The Wolf Den

32

Amara takes one of the figs from Drusilla’s table, peeling it, savouring the soft sweetness on her tongue. It is nearly October. Rufus is reclining beside her, his body warm at her back. They have been spending more time at Drusilla’s house, ever since Rufus’s parents returned from their summer at Baiae. His parents do know about her, Rufus has assured her, it’s quite proper for him to have a girlfriend, but it’s probably better neither of them bump into her in the atrium. His mother has funny notions. She thinks a household slave is enough for such things; she doesn’t understand what it means to be in love.

Amara would have been desperate if it were not for Drusilla’s generosity in letting them stay over at her house. Rufus pays her, of course. Amara thinks it must be nice to rent out rooms, rather than your own body. She takes another fig from the table. Tonight is the first time Dido has joined them, and this feels as close to happiness as life can get.

“So you are both Punic?” Drusilla says, addressing Dido and Lucius, the wealthy young man she invited for Dido to entertain. Amara suspects he may be one of Drusilla’s former lovers, but she cannot be sure.

Lucius raises an eyebrow at the question, turns to Dido and says something in a language nobody else understands. It is clearly a joke, and Dido laughs, delighted, replying to him in the same tongue. He smiles at her, pleased by whatever it is she has said. He turns back to Drusilla. “It seems so.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Drusilla claps her hands. “Such a coincidence.” Quintus who is sitting beside her, sighs and rolls his eyes. Amara would like to throw a fig at his head. She still cannot imagine why Drusilla, the most glamorous woman she has ever met, would have such an ordinary boyfriend. He must be a lot richer than she realized.

“My family are all from Carthage,” Lucius says. His accent is similar to Dido’s but not identical. Amara supposes he must be several thousand leagues above her on the social scale. “I’ve been banished to Italy to look after the business. We have a number of bases here in Campania.”

“You must miss it, being so far away,” Dido says, her expression wistful.

Lucius replies to her in Punic, and she smiles again then looks down. Amara guesses he just paid her a compliment.

“Weren’t you kidnapped?” Rufus asks Dido. “That means your sale wasn’t legal! I’m convinced yours wasn’t either,” he says to Amara. “Convinced. It’s not possible to go from being a doctor’s daughter to a slave, is it?” He looks round at everyone else. “Don’t you think?”

Amara could wince with embarrassment. Rufus is determined to turn their lives into the plot of a Plautus play, where she is, in fact, a freeborn, marriageable girl. A world where tragedy, not snobbery, is what holds them apart.

Lucius coughs politely. “Perhaps not.”

“It’s completely possible,” Quintus says lazily. “I mean all sorts of people end up as slaves, if they aren’t Roman citizens.”

Drusilla changes the subject before Rufus can object. “Would you both sing for us? Amara told me what a delightful voice you have, Dido.”

“But only if you play the harp,” Amara says.

“Oh, please do,” Dido exclaims. “I’ve been longing to hear you play.”

The three women go through a show of false modesty and reluctance, paying each other little compliments, flirting with the men, while Drusilla’s maids bring out her harp. Dido and Amara drape themselves nearby. It’s meant to look artless, even though they have been practising all afternoon. Then it was a much brisker scene, all three concentrating on the music, trying out different sets, with the odd joke from the hostess, invariably aimed at one of her lovers. Amara had wondered at first why Drusilla was so kind, but now she understands. A steady stream of female guests allows her to rent rooms and entertain, supporting her reputation as one of Pompeii’s most sought-after courtesans.

Drusilla has no reason to fear being upstaged by Amara or Dido. She is a skilled harpist, showing off her graceful arms and slender fingers, while her voice vibrates with emotion, elevating the other women’s singing as they try to compete. The men lounge on the couches, drinking wine and laughing with one another, looking entirely satisfied to be the recipients of so much devoted labour. Amara is touched that Rufus rarely looks at her companions. The other two are quite shameless in eyeing up one another’s girlfriends.

The evening rolls on pleasantly. The food is good, if not lavish, and there’s plenty of wine. The men have a mock wrestling session – which Rufus finds amusing and Quintus takes too seriously – and quote poetry at one another, making up their own rhymes as they get increasingly drunk. Amara is gratified to see how much Lucius has taken to Dido, though she suspects he may not be a man who is looking for love in the way Rufus was when she met him. She touches the new earrings he has given her, feeling the light swing of them against her fingertips. There is an ever-growing hoard of gifts in the wooden box in his room, all hers. She slips her hand into his, stroking his palm, while he smiles, good-natured, at one of Quintus’s jokes.

Amara suspects she should try and share her good fortune with more of her friends, but she struggles to imagine Beronice or Victoria carrying off an evening like this. The thought makes her feel guilty. Victoria would probably be all too popular; she can just imagine her dancing like she did at the Vinalia, doing a striptease, but that, in itself, would tip the balance, tearing the veil that hides the real intentions behind these dinners.

“I think it might be time for bed,” Quintus says, stretching out luxuriously as if he were the host and not Drusilla. “Otherwise, I will be fit for nothing but sleeping.”

“I hope you wouldn’t dare, not under my roof,” Drusilla replies. “I cannot think of a worse insult.”

Everyone laughs, and the men bid each other goodnight, retiring with the women as their spoils for the night. Drusilla’s house is nothing like as grand or large as her clients’ homes, but it is elegant and comfortable. Every room Amara has seen is painted with scenes of mythical lovers, the one she usually stays in has a painting of Leda and the Swan. It is up the stairs, above the small courtyard and dining room.

She and Rufus follow Drusilla’s maid to the bedroom. He starts undressing her before the girl has even finished lighting all the lamps. It is something she has noticed about Rufus, the way he doesn’t seem to see many of the slaves who serve him. At his own house, Vitalio would come in unannounced to set out wine or fruit, even when they were in bed together, until Amara asked that he stop.

“He doesn’t think anything of it!” Rufus had protested, but Amara was not so sure. It was the way Vitalio had looked at her once, one slave to another, while Rufus waxed on about a play. She knew then that he disliked her, that serving her made him angry, even though she still doesn’t understand why.

Tonight, she is relieved that they have not progressed beyond nakedness before the maid leaves. It is an effort now, always remembering to perform with Rufus. His affection for her seems so genuine; she wonders what would happen if she tried to pursue her own pleasure, or suggest what she might like. But it is easier just to please him and fake it. She knows her inability to enjoy Salvius’s efforts was what cooled his interest in the end, for all he asked her not to pretend.

It is afterwards that she enjoys most, hearing Rufus tell her he loves her, holding her as if he will never let her go. She doesn’t really believe him; she knows he cannot love her, not truly, not the way she loved her family or loves Dido, as someone you consider of equal value to yourself. Still, she never tires of hearing him say the words.

After Rufus has kissed her goodbye and crept from the room, she hears him in the courtyard below, laughing with the other two men. He rarely stays the whole night at Drusilla’s, but Amara has no intention of ever telling Felix this. It is one of the perks, staying over like a guest, not a slave, in the house of a friend. She smiles to herself, imagining Dido safe nearby, stretching out on the sheets, just as she is, a night of blissful, undisturbed sleep ahead.

