The Wolf Den

37

It is cold in Balbina’s small atrium. A film of ice covers the rainwater in the central pool. Amara and the other two women huddle together in their woollen cloaks, trying to come to an agreement. It cost her dearly, paying off some of Terentia’s interest to Felix, but now it may finally be worth it. The fruit seller has introduced her to another client.

“I will keep the contract safe for you both,” Terentia is saying. “I found her fair, more than fair.”

Balbina has run up a dicing debt and doesn’t want her husband to know. Perfect, as far as Amara is concerned, provided Balbina can hand over enough surety.

“Let me see the necklace,” she says, softening her command with a smile. The chain slips through her fingers, light and supple. She lacks the expertise to know whether it is worth the same amount as the loan, but she suspects the cameo pendant, at least, would fetch something. Amara loops the chain around her own neck, tucking it under the woollen cloak, then hands Balbina a purse. “You may want to check it’s the agreed amount,” she says.

Balbina counts the coins out twice, while Terentia and Amara watch. Then Terentia holds out the tablets for them both to sign. “Much better rate of interest than I got.” Terentia sighs.

“I know,” Amara says. “But this is much riskier for me.” What she has just done is worse than risky, and she knows it. Should Felix ever discover the betrayal, the consequences are unimaginable. She tells herself that brokering this loan is a safety net, a means of earning extra cash if Rufus disappoints her. But she knows this is only partly why she has taken such a terrible risk. The real reason is the pleasure she gets from cheating Felix, the fierce joy of outwitting him. Ever since Cressa died, the hostility between them has been relentless, a battle of wits she is determined to win. I am better at this than he is, she thinks.

Amara turns to Terentia. “We are both trusting you with the contract,” she says. “So please keep it safe.” She has sweetened that trust by five asses though no need to tell Balbina that. If the gambling wife is wise, she will have given the fruit seller her own bribe. “When the interest is paid,” she says to Balbina, who has already tucked the purse out of sight. “I will return the necklace.”

“I’ll pay it in no time,” Balbina says, sounding tetchy. “I just got unlucky, that’s all.”

Nobody wants to linger, so after a curt goodbye, Amara and Terentia step out onto the street. “Good job you have the necklace,” Terentia says. “She’ll have to get very lucky at dice to pay that off in one go.”

“Thank you for arranging it,” Amara replies.

“I’ll expect the same interest myself next time,” Terentia says, hurrying off down the street. “Your master’s a skinflint.”

Dido is standing across the street, loitering outside a bakery, pretending to form part of the queue. “Thanks for waiting,” Amara says, joining her, stamping her feet on the cold pavement. “I guess we should get something to eat.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Dido replies. “How your nerves can stand it.”

It’s true that Dido looks more anxious than Amara. The risk she is running is so great, she has moved beyond fear. Instead, she is high on the sense of betrayal. Deceiving Felix is even more satisfying than she anticipated. “It should be fine,” she says. “Rufus will keep the surety safe for me.” He had also provided her with the purse full of cash, yet another test of his love. She told him it was for a friend who had got into debt, and he did not question her. He has no need to know about this side of her life. When she is installed in their love nest, she doesn’t want to rely on him for everything; it’s better if she has some means to support herself.

Dido is looking at her strangely. “What is it?” Amara asks, putting her hand to her neck, worried the chain might be showing. “What’s wrong?”

Dido shakes her head, embarrassed. “Nothing, it’s just…” She pauses, obviously not wanting to say.

“What?” They have reached the front of the line, and it will be their turn at the counter soon. Amara is impatient to know.

“I know how much you feel things, because I know you. But you look so cold sometimes. You look like…” Dido falters again.

Amara is annoyed by her dithering. “Like what?” she snaps.

“You look like Felix,” Dido blurts out. “I’m sorry. But you do.”

The words sting, but she doesn’t want to show it. “I suppose slaves get like their masters,” she says, tossing her head as if she doesn’t care. “At least he’s good at business.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Dido says, knowing her too well not to notice Amara is offended. “You could never be cruel like him – that’s not what I meant.”

They are interrupted by their arrival at the counter. Dido orders the bread, buying a little extra for Fabia and Britannica who cannot afford their own. Amara says nothing, still upset by the comparison with Felix. She thinks back to her dealings with Balbina, how different it felt to that first loan with Marcella, how much less she cared this time. I don’t have a choice, she tells herself. He is free, and I am not.

It is starting to sleet when they step back on the street. They pull their cloaks up, trying to protect themselves from the wet and the cold, hurrying along the slippery pavement. Amara takes Dido’s arm to show she’s forgiven her. “I don’t know how we’re meant to pick anyone up in this,” she grumbles.

“Aren’t you seeing Rufus tonight?”

“Doesn’t matter. Felix says I have to start earning something on these days too, or he will charge Rufus double. I can’t risk costing him yet more money.” She feels a sense of weariness, the exhilaration of the loan already fading. Rufus has promised he will buy her, but there always seems to be some excuse to delay. Now he says it will be the Saturnalia, that it will soften the blow for his parents if his indiscretion is lost in the celebrations. She hopes he means it. Every day she spends in Felix’s service is like another stone added to the growing pile that weighs down her heart. However clever she is, however often she outwits him, he still holds all the power.

“The baths might be our best chance. At least the customers won’t have to walk far.” Dido looks tired too. Guilt pricks Amara. Whatever anxieties she has, Dido’s worries are surely worse. Egnatius is booking them less frequently, Aurelius and Fuscus were only ever occasional clients, and Drusilla’s friend and former lover Lucius has largely proved a disappointment. He does still pay for Dido’s company at Drusilla’s house, but nothing like as often as Rufus does. And he has never said anything more about finding her family. “If Rufus doesn’t let me down,” Amara says, taking her arm, “I promise I won’t leave you there. I will get you out too.” It is a promise she has made a thousand times before.

“If Felix lets you,” Dido says, looking depressed. They both know buying her freedom is likely to be out of Amara’s gift, unless Rufus showers her with gold.

The square outside the baths is much less busy than usual, nobody caring to linger in the sleet. They press close to the men’s entrance, sheltering under a wine shop’s balcony. As the men come out, still red-faced from the heat of the steam room, they wish them good day, trying to make eye contact. Dido has been in Pompeii over a year now, and almost no trace of the shy girl from Carthage remains, or at least not now, when she is focused on picking up clients. It is a brutal waste of her acting talents, Amara thinks, remembering the way Dido dances, the sweetness of her singing voice, her ability to inhabit a character. All that skill used to play a street whore.

Most of the men push past without responding to their greeting, others stop to trade insults, or try to steal a kiss. Dido is the first to secure a serious customer. She hesitates before leading him home. It’s not how they like to work, splitting up like this, but the brothel is near enough for them to take the risk. Amara nods at her, the signal that she is fine. She doesn’t wait to watch Dido hurry off with her catch, a portly older man. She cannot afford to slacken her own sales pitch – a rival prostitute is at the doorway now. The other woman is much more poorly dressed, her cheeks hollowed out by hunger. Nothing like being undercut, Amara thinks bitterly. Anyone looking at the scrawny creature will know she’s unlikely to charge much.

Sure enough, the starving woman is picked up in no time, no doubt leading her suitor off somewhere no more salubrious than a back alley. Amara calls out more loudly, increasingly aggressive in her approach. She interrupts men’s conversations, pressing her body too close to them.

Two young men stop to return her greeting, taking their time in spite of the cold, their cheeks pink and sweaty. “Need heating up do you?” one says, looking her up and down.

She laughs, pretending to be amused. “Not just me,” she says, stepping back, beckoning them towards her. “Lots of lonely girls.”

