’ve put weight on,” he says, looking her over as she dresses. “It suits you.”

“You’ll have to feed me more then,” she says, risking a joke, “if you like it so much.” Felix shakes his head but looks amused. A memory of the night they spent together comes back to her. The way he rested his head on her shoulder, looked up with the same flash of humour in his eyes. And she had smiled back.

Amara doesn’t like remembering. “Thraso looked worse for wear,” she says. “Why were he and Balbus fighting?”

She knows, as soon as she has asked, that it was a mistake. Any hint of playfulness has gone from his face. “I thought the old man was going to buy you,” Felix says, ignoring her question. “The Admiral of the Fleet! What a change that would have been. But here you are, back at the brothel.” She says nothing. “What did he do with you all week?”

“Just the usual,” she says, her mouth feeling dry.

“I doubt that,” Felix says. He puts his arms round her in an exaggerated parody of affection. “Did he tell you how lovely you were? Gaze into your eyes? Was he gentle?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t gentle?” Felix pretends to be shocked. “What a shit! He certainly fed you well. But I’m not sure I believe you. I think he spoiled you, that old man. Made you forget who you are.”

His fingers are digging painfully into her upper arms, but she doesn’t flinch. Amara has belonged to Felix so long, she knows that he is going to rape her, to humiliate her, to try and destroy the last traces of the happiness she has brought back, now fading like the scent of jasmine on her skin. She grips the scroll Pliny gave her. There are parts of herself Felix cannot know or touch.

“I never forget,” she says.

“Good,” Felix lets go of her. “You should get back to work then.”

She is almost over the threshold of the doorway, giddy with relief, when he stops her. “Did I say you could take that?” Amara waits as he walks up to her, lets him take Pliny’s gift from her hands. “I might be able to sell it.” He turns the scroll over, a dismissive look on his face. “You never know what someone else will value.”

26

The theatre’s stage is blazing with torches, even though dusk has not yet fallen. The brightly painted columns and statues, the flamboyance of the actors, the laughter, reminds her of the atmosphere at the Vinalia. Amara has never been to see a play before and is enjoying the luxury of watching rather than being watched. Let someone else have the hard work of entertaining for a while. Beside her, Rufus has taken her hand, and his look of utter delight at the unfolding scene endears him to her. He really is like a child, she thinks.

She finds the play easy to follow. It is The Eunuch by Terence who, Rufus eagerly assures her, is a greater master than Virgil. She would certainly like to borrow the luck of the play’s courtesan, Thais, who seems to rule the men through charm alone. Amara suspects Thais never encountered a pimp like Felix.

She finds herself laughing at this world where the slaves are cleverer than their masters, and the men love women to distraction. She remembers Rufus telling her he admired the theatre for telling the truth – can he really think the world is like this? On stage, she watches as an actor disguises himself as a eunuch in order to rape the slave girl he fancies. He is a tall man, lisping and mincing to convince everyone he is safe to leave with the young virgin. Laughter ripples round the theatre at the absurdity and audacity of the joke.

“The comic timing!” Rufus whispers to her. “It’s perfect.”

The girl’s exaggerated screams off stage cause further titters of amusement. Rufus laughs with the rest. Amara sits listening to the actress’s cries, a fixed smile on her face. Perhaps comedy is a mirror after all.

The sky turns a deeper blue, and the shadows on stage lengthen. Rufus is caressing her hand, teasing out the shape of her fingers with his own. She had worried, before this evening, about being out of place in a respectable crowd. Victoria had insisted she let her make some changes to the white robe Pliny gave her – “You don’t want Rufus thinking he’s taken his mother! At least show a bit of shoulder.” – and now she is grateful to her friend. Many of the women here are obviously courtesans, out with wealthy lovers. Her eye is drawn to one woman, sitting with the poise of a queen, her robes elegantly dipped at the back to show the line of her dark brown shoulder blades. Amara shuffles on her seat, trying to pull her own dress a little further down her arm.

The play’s end surprises her. Thais gets to keep both her lovers – the one she likes and the one who pays. She looks at Rufus who is cheering enthusiastically. Perhaps her life will disturb him less than she feared. He turns to her, face lit with excitement. “Did you like it?”

“It was wonderful!” she exclaims. “I cannot think of a happier evening!”

“I’m so glad,” he says, kissing her hand. “I hoped you would.”

They spill back out onto the streets with the rest of the audience. Laughter and conversation warm the evening air. Amara can see a small crowd pressed around Marcella’s bar and instinctively turns away.

“Is there somewhere to entertain privately at your place?” Rufus asks. He has not yet been to the brothel – one of his slaves was sent to collect her.

“Oh!” Amara says, looking horrified. “We couldn’t go there!” She imagines Rufus stepping into the narrow, sooty corridor, greeted by some vomiting laundryman, embracing her to the sound of Victoria’s moaning, the air stagnant with the smell from the latrine. She would never see him again. “It’s a terrible place!”

“But you seem so… lovely,” Rufus replies, looking at the nearly-respectable white dress, her carefully dressed hair.

Amara knows she cannot tell him she is ashamed of the squalor; she must invent a more poetic reason to stay away. “My master is unbelievably cruel,” she replies. “If he thought there was a chance I might be happy with you, even for an hour, he would never let me see you again.”

“Really?” Rufus looks alarmed.

Amara glances at him sidelong, as if too shy to be direct. “If he thought I might care for anyone, he would punish me dreadfully.” Even as she says it, she can imagine Felix laughing. As if he would care about anything other than the money.

Rufus squeezes her hand. “I will take you to my home. My parents are away for the summer.”

They walk to his house, accompanied by a small retinue of slaves who must have had to hang around outside the theatre during the performance. Rufus is still enjoying talking about the play, and together, they amuse themselves imagining what mischief Thais and her lover might make after the action has ended. “And even our eunuch married his girl in the end,” he says about the rapist, “so no harm done.”

The porter lets them in, and Amara feels a flood of relief that they did not go to the brothel. It is a wealthy home, not far from Zoilus’s house, and as Rufus leads her across the atrium, a beautiful marine mosaic beneath their feet, she imagines his horror at the Wolf Den’s baked mud floor. They pass through the courtyard, and he stops to break off a sprig of jasmine.

“This scent always makes me think of you,” he says, giving it to her. “The way you were sitting in that garden! Surrounded by a thousand white stars. I was just thinking to myself I had no idea the admiral had a daughter and then I remembered…” He stops abruptly.

And then you remembered Pliny had hired a whore, Amara thinks. “That’s such a beautiful thing to say,” she whispers, inhaling the flower’s scent before tucking the stem behind her ear. “Thank you.” She doesn’t stop him when he kisses her this time. Why else, after all, is she here?

“A little further,” he says, letting go of her. “My rooms are this way.” One of the slaves has accompanied them, and Rufus turns to him before leading her off. “Some refreshments please, Vitalio.”

Rufus’s rooms are set off the large garden. She smiles to herself to see the paintings on the walls: theatre masks and actors on stage. Rufus offers her a couch, reclining beside her. Vitalio brings them wine and sets down a light supper on a small table by the couch: bread, cheese, dried figs. Then he leaves.

It is clear Rufus has no intention of eating yet. No sooner is Vitalio gone, than he is all over her. Amara finds herself unexpectedly afraid. This feels too familiar, too like the brothel. So much rests on him liking her, and she has no idea how a courtesan might be expected to behave. Should she acquiesce or will he want to chase her?

“Stop!” she says, pushing him off and sitting up. She rearranges her dress to cover herself. Her heart is pounding with anxiety. “Just a moment.”

Rufus is looking at her in surprise. He had not, after all, been violent. And what else is a man meant to do when he has hired a woman for the night?

She thinks of Thais, of the illusion of power she wielded. Rufus believes that is what life is really like. He has all the power, and she has none, but he does not know this. And she cannot let him realize.

She turns to him in anger. “You presume too much.”

They stare at one another in mutual astonishment. The words seemed to come from someone else. It is a part Amara is playing, yet somehow, she just found her own voice. She takes the jasmine flower from her hair, allowing the real anger she always carries inside to catch fire. “So you thought I was the admiral’s daughter,” she says. “And then, because I am not, you decide to treat me as a whore. I told you that this has not always been my life, that I value kindness and respect and you show me none.”

Amara is ready for him to argue, ready to leave him, to blaze out into the night in rage, but Rufus immediately surrenders.

“I’m sorry,” he says, brow creased with remorse. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Amara finds, having lit the spark, it is not so easy to extinguish it. “Is that what you think? That you can take without asking?” she demands.