The cool morning air has the scent of autumn. Amara and Dido wait for their host in the small courtyard, enjoying the tranquillity. Drusilla has made clever use of space, the fountain is against the wall rather than taking up too much room in the centre. It falls in a cascade over a mosaic of blue tiles, water splashing against a statue of Venus who stands naked at the edge of the pool beneath, as if poised to bathe.

“It’s so pretty,” Dido says, looking around.

“The fountain is perfect,” Amara agrees.

“I’m glad you ladies approve.” They turn to see Drusilla watching them. She is in a light tunic, the gold band on her arm. Her head is dressed in a silk wrap that Amara instantly wants for herself. It’s the perfect way to disguise undressed hair, if there was ever anyone she needed to impress in the morning. “Why don’t you take some refreshment with me before you leave?”

They are only too eager to agree, following her to the dining room. It has been cleared since last night, and a plate of figs, pears and bread is waiting on a side table.

“So how was Lucius?” Drusilla asks, tucking herself up on a couch and gesturing at the others to take the one opposite. “He seemed quite taken.”

“He is going to try and find my family,” Dido says, looking from Drusilla to Amara, clearly excited to share the news. “He thinks it might be possible, through the census.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Amara exclaims.

“Did he tell you this before, or after?” Drusilla asks.

“After,” Dido says. “As he was leaving.”

“That’s a good sign.” Drusilla nods. “That means he was serious. Though you may still need to remind him. Lucius is not used to thinking of other people.” She pushes the platter towards them, waiting until they have taken some food before helping herself. “And if he finds them? What then?”

“I don’t know,” Dido says, looking more uncertain. “It would mean so much just to know they were alive.”

“Would they not buy you back?” Drusilla takes a bite of pear.

Amara looks at Dido, anxious for her. They have discussed this many times. “No,” Dido says. “I don’t believe so. Not when… Not after what I’ve been. There would be no place for me at home now. If I were free, if I had some money saved, then they could overlook it. Save face and pretend. But not when I’m… like this.”

“Does Lucius know?”

“Yes. I told him there was no way back for me.”

“Perhaps it’s as well. Less work for him, and he might actually do you the favour if there’s no chance of drama. Unless he has finally found his romantic side.”

“Were you and Lucius once…?”

“We were lovers once, yes.” Drusilla nods. “For some months. And he sometimes still visits. I have a certain fondness for him. Though I have to be careful with Quintus; he has more pride than you might imagine.” She looks at Amara, raising an eyebrow. “Though not as careful as you. Rufus would not take well to a rival at all.”

“No,” she replies. “But there’s no danger of that.” She looks down, peeling her fig, thinking of Menander. It had been Dido who insisted she stop communicating with him, even through graffiti. She had not had the strength to tell him herself that she now had a ‘patron’ and so took the coward’s way out, letting Dido visit the potter’s shop instead. It hurts even thinking of him. She stops peeling. The fruit lies pale and naked in her hands. She glances up at Drusilla. “Have you and Rufus ever been lovers?”

“Would the answer to that matter to you, one way or the other?”

“No,” Amara replies. “My feelings aren’t…” She pauses, not sure how to explain the way she feels. She shrugs instead.

“Only very briefly,” Drusilla answers. She watches Amara’s reaction. “I see I have upset you.”

“No, not at all,” Amara says, surprised to feel as shaken as she does. “Or rather I’m not jealous. It’s just he told me you hadn’t. He was quite convincing.”

Drusilla laughs. “All men are born liars. You should take it as a compliment. He didn’t want to hurt your feelings. At least he realizes you have some.”

“Does Quintus not?” Dido asks.

“Well,” Drusilla says drily, breaking off a piece of bread and leaning back on her cushions. “I don’t even have to ask if either of you have fucked Quintus. I know you must have. Otherwise, he would be pestering me to try you out.” They all laugh. “He is just as he appears,” she continues. “But it is strange how men can grow on you, even Quintus.”

“Some men never do,” Amara says.

“Your master?” Drusilla asks. Amara nods, not wanting to say his name.

“I don’t know,” Dido teases her. “You and Felix sitting together, going over the accounts. Surely you’ve seen his softer side?”

“He’s a shit,” Amara snaps. The ugliness of the word slams into their pleasant morning, bringing the shadow of the brothel with it. “I’m sorry,” she says to Drusilla, flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be crude.”

“I’m sure nobody here is shocked by swearing.” Drusilla laughs. “Quintus is also a shit, though I cannot imagine him making me angry enough to say so.” She looks more serious. “But then he is the one paying the money, and believe me, I understand the difference.”

Because she is free, and we are enslaved, Amara thinks. It is easy to forget with Drusilla – she is so welcoming, so friendly, and yet, she is almost as distant as Rufus in the privilege she holds as a freedwoman. Even if she does have to earn her bread the same way they do.

The thought of Felix brings a strain to the gathering where before there was only playfulness. “I suppose we had better head back,” Dido murmurs, after the second awkward pause in conversation.

Drusilla does not press them to stay, though she is gracious in her insistence that they visit again, as if they were real guests rather than ones paid for by the men they accompany. On the threshold of the house, Dido and Amara stand together for a moment, watching life on the street flow past. Then Dido steps down onto the pavement, and Amara follows.

33

The brothel feels even less like home now Felix has crammed in yet more women. Only Beronice and Victoria have a cell to themselves, after two Spanish dancers moved into Cressa’s cell a week ago. Cressa is sharing with Britannica, and the pair of them see far fewer customers than anyone else. Felix cannot admit it, but Britannica was a terrible investment.

Ipstilla and Telethusa either speak little Latin, or perhaps they simply prefer not to mix. When Amara and Dido walk in, they are laughing loudly, shouting at one another in Spanish, taking up the entire corridor. Fabia tries to sweep the floor around them, but they ignore her, refusing to move their feet.

“Thank goodness you’re back,” Victoria says, beckoning them into her cell. Amara and Dido sit down on the bed. “Felix wants us to take the new girls out, teach them how to fish.”

“Can’t they go out together?” Amara asks. “I’m sure they’d prefer that anyway.”

“No, he wants us to keep an eye on them. And somebody has to take Britannica out. He’s fed up with her doing nothing.” Amara suspects Victoria is too. She has never warmed to the Briton. “If Dido and I take the Spanish girls, can you have Britannica?”

“Why me?”

“We can’t ask Cressa, can we? And Beronice isn’t too well. Rough customer last night. Besides, I thought you liked her.”

“Fine then,” Amara sighs. “I’ll take her.”

She leaves Dido and Victoria to their noisy negotiations with the Spaniards and trudges to her old cell. Inside, Cressa is lying on the bed, eyes closed, though Amara suspects she is not asleep. Britannica sits on a stool, watching over her like a pale guard dog.

“Britannica.” Amara holds out her hand. “Come with me. Come.” The Briton looks back at Cressa, uncertain. “Come,” Amara repeats more firmly. “We go look for men.”

Britannica stands up, immediately towering over her, and strides to the door, her face grim. Amara is not sure how much Latin she understands now. She suspects a lot more than she lets on, though she has yet to speak a word other than Cressa’s name. They leave by the back door since the shouting and gesticulating is still in full flow in the corridor.