“Told you the brothel was just round the corner,” the other man says to his companion. “It’s by a bar too. I remember it from my last time here. We could have a drink afterwards.”

Amara walks swiftly, and they hurry to keep up with her. Not much further, she tells herself. Just get it over with. She passes Simo’s single-cell brothel on the way, its door ajar. The sight of it always gives her an uneasy feeling, but so far, Felix seems to have decided to ignore the insult. Maria is still alive.

Felix didn’t specify how many men she needed to find today. But if she can bring two past the door, surely that should be enough? Gallus is on sentry duty, looking wet and miserable. He shows Amara three fingers. Three women in. “Make sure he knows I brought them,” Amara murmurs, as she passes.

Beronice is waiting in the corridor, bored and chilly in her cloak. One of the men saunters over to claim her. Dido must still be busy. Amara doesn’t even have to ask herself who the third woman is. It will inevitably be Britannica.

Victoria’s room is free, so Amara leads her man in there. Since Felix bought so many women, they have all had to be less particular about where they entertain. I don’t want to do this, Amara thinks, as she draws the curtain. She has lost the sense of horror, the terrible panic that used to overwhelm her. Instead, what she feels is a wordless aversion, a feeling that she has been pushed too far, beyond what she can physically stomach. Think of the money.

She turns and smiles at the man. He is already half-undressed.

“Against the wall,” he says.

Amara waits for Philos to collect her. She sits alone on the hard sack of beans in the storeroom, her head resting on the wall, eyes closed. She tries to imagine herself back in Pliny’s garden, tries to recreate the sense of tranquillity, the sound of the fountain. It has been hours since the man from the baths touched her, but she can still feel him. Afterwards, she walked to the well in the rain, struggled back with a bucket of icy water, stripped herself off. She tried to scrub away every trace, the water so cold on her skin it was painful. Perhaps when Rufus tells her he loves her later, the feeling might start to fade.

“I hope you don’t show the posh boy such a fucking miserable face.”

She opens her eyes. Felix is standing in the doorway, watching. She didn’t hear him approach. She resists the urge to put her hand to her neck, to check Balbina’s chain is still hidden. “I told you he’s violent,” she says, not bothering to stand up. “A miserable face makes him happy.”

“As long as he keeps paying,” Felix answers. She looks at him, standing there, an ugly sneer on his face, as if he can still pretend that he is any better than she is. Your mother was a whore and so were you. The words are too potent to risk saying aloud, but just knowing his secret makes her feel stronger. Amara has tried to find out more from Fabia, ingratiating herself with presents of food, asking what the old woman remembers of their master’s childhood. Fabia had opened her mouth, pinching her own tongue between her fingers. “He told me he would cut it out himself,” is all she said.

“Gallus let you know I brought in two customers today?” Amara says.

Felix nods. “I’ll let it pass this time. Next time I want at least three.” She says nothing, not letting her anger show. She hopes now he has thrown his taunt he will leave, but he doesn’t. “Posh boy never leaves any marks. A violent lover usually does.”

“You don’t.”

They stare at each other. Their silence is like that of two tigers, circling one another. Her hatred for this man is more ferocious than desire could ever be.

A loud rapping announces Philos’s arrival on the street below. Felix stands aside to let her pass, but she can feel his animosity follow her, even when she is out of sight and heading down the stairs. She opens the door. Philos, with his cheerful smile and friendly greeting, is like a visitor from another world.

Philos never speaks until they are walking side by side down the street, well out of earshot of the brothel. He turns to her when they are at a safe distance, and she can see the smile in his eyes, even though his face is solemn. “We’re going somewhere new tonight.”

“Not the theatre?”

“It’s a surprise.” He laughs at her curious expression. “More than my life is worth to spoil it.”

Amara feels her pulse quicken with hope. “Is it…?”

“I’ve said too much already!” Philos exclaims, but his broad smile is surely her answer. “Just make sure you look astounded, that’s all I’m saying.”

Amara laughs too. She likes Philos; he has a kind, easy manner. Rufus relies on him for everything, in the way she remembers Pliny relied on Secundus. She suspects Philos is considerably smarter than his master, but far too discreet to show it. “Did you have anything to do with it?” she asks.

“Possibly.”

“Then I know it will be wonderful.” Philos looks pleased by the compliment. Amara knows only too well how little thanks any slave gets for his labour. They walk to the cheaper part of town, and she feels her excitement growing.

“Here we are,” Philos says, stopping at a darkened doorway. She stands close to him, eager to see everything, and he pushes her away slightly, as if they were children jostling over a toy. He gives her the lamp to hold and fishes out some heavy keys, deliberately taking his time with the lock, until she hits him playfully on the arm. Philos turns the key, cranking open the wooden door. They step inside. The small atrium is cold, with a few oil lamps set on the floor, their flickering light dimmed by the moonlight from the opening in the ceiling. She turns to ask Philos where they are, but he has already melted into the shadows.

“Welcome home, darling.”

Rufus is standing in the archway to the garden, his figure cutting a deeper shade of black in the darkness.

Amara flings herself at him with a cry. She can scarcely get the words out, all her love and relief and fear are jumbled together, the threads too tangled to unwind.

“You’re shaking!” Rufus exclaims. He sweeps her up into his arms, relishing the theatricality of the gesture. Amara is perhaps a little heavier than he was expecting, as he stumbles on the first step, but then he regains his footing and strides towards one of the darkened rooms. It is cold and barely furnished. A couch and a burning lamp stand in the corner. More than enough.

There is no pretence to Amara’s happiness. That side of her performance, at least, is genuine. And after she has given him every pleasure his body can bear, Rufus hardly has the chance to tell her he loves her. She has already said the words herself, over and over again.

The chill is too sharp to lie together on the bed for long. “I’m afraid the house is only rented at the moment,” Rufus says, hurrying to get dressed. “But perhaps we can buy the place if we like it enough.” A sliver of fear prickles Amara, as cold as the sweat drying on her skin. She shivers. Surely this house is more than proof that he will free her? Rufus leans towards her, kissing her again. Slowly, she relaxes. He cups her face in his hands. “We can decide when you belong to nobody but me.”

38

Amara stands alone in the brothel corridor. Nobody else is awake yet. She looks at the familiar space, the sooty walls, the paintings above the doorways. A woman on top for Victoria. A man with two cocks for Beronice. All those women on the walls, never taking a break from getting fucked, even when the real whores are sleeping. She wonders how many more nights she will have to spend in this place and hugs herself, thinking of the empty house. Waiting for her.

She is sure Rufus will free her soon, he must do. But even if he doesn’t, if he only buys her, it will still be a thousand times better to be his slave than belong to Felix. The prickle of fear returns, but she rubs her arms angrily, as if she can physically brush off her anxiety. A bang from Cressa’s old cell distracts her. Britannica.

The cell’s curtain is moving slightly, swayed by the movement behind it. She bunches the fabric in her hands. It stinks. “It’s Amara,” she says in a low voice, announcing herself before she enters.

Britannica does not look over. Not for the first time, Amara is struck by her strangeness. She is far too tall for a woman, and now her red hair is too short. It grew so matted they had no choice but to cut it. She is almost ugly in her disregard for herself, yet Amara still feels a sense of admiration for Britannica’s body, for its undoubted strength. All the effort the rest of them put into looking desirable seems feeble in comparison.

Amara watches the pale arms, jabbing the air. She wonders when Britannica last left her cell, when she last saw daylight. She thinks of the promise she made Cressa. “You should get out for a while,” Amara says. “Come to the well with me.”

At first, the other woman gives no sign of having heard, but Amara waits. She has learnt that Britannica will always respond eventually. She watches her aiming punches that fall just short of the wall. If she misjudged, she would surely break her hand. Then, without warning, she suddenly stops. Britannica rifles through the blankets on her bed, finds her cloak and flings it on, before picking up a jug on the floor. She tilts her head to one side, looking at Amara, impatient. What are you waiting for?