“No! Not at all, I…”

“What about all these plays that mean so much to you? What about love?” Her voice is scathing. “I have enough clients,” she lies. “I thought you were different; I thought you wanted something else.” The anger is starting to take on a momentum beyond Rufus, and she knows she has to stop. She takes a breath, turning her face aside, as if to hide emotion. “I thought you might care for me.” She falls silent, waiting to see if he will accept the role she is offering.

He touches her arm, tentatively at first, then more confidently when she doesn’t move away. “Please,” he says, laying his hand over hers. “I’m very sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

Amara slowly allows herself to be won round. It isn’t a difficult part for her to play. Nobody has ever made such an effort to charm her. Rufus teases her, playfully trying to serve her food, turning all his humour against himself. He smiles and his cheeks dimple like Cupid. Amara accepts the glass of wine he offers, smiles back when he compares himself unfavourably to the ‘eunuch’ in the play they have just seen and, when he finally jokes about the terrifying effect that her anger had on him, widening his eyes in a ridiculous parody of surprise, she finds her laughter is genuine.

“I do so wish I could write for the theatre,” he tells her, once they are clearly friends again. He gestures at her to take a handful of dried figs then, when she has, helps himself. “But I don’t have any talent.”

“I can’t believe that’s true.”

“No, it is. I might be an idiot, but at least I know that I am,” he says. “And besides, my father would hate it. He wants me to run for aedile next year.” He pulls a face. “Can you imagine? All that endless smarming, getting people to vote for you, followed by a year of total tedium listening to everyone drone on about grain distribution. I’d be hopeless at it.”

“Couldn’t you choose the celebrations you threw though?” she says, thinking of Fuscus. “Maybe a free performance at the theatre rather than the usual games at the arena?”

“Yes, I had been thinking that.” His look of surprise reminds her of Pliny when she quoted Herophilos. “Might make the whole thing more bearable.” They smile at each other. He holds her gaze and leans closer, then, when she doesn’t move away, kisses her. There is more sensitivity to him this time; she can tell he is trying not to rush her. “I have to ask you something,” he says, stroking her arm. “I know you are trapped by your life at the… where you live. I know you don’t have a choice. But is your heart free?”

Amara thinks immediately of Menander. “Yes,” she lies.

“And at the admiral’s house, you two didn’t… I mean, you and Pliny…”

“No. He never touched me. Not like that.”

“Right,” Rufus says in relief. “You just seemed so fond of the old man. I had to wonder. He must have a will of iron, keeping his hands to himself with you round.”

“He knew about my past,” she says. “He felt my life had not taken its right path.”

Rufus nods. “Terence writes about that, the mistakes that are made. When a girl isn’t meant to be a slave. Were you kidnapped?” He asks, an idea suddenly striking him. “Then you might not really be a slave at all. If one could prove it.”

For a moment, Amara thinks of borrowing Dido’s life story, taking it as her own. But she has already told Pliny the truth and cannot risk discovery. “No. I lost my father and everything else with him.”

“My poor darling,” Rufus says, kissing her again. He is a little bolder this time, easing her back on the couch, his hand creeping up her leg. She stops him.

“You can take what you want,” she says. “We both know it. But wouldn’t you rather it was given?” She kisses him to soften the rejection. “Wouldn’t you rather wait? If it was given along with my heart?”

Amara knows she is gambling, and the dice are not weighted in her favour. Rufus has every reason to feel irritated. He has paid Felix for her; he was promised sex, and now she is asking him to treat her like a virginal heroine in a play. But her lies have the intensity of truth. She gazes at him with wide, dark eyes.

“Yes,” Rufus says, touching his fingers to her lips. “I would like to win your heart.”

Four of Rufus’s slaves, including Vitalio, escort her back to the brothel. She feels the irony in knowing that the place they are taking her is not much safer than the darkened streets. The five of them walk quickly, the slaves’ torches throwing out fingers of light, brushing the houses as they pass by. Nobody speaks.

She thinks of Rufus, feels a sense of elation shot through with anxiety at the memory of his kiss goodbye. The tender way he tucked the jasmine back behind her ear before she left, his wholehearted acceptance of the part she offered him. She could almost love him for the gift he has given her: granting her the illusion of being a person and not a slave. But she knows it is an illusion, and the fantasy they have created together is fragile. It would be so easy to care for him, to forget how little she really has. Now begins the painstaking journey of discovering how he might help her escape. It’s not a journey on which she can afford to have feelings.

27

The screaming is like nothing she has ever heard. Fear grips Amara, and she runs to the door, terrified one of her friends is being murdered, but Thraso looks perfectly calm.

“Just the new girl,” he says, with a shrug.

She pushes past him, finds Victoria, Dido and Cressa huddled in the corridor.

“It’s Britannica,” Cressa says, her face wet with tears. “I can’t bear it.”

“What are they doing to her? What’s happening?”

“Nothing!” Victoria snaps. “Nothing that the rest of us don’t have to put up with. She’s fucking crazy!” Britannica is shouting, screaming in her own language, calling Cressa’s name. Even though none of them understand her words, they know she is begging for help. Victoria grabs Cressa’s arm to stop her responding. “You can’t,” she says. “What are you going to do? Tell them to stop and Felix will pay their money back?”

Dido bursts into tears. “We can’t just leave her. There are two of them in there!”

“Two men?” Amara is appalled.

“She was fighting so much,” Victoria says, not meeting her eye. “The other one went in to hold her down.”

Amara looks desperately at Dido, then Cressa. It seems impossible that none of them are helping, that they are all standing by uselessly, letting her suffer. Britannica’s screaming cuts through her, visceral because it is familiar. It shocks her that she has never shouted her own anguish like that, that she has been silent instead. She presses her hands over her ears, wanting to stop the horror, stop the ear-splitting sound.

“Why can’t she just shut up!” Victoria shouts, suddenly angry. “Why can’t she fucking understand? It gets the men in the wrong mood; they’re going to be violent with all of us soon if she keeps this up. Stupid fucking bitch.”

“They’re hurting her!” Cressa shouts back, distraught. “They need to stop. Not her.”

Britannica’s screaming subsides into sobs. “It’s nearly over then,” Victoria mutters, not wanting to confront Cressa. “She always fights right to the end. So that means they’ve finished. She’ll be alright soon.”

The curtain scrapes back, and the two men step out into the corridor. The women instinctively draw back, clinging together. One man gives them a contemptuous stare, spits on the floor. They swagger off. Cressa breaks from the others and rushes into Amara’s old cell. Britannica is quiet; the only crying they can hear now is from Cressa.

Another man steps into the brothel. His shape, his walk, is familiar to Amara. It is Menander.

The shock sends the blood rushing to her heart. She stares at him, unable to speak.

“I came to see you. Thraso said you were free.”

He is standing where Britannica’s tormentor spat on the floor, and it is as if the last piece of her innocence is ripped from her.

She says nothing but walks to Dido’s cell, barely waiting for him to follow, then draws the curtain behind them both. She cannot bear to look at him, to see his beautiful face, so she stands gripping the material, her back to the room.

“What do you want?”

“Timarete…”

“What service do you want?”

“Service?”

“Yes, you paid for it,” she swings round, torn between rage and heartbreak. “So what service do you want? What fuck did you pay for?”

“I didn’t.”

“Why are you here then?”

“To see you. To talk with you.”

“You wanted to talk in here?” Amara replies, her voice rising with hysteria. Even with the curtain closed, they can still hear Cressa weeping, the sound of Beronice with a customer next door, and Victoria, now rowing with Thraso, yelling at him not to let thugs into the brothel.

“Where else do we have?”

She sees the quiet sadness in his face and knows, without question, that he is telling the truth. Her relief is almost more painful than the shock before. She walks to him, puts her arms round his neck and rests the side of her face against his. “You paid to talk to me.”

“I didn’t want to wait until December,” he says, holding her tightly. “I’ve been saving for a while. Rusticus is in favour of his slaves getting some pleasure; he thinks it keeps us all more obedient.”

“But you mustn’t spend your money like that!” she says. “You need it. You need to save it.”

“I needed to see you.”

She thinks of Rufus, of all the ridiculous things she said that evening about love, of all the lies she told. “I can’t give you anything; I have nothing,” she spreads her arms out to illustrate the empty cell. “I don’t even own myself, my own body, my own life.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then what are we doing?” She sits down on the bed. “What are we doing here talking.”

“I know that you’re lonely,” he says, sitting beside her. “I’m lonely too. But I don’t feel it when I’m with you.”

“It hurts so much afterwards though,” she says, leaning her head on his shoulder, letting him hold her again. “It just hurts.”

“Because it makes you think of home, and all we lost before.”

“Not just that,” she says. “Do you know how many men I’ve been with? I didn’t want any of them, but it happened anyway, and it’s my life now, and I have to accept it. And then I see you, the only one I actually have wanted, and even though we are alone together now, and there’s nothing to stop us, even though you paid my fucking pimp for me… I just can’t. Not in this place. I can’t.”