“Baths,” Amara says, shepherding her strapping companion onto the pavement. Walking out with Britannica, they are scarcely short of attention, but none of it is the sort Amara wants. Britannica stalks along, her movements unfeminine, more prizefighter than prostitute. She makes eye contact with all the men, her gaze angry and challenging. If any return the look, she bares her teeth and hisses. They have only walked one street, and Amara begins to feel afraid they will be beaten up before they even make it to the corner.

“That’s enough,” she says, exasperated. “You win. We go back.”

Britannica turns on her heel, striding along the pavement, and Amara scurries after her. The corridor is finally empty, but Amara knows she cannot give up and stay in; she will have to go out fishing with someone. She follows Britannica into the cell where Cressa is still lying, prostrated in misery.

“Cressa? I know you’re awake,” Amara says. “Why don’t you come out with me? The air would do you good.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Cressa says.

“I know, but you can’t stay in all day,” Amara pleads. Britannica is following the discussion anxiously, but Amara ignores her. “We could walk to the harbour. I’ll buy you a wine.”

Slowly, Cressa pushes herself up. Her stomach has filled out, but her face looks hollowed and empty. “Alright,” she says wearily. “I’ll come.”

“Cressa!” Britannica says, her voice urgent. “Cressa!”

“I will be back soon,” Cressa says soothingly, patting the tall woman’s arm as if she were a child. “You rest.”

Amara knows Britannica will not be resting. She’s spied on her alone in here before, watched her throw endless punches and kicks at imaginary men’s heads. She shoots her a warning look as they leave. No trouble.

The walk to the harbour is slow and laboured. It is hard to believe Cressa once made the same effort with her appearance as the rest of them. Now, she is grubby and dishevelled, her hair unkempt. Whores age in double time, Amara thinks, and the idea chills her.

“I don’t know why everyone is so unkind to Britannica,” Cressa says, looking back over her shoulder, as if somehow, the Briton might be visible behind them. “What did she ever do but hate being trapped here? She has a good heart, you know that? I’d put her loyalty above anyone else’s. And she’s smart. I know nobody else sees it, but she is.”

“She’s not easy though,” Amara says.

“Why should she be easy? Is her life easy?” Cressa’s voice is quavering, and Amara is afraid she might cry.

“I know,” she says, her tone apologetic. The last thing she wants is to upset her already anxious friend. “I know. I’ll try and make more effort, I promise.”

They carry on at their painfully slow pace, until Cressa stops altogether. Amara realizes she is gazing at a small child, perhaps aged three or four. The child’s piping chatter carries, and his mother smiles, indulgent, before noticing the strange, bedraggled woman fixated on her treasure. She puts an arm around her son, nervously steering him out of sight.

“Cressa,” Amara says, trying to usher her along. But Cressa is crying.

“Don’t,” Cressa says, shaking Amara off when she tries to comfort her.

Amara sighs. She almost regrets asking her to come out.

They walk under the marine gate, passing Vibo’s baths where none of them have worked for some months since Felix decided the tips weren’t worth it. Further down the hill, the sea sparkles into view. The air is fresh, the salt sharp. Cressa seems a little calmer now they have reached the harbour. At the docks, several boats are unloading. Men scurry and shout, busy as ants moving crumbs to their nest. Amara offers her arm, nervous after the last rejection, but this time, Cressa accepts. “Shall we have a walk, before fishing?”

Cressa nods, and they head to the colonnade that circles the port. Amara feels her spirits rise. Sunlight, reflected from the sea, ripples over the pillars and painted statues, and the call of the gulls, the sing-song shouts of the sailors sound almost musical. She helps Cressa sit down in a patch of sun by the water’s edge. Below their swinging feet, she can see grey fish darting in the clear water.

“Felix never told me where he sold Cosmus,” Cressa says. The mention of her son is so unexpected Amara does not know what to say. She looks at Cressa but cannot read her expression as her face is turned to the sea. “Fabia tried to find out for me, but we never managed it.”

“Fabia?” Amara asks in surprise. She cannot imagine Paris’s mother having the necessary bravery, or cunning, to make such an attempt.

“Why not Fabia? She sees more than you think. And everyone overlooks her. That’s what happens when you get old.” There is no mistaking the bitterness in Cressa’s voice.

“Even though it was so hard for you,” Amara says, desperate to try and make Cressa feel better. “Do you think maybe it might have been for the best? So that Cosmus wasn’t trapped at the brothel?”

Cressa turns to her, and Amara is shocked by how old and tired her face is in the full glare of the light. “I know that none of you understand,” she says. “That you think it’s something I should just get over,” Amara starts to protest, but Cressa raises a hand to stop her. “If you ever have a child, Amara, you will understand what I feel.”

She says nothing, aware of Cressa’s swelling belly, of the new baby she is carrying. They sit in silence, until Cressa starts to heave herself to her feet. Amara tries to help, but Cressa motions for her to stay where she is.

“Do you mind if I have a few moments to myself?” Cressa says. “You can wait here. I won’t be long.”

Amara is not keen on the idea. It’s never too safe at the harbour. But Cressa is looking down at her, eyes pleading, and she cannot refuse. “Alright,” she says. “But not far. I don’t want to be by myself out here for ages.”

Cressa sets off at a swift pace. She looks stronger and more determined than she has done for a while. The sea air was a good idea, after all. Amara holds onto the base of a pillar and cranes her neck round so she can see where Cressa is going. She watches her approach the docks then come to a stop by some amphora that are being unloaded from a boat. Cressa leans against one of the large jars, perhaps taking the weight off her swollen feet. She is looking out to sea, at the heave and swell of the water. Amara does too. The light is dancing on the waves. She looks further out, to where Venus Pompeiiana stands, the water breaking against the heavy stone base of her column. The goddess of love, Amara’s new mistress. She has more respect for her since the Vinalia. It was after her prayers to the goddess that her fortunes began to change. Don’t forget me, Aphrodite, she thinks, staring at the statue. Show me a way out, and the rest of my life is yours.

She glances back to where Cressa was standing and gasps, scrambling to her feet in alarm. A man is remonstrating with her, trying to stop Cressa leaning on his goods, but she is stubbornly clinging on. Amara breaks into a run. The man is shouting; it looks as if he is about to grab hold of her. Amara yells at her to let go, and to her relief, Cressa steps away, but then, in a violent movement, she pushes an amphora over the edge of the harbour wall. Cressa goes with it, pulled so fast over the side, she is almost a blur. She must have tied her cloak to the handle.

Amara cries out in shock. She hurtles past people, knocking them aside in her desperation to reach the water’s edge, oblivious to their anger. At the docks, she flings herself onto her knees. “Cressa!” she screams, leaning over the side of the jetty. “Cressa!” Her heart is pounding, her mind unable to take in what she has seen. She stares at the waves, but there’s no sign of her friend, just foam and a slight disturbance of the water where she broke its surface.

Amara stands up, distraught, looking for help. The man who shouted at Cressa is standing beside her, staring at the water, as dumbstruck as she is. She grabs his arm. “Can you swim? Can you jump in and save her?” She is sobbing, hysterical, almost pushing him in the water in her urgency. “Please, do something! Please! She’s going to die!”

The man shakes her off, furious. “That fucking bitch just stole some of my best olive oil! Do you think I’m going to risk drowning for some filthy, thieving whore?” He looks more closely at Amara, taking in her toga. “Were you with her? Do you have the same master?”