Amara collects the brothel’s communal bucket from its place by the back door. They walk together down the street. The silence is anything but companionable. Britannica radiates aggression, staring down anyone foolish enough to look at her. Amara wonders if she would actually be glad should one of the men approach – Britannica seems even more eager for a brawl than Paris.

They reach the well. Two men are already there, perhaps slaves from different households, grabbing the chance to chat. Amara waits patiently, even though they are doing nothing more than blocking the way, neither showing any inclination to fill a bucket. Eventually, they deign to notice the women and step aside, but there’s no mistaking the way they stare at her body. She wouldn’t be surprised if they have kept her waiting on purpose.

Amara says nothing but walks forwards, swinging her bucket into the well. It clanks onto the stone. She starts working the pump, aware the men are standing too close. One places his hand on her backside, pushing her. “Need some help?”

Before she has time to turn round and tell him to back off, Britannica has seized him. Amara drops the bucket, splashing herself. The man is almost off his feet, Britannica has lifted him by his scruff like a dog. He takes a swing at her, but she blocks it, grabbing his arm, twisting it hard. He cries out, and Britannica smiles. One of her front teeth is missing, a memento from a violent customer.

“Alright, no need to overreact!” the second man shouts, darting over. “Look,” he points at Amara. “Nobody is touching her!”

Britannica does not respond. She stares at the man she is holding, still smiling her unfriendly smile. Then she lowers him. She waits a moment, like a cat toying with a mouse, before finally letting go. The two men look at her, then each other. It’s clear neither of them has the stomach for a fight with this unnerving stranger. They hurry off down the street.

Britannica watches them go. “Savage,” she says. Her voice is harsh and rasping from lack of use.

“What?” Amara gasps. “What did you say?”

“Sav-Age,” Britannica repeats the Latin word slowly, as if savouring its hard edges. She smiles again, her fierce gap-toothed grin.

“You speak Latin?” Amara exclaims. “You can speak!”

Britannica inclines her head. The barest acknowledgement. It is the closest she and Amara have ever come to genuine communication.

“I knew you could understand! I knew!” Britannica does not look entirely pleased by this effusiveness. She walks past, starts filling up the abandoned bucket. Amara follows, unable to restrain her eagerness. “Please, talk to me. You can trust me. Please.” Britannica does not answer, just gestures impatiently for the jug she left on the ground. Amara hands it to her. “I promised Cressa I would be your friend. I promised her.”

Britannica stiffens at Cressa’s name. She yanks the bucket from the well, dumping it in Amara’s arms with such force that she staggers and almost drops it. Then Britannica picks up the jug and strides back to the brothel. Amara has no choice but to totter after her. The bucket is too full and heavy for her to have any hope of catching the other woman up. By the time she gets back, Britannica has disappeared into her cell.

“Making yourself useful?” Victoria steps out from the latrine. She leans against the small wall, rubbing her abdomen. “Only good thing about a period is it means you’re not pregnant.”

“Britannica just spoke to me!” Amara says, dumping the bucket. “She just spoke Latin!”

Victoria is surprised. “Really? What did she say?”

“Savage!”

“Savage?” Victoria wrinkles her nose. “Nothing else?”

“No, that was it.”

“That’s not talking then. She’s just repeating sounds she’s heard.”

“She understands though.” Amara looks over at Cressa’s old cell and lowers her voice. “She got upset when I mentioned Cressa.”

The dead woman’s name has a dampening effect on them both. “We should visit her grave,” Victoria says, easing herself down from the steps into the corridor. “None of us have been in ages.”

“Do you want to go now?”

Victoria glances down the corridor, with all its closed curtains. “I suppose so. Why not? We can stop by The Sparrow. Get some wine to offer her.” She goes into her cell, comes out in her cloak, holding a small clay pot. It’s an old one of Cressa’s. “Come on.”

They walk the short distance to the tavern on the square. Amara tries to ignore the wall with its tapestry of graffiti. It pains her to remember Menander writing to her on it; she doesn’t want to see the traces of his last message. Nicandrus is busy at the bar, setting up for the day’s business. He greets them with a smile. “How’s Dido?”

“Fine,” Amara says, feeling awkward.

“You never give up, do you?” Victoria sighs.

“I would if there were another man,” he says. “But there isn’t.” He looks at them nervously. “Is there?”

“No,” Amara replies.

“We wanted to buy some wine for Cressa.” Victoria hands over the pot. “How much?”

Nicandrus fills it then looks over his shoulder, checking Zoskales is out of sight. He shakes his head, the meaning plain. No charge.

“Thank you.” Amara is touched by his gesture.

“Cressa was a good woman,” he says. “We all miss her.”

They leave the bar and walk down the street, bunched close together so they are side by side. “I don’t understand Dido,” Victoria says, gripping the pot. “He’s a sweetheart. Imagine the effort he would make! She might finally have a decent time.”

“She doesn’t want to break her heart loving a man she can never have,” Amara replies. Victoria says nothing. She knows they are both thinking of Felix.

The streets fill up as they wander towards the gate that leads to the town of Nola. Most of the traffic is going in the opposite direction, traders arriving to sell at the Forum or deliver stock to the shops. Those lucky enough to have a cart make a racket over the stones, others trudge along with goods piled up in baskets on their backs. A gaggle of squealing hogs run by, darting between the rolling wheels of their owner’s wagon. Amara watches them scurry off up the street, tails frisking, as if eager for their own slaughter. Victoria nudges her, pointing at a mule cart rumbling up from the other direction. She holds Amara’s arm and stands on tiptoe to get a better look, admiring its rolls of brightly coloured fabric. The muleteer sees them and cracks his whip, laughing as they both jump.

Amara feels less safe here at the edge of town. There are so many strangers drifting into Pompeii only to vanish again like smoke. They wait for a line of wagons to pass, piled up with blocks of masonry, no doubt part of the town’s never-ending building work, then walk under the high stone arch, crossing from the city of the living into the city of the dead. The road here is lined with enormous colourful tombs, some almost as big as the brothel where they work. Only the rich can afford to be remembered this close to the gate. In the doorways of their own graves, the once powerful dead stare out, their brightly painted statues watching the living pass by.

The she-wolves could never have bought Cressa a memorial here, even the smallest would be unimaginably expensive. Instead, Victoria and Amara walk further and further out of town, until the road widens and the crowds thin. They pass a group of mourners gathered round a marble urn in their finest clothes, burning offerings to appease the dead. Amara thinks of her own parents, of all she owes their shades but cannot give, and looks away.

It is Victoria who remembers the turning. A narrow road cutting through a gap between two monuments. The tombs become smaller the further they get from the main highway. They pass a large vineyard, its branches bare above the stone walls. Amara wonders if it might be one of the vineyards Pliny visited on his tour but supposes it isn’t grand enough. She turns and looks towards Vesuvius, the mountain whose plants he wanted to study. Its sharp peak is shrouded in cloud.

Eventually, they reach the place they came for. The paupers’ field. It stretches out in an ugly jumble of mounds and piles of rock and broken amphora necks. The last stick out from the earth like gaping mouths. There is a foul smell from the nearby dump, and Amara wonders, but does not ask, if that is where Victoria was found as a baby.

“How will we know where it is again?” Amara whispers, as if the unhappy dead might hear her. The only other mourner she can see is an old man, crying over a heap of freshly dug earth.