“I know,” he says. “I won’t ask it of you. Not here.” He leans over to kiss her on the temple. “But we can belong to many places. Don’t you ever think of yourself as being somewhere else?”

Amara thinks of Pliny’s garden, the smell of jasmine and the splash of the fountain. “Yes,” she says.

Menander helps her sit further back on the bed, so that he is leaning against the wall and she is against him, his arms all the way round her. “At night, sometimes, when I’m sleeping on the floor above the shop,” he says. “I imagine I am back in Athens. I picture walking through the street in the evening, back to my old home, the shop my father used to own. But it’s not my parents or my sisters waiting there for me, it’s you. I can see you in the hall, though you’ve never been there, and we talk, we have all the time we need.”

“I think of you in Aphidnai, sometimes too,” she admits. “But mainly I imagine us being somewhere else altogether. Somewhere we don’t even know yet.” Amara stops. What can she tell him really? That she thought of him when Rufus kissed her, that she wished it was him instead? Or that she told Rufus her heart was free because she cannot afford for it to be otherwise.

“Might it not be possible?” he asks, holding her even closer. “Slaves do marry, don’t they? Or Rusticus might grant me my freedom one day; he has no heir, nobody to take over his business.”

Amara cannot even begin to imagine Felix’s reaction to the first idea, and she doesn’t have the heart to tell Menander that every unscrupulous owner since the dawn of time has duped a talented apprentice into working harder with the vague promise of freedom one day. She cannot bear to destroy the fantasy. “If I had the choice, it would only be you,” she says.

They talk together through the night, and Amara can feel her loneliness ebb with every moment in his company. The brothel even starts to feel like a less terrible place, simply because he is there. She tells him about Pliny, about how she felt having those few brief days of freedom, and he tells her about the way he feels in the shop, the moments he forgets he is a slave, caught up in the business of creating a new lamp, a new object, just as he did in his life before.

They are lost to everything but each other, until it is time for lock-up, and Thraso arrives to throw any lingering customers out.

“Fuck off now,” he says, barging into the cell. “You’ve more than had your money’s worth.”

Amara tries to kiss Menander goodbye, but Thraso comes between them, shoving her hard. She sees Menander react instinctively to step in.

“No!” she shouts. Amara looks at Menander, shaking her head. “Please.”

She cannot bear the self-loathing on his face, their shared understanding that he is powerless to protect her from Thraso, or from anything else.

When he has gone, Amara does not cry. She stands with the palms of her hands flat against the wall of her cell. She wants to scream her rage into the night like Britannica. Her anger is rising like the sea, drowning her. She has to get out.

28

It’s hot in The Sparrow, even though it’s not yet midday. Cressa has stayed in the brothel to look after Britannica, and Amara and the others sit at a table, sharing some bread and cheese, a small pot of cold vegetable stew. Amara can already feel her clothes sticking to her skin with sweat.

“So the boyfriend turned up then?” Victoria asks. There is none of the usual spark to her question.

Amara nods, not wanting to talk about Menander, and Victoria doesn’t press her. “Sorry you two had to share together,” Amara says.

“We thought you might want some space,” Dido replies.

“Thanks.”

They lapse back into silence. “What are we going to do about her?” Beronice says. Nobody has to ask who she means. “When is she going to stop with the fighting and screaming?”

An old man is mumbling at the table next to them, either drunk or unwell. He reaches out a shaky hand. It’s not clear if he is trying to reach for their bread or grope Beronice. “Not today, Grandad!” Victoria snaps, her voice loud. “Can’t get any fucking peace anywhere,” she mutters, turning back to the table.

“It’s not right,” Beronice continues. “It put my customer off his stride. Then he was in a bad mood and rough with it.”

“I think she’s brave,” Dido says.

“Brave?” Victoria says. “She’s a savage.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Amara says. “Just because she doesn’t speak Latin. And I agree with Dido. She’s only doing what the rest of us would, if we had the guts.”

“If you think she’s so fucking fabulous, why don’t you teach her some Latin then?” Victoria says. “And it’s not brave. It’s stupid. Have you seen the bruises on her? Who fights a battle they’re never going to win?”

“That’s what courage means.”

“Oh, get lost, seriously,” Victoria says. “If you can’t see what a problem she is, maybe it’s because you spend all your time at fancy fucking parties. You won’t be around when the rest of us get attacked, will you? What do you care?”

Amara gets up from the table, taking a piece of bread and cheese with her. She was already in a terrible mood before this and doesn’t trust herself not to lose her temper.

“Where are you going?” Victoria asks, halfway between conciliatory and cross.

“To try and teach Britannica some Latin.”

Amara stomps back towards the brothel, almost barging into Nicandrus walking along the pavement to The Sparrow with a bucket of water. “Careful!” he says.

She holds her hands up in apology but doesn’t stop to chat. Seeing him makes her think of Menander, of the choice Dido made not to let her feelings for Nicandrus take root when there is nowhere for love to grow. Perhaps she was wise.

Thraso is still on the door, exhausted from guarding the brothel all night. He barely steps aside to let her in, making her squeeze past him.

“Cressa?”

“She’s not well,” Fabia says, not looking up as she sweeps the corridor. “She’s feeling sick.” There’s a sound of retching from the latrine.

Amara hurries to the end of the corridor. “Cressa! Are you alright?”

Cressa comes out, holding onto the wall. She is pale, her eyes dark with misery. Amara feels sick herself, guessing what Cressa is facing.

“You should eat something,” she says quietly. “It will help. The others are still in The Sparrow.”

Cressa shakes her head. “Nothing will help.”

“At least eat something, please. You will feel less nauseous.”

“What about Britannica?”

“I can look after her.”

“Are you sure?” Cressa looks relieved. “Be kind to her, won’t you? You promise?” Amara nods, touched that Cressa’s first thought is always for someone else. “She’s in my cell. I was just about to help her wash.” Cressa starts to head past Amara who stops her, catching hold of her arm.

“Can’t I help you too?” she says, her voice low.

Cressa looks down, as if unable to bear Amara’s kindness. “Nobody can help me.”

She hurries from the brothel, stepping aside to avoid Fabia. When she has gone, the old woman turns to Amara, shaking her head.

Britannica startles when she sees Amara, drawing her legs up towards herself on the bed. She seems wary rather than afraid. There are bruises on her pale arms, including vivid fingerprints where she must have been held down. Dried blood is smeared on her face. Cowards, Amara thinks.

She smiles at Britannica, pointing to herself. “Amara. I am Amara. Friend of Cressa.”

“Cressa?” Britannica looks past Amara, clearly hoping the other woman will appear.

Amara leans over and puts the bread and cheese on the bed. “For you. Cressa will be back soon.”

Britannica takes the food without acknowledging Amara or gesturing thanks. Amara waits for her to finish eating then goes through a painstaking performance, naming objects in the cell, asking Britannica if she can wash her face.

“Water,” she says, pointing to the jug. She dips her hand in it, showing Britannica the drops falling from her fingers. “Water. Now you say it. Water.”

In answer, Britannica releases a torrent of words in her own harsh language. Her gestures are violent, her expression intense, but although the incomprehensible tirade makes Amara feel uncomfortable, she guesses the anger is not directed at her. Amara reaches for the jug again, and Britannica grabs her arm. Her grip is as strong as a man’s. Britannica repeats the same strange word over and over, staring intently, willing Amara to understand. Then she lets go of her with a cry of exasperation, flinging herself back on the bed.

“I know. I want to kill them too,” Amara says. “But it doesn’t work that way. We don’t get a choice.”

Britannica has turned her face to the wall, ignoring her. She doesn’t resist as Amara splashes water on her skin but does nothing to help either.

“Your hair is a mess,” Amara says. “Can I brush it?” She takes the silence as agreement, picking up the brush from Cressa’s shelf. “Red,” she says, trying to tease out the knots. “Your hair is red.” Amara has never seen anything like it. She can imagine it glowing like fire in the July sun when Britannica stood naked in the slave market, her skin unnaturally white. It’s obvious Felix wanted something exotic and didn’t bother about the fact she couldn’t speak. “Fucking idiot,” she mutters to herself.

Britannica doesn’t make a fuss, though it must be painful having so many knots untangled. Amara lets her mind go blank, concentrating on nothing but combing out the mass of hair, until she hears Felix’s voice, talking to Thraso at the door. All her senses are instantly alert.

Someone steps over the threshold of the brothel. Britannica whips round, shouting at Amara. It sounds more like a command than a warning, but she has no idea what it might be.

“Making friends?”

Felix stands at the doorway, looking in. Britannica bunches up, reminding Amara of the tigers in the arena. She bares her teeth at Felix and hisses. Victoria’s insult comes into her mind, unbidden. Savage.