Amara looks again at the water. Its surface is almost calm now, as if Cressa never jumped in, as if she never even existed. Amara cannot swim. With every moment that passes, the chance of Cressa surviving recedes. If she’s not already dead. She realizes other sailors and merchants are starting to gather behind them, exclaiming to one another, excited by the commotion. Fear grips her.

“No,” she says, trying to hide her distress, to control her trembling. “I don’t know her. I’ve just seen her around.” Amara turns and walks as fast as she can without running, back towards the marine gate.

34

She can barely get through the words, she is crying so much. Amara pours it all out to Felix. They are alone, and he is standing close to her, grasping her arms to keep her steady. She wants him to hold her, to comfort her, to share her grief. Instead, he listens to the whole story without interrupting, his face impassive.

“You did well not to tell them you shared a master,” he says, when she has finished. “They would have made me pay for the oil. And Cressa had cost me enough already. Barely earned a penny in months.”

Amara is shocked out of her sobbing. Felix is looking at her, completely unmoved by her distress. His coldness should not be a surprise, but it still hurts, and with the pain comes the anger. She shoves him, blinded by rage. He steps back, and she hits him again, not a slap, but a punch. He is too quick for her, and she misses his face, catching his shoulder instead. “I hate you!” she screams. “You don’t give a shit about anybody! She died because of you, and you don’t care. You don’t feel anything. I hate you!” He dodges all her blows; she is too upset to aim straight. “I wish you were dead!” Amara shouts, catching hold of his clothes, trying to shake him. “I wish you were dead!” He grabs her right arm, twisting it behind her back. She cries out and drops instantly to her knees.

“You don’t get to tell me what I feel,” Felix shouts, his mouth so close to her ear it deafens her. He releases her with a shove, and she cradles her arm. “Stupid fucking bitch. Do you think I chose this life? Do you?”

Amara says nothing. She has never questioned how Felix came to run the brothel. He seems made for it. He crouches beside her, agitated, and she shrinks away. “I was born here. Not here.” He gestures at the study, as if impatient with its existence. “Downstairs. You think I don’t know what it’s like? That I don’t understand?” His face is unrecognizable with anguish. “My mother wasn’t as brave as Cressa. Too much of a fucking coward to kill herself and spare her son.”

Amara doesn’t move, doesn’t dare say anything. She cannot imagine Felix will forgive her for seeing him like this, not when he realizes what he has just said. He is hunched over, and for the first time since she has known him, he looks defeated. She understands, watching him then, that however much she hates him, Felix will always loathe himself more. “My father, or the man my whore of a mother insisted was my father, ran this place,” he says. “He gave me my freedom, so I suppose he must have believed her. But not until I had served a long apprenticeship.” He is staring at the desk – presumably his father’s – when he says this. Amara thinks of his meticulous book-keeping, imagines him sitting there as a child, watched over by an older, nastier version of himself. Learning his trade. But then she remembers the graffiti on her cell wall.

Amara looks away from Felix, her breathing shallow. Is it possible her master was once a prostitute? That he lived the same life as Paris? She is afraid to speak, to remind him of her presence, but the growing silence is frightening too. “What happened to your mother?” she says, her voice small.

“She died when I was ten.” He is staring at the red wall, his eyes glazed. His grief is so palpable that Amara forgets herself. In that moment all she can see is the frightened boy who lost his mother, who was tormented by his father, and her heart aches for him. She touches his arm, her fingers gentle.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Felix is startled out of his own thoughts. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, getting to his feet. Amara scrambles out of the way, afraid he will kick her where she sits. He stares at her, and they both know she can see the tears in his eyes. “Get out.”

She runs from the room.

Amara closes the door of the flat behind her, stands on the pavement, her back to the wood. She feels torn apart, almost as much by her confusion over Felix, as her grief for Cressa. She cannot bear to go into the brothel, to face Britannica, to make Cressa’s death real, to see her fall in the water again as she tells the others what happened. She lurches off down the street, walking quickly but without aim. Rufus comes into her mind, the way he holds her, tells her he loves her. But it would be unthinkable to disturb him at his own house, in the daytime, with her ugly whore’s tale of pregnancy and death. She almost takes the street that will lead to Drusilla’s house, sensing the courtesan would not turn her away, and yet, she doesn’t really know her. Amara’s feet know where they are taking her before she realizes it herself. The potter’s shop on the Via Pompeiana. To Menander.

She stands outside the shop, watching. He is there, laughing with another slave. A young woman. There is no sign of Rusticus. Amara feels a pang. Perhaps this is his girlfriend now. She has no right to mind what he does; she was wrong to come here and impose her grief on him. Menander sees her just as she is turning away, and he rushes from the shop.

“Timarete!” he calls, stopping her. He catches up, sees her face wet with tears. “I can’t talk outside the shop,” he says. “Wait here. We can walk to the fountain.”

Before she has time to protest, he has run back. Amara sees him talk to the slave girl at the counter who stares at her, curious, then fetches him a bucket.

“Come on,” Menander says, rejoining her. “This way.”

They walk quickly down the street. “I’m sorry,” Amara says. “I’m sorry for what happened between us.” They reach the fountain, where a small gathering of gossips is already milling about. It’s a favourite haunt for loitering slaves.

“Never mind that now,” he says, pulling her to the side to let an impatient man pass. “Tell me what’s wrong. Has somebody hurt you?” His concern for her is so obvious, it makes her want to cry all over again.

“Cressa is dead,” she says. “She was pregnant. We went to the harbour together.” Amara stops, not wanting to describe Cressa’s final moments, the flash of her cloak, the foam on the water. “She drowned herself.”

“It was just the two of you? You were left alone there? At the docks?”

Amara nods. “Nobody would help. Nobody. And when this man asked me why I was upset, I said I didn’t know her.” She covers her face with her hands, overwhelmed by her final act of betrayal. Menander puts down his bucket and embraces her. She clings to him, crying into his shoulder.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Menander says. “It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”

“Nobody helped, nobody cared,” Amara says. “They were just angry she pushed an amphora of oil in the water. She didn’t matter. And now she’s gone, and it’s like she never lived at all. Like she was nothing.”

“She wasn’t though,” he says. “You loved her, didn’t you? She mattered; she mattered to you, to her friends.”

“I didn’t help her; I let her drown.”

“You couldn’t help her,” he says. “And she chose to drown.”

Amara lets Menander hold her, until she becomes suddenly aware that they have attracted a number of gawpers, no doubt listening to every word. She straightens up, wiping her face. Menander confronts the small crowd, hovering with their buckets. “Just leave us alone, will you?”

“Fuck you,” one of the other slaves mutters, but the gossips still turn round to give them some privacy. Nobody here wants a fight, not when they all have masters waiting.

“You did nothing wrong,” Menander repeats, holding her shoulders, making her look at him. “You hear me? Nothing at all.”

Amara looks at his kind face, at the dark eyes she has tried so hard to forget, and knows that she will never love Rufus, not how she loves this man. “I’m sorry I sent Dido,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you myself.” As soon as she says the words, she can see how she hurt him. “I don’t love him,” she says. “But I owe him.”

“He bought you,” Menander says, letting go of her. “I understand.”