“I know the spot,” Victoria says, picking her way confidently through the jagged field. She stops by a small tomb, barely more than a slab, though still grander than anything else nearby. At its base is a pile of stones. All that is left to remember Cressa. There had been no point in burying an amphora jar; they had no ashes to put in the bottom, no human remains to receive their gifts of wine. Victoria takes the flask Nicandrus gave her and pours The Sparrow’s cheapest vintage over Cressa’s stones. “She always did like a drink,” she says.

They stand, staring at the spattered pile, remembering the dead woman. Amara thinks the stones look like all the kindnesses Cressa heaped up in her life, insignificant, yet touching the people closest to her. She tries not to remember Cressa’s last day, the sight of her standing at the water’s edge, watching the waves.

“How much?”

It’s a thin, wheedling voice, right behind them. Both women jump. A man is hunched in a craven position, like a beggar, but something about his eyes frightens Amara.

“We don’t have any wine to sell you,” she says, pulling her cloak around herself.

“How much to suck me?” He paws at his crotch.

“Have some respect!” Victoria snaps, shooing him away. “Can’t you see we’re mourning?”

The man reaches out to her. “Take pity!” he whines.

Amara can feel Victoria’s fear in the way she snatches her arm. They hurry over the field of ashes, back towards the narrow road. The man is too quick, darting in front. “Why won’t you fuck me?” he pleads. “Please fuck me!”

They walk even faster, stepping over the amphoras’ dead lips. The beggar keeps pressing closer, and his voice is getting deeper, losing its thin whine. Amara calls out to the old mourner, still stooped over his mound, but he ignores her. He must have heard the other man pleading for sex and has no interest in helping a couple of whores fend off a customer.

The beggar starts to run, and at first, Amara thinks her cries for help might have scared him off, but then she realizes he has only gone ahead to block the road. The stone walls of the vineyard are on one side of him, a large tomb on the other, making it almost impossible to get past. They edge closer, trying to decide on which side to break through.

“Come with me,” he says, staring straight into Amara’s eyes. He is like a snake, poised to strike. She stares back, too frightened to look away. He lunges forwards, grabbing for her arm, but she anticipates his move. Victoria seizes her hand, and they run back to the field, heading for the old man. The beggar skirts round again, forcing them towards the tombs, towards the opening of another, unfamiliar path. There is nowhere else for them to go.

They flee, their pursuer close behind, driving them on through the necropolis. Amara trips, looks down and realizes grass is growing through the paving stones. With a flash of fear, she understands that this is not only a quiet road but a deserted one. He has trapped them. She gasps, lurching forwards in panic and stumbles again, only just catching her footing.

“Keep going,” Victoria yells.

Amara has no idea where they are. The tombs are getting closer together, harder to run between. She looks back and screams. The man is on her, catching her round the waist, dragging her over. She hits the ground hard. He straddles her body, a knife in his hand. Victoria grabs his arm, shouting, but he throws her wide. Amara sees her strike her head on the side of the tomb and fall, dazed, on the ground.

“Your master thinks he can do anything.” The man has her by the throat, his ragged breathing hot in her face. She is so terrified she cannot move. “Covering his fucking tracks. As if Simo wouldn’t find out in the end.” He brings the knife closer, pointing it towards her eye. “This is for Drauca.”

The sound of smashing pottery startles them both. Her attacker turns, just as Victoria plunges a shard deep into his neck. He claws at it, his hands drenched in blood, but Amara knows whatever he does, he is already dead. She stares at the clay buried in his throat then scrambles out from underneath, not wanting to be stained in the spatter. She stands back, watching, Victoria beside her, the remnants of Cressa’s clay pot on the ground at their feet.

The man is shuddering where he lies. Death only takes a moment. Amara grabs Victoria’s hand and they run.

39

They cower together behind a tomb, trying to get their breath back, to collect their thoughts, to make sense of what has happened. Victoria is in shock, shaking so badly Amara is afraid her friend’s teeth will break from chattering. She holds her close to keep her warm.

“He was going to kill me,” she whispers, rubbing Victoria’s shoulders. “You saved my life. You saved me.”

“I killed a man,” Victoria whispers, the horror of it slowly sinking in. “I killed him! I’m a murderer!”

“Nobody is ever going to know,” Amara replies. “Nobody will find out. You’re safe. We’re both safe.” She thinks of the man’s body lying on the ground and feels a sense of calm. He is dead. All that matters now is avoiding suspicion. She inspects their clothes, peers at Victoria’s face, wipes a hand on her own cheeks, then checks her fingers. They are both lucky not to have more blood on them. She gathers mud in her hands, rubbing it over any red spots she can see on their cloaks. “Is there anything on me?” She turns her face, as if asking her friend to check her make-up. Victoria shakes her head. “Good. Then we should head back.”

“We have to tell Felix.” Victoria is still trembling. “Did you hear what he said?”

“That Felix killed Drauca.”

“Do you think he did?” There is desperation in Victoria’s eyes. It is one thing to suspect the man you love might be capable of murder, another to know it for sure.

“I think so,” Amara says. Victoria turns away, too upset to speak. “I owe you everything,” she says, taking Victoria’s hand. Her skin is icy cold. “And so does Felix. Without you, he would have no warning of what is coming.”

“How are we going to get home? What if somebody remembers us?”

“Nobody will. We are nobody. We’ll just head back into town slowly, keep our heads down. It will be days before the body is discovered. If it ever is.”

Victoria stands up, gripping the tomb to steady herself. “Some benefits to being worthless, I guess.”

They pick their way slowly through the necropolis, not walking back the way they came. It takes a long time to find the road again, and when they do, it’s an even longer trudge. Victoria is jumpy, but Amara grips her hand, stops her walking too fast. They pull their hoods up, as if to keep out the cold, half hiding their faces. Neither of them says a word.

By the time they reach the brothel, after what has felt like the longest walk of their lives, both women are ready to drop from exhaustion. Amara raps on Felix’s door.

“What?” Paris glowers at them both through the crack.

Amara slams her hand on the wood. “Don’t mess me around today. This is important.”

He stands back to let them in. “But Felix is with a client!”

“Then tell him we’re waiting for him in the bedroom.”

Amara feels as if she is standing outside herself, watching Victoria recount what has happened. She has never seen anyone cry so much. Victoria sobs her way through the murder, and all the while, Felix is holding her, kissing her face, pressing her hands to warm them. There is a tenderness to him Amara could never have imagined. She watches, a pain in her chest that she cannot name. He has never been like that with her, not even when she told him about Cressa, when she would have done anything to be comforted. Nobody but Menander has ever held her the way Felix is holding Victoria. The thought upsets her. She is not sure whether it makes Felix worse, if he is capable of love.

He looks up at her over Victoria’s bent head, the familiar coldness in his eyes. It is as if he has stepped outside himself too, in order to talk to her. “Tell me again what he said about Simo.”

“He said you won’t get away with it. You didn’t cover your tracks. Simo discovered what happened.” She pauses, remembering, as if the violence happened to somebody else. “Then he held a knife to my eye and said, This is for Drauca.”

“And nobody saw?”

“No. The body is in a deserted place. There was only one old man at the pauper’s field, and we didn’t even go back that way. I covered any trace of blood on us that I could see.” She shrugs. “Who would notice a couple of women?”

“You don’t seem too disturbed by watching a man die. Are you very sure he is dead?”

“She hit him here.” Amara gestures at her own neck. “Nobody survives a blow like that. Even if I had never read a book on anatomy, I would know he’s dead.” Victoria cries out again, weeping against Felix. He holds her head to his chest, rocking her back and forth. Amara stares at them both, unable to understand Victoria’s sense of guilt, irritated that she is still crying over such a worthless man. “He tried to kill me, and now he’s dead. There’s nothing to be upset about.”

“You will feel it later,” Felix says. “Everyone does, the first time. Even if you’re a bitch with stone for a heart.”