Their master is unconcerned. He draws a small knife from his tunic. Examines it, as if it needs a clean. Britannica stops hissing, watching him, eyes so wide the whites are showing. Felix gestures with the blade, casual rather than threatening. “You don’t like this, do you?”

“She doesn’t understand any Latin,” Amara says.

“Oh, she understands me,” he replies. “We understand each other perfectly well. Don’t we?” As if in answer, Britannica shrinks back. “You see,” he says to Amara, tucking the knife away. “She speaks my language.”

“She doesn’t understand life here,” Amara says. “She screams all night; it’s not good for business.”

“She’ll get used to it. And if not.” He shrugs. “Some customers like that. Not that you have to worry, not after I got this letter from your posh boy,” Felix holds up a note, a look of amusement on his face. “He is demanding you have lodgings outside the brothel.”

“Rufus?” Amara is stunned.

“How many posh boys do you have? Yes, Rufus. I’ve sent a reply back with Gallus. He’s not offering enough for every night. But I’ve agreed you will only spend two nights a week here, as long as he pays the retainer.”

Amara thinks of Rufus at the theatre, the way he gave her the jasmine, his acceptance of her anger. She feels touched in ways she cannot express, certainly not to Felix.

“Don’t just sit there!” Felix says, irritated by her lack of reaction. “Pack your things up.”

“But where am I going?”

“You can sleep upstairs. In the storeroom with Paris.”

“I can’t leave Britannica alone; I promised Cressa.”

Felix draws the knife again, crosses to Britannica, points it at her face. She flinches, but Amara is surprised she doesn’t show greater physical fear. “You. Stay. Here. Not. Move.” He leans forward, gripping her thigh with his free hand, in an unmistakable gesture of sexual aggression. This time Britannica looks more afraid. Felix stays where he is, until she cowers, no longer meeting his eye. Amara has never despised him more.

He stands up. “You just need to be firm with her,” he says, heading for the door. “Now get your things.”

Amara follows him, looking back briefly at Britannica before leaving the cell. She hopes the hate on her face is meant for Felix alone.

Paris is as delighted by the new living arrangements as Amara imagined he might be. Felix’s slave boy doesn’t dare express his discontent in front of their master, especially after the boss makes it clear he doesn’t want any squabbling, but as soon as Felix has left Amara in the storeroom – one more piece of property to be added to the pile – Paris turns on her.

“You can sleep over there,” he says, pointing to some empty sacks in the far corner. “Right over there. I don’t want your smelly cunt anywhere near me.”

“Oh, piss off,” Amara replies, dropping her father’s bag on the sacks. She isn’t going to argue for a space closer to Paris; the further away they are from each other, the better. “As if you don’t have to rent your arse out too. And I bet you don’t just get down on your knees to scrub floors up here.”

“Fuck you,” Paris says, clenching his fist. His face is red with fury.

“No fighting, remember,” Amara says, plonking herself down on the floor by her bag, making it clear she is here to stay. “You heard what Felix just said. If you give me a black eye, just think what he’ll do to you in return.” Amara sees Paris flinch, a look of fear on his face. She presses home her advantage. “He fucks you too, doesn’t he? Just like all the rest of us.”

In that moment, for the first time, Amara sees something of Fabia in her son. It’s there in the cowed stoop of his shoulders, in his wounded expression. She knows he is not much younger than she is, but with his skinny legs and thin frame, he looks like a beaten child. Guilt pricks her. She is about to say something kinder when he speaks.

“You disgust me,” he says, his face screwed up with malice. “All of you. Dirty fucking whores. And if I find you’ve touched any of my things with your nasty, grubby fingers when I’m out, I’ll kill you!”

Paris stomps from the room, leaving Amara to wonder if Rufus did her such a favour after all. She shifts on the hot, dusty sacks. They are not going to be much more comfortable than the stone bed in Dido’s cell, but at least she will be able to sleep, not work all night. It feels strange being in the quiet of the storeroom, knowing the brothel is downstairs. Cressa’s cell must be right below her, or maybe Beronice’s. She looks up at the shelves in the narrow room, stacked with jars and bundles of cloth. On the floor beside her, there’s a half-empty bag of beans she might be able to use as a pillow. A few spill out from a small hole in the corner as she moves it. She hopes there aren’t too many mice. Or rats.

Amara gets up and creeps to the door. She doesn’t know much about what goes on in Felix’s flat. She supposes the room next door must be where Gallus and Thraso sleep. She regrets not being friendlier with Paris, if only to try and get more information out of him.

Already Amara misses her friends downstairs, and it has only been a few minutes. She wonders if Thraso will even tell them what’s happened, why Felix has moved her. For a moment, the strangeness of being alone makes her feel emotional. She leans her head against the wooden door jamb, trying to clear her thoughts. There’s no point being miserable and wasting her time up here; it’s impossible to say how long Rufus will keep her, whether his interest will ever pay off. But she could use this time to learn more about how Felix runs his loans, see if she can convince him to use her that way, rather than selling her. It would at least be a better life than the one in the brothel. She sets off down the corridor.

His study door is ajar, to let in a breeze in the summer heat. He must have spotted her shadow, because he calls out before she even has a chance to knock.

“What do you want?” His tone is not inviting.

Amara steps into the room but doesn’t approach too close to his desk. “That girl from The Elephant who paid off her loan. Pitane. She mentioned to me that she might have another customer for you. I thought I could use this time to do some business.”

“I can’t spare anyone to go with you.”

“Couldn’t I go on my own?” Amara asks. “It’s only to The Elephant. I could make a note and see if you like the terms.”

She waits for Felix to answer, palms sweating. “It’s like a never-ending itch for you, isn’t it?” he says. “Making money.”

If Felix were a different man, if she thought he would be pleased by the comparison, she would say: As it is for you. Instead, she shrugs. “Everyone wants to make money. Though in this case I’m making it for you.”

“Go then,” he says, turning back to his accounts, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

The Elephant is a grander bar than The Sparrow, attached as it is to a large inn. A copper lantern shaped like an elephant hangs over the doorway, dangling with chiming bells, and the walls inside are lined with pictures of the giant beasts pitted against gladiators in the arena.

There is a fair exchange in trade between the brothel and the inn, and Sittius, the landlord, gives Amara a nod of recognition when she leans against the bar.

“Not many customers in for you today,” he says.

“I wondered if Pitane might be free for a moment,” she answers.

“She’s in the courtyard,” he replies. “But if you’re going to keep her chatting, best get a drink.”

Amara buys the smallest wine she can, missing the easy charm of Zoskales at The Sparrow. Sittius is notoriously tight. She walks through to the small courtyard behind the bar. It is partly shaded by a vine growing over a trellis and dotted with outdoor tables. A couple of guests sit drinking in a corner. Pitane is busy sweeping the flagstones. She brightens as soon as she sees Amara.

Amara did not just get the waitress a loan but her undying gratitude along with it. The abortion worked, and Amara paid off the last few pennies of the interest when it looked like Pitane wouldn’t manage it. Without telling Felix. It is not only that she couldn’t bear to endure another Marcella; she guessed it would be worth the money to build up a few favours. Felix might be able to rely on brute force, but she needs a different model, if she is going to win any clients.

“You look very well,” Amara says to her.

“I am!” Pitane replies, then lowers her voice. “And I’ve been using that sponge just as you suggested,” she whispers, with a sidelong look at the drinkers in the corner.

“You said there was another woman who might need help.” Amara perches on the edge of a table in the shade, sipping her wine. She makes a face. Sittius has given her the cheapest vintage. It tastes like vinegar. She is becoming spoiled by all the Falernian the rich men drink.

Pitane nods, clearly delighted to be called on. “It’s Terentia. You know, who runs the fruit stall, the last one on the corner before the Forum? Well,” she lowers her voice again, enjoying the chance to gossip. “She made a loss last month – some bastard sold her a rotten batch. She was telling me when I got our supplies for the inn, and I said I knew someone who could get her a loan, so she can get more stock in, make it back sooner.”

“Fancy selling rotten fruit! What a crook.” Amara tuts. “How much does she want?”

“Ten denarii.”

Amara calculates Felix’s extortionate rate of interest in her head. She hopes Terentia will be able to pay up – her own savings would never stretch that far. “I think I can help,” Amara replies. “I will call on her this week.”

“Beronice was telling me you and Dido go to so many parties these days!” Pitane says, clearly reluctant to let Amara go. “It must be exciting.”

“It makes a change.’ Amara smiles. She spends some more time chatting with Pitane, enjoying being out in the sunny courtyard rather than cooped up in the dusty storeroom. The guests in the corner fall silent and watch them, curious. Amara’s toga makes her low status obvious, and Pitane has no doubt had to serve them already, yet here the two women are, ignoring the chance of picking up an extra tip.