It isn’t only money that Amara meant. She owes Rufus for more than that. She owes him some semblance of loyalty, not to make every word she says a lie. But she doesn’t want to hurt Menander even more than she already has. He bends to fill the bucket with water he doesn’t need, except as an excuse for Rusticus. “I didn’t want you wasting your feelings on me,” Amara says, as he works the pump. “Not when I can’t give you anything.” Even though I want to, she thinks. “And I’m sorry I came here, dragging you out, burdening you. I just couldn’t bear what happened to Cressa, and I forgot. I forgot I shouldn’t have been speaking to you. That I should have left you alone.”

“You can always speak to me.” Menander lifts the bucket down, moving away from the well. “Always. And I know you have to look after yourself. I understand that.”

Amara looks down. It feels as if he is letting her go, and she doesn’t want him to. “There is nobody like you,” she says, unable to tell him she loves him. “There is nobody else like you in my life.”

“Or mine, Timarete.” He leans forward, kissing her quickly on the forehead. Then he picks up the bucket, turning to go. “Please be careful. And don’t blame yourself.”

Britannica understands, as soon as she sees Amara, that something is wrong.

“Cressa?” she demands, her voice high with anxiety. “Cressa?”

Amara cannot bear to tell her Cressa is dead while they are alone; she isn’t even sure Britannica will understand. All the other women are out, even Beronice, and she has to wait while Britannica paces the corridor, muttering to herself, sometimes turning to shout at Amara who only shakes her head.

When Dido and Beronice return, they are both with customers. She knows her stricken face will have told them there is bad news as soon as they step over the threshold, but they are still obliged to pleasure the men first. Amara sits in her old cell, waiting for them to finish.

“Where is she?” Beronice says, rushing in as soon as she is free. “Where’s Cressa? What’s happened to her?” Britannica hovers by the bed, looking from Beronice to Amara, her eyes wide with fear.

“I’m sorry,” Amara says. “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Beronice shakes her head, understanding. “No, she isn’t. She can’t be.”

“She jumped into the sea at the harbour,” Amara says, trying to keep her voice steady. “She tied herself to an amphora to make sure she drowned. I couldn’t get there in time to save her. I didn’t realize.”

“No!” Beronice wails. “No!”

It had been Britannica’s grief Amara feared, but instead, it is Beronice who loses all control. She beats her fists on the walls of the cell, tearing at her hair, at her face, screaming and crying. “I loved her!” she sobs. “I loved her! She can’t be dead!”

Amara doesn’t dare touch her; Beronice is like a mad woman. Britannica curls up in a ball on the floor, covering her ears. Dido walks in. She has no need to ask what has happened. She throws herself at Amara, and they hold one another, rocking back and forth.

They are all still crying and keening when Amara hears Victoria, her patter cutting across the noise. “Oh! I can feel it! How big you are!” There is shrieking and giggling from the Spanish girls, and the deeper tones of male voices. Amara disentangles herself from Dido and steps out into the corridor. She stands in silence, her shadow reaching out across the floor.

A man is draped over Victoria, but her attention is only half on him. She has heard the wailing. “Who?” she says to Amara. “Who is it?”

“Cressa.”

“Out!” Victoria shakes the man’s arm from her shoulders. He looks at her, bewildered by this whore who moments before was panting after him. Victoria shoves him hard. “Get out!” she yells, her face red with fury. “All of you! Out! I don’t want any fucking men in here!”

Ipstilla and Telethusa stand frozen with fear and surprise. One of their customers gives a nervous laugh. “What the fuck is this?”

“I said, all of you, out!” Victoria screams, wrenching his arm from around Ipstilla’s waist. He steps back, too shocked to hit her. His companion makes the sign of the evil eye.

“You heard what she said!” Amara shouts. “We don’t want you in here. Get out!”

Beronice rushes from the cell behind her. She looks unhinged with her scratched face and wild hair. “Bastards!” she shrieks. “She’s dead, can’t you leave us in peace?”

The men need no more urging. They don’t even take the time to hurl insults back. Instead, they hurry from the house of angry women, almost tripping over the doorstep on their way to the street.

35

On any other morning, Felix would have been down to rage at the takings, but their wild grief has made the women untouchable, for one day at least. Amara wonders if he too might be grieving but crushes her sense of sympathy. Whatever happened to Felix as a child does not change who he is now. Fabia dresses their hair, her own face red from crying. Amara remembers what Cressa said about the old woman trying to find Cosmus, wonders what else the two women talked about, what secrets Fabia might know about their master.

When everyone is ready, they leave Ipstilla and Telethusa at the brothel and walk in a silent line to The Sparrow. The Spanish girls passed a miserable night, quiet for once, cowed by the frenzy of mourning for a woman they barely knew.

As soon as they walk in, it’s clear Zoskales has already heard the news. Amara suspects half the neighbourhood must know by now, after they threw their own customers out. The landlord orders them wine and food on the house. He brings it to their table himself. “For the memory of your friend,” he says, pressing each of their hands in turn, his voice deep with sincerity. “For Cressa. May her shade rest easier in the other world.”

They thank him, Beronice weeping, but Amara fears Cressa will not rest, wherever her spirit is now. They cannot even bury her; there is nothing they can do to ease her passing.

“To Cressa,” Victoria says, knocking back the wine. The others follow. Amara tries to give Britannica a flask, but she turns her head. The Briton has not made a sound since she learnt her only friend had died. Her silence disturbs Amara far more than the wild grief she expected. She feels an even greater sense of responsibility for Britannica now. It was, after all, the last request Cressa ever made, that they should care for her.

“Her pain is over,” Victoria says. “It was her choice. We should respect that.”

“Hardly a choice,” Amara replies, remembering Cressa’s face turned to hers in the harsh light of the harbour, and the misery in her eyes. “She didn’t want to lose her baby. Whose fault was that?”

“Don’t,” Dido says, shaking her head. “Please don’t. It doesn’t help.”

“It could have been any of us,” Amara continues, ignoring her. “Any of us. We don’t matter to anyone.” Beronice starts crying again, slumping down on the table, her shoulders shaking.

“Just stop,” Dido says.

“Sorry,” Amara replies. She looks guiltily at Beronice, who is wiping her eyes, trying to control herself, while Dido puts an arm round her.

“We should mark a spot for Cressa,” Victoria says. “Use her savings for some offerings, have the rites performed. All pay towards it if we need to.”

The others nod. “And we need to look after Britannica,” Amara adds. “It was the last thing Cressa asked me. She wanted us to be kinder to her.” This proposal is met with less enthusiasm. Paying respects to a shade is an easier task than caring for a large, angry Briton.

“I hope Ipstilla and Telethusa are alright,” Dido says. “They seemed very quiet this morning. It must be strange for them.”

“Pair of complete bitches,” Victoria replies. “I doubt they have any feelings at all. You should have seen them outside the baths yesterday. Shameless! I thought they were going to start screwing a man against the wall, in broad daylight.” She looks at Amara, her expression not entirely kind. “You’re in for a fun night tonight.”

Amara and Dido are due to perform at Cornelius’s house, but they won’t be going alone. Ipstilla and Telethusa have also been booked to dance.

“They can’t be that bad,” Amara says.