“What are you going to do?” Amara asks. “We’re all at risk now. All of us.” She is still too afraid of Felix to express her anger, but she feels it. Because of you, she wants to add. We’re at risk because of you.

“First, you don’t tell anyone. Not even Dido. And if you value her life”—he strokes the sobbing Victoria—“you will never mention it again, even to each other.” Amara nods. She knows the killing ties all three of them together, her blood debt to Victoria, the secret they now share. It is not a bond she wants to have. “As for Simo, I can take care of him.”

“We can’t afford to leave it.”

“No,” he says. “We can’t.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him.” Victoria looks round, desperation on her face. “I just wanted him to stop. I didn’t want anyone to die.”

“I know,” Felix says, rocking her again. He kisses Victoria’s forehead, whispering into her hair. “You were very brave.”

Amara looks at her friend, twined around their master like a needy child, unrecognizable from the strong woman she knows. Is this who Victoria really is? The thought makes Amara angry. “It’s nothing to cry about,” she says, her voice loud. “He fucking deserved it.”

“Shut your mouth!” Felix shouts. She sees Victoria shrink from his anger, even though it is not directed at her. He strides over to Amara, taking hold of her shoulders, shoving his face into hers. “She just saved your life. Have some fucking gratitude. Not every woman is a heartless bitch like you.” He lets go of her then scoops Victoria up again, as if protecting her from Amara.

She does not wait to be thrown out but walks from the room. In the corridor, her legs are unsteady. She manages to make it to the storeroom, collapses on her bed of sacks in the corner. Her sense of calm is fracturing. She thinks of Cressa’s pot, all those pieces on the ground. The shard in the man’s neck, the blood. Feelings are returning to Amara, coming back like the incoming tide, bringing terror with them.

She grips the sacks, feels the rough fabric against her fingers, tries to imagine burying her fear, shoving it under. She doesn’t want to feel afraid; she doesn’t want to feel anything. Tomorrow, she will see Rufus, sit with him in Drusilla’s lovely home, laugh, chatter about the house they will share. She will not be a woman who nearly died, who was held powerless with a knife to her eye. It will be as if it never happened.

Calm begins to settle back over her heart, like the ice on Balbina’s pool. Amara exhales, relaxing her fingers, letting go of the fabric. Nobody has their arms around her, but it does not matter. She does not need Felix, or anyone else, to comfort her. Every fear can be overcome if she only tries hard enough.

Amara does not move from the storeroom for the rest of the day. She is supposed to earn extra money on the days when Rufus pays for her, but Felix does not insist she go out. Night falls, and she is still sitting curled up in the same spot. Paris tries to goad her, imagining she must be jealous at Victoria staying the night, at the huge favour their master is showing a rival, but Amara stares ahead, as if she hasn’t heard him. Somehow, she sleeps.

The next morning feels as if she is still dreaming. She forces herself to go downstairs, spends time with Dido at the baths, listens to her as she pours out her fears about Ipstilla and Telethusa. It is the second time the Spanish girls have been booked by Egnatius while she and Amara are left behind. Amara can see how upset Dido is but somehow cannot reach her. Even though they are sitting side by side, it feels like she is a long distance away.

“Are you alright?” Dido asks. “Was it Felix?”

“Yes,” Amara says. Dido looks so worried that Amara wants to tell her what really happened, wants to warn her to be careful, but she cannot betray Victoria. Besides, it is not a lie. Felix is the cause. If he had not killed Drauca, she would never have been attacked. She begs Dido to stay close to Britannica, pretending it is for Cressa, but in reality, because she hopes the Briton will keep them both safe.

When her friends go fishing, she goes back to hide in the storeroom. Even if Felix charges Rufus double today, she cannot bring herself to pick up any men. The thought of approaching strangers takes her back to the necropolis, the knife, the man’s hands at her throat. How would she know if any of her customers wanted to kill her?

The effort of getting through the day is such a strain, Philos notices her distress when he collects her. At a safe distance from the brothel, he offers his arm.

“Do you need a moment?” he asks. “Just to collect yourself?” She nods. They cross over to a less crowded patch of the pavement, and she rests her back against the wall. “You’re alright,” he says to her. “I know it’s not easy.”

“Thank you,” she says, breathing out slowly, trying to let go of the fear. She turns to Philos. There is nothing but kindness in his grey eyes. The warmth of him, standing close to her, is comforting. “I’m so grateful to Rufus.”

“I know,” he says. “And I know how hard it all is. I’ve been there myself.” He glances back along the street where they came from. “I don’t mean I worked in a brothel,” he adds, lowering his voice. “But I don’t think I felt safe for a minute when I was younger.”

Amara tightens her grip on his arm. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I understand.”

“Who’d be a slave, eh? When you’re young, they fuck you, and when you’re old, they fuck you over.”

“Rufus values you though.”

“Yes, he does,” Philos looks away. “I can’t complain now.”

“The man who…” Amara stops, not wanting to say the word, not wanting to humiliate Philos. “It wasn’t Rufus’s father, was it?”

“Not Hortensius, no. He’s not interested in boys. His father, on the other hand, was very interested.”

Amara wonders how old Philos is, perhaps ten years older than her, maybe a little more. He is nice looking, she realizes, though she has never really noticed him that way. When he was young, he must have been striking. The thought of him ever living in fear, unable to defend himself, makes her angry. That Rufus’s grandfather was responsible is even worse. “What’s Hortensius like?” Philos says nothing, and she realizes he doesn’t want to be disloyal. “You can trust me,” she says. “But I’m also not offended if you don’t.”

“I wish you had asked me earlier,” Philos says, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks at her, obviously torn. “I’m not meant to tell you, but Rufus is bringing him along tonight. To meet you. It was supposed to be a surprise. Hortensius insisted Rufus keep it quiet; he wants to see you ‘as you really are’, catch you on the hop, so to speak.”

“Oh,” Amara replies, not liking the sound of him. “I suppose he wants to look after his son.”

“If you were my wife,” Philos says, surprising her that he would refer to her in such a way. “I wouldn’t leave you alone with him. Not if I could help it.”

“I will be careful,” Amara says, conscious that she is still holding his arm, that perhaps she should let go. “Thank you.”

Hortensius looks so like his son, Amara has to stop herself from staring. Even the mannerisms, the exaggerated hand gestures so particular to Rufus, have their double in his father. She is grateful Drusilla is part of the gathering, that she can, at times, take away the heat of his attention. It is the only obvious difference between father and son. Where Rufus is kind and lacking in guile, Hortensius seems shrewd and calculating.

“Rufus tells me you helped the admiral with his research,” he says to her. “You must be highly educated. Was it your first master who taught you?”

“It was my father,” Amara says. “When I was free. He was a physician in Attica.”

“I told you all this,” Rufus says, looking flustered.

Hortensius throws his hands up, inviting her to laugh with him at his son. “You told me she was a concubine in Aphidnai!”

“That was later,” Rufus insists.

“Nothing wrong with being a concubine,” Hortensius says, turning to Drusilla and kissing her hand. Drusilla smiles at him, as if charmed. But Amara knows Drusilla is so skilled at hiding her feelings, she could wish Hortensius dead, and he would never know it. “So your father was a doctor. Then you were hurled into tragedy and ended up a heartbroken whore. Is this right?” Amara inclines her head, not liking his sarcasm, even though it is delivered with a smile. “You seem rather young for your master to have become bored.”

“His wife was not happy.”

“If the fool couldn’t control his women, it’s as well you left,” Hortensius says, as if she had any choice in the matter. “Do you dance? Play music? Sing?”

“I told you…” Rufus begins.

“But I’m asking her.”

“My father taught me…”

“Oh, come now!” Hortensius interrupts her, laughing. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m sure your father didn’t teach you how to perform in male company. Not if he really was a doctor. What did your first master teach you?”