“Hey ladies,” one calls. “What does a man need to do around here to get a bit of attention?”

Amara thinks of Rufus’s retainer and feels warm with gratitude. She doesn’t have to entertain any idiots today. “I’d better let you get back to work,” she says to Pitane, giving the two men behind her an unfriendly stare.

“Oh,” Pitane is crestfallen. “I suppose so, yes. See you around.” She heads over to the guests, narrow shoulders drooping, her fun over for the morning.

29

Amara’s life above the brothel takes on its own disjointed rhythm. It is a huge relief to spend her nights unmolested, something she has not enjoyed since her stay with Pliny. Not that she sleeps as well as she did under the admiral’s protection. The sacks are scratchy and uncomfortable, the mice scrabble, and she can hear the sounds of her friends working below, which fills her with both guilt and relief.

Some nights she dreams of Menander, and when she wakes, his absence is like a weight on her chest. In the dark of the storeroom, she relives every moment she has spent with him, finds herself turning the memories over in her mind like precious stones, until they start to lose their sharpness and she cannot be sure where fantasy and reality meet. Then she will remember Dido’s warning about wasted love and forces herself to relive the last time she saw him, when he was powerless to protect her, or himself.

Paris is a largely silent companion, often ignoring Amara if she tries to speak with him. She suspects their master has warned him off, not wanting a repeat of the black eye he gave Victoria. Even so, she is never sorry to have the storeroom to herself when he has to work in the brothel. Worse are the nights when Felix lends him to Thraso. Paris is completely unresisting, as if Thraso were having sex with a corpse. Amara curls up as small as possible, facing the wall, trying to give Paris some dignity. She finds his total silence almost as disturbing as Britannica’s screaming. The first time it happens, after Thraso has left, she risks asking Paris if he is alright. “It should have been you,” is all he says.

She tries to meet her friends at The Sparrow as before, but apart from Dido, conversation is strained. Victoria has barely spoken to her since their row over Britannica. Returning to the brothel to work, she finds the Briton’s resistance has permanently changed the atmosphere. Everyone is on edge, trying to shield her from customers, for their own sake as much as hers. The rare times anyone shares a joke, Amara no longer feels part of the banter. On the evening she and Dido are sent to entertain at Cornelius’s house, Amara is so happy to see Egnatius, with his absurd compliments and eternal good temper, she almost kisses him.

And then there is Rufus. He has not called for her quite as often as she would have hoped – no more than twice a week – but every time she sees him, she feels a little more confident in his attachment. Her own feelings are growing like bindweed, tangling her thoughts, threatening to choke her scheming. He makes such an effort to be charming, his manner is so gentle, it is hard not to care too much. But she is always aware of the imbalance in power, and fear is her affection’s shadow. She lives with the knowledge that he could tear her life apart on a whim, while she could do him no more damage than a pebble dropped in a pond.

It is her third week living above the brothel when Rufus’s slave Philos calls round on the Thursday morning, warning her to be ready for his master in the evening. She hears Felix take the message – and the money – then the creak of his footsteps as he approaches the storeroom. Amara scrambles to her feet, dusting off her toga.

“I take it you heard that?” Felix says, sticking his head around the door. “You can at least make yourself useful until then.”

“Of course,” she replies, following him out into the corridor and walking to his study.

This is the strangest part of her new life, all the hours she spends with her master. She takes her customary seat near the doorway, tucked in beside a small table. Felix has never asked her to share his bed again, but eventually, he relented and let her help with his accounts. It started with Terentia’s loan, when he got her to draw up the contract and write the records. Now he has her working on a number of files. She wonders how he ever managed to do it all himself.

Amara has always thought of her master as a thug, but she is forced to acknowledge the charm, as well as the threats, he deploys in his money lending. Clients visit, not noticing the small bent figure in the corner recording their conversations, and Felix treats the men to wine, using jokes and flattery, drawing out their hopes and their secrets. “There’s no such thing as useless information,” he tells her, after one client leaves having lamented about his mother-in-law for half an hour.

He is meticulous with his accounts, all the prostitution money gets ploughed into the loan-sharking, and he takes very little out for pleasure. In fact, pleasure seems to rank low in his life altogether. He hangs out with cronies in bars some evenings, probably the same men she saw that day at the Palaestra, but she is unsure how much he likes anyone, or if he has any real friends.

She tries to let go of her hatred for a while, to study him the way she has watched him study other people. If he were a stranger what would she notice? His love of money, his determination, his cruelty, his surprising fascination with the thoughts and feelings of others. His total lack of compassion. The last, she almost cannot admit to herself: his loneliness.

She is trying to work out the interest payments on a loan, setting it against the information Felix has gleaned about the debtor’s assets, when she realizes he is looking at her.

“Have you still not fucked the posh boy yet?”

“No.”

“Cold-hearted bitch.” There is laughter in his voice, and she knows the insult is meant as a compliment. “I wouldn’t leave it too long. The novelty of rejection wears off after a while. And you’re a whore, not a wife.”

He has read her own anxieties as if they were branded on her body. “I’m afraid of him,” Amara lies. “I think he might enjoy violence.”

“You’ll manage,” Felix says, going back to his accounts. “Not like you haven’t had plenty of practise. And I can charge more if it’s anything extreme, so make sure you tell me.”

“Now who’s cold-hearted?” Amara asks, raising her eyebrows. “What if he killed me?”

“I’d be sorry to lose such a valuable whore.”

“How sorry?”

“Don’t beg for crumbs,” he says with a look of distaste. “It doesn’t suit you.”

His words bring back painful memories of Pliny, of her abject pleading with him to buy her. That has surely cured her of ever being tempted to beg again. She steals a look at Felix’s desk. The scroll of Herophilos is still sitting on it, no doubt left there deliberately to torment her. She has never given him the satisfaction of asking if she can read it.

“I think you could charge this one a little more,” she says, referring to the account she’s been looking over. “When you think about his business, Manlius definitely has other assets he could draw on. You’ve noted here that the brooch on his cloak was bronze.”

“It’s his third loan,” Felix says. “And he’s never late. He’s too safe a bet to squeeze too hard. Only go for blood if you think they can’t afford to come back again.”

Amara thinks of Marcella, wonders if he has sold her cameo yet. She remembers the other woman’s finger, the pale circle where her mother’s ring had sat, the way Marcella struggled to get it off. “I ought to go to the baths today,” she says. “You’re right, I can’t keep Rufus waiting forever. Would you allow me the money to get my hair done? I could do with it being styled.”

Felix squints, looking at her hair, clearly debating whether it’s a necessary expense. Then he takes some coins from a drawer. “You can go in a couple of hours,” he says. “After you’ve been through the rest of those files.”

Amara steps onto the street, relieved to have some space from Felix. His clients’ accounts make her wonder what notes he might have made on his women, what observations he has stored away about her. She hesitates as she walks past the back door of the brothel, torn between the desire to see if Dido is in, to ask her to come too, and worry that it will look like she’s lording it over everyone by getting her hair done. Gallus is on the front door.

“Is anyone in?” she asks him.

“Just Victoria,” he says. “Can’t you hear?” Amara realizes she can indeed hear Victoria’s voice, talking to a customer, cooing over his virility. “The others are out fishing. Apart from the savage.”

“Thanks. Give Beronice my love.”

“I’m not some girls’ fucking messenger slave.” Gallus scowls. “Tell her yourself.”

Going to the baths by herself is another new experience since she moved upstairs. Amara stores her cheap toga in one of the cubby holes in the changing room, pressing past a couple of gossiping friends who are still loitering after packing their own clothes away. The stone walls echo to the chatter of women’s voices and the shriek and splash of some bathers cooling off in the small plunge pool in the corner. She finds a beauty attendant touting for business and goes through to the hot room, strapping on wooden clogs to protect her feet from the scalding floor.

The attendant is Greek but seems in no mood to swap tales of the home country. She is brisk with Amara’s body, tweezering out the hair under her arms, slathering her legs with waxy resin then scraping them until they are smooth. Amara winces at the pain. All around her, other women are being similarly pruned and primped, though some have opted for the relaxation of a massage instead, and she can hear the slap of hands on bare skin. Her attendant fetches a small tub of water, and Amara cleans herself, washing away the last of the resin and the dirt of the storeroom. She feels scoured from the heat and all the scraping.

Having her hair done is a more restful experience. Dressed again, she goes with another attendant to a small room and sits down. It’s cooler here. The hairdresser places the tongs in a brazier. “That’s enough,” Amara says, watching the glowing heat. “My hair’s already curly, I just need it styled.” And I don’t need you singeing it, she thinks.

“How do you want it?”

“To impress a man.”

“Not a husband?”