“Well,” Victoria says, “you’ll just have to tell us all about the party tomorrow. I’m sure none of us can wait.”

Amara knows it is grief making Victoria lash out, but the look she exchanges with Beronice suggests the bitterness the two women feel runs deep. She understands, watching them both, that there will have been many other conversations like this when they vented their jealousy in her and Dido’s absence. Perhaps Cressa joined in too. Amara knocks back her wine, wanting to blot out the thought.

Amara has never seen Egnatius make a scene like the one he puts on for Ipstilla and Telethusa. He bursts into the chilly waiting room, unable to contain his excitement at meeting the new girls. They all gabble in Spanish together, and Amara can see what an unfeigned joy it is for him to speak his native language. She knows that feeling, remembers what it was like the first time she spoke with Menander, the sense of instant recognition and understanding.

She and Dido practise quietly in the corner. It’s more Ovid tonight; they have set some of his Art of Love to music. Verses about dancing, to blend with the Spaniards’ performance. Egnatius pays them very little attention, and she remembers the first time she came here. Then the fuss was all for her and Dido, and the mime actresses were largely expected to fend for themselves. There is nothing like the lure of the new.

Eventually, Egnatius remembers them. He heads over, semi-apologetic, to dress their hair with garlands. “They’re quite perfect!” he gushes, tucking some leaves behind Dido’s ear. “Your master bought exactly the type of girls I requested.”

“That you requested?” Amara is stunned.

“Slave girls trained in Cadiz.” He nods. “Oh! I remember seeing them in my youth. No other dancing like it in the world. It takes years to learn the skill.” He raises an eyebrow, sly with innuendo. “Trained in other arts too, of course.”

Amara and Dido exchange a horrified look. Who is going to be interested in a pair of sparrows when there are two phoenixes in the room? Egnatius picks up on their alarm, perhaps realizing his lack of tact. “But nothing like your enchanting performance!” he exclaims, without a trace of sincerity. “My fair, innocent little nymphs!”

He prances off, exchanging what is clearly a filthy joke with the Spanish girls as he leaves. All three of them cackle.

“Shit,” Amara says.

“We haven’t even got any new tunes tonight,” Dido whispers. It’s true. Salvius has given them all the songs he knows, or perhaps all the songs he wants to share, and now, they have to spice up their routine with fresh words, but familiar music.

“It will be alright,” Amara says, convincing neither of them. “We’re just different from each other. It’s fine.”

“Did you know Felix was speaking directly to Egnatius?”

Amara shakes her head. All those days she has spent with him, working on his accounts, and he has never mentioned it. “No,” she says.

At first, Amara thinks it will be alright. She is soothed that Fuscus is there, that he has still requested her to lie on his couch for at least part of the meal. It has been many, many weeks since he paid for her company for the entire dinner. They chat about his sons, his business, even his wife, and he caresses her in a lazy, familiar way. But isn’t that how it should be? There’s not the same urgency when you’ve known a lover for a while.

Amara has a niggling sense of unease that there are fewer guests than usual, and no wives are present, not even their hostess, Calpurnia. Even so, much of the dinner feels reassuringly predictable. She and Dido perform, everyone seems to enjoy their singing, and Egnatius graciously steers them around the room. But Ipstilla and Telethusa are not left until the end of the meal like the mime actresses. Instead, Egnatius brings them in as the high point, just when everyone’s spirits have built to an especially convivial pitch.

Amara is reclining on a couch with a man she doesn’t know when they enter. He hasn’t spoken to her directly, but she thinks he might be called Trebius. He runs a tannery and is droning on about leather to his equally dull companion when Cornelius starts talking, his voice loud over the murmur of his guests.

“My friends,” he exclaims, “I think you may enjoy the next course. A Spanish dish with extra spice.”

There is expectant laughter, and Amara realizes that everyone has been waiting for this. She and Dido were only here to whet the guests’ appetites. The entire evening has been based on the new women’s performance.

Ipstilla and Telethusa whirl their way past the fountain of nymphs, clacking their red castanets. Even the tedious Trebius has stopped talking, suddenly interested and alert. The two dancers are naked, though Amara realizes they have made liberal use of the gold paste she and Dido unwisely left unattended in the waiting room.

Their initial flourish over, the two women begin grinding in earnest. Amara stares. She has never seen dancing like this. It makes Victoria’s performance at the Vinalia look matronly. She is not even sure how they manage all that shaking and quivering, lowering themselves to the floor but not quite touching it, without toppling over. And the singing is worse. It’s a medley of wordless wailing and moaning, the least subtle imitation of sex she’s ever heard.

Trebius grabs her leg, and she flinches. She turns to look up at him, but he is not looking back at her, does not even seem conscious of her; his hand is grasping the flesh of her thigh purely because he wants to touch a female body while he watches the dancing. She resists an overwhelming instinct to prise his fingers from her skin, preferably bending them back until the bones snap, and instead glances round desperately for Fuscus. He too is mesmerized by the dancing. She keeps her eyes focused on him, willing him to notice her, sending out a silent plea. Eventually, he glances over. She locks eyes with him, determined that he should understand. He motions to Egnatius, pointing towards the couch where she is trapped with Trebius.

Amara has rarely felt more grateful to see Egnatius sidle over. “Please forgive me,” he murmurs to Trebius. “a most terrible oversight, this one is booked elsewhere…” Trebius looks at Amara, almost surprised to see his own hand touching her. “Take it,” he says impatiently, almost shoving her off the couch. “You’re blocking my view.”

Amara reclines next to Fuscus whose expression is smug. “Did the dancing put you in the mood for me, little sparrow?” he asks, hoicking her closer to him, breathing heavily in her ear.

“I couldn’t be with anyone else!” She sighs. Let the foolish man imagine she was longing for his body rather than his protection. At least she knows him. Even if he has no real affection for her, he won’t hurt her, he won’t use her body without any thought there might be a living woman attached to it.

She looks round for Dido, ashamed that she has only just remembered her friend. She spots her near the fountain with a man she does not recognize. At least he seems to be leaving her largely alone, too caught up in the women dancing to notice the one next to him.

Dinner is, unsurprisingly, a shorter affair than usual. It is less of a saunter to Cornelius’s brothel, more a stampede. Other hired women are already waiting, no doubt booked by Egnatius to make sure none of the guests go short. Amara is disappointed Fuscus does not take her to a private room; she supposes he has made an exception to his usual preference not to be watched, confident that the other men, like him, will be more interested in watching the dancers than each other. Ipstilla and Telethusa flit between the lavish cells, putting on a performance for the men while they have sex, but not, Amara thinks bitterly, having to endure being used themselves.

She is not afraid of Fuscus, but when he manoeuvres her into a painfully awkward position, purely to get a better view of Telethusa, she realizes the distance between him and Trebius is not as great as she imagined. Her body, which is too familiar to be exciting on its own, is a means to heighten his pleasure in the dancers. She is trapped by him, his weight like the waves of the sea, pushing her under. She thinks of Cressa, lost beneath the water, and turns her face to the side, gripping the expensive fabric on the bed. At the edge of her vision, she can see the flash of Telethusa’s legs as she dances. Felix put this woman here, she thinks. All the gold she has earned him, and he spent it on diminishing her value. He destroys everything in the end.