“I learnt the lyre at my father’s house,” Amara says, ignoring the insinuation she is a liar. “Then as a concubine I learnt a number of songs by Sappho and other Greek poets. I have continued my musical education in Pompeii.”

“Musical education!” Hortensius raises his eyebrows, amused. “At least you have some wit.”

“Perhaps you would allow us to play for you?” Drusilla says, her silk tunic rustling as she rises. She looks at Hortensius sidelong, as if she finds him irresistible.

“Why not.” Hortensius leans back on the couch, gazing at her.

Amara does not have her lyre, but Drusilla beckons her over to the harp. “I will play Sappho’s ‘Hymn to Aphrodite’,” she murmurs. “But you sing it alone.”

“Thank you,” Amara whispers, grateful she will not have to compete with Drusilla’s superior voice. She sways to the music, using the graceful hand gestures she learnt at Chremes’s house, pouring her heart into the song. Seeing Hortensius watch her, appraising her, it is almost like being back before Chremes, as if all the many changes in her life as a slave have brought her full circle to the point where she started. She thinks of Philos. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t leave you alone with him. Rufus is also watching, beaming with pride. It does not reassure her. How long before he starts to see her through his father’s eyes?

“Very well,” Hortensius says to Rufus, when she has finished singing. “She is delightful. You win.” He turns back to Amara. “But I really don’t understand all this nonsense about renting a place. When he’s bought you, you can just join the family household.”

“Really father, not now.” Rufus is crimson, looking anxiously at Amara.

“Fine, fine. Have your little romance.” Hortensius sighs. He shakes his head at Drusilla and Amara. “Boys. I cannot imagine how you pair put up with them.”

“Rufus is the kindest man I have ever met,” Amara replies.

“I’ve no doubt he is,” Hortensius says with a snort. “Well, I suppose I should let you all enjoy your night of young love.” Everyone rises with him. Hortensius goes to Drusilla, kissing her. “Delighted, as ever.” He turns to Amara but rather than kiss her too, he runs his hands down the length of her body, as if they were in the slave market. She is so shocked she cannot speak. “Very fine.” He smiles at her, though there is no warmth in his eyes. “Not a bad investment at all.” Nobody fills the silence. “Aren’t you going to show me out, boy?” Rufus hurries over and leads his father from the room. He doesn’t look at Amara.

When the men have left, Drusilla makes the sign of the evil eye. “What did he mean?” she hisses. “You told me Rufus was going to free you!”

“That’s what he said!” Amara is shaking.

Drusilla pinches her arm. “Don’t get upset! Don’t! This is too important. Use your head. Make it as hard as possible for Rufus not to do what he promised, use his guilt, whatever you can. You cannot let him believe you will be satisfied as a slave!” She steps back as Rufus returns, smiling serenely, as if she and Amara have been exchanging pleasantries. “I find I am a little tired,” she says, yawning. “I hope you don’t mind if I abandon you both?”

They watch Drusilla leave, her walk effortlessly languid, even though Amara knows she isn’t tired at all. “That went rather well, I thought,” Rufus says. He leans in to kiss her.

Amara pushes him off. “What did he mean, that I could join your family household?”

“That’s just what he’s like,” Rufus says. “He knows about the place I’ve rented. He’ll come round.”

“Does he know you will free me?”

Rufus doesn’t look at her, but she can see the blush creep up to his hairline. “Would it be so terrible if I didn’t?” He takes both her hands, pulling her closer. “We’d still be together. You wouldn’t be at the brothel, that’s the important part, isn’t it?”

“I cannot believe that you don’t understand the difference,” Amara says, withdrawing her hands from his. “How often have you told me you can see how hard it was for me, to lose everything in Aphidnai. I lost my self when I was sold. Why would you keep me a slave, if it is in your power to set me free? Why?”

“It’s not so simple. My father isn’t keen on the idea. I don’t know that I can defy him on this.” Rufus sits down heavily on the couch. “Freeing you… I would have to give you the family name. It doesn’t just belong to me.”

Amara sits beside him. She can still feel Hortensius’s hands on her body. She thinks of Philos, of Chremes, of all that happens to slaves who become familiar objects in their masters’ houses. Rufus puts his arms around her, kissing her softly on the forehead, the cheek, her lips.

“I promise you, if you belong to me, I will never let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

40

Victoria and Amara wait in Felix’s bedroom. Neither imagine they have been summoned for sex. Victoria sits cross-legged on the bed, as if she belongs there, but Amara doesn’t want to touch it, doesn’t want to remember the night she spent there with Felix. She perches on a stool instead.

“It’s about Simo, isn’t it?” Victoria whispers. “It must be.”

“I thought he was going to take care of that himself,” Amara says. “I don’t see why he needs either of us.”

“He told me I saved his life, as well as yours,” Victoria replies. “He’s never been like that with me before.” She looks drunk on love, completely unaware that Felix’s sudden devotion is likely to be as much manipulation as genuine. A warm-up act for whatever horrible job he has lined up for them both now. “He said no woman has ever shown him greater loyalty than me.”

Amara thinks about her own deception, the secret loan with Balbina, her plotting with Rufus. It’s impossible to imagine why anyone would want to be loyal to a master, still less to Felix. She tries not to let Victoria’s stupidity make her angry. “He should be grateful to you,” she says. “If he had any decency, he would free you for what you’ve done.” Victoria’s face falls and she almost regrets her spitefulness. They both know that’s not going to happen.

Felix opens the door. Amara flinches, hoping he wasn’t listening, but he looks distracted. He doesn’t waste time with greetings. “We can’t wait any longer,” he says, sitting down on the bed next to Victoria. “Simo will have given up waiting for his man. We need to strike now, before he does. Make sure he’s finished.”

“What do you need us to do?” Victoria asks, as if she wants to be asked to put herself in danger.

“Some friends of mine will take care of the bar. And of Simo. I need you two to act as a distraction and keep watch.”

“Keep watch on what?” Amara asks.

“Paris will be keeping watch too,” Felix says, ignoring her question. “He’s not as recognizable to Simo as Thraso or Gallus.”

“Does Paris know about the necropolis?”

“No. Nobody knows,” Felix says. “Safer that way.” Victoria looks at him gratefully, and he rests a hand on her knee. “You will have to be veiled. Pick up a few men opposite the bar, that should distract some attention.”

“You want us to fuck men in the street?” Amara says. “On our own? No protection?”

“Paris will be around.”

“But he’s not there to look after us though, is he!” Amara protests. “He’ll be watching the bar.”

“There will be two of you,” Felix says. “I don’t see the problem.”

“What are you going to do to the bar? I don’t want to go if we don’t know.”

Felix loses his temper. “Nobody is offering you a choice,” he shouts at her. “Since when did you tell me what to do? If I want to sell you on the fucking street, or in the brothel, it’s not for you to argue.”

“Please,” Victoria says, looking imploringly at her. “Please, we have to. What if Simo attacks us again?”

Amara looks at the pair of them, sitting together like a married couple, united against her. She thinks of all she owes Victoria and knows there is no way out, even if she weren’t bound to Felix. She nods.

“Better if you both stay upstairs until tonight,” he says. He looks from one woman to the other, his expression sly. “You can go to the storeroom now,” he says to Amara. “Leave us.”

She hurries out, not wanting to see Felix push Victoria back on the bed, and closes the door. Paris is outside on the balcony, scrubbing the floor with noticeably more vigour than usual. She tries to step clear of the suds and give him space, but he stops her, his thin face eager. “Did Felix tell you?” he says, getting to his feet and glancing up and down the corridor. “Did he tell you he’s sending me on a job? Not Thraso. Not Gallus. Me.”