“No.”

The hairdresser smirks. As if she didn’t already know from Amara’s toga. While the other woman piles up her hair in a cascade of curls, she thinks of Rufus. It is so hard to know exactly what he would like. Would he prefer her as she really is, to see that she is feeling nervous, even shy, or is he expecting to be lavished with pleasure and treated to all the expertise of a courtesan? She wishes she could ask Victoria’s advice.

“Fit to fuck an emperor,” the hairdresser says when she’s finished. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

Amara laughs and thanks her. She walks out onto the street, ignoring the whistles of a couple of men hanging around the entrance to the baths. It’s a notorious spot for picking up customers. She wonders if any of her friends have been this way today.

The smell of frying food tempts her on the way home, but she walks past. She will be eating for free this evening, and it’s better to save her money. Paris lets her back into the flat, and his expression when he sees her hair is pure malevolence.

“Master wants you,” he says, turning on his heel as soon as Amara is inside.

She walks up the stairs, wondering what Felix needs, but when she enters his study, he doesn’t speak, just gestures impatiently at a pile of tablets on her table. She sits down to work. Shortly afterwards, one of his clients, Cedrus, arrives. They discuss the loan, chat about business, the scorching summer heat. Felix offers him a discount at the brothel if he ups the amount he is borrowing, something Amara has noticed he does fairly often. Cedrus swivels round to look at her.

“Is she….?” he asks.

“Yes, but she’s usually booked. Costs a little extra.”

“Wise man,” he says. “I’d keep that one to myself as well.”

“If you’re choosing downstairs, I recommend Victoria,” Felix replies.

“Do all your whores do accounts?” Cedrus asks, amused.

“Just that one. A doctor’s daughter.”

Cedrus is impressed. “You invested in quality stock then. Not got any virgins, I suppose?”

Amara thinks of Dido, of the pain she endured losing her innocence in this place, and almost snaps her stylus from pressing it so hard into the wax.

Felix shakes his head. The men move on to other matters and when Cedrus leaves, he doesn’t so much as glance at her, as if he has forgotten her existence.

“Don’t do that again,” Felix says when they are alone.

“Do what?”

“Listen.”

Amara is about to protest but thinks better of it. “I don’t remember telling you my father was a doctor.”

“It was after I bought you,” he replies. “I gave you and Dido some figs, and you told me they were your father’s favourite. I asked what he did.”

The memory comes back to Amara, so vivid it is searing, like the scalding floor of the baths. The way Felix smiled, touched her gently on the arm, offering her the fruit. Almost with tenderness. And her own foolish relief. This one is kind.

She shrugs. “I don’t remember that.”

Amara works silently the rest of the afternoon, keeping her head down as a procession of clients come in. She does not seem to pay attention, not even when one weeps, begging Felix for more time, but all the while, she disobeys her master, listening intently, hatred coiled in the pit of her stomach. At last, Paris comes to tell them Rufus’s slave Philos is waiting. Felix dismisses him then walks over, watching her pile up the tablets.

When she has finished, he hands her one of Pliny’s dresses, not moving aside as she changes. His presence makes her nervous, and she fumbles with the brooch. Felix helps her, and the sensation of him holding up the fabric, his frown of concentration as he fixes the pin, makes her think of a husband’s familiarity with his wife. When she is dressed, she turns to go, but he catches hold of her wrist, pulling her closer. It is not a moment of intimacy.

“Remember what happens to people who betray me,” he says. Then he lets her arm drop, walking back to his desk without watching her leave.

30

The restaurant is a step up for Amara, a step down for Rufus. She imagines it must give him a thrill, dining out somewhere not quite respectable. Anybody who is worth anything eats in, safe in the knowledge that luxury lies closer to home. For her, the experience is a delight. They are served on a terrace, and the red glow of dusk gives them a view over the terracotta rooftops, the sharp-peaked mountain a darkening shadow beyond. Lamps hang from the trellising above, a far more elaborate affair than at The Elephant, woven with vines and heavy with ripening grapes.

Rufus orders, and she has the anxiety of trying to eat the sea urchins without making a mess. “I thought we could go to the theatre again next week,” he says, sloshing fish sauce everywhere. “One of my favourite plays is on. And it’s an excellent company too, touring all the way from Rome. I’m very interested to see how they stage it.”

“That would be wonderful,” she says, as always relieved that he is thinking ahead to another meeting. “Have you ever been to Rome?”

“No. The furthest I’ve travelled is Misenum. Stayed with the admiral, as it happens. He has a beautiful place out there.”

Amara smiles, not wanting to think about how she once aimed to make the admiral’s villa her home.

“I’d love to see Greece,” he continues. “So many of our plays are based on ones your poets had already written. Did you ever spend time in Athens?”

She cannot tell him that her abiding memory of the city was passing through it to the slave docks. “Not really, no. The only place I know is my hometown, Aphidnai. I think you would like our statue of Helen of Troy.”

Rufus takes her hand and kisses it. “I’m sure she is not as beautiful as you.”

They stare at each other, and she can read the question he is asking with his eyes. Have I waited long enough?

“Rufus!” They are interrupted by a familiar voice. Amara looks up to see Quintus standing by their table. He is accompanied by a beautiful woman. Amara realizes she has seen her before. It is the courtesan she noticed at the theatre, with the dress dipped at her back. She is even more striking close up, hair circling her head in elaborate plaits and her skin unusually dark, like Zoskales. A gold bracelet shines on her upper arm. “I think you know Drusilla?”

“Of course,” Rufus says. “Always a pleasure.” He turns to his own girlfriend with unmistakable pride. “And this is Amara.”

“Indeed!” Quintus says, pursing his lips. “Lucky man. I’ve heard her pretty voice before.” Amara feels a stab of alarm. There is no mistaking the smirk on his face.

“Oh, do you sing?” Drusilla exclaims. “How delightful! I adore music. You must both join us one evening at my home.” She smiles warmly at Amara who smiles back, grateful for the distraction.

“Loves entertaining, this one.” Quintus rolls his eyes. “I can barely set foot in the house; it’s always stuffed full of gossiping girls.”

Drusilla makes a playful show of being affronted. “As if I ever deny you anything.” She flounces off to their table, and Quintus follows with an apologetic shrug.

Amara turns back to Rufus, still smiling, but his expression chills her. “So you already know Quintus?” he says.

“He has attended parties where I was performing,” she replies, with a toss of her head, determined not to show her fear, still less any guilt. “My singing partner Dido knows him better.”

“He’s got a reputation.” Amara cannot tell whether the anger in his voice is for her or Quintus. “I hope you never got too close to him.”

“Do you think I ever had a choice about such things?” she says sharply.

“Forget it.” He waves his hand to dismiss the conversation.

“No,” she says, her voice icy. “I won’t. If you will hold the most painful parts of my life against me, I cannot be your friend.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it…” Rufus looks more like himself again, startled into his familiar frown of anxiety at displeasing her.

“I hope not,” she says. “Just because you have been generous enough to allow me a choice, doesn’t mean anyone else has.” Amara feels a sudden weariness. The exhaustion of holding his interest, of trying to explain herself, all the while knowing he is incapable of understanding. A memory of Menander comes to her, of their afternoon outside the arena, talking about the past. You are the same person. I still see you as the same person.

Rufus recognizes her sadness, even though he has no way of guessing the cause. “I’m an idiot, sorry. I know you have… sung at a lot of parties.” He pulls a rueful face, to show the euphemism is mocking him rather than her. “It’s ridiculous of me to be jealous. You’re just so lovely. I know you could have anyone.” He reaches for her hand. “Friends again?”

“The ridiculous thing is imagining I could ever prefer Quintus to you,” she replies, squeezing his fingers. It sounds like a line, but she means it. “Drusilla seems very pleasant.” She lets go again.

“Oh, she’s great fun,” Rufus exclaims, then stops, horrified at himself. “Not that I’ve ever…” he stutters. Amara laughs, and he joins her, relieved. “Well, anyway. She throws the most wonderful dinners. Her old master left her her freedom and, clearly, a fair bit of cash too. Though I think her friends also support her.”

Amara glances over at Drusilla with even greater interest. She has the same poise that she remembers from the theatre. Even the arrogant Quintus seems to be making some effort to impress her.

“We should certainly accept her invitation,” Rufus says, following the direction of her gaze. “If you would like to.”

“I would. Very much.” Amara looks down, her nerves perhaps easy to mistake for shyness. “But then I think I should enjoy being anywhere with you.” She looks up and can see Rufus has understood her meaning.

The rest of their dinner passes without much attention to the food. Both are on a high of anticipation, every small touch of the hand, even when passing the wine, is heightened. It almost feels like love.