36

Amara can hear Thraso before she sees him. Gallus is leading them back home in the dark, although this street, with its bars and brothel, is never so dark as the others. A small crowd is gathered around the foot of a ladder. It stands propped against the wall, just round the corner from their own front door, and a shrieking woman is trying to shake it, stopped only by drunken bystanders. At the top, Thraso bellows down at her, clinging onto a rung with one hand and waving a hammer with the other.

“What the fuck?” Gallus says, raising his lamp to illuminate the scene.

Amara takes Dido’s hand, and they draw closer together, but Ipstilla and Telethusa seem excited at the prospect of a row, bouncing up and down to get a better view. Both are still ecstatic over their success at Cornelius’s house. Even Egnatius tipped them for their performance, something Amara has never seen him do before.

“What’s this?” Gallus yells, barging into the crowd. He grabs the shrieking woman’s shoulder. “Are you trying to fucking kill him?”

The woman turns round, still screaming, and Amara recognizes her. It’s Maria, Simo’s least valuable woman. She stops yelling when she sees Amara and Dido, then screws her face up, spitting at their feet. “For Drauca,” she says, her eyes bright with hatred. She turns back to Gallus, flinging her arm up with anger. “Get him to stop! Look at him! He’s destroying my master’s property!”

Thraso is swinging his hammer at a stone cock that has sprouted high up on the wall. Amara hadn’t noticed it before, but then there are so many in Pompeii. Maria takes advantage of everyone staring upwards to give the ladder a violent shake. Thraso clings on, swearing at her. “You’ve no right!” she shrieks. “Stop it!”

“Bitch,” Thraso yells back, brandishing the hammer. “Mind I don’t drop this on your fucking head!”

Ipstilla steps forwards, yanking at Maria’s toga to move her out of danger, shouting at her in Spanish. The two women grapple with one another, and the crowd cheer, delighted by the night’s unexpected entertainment.

“Get Felix,” Gallus says to Amara and Dido. “Now.”

They run back to the brothel. It’s no distance away, but the carousing outside The Elephant is so raucous that the noise of the row, just a few houses down, is lost in the chaos. Paris is on the door and is startled to see them charging up the street on their own.

“You need to get Felix,” Amara says. “There’s trouble with one of Simo’s whores. He’ll know what I mean.”

Paris hurries to the flat, banging on the door and yelling. The door opens, and he disappears inside. A few moments later, Felix comes out armed with a metal rod. Paris slinks out behind, obviously being sent back to guard the brothel rather than join in the action.

“Where are the dancers?” Felix asks, surprised to see them on their own.

“They stayed with Gallus,” Dido replies, as they trot behind him.

Felix shakes his head, irritated. “Better take them back with you.”

They reach the ladder, and the crowd parts, more out respect for the weaponry than the man carrying it. Maria and Ipstilla are still scrapping, Gallus trying to get between them, but at the sight of Felix, they all pull apart. Gallus bundles Ipstilla out of the way. “Fucking women,” he mutters.

“What’s this?” Felix asks. He sounds casual, almost bored, leaning on the metal rod as if it were a staff.

Maria squares up to him, shoulders heaving from her recent exertion. “You tell me!” she shouts. “Your thug’s smashing up my master’s business! Simo rents this room; it’s his. You have no right.”

“This room?” Felix says, swinging the rod towards the small darkened cell that opens directly onto the street. He wrinkles his nose, as if he can smell its stale odour. “Simo rents this room?”

Maria steps protectively in front of the doorway. Amara cannot help admiring her courage. “You know he does. That’s why that bastard’s been trying to smash the sign.”

Felix smiles at Thraso, who has just descended the ladder. “I think we can leave the lady her sign,” he says. “Though that’s a big fucking cock for a very small brothel, isn’t it? What’s your master hoping? Some of the dregs from my business will swill down the road?” Felix turns round to the watching drunks. “Which women would you rather fuck? That fat one there”—he points at Maria—“or my girls here.” Some of the crowd laugh, and Ipstilla with them, but Telethusa looks less impressed. Amara suspects she doesn’t fancy a night with any of the drunks on display. At least there they can agree.

“You can mouth off all you like,” Maria says, jutting out her chin. “You don’t impress me. Think I’ve never been called fat before? Well, my big, fat arse is staying right here.”

This time it’s Maria who raises the laugh. Felix nods, and Amara recognizes his smiling expression as one of pure cruelty. “No doorman though, is there?” he says, looking theatrically up and down the road for her non-existent protector. “Simo can’t think much of you if he’s selling cunt straight on the street. Anything could happen. You leave your goods for a moment and”—he snaps his fingers—“somebody’s stolen them. Or smashed them.” He is staring at Maria as he says this, so that she cannot mistake his meaning.

For the first time, Amara can see that Maria is afraid, but she chooses to cover it with bravado. “If I’m so fucking ugly, not worth your while to threaten me, is it?”

Felix bows. “I’m sure, for your performance tonight, you will have the pick of all the men here.” In answer, a couple of the drunken bystanders jostle towards Maria’s small, dark cell, and Felix watches her discomfort as she realizes she will have no means of limiting or controlling her customers. He must really hate her, Amara thinks, to frighten her at the expense of making Simo some money. She thinks of Drauca and feels afraid of what might happen to Maria. Felix turns to the remaining men. “If you prefer wine to water, the brothel’s this way.”

Most were only there for the spectacle and slope off, not willing to pay for their fun, but a couple tag along. They walk along the narrow pavement in a gaggle. Ipstilla and Telethusa exchange anxious glances. Surely, the master doesn’t expect them to entertain drunks like this, not after their performance at the grand house? Ipstilla catches his arm. “Why does she go upstairs?” She points at Amara. “She is better in brothel. We make you much more money tonight.”

Felix slaps Ipstilla hard across the back of the head, and she yelps. She stares at Felix, bewildered, obviously not used to a master with no favourites and no loyalty. “She didn’t brawl in the street like a rabid bitch either,” he says. “Don’t fucking question me again.” They arrive back at the brothel, and Felix greets Paris at the door. “Make sure you take the clothes from them first,” he says, pointing at the women who have returned from the party. “I don’t want them torn.” He clicks his fingers at Amara, and she follows him. She cannot bear to look back at Dido, left behind with the rabble.

“Little dog,” Ipstilla hisses as she passes. “He will tire of you.”

Felix says nothing to her as they walk up the stairs, but before she can head to the storeroom he stops her. “Did the dancers earn more than you tonight?” It is the first time they have spoken alone since he told her about his mother.

“Yes,” Amara says, not wanting to betray any emotion in her answer.

He leans on the wall, looking her over. She can tell from the hatred in his eyes that he will never forgive her for seeing him as she did, that he will always need to diminish her. “Posh boy today, isn’t it? You’d better get some sleep. You look tired. Like Cressa.” He presses his finger to her cheek, testing its softness, as if she were fruit at the market. “Pretty face. Nobody ages faster than a whore.”

Drusilla’s dressing table reminds her of the luxurious mornings she spent with Sarah, at Pliny’s house. Amara is conscious of the favour the courtesan is showing her, allowing her into her intimate space. Drusilla’s favourite maid, Thalia, is dressing Amara’s hair. She has dark brown skin like her mistress, and deft, clever fingers. Drusilla has already explained Thalia’s worth, how expensive it was to find a woman who would know the best styles for her own hair. Thalia listened to it all in silence, without betraying how she might feel, or what it meant to her, being shipped all the way from Axum to Pompeii to make a stranger look beautiful.