Amara nods. She thinks about Felix’s reasoning, that Paris is less noticeable. No doubt he is also more expendable. She has little affection for her room-mate but also knows that Fabia’s unhappy son is going to be solely responsible for her safety tonight. “I told you he would start to use you more,” she says, flattering him. “It’s a big job he’s given you.”

“You’ll both have to do as I say,” he says, not sure if she is mocking him. “I’m the man; I’ll be in charge.”

“Of course.” Amara bows her head slightly to show him she understands. Paris swallows, flicking his eyes to Felix’s room, and she can see that for all his bravado he is also afraid. “You don’t have to do anything you will regret though,” she says, thinking again of Fabia, of all that the young man means to his mother. “You don’t have to put yourself in danger.”

Paris draws himself up to stand even taller, throwing his shoulders back like Gallus. “It’s what I was born for,” he says. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a woman.”

The day drags, but Amara still wants it to go on longer, doesn’t want darkness to come. She is not sure exactly what Felix has planned for Simo but knows he must intend to kill him. How else is he going to end the feud? Amara thinks about how close she is to leaving this place, the Saturnalia is only a few days away. She cannot die now, not when her escape is all but guaranteed. She thinks about trying to smuggle out a message to Rufus, or even Philos, begging one of them to come and get her. But who could she possibly trust to deliver it? Paris would see her if she tried to sneak out. And Felix’s rage would be terrible.

It is Victoria who finally comes to collect her from the storeroom. She is swathed in a veil, like a married woman. Though it looks more like a shroud. Amara’s heart starts to race with fear.

“I don’t think we should do this,” she says, not wanting to touch the veil Victoria is holding out to her. “What if somebody from Simo’s bar recognizes us? What if Maria or Attice come out?”

“He promised me we would be safe,” Victoria says, throwing the material over Amara’s head. “And anyway, what choice do we have? Let’s just get it over with.”

“But won’t Simo be watching the brothel? Won’t one of his spies see us leaving like this?”

“Paris is outside the door,” Victoria replies, fussing with the cloth, making sure Amara is covered properly. “He will check it’s clear and then open it. Felix said when that happens, we walk as quick as we can, up towards the well on the corner then round the back way to Simo’s bar.”

Amara wonders if Victoria is enjoying being in Felix’s confidence. The thought makes her bitter. She has to remind herself that she owes her friend her life, even if Victoria is now making her risk it all over again.

It is dark on the street, made worse by the material over her face that obscures what little light remains. They shuffle along, their hands to the wall, feeling their way. Paris is supposed to be following, but there’s no sign of him or his lamp to light the path. They skirt a small group at the well, somehow avoiding attention, and head further into a less familiar part of town.

“I don’t even know where the bar is,” Amara whispers. “I don’t know where we’re going!”

“Felix told me the way several times,” Victoria replies. “I’m sure I can get us there. And we don’t really have to keep watch; we’re more of a distraction.”

“Isn’t that worse?” Amara asks. Victoria doesn’t answer.

Simo’s bar is sitting in a pool of lamplight. A hanging bronze Priapus casts its sickly glow over the door. Simo must have repaired the place since Felix’s earlier attack. It seems full, several drinkers standing on the street in spite of the cold. Amara finds she is too scared to walk any closer. “Come on,” Victoria hisses, pulling at her arm. “Let’s just do this and get home.”

They stand together, sheltering in a small archway across the road. From the smell, Amara suspects they are not the first whores to work this spot. Victoria hitches her cloak and toga up, showing her bare legs, and after a pause, Amara does the same. At first, nobody notices, then a couple of the drinkers spot them. They point and laugh. A couple of men walk across.

“What’s with the covered faces?” one asks. “Too ugly to see?” Amara takes a step back. Both men reek of alcohol.

“We’re married,” Victoria says, her voice a plaintive whine. “We need to feed the children.”

“That’s what every woman says,” the man replies, hitching her cloak up further.

A third man passes by, stopping to see what’s going on. “Leave some cunt for me.”

Amara recognizes the voice. She squints through the weave of her veil. It’s the man with the white scar, the one she saw at the Palaestra with Felix, and again at the bar. He turns and saunters across the street, chatting with the remaining men outside, pointing at the women, urging them on. There’s laughter. The drinkers head over and then they are surrounding her and Victoria, jeering, yelling encouragement. Amara begins to panic.

One of the men already has her backed against the wall, pulling at her clothes. She looks over his shoulder, trying to see between the faces of the baying onlookers. Everything is grey and distorted through the fabric. The man with the white scar is standing alone outside Simo’s bar. She sees him reach up, take down the fiery hanging Priapus, swiftly light a torch from its flame. He starts setting fire to the timber frame of the building, waiting a moment until it starts to take hold. Then he flings the lamp through the door and runs off down the street.

At first, the men surrounding her aren’t distracted by the noise. Then customers pour out of the bar, yelling, pointing up at the burning building. The drunks finally start to realize what is happening. The man crushing her against the stone is dragged off by a friend, his anger at being interrupted quickly turning to alarm. Victoria and Amara are left alone as their tormentors scatter, adding to the chaos.

“We should leave now,” Amara says. “Quickly!”

“Felix asked me to make sure Paris finished the job,” Victoria says, grabbing her arm to stop her escaping. “Simo can’t leave here alive.”

Amara feels caught, too afraid to run back blindly on her own, even more terrified to stay. She clings on to Victoria. They huddle back into the hollow of the arch, watching. In the light of the flames, the gaggle of shouting men are more hindrance than help. Some rush back with water fetched from a nearby well, but a few buckets are not going to save the bar. She notices another familiar figure, the weaselly man from Felix’s protection racket. And Paris is there. She would recognize his scrawny form anywhere, even though his hood is up. They are both hanging around the doorway, looking like idle gawpers but, no doubt, checking who is coming out. It must be almost empty inside, the roar from the flames is getting louder, the heat oppressive even from the opposite side of the road.

Amara has never seen Simo before, but she knows it must be him from the way Paris and the other man take a step forwards. He is coughing, almost bent double from the smoke. Paris grabs him, as if to help, but shortly afterwards, Simo collapses in his arms. Paris lays him gently on the ground. Others rush forwards. Paris edges back, until he’s at the fringes of the crowd. Then he turns and walks quickly in the direction of the well.

“We have to leave now,” Amara says. “He must have stabbed him. It’s going to get worse.”

They don’t run but walk as fast as they dare. By now, people from the neighbouring buildings have spilled out onto the street, trying to stop the spread of the fire. A woman is screaming from an upstairs room. Sparks swirl in the heat, Amara is afraid their cloaks might catch fire. Then there’s a noise like thunder, a terrible crack as the roof of the bar collapses, the upwards rush of the flames. She looks back at the inferno in horror. Anybody still inside will not have survived.

Victoria tugs her arm, and they keep walking, leaving the light and the noise, slipping back into the darkness.

41

Felix keeps Victoria upstairs with him after the fire, moving her into his room. A reward for helping him kill Simo. He barely acknowledges Amara’s role. She tells herself it doesn’t matter, that his coldness cannot hurt her if she hates him. It’s harder to watch Victoria, to see the way she opens up like a flower that has finally found the sun. In the mornings, Amara can hear her singing for Felix, imagines how she must be lying in his arms, gazing at him, pouring out all the love in her heart. The thought makes her furious.

Amara finds it easier than she imagined to say nothing to the other women about what happened. When they go to the baths together, she makes up a lie about her and Victoria being used to entertain clients at a bar, surprised at how quickly the tale trips from her tongue. Even if she didn’t find lying so easy, the bar story is soon forgotten, buried by the far more interesting gossip that Felix seems to have chosen Victoria as some sort of wife.