It’s dark when they walk the short distance back to Rufus’s house. Philos and another slave accompany them, lighting their path. The house is familiar to her now. The jasmine has faded in the garden, instead, the air is scented with myrtle. She remembers her offering to Venus at the Vinalia, the favour she asked. It helps her make her decision about how to behave. Tonight will be all about performance.

She is grateful when Rufus dismisses the other slaves; she prefers to be alone with him. Philos has left the lamps burning, and wherever their glow touches the walls, they illuminate scenes from the stage, though much of the room is draped in shadow. Amara realizes she has never been inside Rufus’s home in daylight.

She had half-expected him to leap on her, the way he did on their first evening together, but instead, she finds he is reticent. Amara steps out of her clothes – slowly, so that he misses nothing – and steps into the role she has chosen for herself: the courtesan in love. It sits halfway between truth and lie. Every trick she has ever learnt, every means of giving pleasure, she gives to Rufus. She even finds her nights with Salvius useful, not for herself, but because he taught her about delay, in his own unfulfilled quest to please her.

None of it is unpleasant. She even finds, for the first time, a certain enjoyment in making a man happy, because this particular man is one she likes. But it is impossible to separate her affection from her need to make him want her, not just for the one night, but to want what she can give like this, over and over.

Afterwards they lie together, covered in sweat, his skin warm against hers. “I love you,” he says, kissing her. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replies, holding him tighter.

“I’ve never known a woman like you. You never ask for presents. The only thing you’ve ever asked is that I give you time.”

Amara thinks of her friends, of Dido and Victoria. She knows there are many women like her, but they are rarely afforded the compassion Rufus gives her. “You have already been generous to me,” she says. “You listen. You protect me, even when we are not together.”

“This is why I love you,” he says, kissing her again. Then he props himself up on an elbow, and leans over his side of the cushions, searching for something underneath the couch. He hands her a wooden box, his face expectant like a small boy.

“What’s this?”

“Open it, open it!”

Amara does as she is told. Inside is a silver necklace with an amber pendant. For a moment, she is too stunned to speak. “It’s beautiful!”

Rufus helps her fasten the clasp. “It does look very lovely on you, I must say.” He is extremely pleased with his choice. “It’s from my family’s own business. I got one of our best craftsmen to work on it.”

Amara has seen the jewellery store and gem-cutting workshops that surround Rufus’s house; she sneaked past one morning with Dido to have a look. She touches the smooth drop of resin at her neck. Amber makes her think of Marcella, of the necklace she and Fulvia brought to the Forum, but she pushes the unhappy women from her mind. “It’s the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me,” she says. “But my darling, I cannot take it with me. My master would never let me keep it.”

“But this is a personal gift!” Rufus says, outraged. “He would have no right.”

“I will wear it whenever we are together,” she replies, putting her hand over his to reassure him. “You can keep it safe for me, here. It will remind you that I am always waiting for you.”

“But what about you? What will you have to make you think of me.”

Amara looks at him, her lover with all his wealth, his endlessly sociable life, and she can see that he is genuinely worried she might forget him, as if she could do anything other than count the hours in Felix’s storeroom until she sees him again. “I know!” she says. “You can buy me some cheap glass beads, wooden even, that I will wear as a bracelet. Felix would never bother with that, but it would remind me of your love whenever I saw it.”

“It is romantic,” Rufus says, somewhat mollified. “Though it will make me look abominably tight if you go around telling your friends that’s all your boyfriend has given you. Particularly if they know about my family’s business!”

“I promise I won’t,” Amara says, amused that he might fear a poor reputation among the whores of the town brothel. Unless he imagines she has other, classier friends.

“Will he try to stop you seeing me,” Rufus asks her. “Your master? If he thinks you care for me?”

At first, Amara cannot understand what he means, then she remembers the lie she told to ensure he didn’t come to the brothel – that Felix is monstrously jealous of her happiness. “Oh,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind. I told him I was afraid of you. He was pleased by the thought you might be cruel to me.” No need to add that it was the prospect of charging extra for violence that Felix liked.

“He sounds appalling!” Rufus says. “My poor, darling girl.” He squashes her in a hug so tight, the pendant digs into her skin. “I was hoping you would stay all night. But will that make your life more difficult?”

He is clinging on to her, clearly willing her to stay, and Amara herself is longing to accept. But she knows that if she gives in to every desire, fulfils every passion, she risks his infatuation burning itself out too quickly. Better to deny him from time to time. “I think that might be safer,” she says in a small voice. “Next time, I will stay.”

He lets go of her, cupping her face in his hands, kisses her tenderly on the forehead. “Whatever you think is best,” he says.

His sincerity hurts her heart.

31

Felix is alarmed to see her before daybreak. He is waiting in the corridor as she comes up the stairs, obviously having heard Philos drop her at the door.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t do what he wanted.”

“I did everything,” Amara says. “I just didn’t want to stay the whole night. I told you, he scares me. And besides”—she meets his cold stare with one of her own—“it keeps him keener that way. We want to string this out as long as possible, don’t we?”

“Little bitch,” Felix says. She starts unfastening her cloak, expecting to be dismissed, but he gestures at her to stop. “Don’t take that off. I’m heading out. You can come with me.”

“Why?” Amara asks, unable to hide her astonishment.

“Doesn’t hurt to show off the wares,” Felix says. He puts an arm around her, and for a bewildering moment, she thinks it is a gesture of affection. Then she feels his fingers, hard and pinching at her waist, like a baker checking the quality of his dough. “Just don’t open that big fucking mouth of yours.”

The bar is in an unfamiliar part of town. It is low and cramped, barely more than a hole in the wall, and reeks of pipe smoke. Amara is the only woman present; she sits wedged against the wall, Felix between her and the men he is there to meet. Most of the others are drunk when they arrive, but even though he makes a show of ordering wine, she notices Felix stays sober. His hand is on her thigh, and she understands he is giving a signal to the other men: Don’t touch.

She is not the only one to express surprise at Felix bringing a woman along.

“What did this one do?” asks a man, gesturing at her with his wine. Some slops on the table. She recognizes him from the Palaestra, by the white scar across his face, but he doesn’t recognize her. “Something special, is she? Or is she bored of your cock and here to try some of ours?”

Others join in, but although they’re all talking about her, they’re only talking to Felix, as if she isn’t really there. She says nothing through it all, just looks down at his hand on her leg.

“Plenty more cunt where she comes from,” Felix says. “You can try some later.”

They lose interest in Amara and move on to business. She is so exhausted she could almost rest her head against the wall and fall asleep; it must be the early hours of the morning.

“I think the cobbler’s getting jumpy about paying,” says one man. He is thin and shifty as a weasel. “All the work we do, keeping the streets safe. Not very grateful, is it?”

The man with the white scar laughs, but Felix looks unimpressed. “Maybe he needs a little reminder. Nothing too drastic.” Amara realizes they are not talking about loans. “Best it’s someone he’s not seen before.”

“I know who,” says Weasel, nodding.

The conversation flits back and forth between business and banter: who is paying, who needs persuading, the latest games at the arena, the best whore by the docks. Amara is not surprised Felix is involved in a protection racket but is uneasy that he would take the risk. Doesn’t he earn enough already? What if someone retaliated? Can everyone at this bar be trusted? She hopes any trail to the brothel is well hidden.

Time drags, and she feels like a ghost, only Felix’s hand physically anchors her to the present. She remembers what he said about showing off his wares and doesn’t dare doze off. Instead, she makes occasional eye contact with the men then looks suggestively at Felix, ensuring they remember her role, what they might be getting.

When Felix finally gets up, hauling her to her feet, she could almost cry with relief. A couple of the men walk back with them to the brothel, somehow still awake enough to take Felix up on his offer of a discount. She feels sorry for whoever has to entertain them. Watching them step into the darkened corridor of the brothel, knowing they won’t be arriving at her cell, she realizes exhaustion has sapped her sense of guilt. She follows Felix into the relative safety of his flat.

At the top of the stairs, he takes hold of her wrist, leaning back to look at her, as if weighing up the possibility she represents. Then he lets her go. “Send Paris to me,” he says, walking off.

She hurries to the storeroom, nudging the sleeping Paris with her foot. “Get up. Master wants you.”

Paris springs awake like a cat, scrabbling the blankets off himself. “Now?” he gasps. “He wants me now?”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, heading to her corner. “That’s what he said.” Paris gives a stifled sob, a sound of utter wretchedness. Amara watches him creep from the room, unable to feel anything but gratitude that he is the one being tormented instead of her. She is asleep moments after her head rests on the lumpy sack of beans.

When she wakes, she is aware of someone leaning over her. She opens her eyes. It is Paris, his face so close, their noses are almost touching. “Brothel day for you, bitch,” he whispers.

“Get away from me!” Amara shoves him, and he lands on his backside with a thud. “What is it with you?”