“I was only a small child when I came here,” Drusilla says. “I remember almost nothing of my family. My master Veranius became everything to me.” She fingers the gold bracelet on her upper arm. It is the most Amara has ever heard her speak about herself.

“Was that his gift to you?” she asks.

In answer, Drusilla slips the bracelet down her arm and hands it to Amara. It is heavier than she expects, shaped like a snake, its eyes glittering gemstones. Inside is an inscription. From the master to his slave girl. Amara admires it then gives it back. “He must have loved you dearly to have made you such a beautiful bracelet,” she says.

Drusilla slides it back on. “I was the fifth woman in his life to wear it,” she says. “I knew some of those who wore it before me.” She smiles at Amara, seeing the expression on her face. “An early lesson in men. The fourth was Procris, his wife’s maid. She raised me. When I was a grown woman, she had to give this up to me, along with all the favour that went with it. He broke her heart.”

Amara does not know what to say. Drusilla just told her Veranius meant everything to her, yet the man sounds as monstrous as Felix. “I loved him,” Drusilla says, as if guessing her thoughts. “And I despised him. What else is possible towards the man who gives everything and takes everything?”

“He must have favoured you the most,” Amara says. “As you kept it, and he freed you.”

Drusilla laughs. “You can be as naïve as Rufus!” she says. “I survived him, that’s all. Nothing more to it than luck. If he had died when Procris was wearing this, no doubt she would be free, and I would be dressing his widow’s hair.”

Thalia stands back from Amara, offering her the mirror to see her work. Amara turns her face, admiring her curls. “It’s lovely, thank you,” she says, carefully laying the silver disc on the table. Drusilla nods at Thalia who leaves the room. “Thank you for letting me come here,” Amara says, when the maid has gone. “I could not continue to see Rufus otherwise.”

“He will never love you more than he does now,” Drusilla replies. Amara puts her hand to her neck, upset because she knows it is true. “I don’t say it to be cruel,” Drusilla continues. “But you need to think carefully about what you want from him. There will never be a better time to ask.”

“He is always saying he will marry me,” Amara admits. “But it’s impossible! I would be arrested, the marriage dissolved. Roman citizens don’t marry brothel whores. Life isn’t one of his plays.”

“I didn’t mean marriage!” Drusilla is amused. “Perhaps aim a little lower.”

Amara laughs with her, embarrassed to have exposed the heights of her own ambition. “Can I ask you something?” she says, feeling a little shy. “Why did it not work out between Rufus and you?”

“Rufus wants to give everything to a woman. You could almost say he wants to make her.” Drusilla cups her hands, as if sheltering something precious. “What he wants is a little wounded bird he can hold, feel its wings flutter against his fingers.” Her voice is low and crooning. Amara can almost imagine holding the bird herself, its tiny, frightened heart beating beneath soft feathers. “I was not fragile enough for him. You are.” Amara stares at Drusilla, still sitting with her hands cupped together. There are no words for the pain she feels, knowing it is true. “I have been you,” Drusilla says. “Veranius would never have let me go, only his death did that. But Rufus might be different. You might persuade him that there would be no greater pleasure than opening his fingers, watching the bird fly, knowing every beat of its wings, every breath it takes, it owes to him.” Drusilla opens her hands, and they both stare at the empty air. Then she drops her arms, sadness in her eyes. “At least, you have to try.”

Amara dines alone with Rufus, served a private dinner in the room with Leda and the Swan. Amara knows Drusilla is entertaining Quintus elsewhere in the house. She feels reassured that Rufus wants to lie with her before eating, at least making love to her is still more exciting than food, but she no longer feels the same comfort when he caresses her afterwards. She keeps thinking of the bird, of what it feels like for him, holding his fragile, tragic little whore.

“I wish I could spend every evening with you,” he says, tucking into Drusilla’s grilled fish and beans. “If I had my way, we would spend every waking moment together.” He takes her hand and kisses it, looking sentimental. “You know that, don’t you, my darling?”

Amara’s heart is beating so fast, and her nerves are pulled so tight, she cannot touch her own meal. She won’t beg, not after Pliny, and in any case, she does not want to swap one enslavement for another. “If only I had a home, like Drusilla,” she sighs. “You could visit me whenever you wanted.”

Rufus kisses her, but she can tell he hasn’t taken her seriously. She tries again. “You are more generous than any man I’ve ever met,” she says. “I cry sometimes, when I’m alone, thinking about how you would marry me, because I know you meant it sincerely when you asked. Even though I could never accept. I would never dishonour your family that way.”

Rufus kisses her again, more passionately this time, distracted from eating by her adoration. “How I love you!” he murmurs.

“But if you set me up in a home like this, I could be a second wife for you,” she says. “As your freedwoman.” Amara sees a flash of alarm in Rufus’s eyes, but she has rolled the dice and has to play her hand. “I would exist only for you, never taking from your family. Not now, or in the future. I would need nothing other than to be allowed to love you.”

“Is that really what you want?”

“More than anything in the world,” she replies. Her lip is trembling from fear, not love, but Rufus cannot tell the difference.

“Perhaps it might be possible,” he says, turning from her. He looks distracted, rather than excited by the idea. “It would need some work. This isn’t a small thing, what you’re asking.”

“I know. But ours isn’t a small love,” Amara says. “And although I cannot bring myself to dishonour you by allowing you to have me as a wife, I could love you as a mistress without bringing shame to anyone.”

“It would be wonderful,” Rufus agrees, beginning to warm to the idea of a constant well of devotion. “And then, even when I marry, if my wife isn’t…” He stops, perhaps realizing that speculating on the desirability of his future wife isn’t very romantic. “Anyway, whatever she were like, I could always spend time with you, whenever we wanted.”

“Yes,” Amara says. “I would always be waiting for you.”

“Maybe Drusilla could teach you the harp?” Rufus replies, his face hopeful, like a child. “You two like each other, don’t you? And you’ve no idea how happy it makes me, seeing you lost in your music. I think you would look even lovelier playing the harp than you do with the lyre.”

Amara smiles, relieved he has so easily succumbed to the image of her as the mistress singing in her gilded cage. But his words set off an unwelcome echo, and without wanting to remember, Menander’s rival fantasy plays through her mind. She sees herself as he did, waiting for him in his father’s house. The shared life they will never have together in Attica.

She leans over and kisses Rufus gently on the lips then gazes up at him, not as Timarete, the woman he will never know, but as Amara, the woman she is now. “Whatever you want.”

“I’ll do it.” He sounds more determined. “There must be a way of managing it. And I wouldn’t have to pay for you all the time then, not after the initial outlay.” He stops, wincing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, my darling, that sounded unforgivably crude. What I meant was, if it makes financial sense, even my father might see it’s a good idea.”

“You are the best man in the world,” Amara says, clasping her hands.

He smiles at her, but she can see the same distracted look on his face. She leans her head against his shoulder, the blood pounding in her ears, hoping that he means what he says and that she has not just sped up her descent and exit from his life.