Paris dusts himself off, angry at being made to look foolish. “Last night was your fault,” he snarls. “Why couldn’t you have fucked Felix? You were awake anyway. And it’s nothing to you. Nothing.” His voice grows shriller. “It’s what you’re there for; it’s the whole point of you!”

Paris stops. He is on the verge of tears, his thin chest rising and falling with the effort of controlling his emotions. Amara thinks about all the cruelties Paris must have endured: the confusion of growing up in the brothel, watching the way his mother was treated, his fear when he became a target himself. And then having to suffer the contempt of other men, even ones like Gallus who he is so desperate to impress. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” Amara replies, keeping her voice steady, not wanting to humiliate him further by a show of sympathy. “But you know it wasn’t because of me. Nobody tells Felix what to do.”

“He doesn’t even screw you, does he, when he has you in the study?” Paris takes her silence as his answer, kicking at the wall in frustration. “All these years I’ve wanted him to trust me with the business, and then he chooses you instead. As if I were the woman.” Paris spits out the last word like a curse that might defile his mouth by speaking it.

Amara does not point out to Paris that he would not be much use to Felix with his accounts, since he cannot even read. “It won’t be forever,” she says. “He won’t treat you like this forever. I’m sure he does trust you.”

Paris looks at her, biting his lip. She can see he wants to talk, all his loneliness pent up inside him like a cranked-up well before the water falls. But pride gets the better of him. He shrugs, as if physically shaking her off. “Nobody’s paying for you to stay up here today, are they? So why don’t you fuck off back to where you belong and leave me in peace.”

Amara gets wearily to her feet. It feels like she only slept a couple of hours. Paris obviously woke her as early as possible. “Behaving like a shit isn’t going to make your life any easier,” she says. She walks past him, closing the storeroom door behind her.

It’s barely light out on the street. Everyone in the brothel is likely to be asleep. The back door is ajar, and Amara creeps in, resigned to sleeping in the corridor rather than waking Dido. She sinks down, her back to the wall, then hears the sound of muffled weeping. Britannica never makes an effort to be quiet, so at first, she assumes it must be Dido, but after getting to her feet and tiptoeing the length of the corridor, she realizes it is Victoria.

It takes her a while to trust her own ears. Victoria never cries. Amara hesitates before drawing the curtain. It has been weeks since they have spoken properly to each other. But she cannot bear the thought of her friend suffering.

She sticks her head around the curtain. “Are you alright?” she asks, her voice low so as not to wake the others.

She expects Victoria to stop crying or tell her to go away, but instead, she remains curled up on the bed, sobbing into her blankets. Amara hurries over, afraid. She sits down on the bed, touching Victoria’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

Victoria pushes herself upright, furiously wiping her face. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” She stares at Amara, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair wild. “Like you don’t know!”

Amara stares back bewildered. “Know what?”

Victoria slaps her across the face. Amara gasps, clasping a hand to her stinging cheek, too shocked to retaliate. “Don’t pretend to be such a fucking idiot,” Victoria shouts at her. “Rich old men and fancy boyfriends aren’t enough for you, you have to have Felix as well? You don’t even like him, still less want him! What are you doing? Rubbing everyone else’s nose in it, making us all feel worthless?”

“Like I have any choice!” Amara shouts back. “You think I enjoy being around Felix? And anyway, why do you care? You hate him as much as I do!” As soon as she has said it, she remembers the afternoon she and Dido overheard Victoria panting out her devotion. I love you; I would die for you. Amara looks at her anguished face and understands what she should have realized long ago. Victoria wasn’t pretending. “But you can’t; you can’t love him,” she says. “He’s a fucking monster! He doesn’t care about any of us.”

“Can you keep it down?” Beronice is standing in the doorway, looking haggard with exhaustion. “Or else take it outside. Some of us are trying to sleep.” She flings the curtain back across with a swish.

The interruption startles Amara and Victoria out of their anger. “I know he’s a shit; I know it,” Victoria says, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to tell me. But you don’t understand what he can be like sometimes. You’ve never seen it.” Her eyes are shining with tears, and she tumbles over her words, tripped up by all the feelings she keeps buried. “He can be so loving and gentle. And he’s always really sorry when he’s hurt me. He begs me to forgive him; he really begs. I see a side of him the rest of you don’t.” Victoria is unrecognizable in her desperation; Amara almost cannot bear to be near her. “He’s lonely, like I am. I love him so much.”

Amara thinks of the way Felix spoke to Victoria after Paris punched her, the many times she’s seen him hurt her, the way – only yesterday – he offered her body to Cedrus as if she were nothing. She feels sick to her stomach. She takes Victoria’s hand, squeezing it. “I just think you deserve so much more,” she says.

“What more is there?”

“Somebody who wouldn’t hit you,” Amara says. “A man who didn’t sell you.”

“What do you think we are? Where do you think we are living?” Victoria asks, incredulous, gesturing at the soot-stained walls. “This isn’t a fucking play. We’re not goddesses. How high are you aiming? The Emperor?”

There is a sound of violent retching. They look at each other in alarm. “Cressa!”

Beronice has reached the latrine before them, craning over the low wall. “Are you alright in there?”

“No, I’m not alright,” Cressa’s voice comes back, before she vomits again.

The three women wait, helpless, while Cressa is sick. There’s a pause, then Cressa comes out, leaning on the wall to steady herself as if she is on the roiling deck of a ship.

“Do you think you should eat something?” Victoria says.

Cressa nods wearily. “But not The Sparrow.”

“It’s too early anyway,” Beronice says, shooting a look at Amara and Victoria, still annoyed they woke her up. “They won’t be open yet.”

“We can go to a bakery. Get some bread in you,” Amara says.

They leave Dido and Britannica to sleep. Outside the sky is turning blue, and the streets are starting to get busy. Gallus is surprised to see them all out so early. He glances furtively up and down the road, checking for Felix, then kisses Beronice. “Couldn’t you leave them to it?” he says, sneaking his hand inside her cloak, fondling her.

Beronice looks at her friends, torn, while Gallus breathes into her neck. “I’ll catch you up,” she says, letting him lead her back inside.

Amara watches her go, disappointed. “She doesn’t know where we’re headed.”

“Leave her,” Victoria replies, striding off down the street. “She lets that shit walk all over her.”

Amara thinks of Victoria’s own hopeless devotion to Felix, but says nothing.

“Not too fast,” Cressa says, holding Amara’s arm. She looks even worse in the daylight, her skin covered in a film of sweat. “And let’s not walk for miles.”

A few cafés near the baths are open. They pick one and claim a table rather than stand at the counter. The bread is hard and stale. Amara thinks she will cut her cheeks to shreds by chewing it. Cressa orders a sweet wine to settle her stomach. She sits in silence, not looking up, dipping her bread in the wine to soften the crust.

“You can’t keep ignoring the obvious,” Victoria says to her quietly, in case anyone is listening. “We all know you’re pregnant. Just tell us what we can do to help.”

Cressa pauses in her dipping. “Nothing,” she says, her voice flat. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“Pitane from The Elephant had an abortion recently,” Amara says. “And it worked really well. Shall I ask her where she got the herbs?”

“No,” Cressa says, still not looking up. “I tried that last time, with Cosmus, and it didn’t work. Just cost a fortune and made me really ill.”

Victoria rubs Cressa’s arm, as if she can rub away her pain. “Perhaps Felix will let you keep the baby this time?” she says, her voice unnaturally cheerful. “Isn’t it at least worth asking?”

Cressa’s shoulders start to shake, and Amara knows she is crying, even though she doesn’t make a sound. “What good would that do?” she whispers, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes to stem the tears. “What life can I give a child? Another Paris? A little girl sold as a whore before she’s even grown? It would kill me to watch that; I would rather die.” She takes a deep breath, trying to control herself. “And besides,” she says, her voice flat again, “he already told me. Any more babies are going straight on the town’s rubbish heap. He doesn’t make enough from selling a child.”

“Maybe that would be best,” Victoria says. “And it doesn’t mean the baby would die. Look at me. I survived.”

“You don’t understand,” Cressa says. “You have no idea. Do you think because I never talk about Cosmus, that I never think of him? Every second of every day I miss him, want him. Just to see his face. All the time, every waking moment.” She holds her hand to her heart, as if to staunch a wound. “It’s a constant pain, like nothing else. I cannot give another child away.”

Amara and Victoria look at each other, unable to think of any words of comfort. “Maybe the pregnancy won’t work out,” Victoria says in a small voice.

“Maybe,” Cressa replies, drinking her wine. “Maybe.”

On the way back, Cressa shakes them both off, choosing to walk alone instead. Victoria takes Amara’s hand, gripping her fingers, like a woman afraid of drowning.