When news of Simo’s death finally reaches them through Gallus, Amara still gives nothing away, feigning shock to match the rest. But although she can bury her feelings in the daytime, at night she struggles to sleep, her heart racing, every fibre taut with fear. Her body relives the terror her mind cannot. She knows that Paris is suffering too, hears him weeping in the dark. But in the morning, he always refuses to speak to her. Whatever guilt he might be feeling, he is clearly determined to bury it.

On the third day after the fire, Felix sends for her. She follows Paris to their master’s study, waits while he pushes open the door. Inside, Victoria is perched on Felix’s lap, sitting with him behind the desk, her arms around his neck. She drops them as soon as Amara walks in, embarrassed, and Amara loves her for that, knowing Victoria doesn’t want to make her feel small.

“Time for you to go back to the brothel,” Felix says. Amara bows her head, goes to walk back out again, but he stops her. “Not you,” he says. “Time for you to go.” He tips Victoria from his knee. She grabs the desk, only just managing to save herself from falling flat on the floor. For a moment, both women think he is joking. Then they realize he isn’t.

Amara knows something has broken in Victoria then; she sees it in her face. Victoria does not beg or even say goodbye. She turns and walks out of the room, her eyes dry, not acknowledging either of them.

When she has gone, Amara and Felix are left looking at one another. “I missed you,” he says. She cannot reply. For the first time since she has known him, Amara senses that Felix does not know what he wants to say. He gestures at the pile of tablets heaped up on her old table. “Who else do I have to do my accounts?”

She sits down, still without speaking, and opens the first tablet.

By the eve of the Saturnalia, Rufus has still not told her when he will buy her. The strain of waiting and worrying is so great she is afraid she will break down and beg the next time she sees him. She knows there are no depths she would not sink to, not if it means escaping from Felix. Even a lifetime under the same roof as Hortensius.

She sits at a table in The Sparrow, drinking with her friends, while they discuss what presents they can afford. The whole town is heaving, and street sellers ram the pavements, trying to shift a few more trinkets before the festival starts.

“I can’t wait to see what Gallus has bought me!” Beronice cries, giving Dido a smacking kiss on the cheek. She has had a lot more wine than usual. “Three whole days with him! Oh! Just think of it!”

“One more night, then we get a rest from customers,” Dido says with a sigh. “Are we buying something for Britannica? We ought to.”

“She do nothing,” Ipstilla huffs.

“That’s not really the spirit of the Saturnalia,” Beronice says, frowning. “I don’t mind chipping in. Though I don’t know what she’d like.”

A knife, probably, Amara thinks. But she doesn’t suggest it.

“Getting me anything, girls?” Zoskales calls from the bar. He is in an excellent mood, no doubt looking forward to a day off from his customers too.

“A kiss if you’re lucky!” Beronice shrieks. Everyone laughs, apart from Victoria. Beronice notices her silence. “Maybe Felix will get you something,” she says kindly. Even though Victoria has teased her relentlessly about Gallus for the past year, Beronice has been nothing but supportive over her friend’s heartbreak. Can you imagine, she had said to Amara after Victoria returned to the brothel, the pain of thinking a man’s going to marry you and then he sends you packing! What a shit!

“He always gives us a denarius each,” Victoria replies. “I don’t care anyway. Fuck him.”

“How should we do this?” Amara says to Beronice. “Maybe Dido and I can buy for you, Britannica and Victoria, then you and Victoria buy for Dido and me.” She turns to the Spanish girls. “And do you two want to buy for each other, or do you want a surprise?”

“We buy,” Telethusa says emphatically, looking askance at Amara’s cheap wooden beads, her token present from Rufus. Clearly, she doesn’t trust the other women’s taste.

“No more than five asses each,” Beronice says. “Let’s not go mad. Then we’ll split the costs of it all afterwards.”

They finish the last of their wine, taking their time, then part ways to go shopping. Amara and Dido stroll towards the Forum. “What would Britannica like?” Dido says. “She’s not going to want beads or anything pretty.”

“I can think of something,” Amara replies. “There was a hawker selling amulets of gladiators’ blood. To pass on their courage.”

It takes them a while to find the seller; he must have moved since the last time Amara saw him. It’s hard to walk in the crush; everywhere, people are jostling at stalls, haggling loudly to get a better price. It seems most of Pompeii has left their gift buying until the last moment. Eventually, Amara spots the man with his gruesome trophies, a range of goods soaked in the blood of gladiators killed in the arena. They range in price, depending on the fame of the dead. The women can only afford an unknown fighter, killed on his first appearance, though Amara tries to haggle for something better. There is nothing pretty about the leather amulet they choose, engraved with a roughly drawn sword. Amara suspects Britannica will like it.

Their enthusiasm for shopping has been exhausted from walking round and round searching for the amulet seller, but at least the other women are easier to buy for. A cheap hair clip for Victoria, some ankle beads for Beronice.

“I’m so happy that Rufus is buying you,” Dido says, as they start walking back home. “But I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I don’t know for sure that he will,” Amara says. “He hasn’t given me a day. I don’t understand why he hasn’t done it already, if he really means to.”

“Perhaps he wants to make a grand gesture during the festival,” Dido says, taking her arm. “That would be very like him.”

Dido is so kind, wanting to reassure her, but Amara can tell she is upset. She hates herself for not being more considerate; she should have paid greater attention to Dido’s feelings over the past few days. She would be desperate if their roles were reversed. “I will do everything I can to get you out,” she says. “Everything. I promise. I love you. You are everything to me.”

“I love you too,” Dido replies. She is on the verge of tears.

Dido is the only person Amara has told about her plans, but even she doesn’t know where the new house is. Amara had worried about the risk of them being followed, but now she realizes this will leave Dido with no way of finding her, no way of leaving a message. “Do you want to know where it is? The house, I mean,” she says, her voice quiet, even though it’s unlikely anyone is listening. “Then if Rufus keeps his word, you can visit.” Dido nods.

They walk single file, Amara leading the way across town. She remembers the first time Philos brought her to the house. She has never been down the road in daylight. Even on the eve of the Saturnalia it is relatively quiet. Living here will mark a big change from the brothel’s noisy crossroads. The thought of escaping brings her a rush of excitement, and when they stand outside the tall building with its golden doorframe, she finds herself believing that life might be kind after all. She raps on the wood, not expecting anyone to answer, but Philos opens it. He is astonished to see her.

“Come in!” he exclaims, hurrying them both inside. He shuts the door behind them. “Is anything wrong? Are you alright?”

“I wanted Dido to know where to find me,” Amara says. “If Rufus really does mean for me to stay here.”

Philos gestures at the atrium behind him. Vitalio is staggering past with a table. “I think you can see that he does. Has he not said anything?”

Amara shakes her head. “I didn’t like to presume.”

“You’ve no need to worry,” Philos replies. “He has every intention of buying you. Don’t distress yourself.”

“I told you it was fine,” Dido says, smiling at her. “And what a beautiful place this is!”

Vitalio walks back into the atrium, now relieved of his burden. He scowls at Amara. “Let’s see how long this one lasts,” he shouts, stomping up the stairs.

Amara stares after him. “What did he mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing. You know Vitalio; he’s always bad-tempered.” Philos smiles, but he looks uncomfortable. Vitalio’s outburst was too extreme for this to be a reasonable explanation, and they all know it.

“No,” Amara says, feeling nervous. “He meant something in particular. What did he mean? Please tell me. Please.”

Philos does not look at her. “Rufus was fond of Vitalio’s daughter for a while.”

“His daughter? Is she part of the family household?” Dido takes Amara’s hand, trying to lead her away, to calm her down, but Amara shakes her off. “Tell me.” She stares at Philos, willing him to obey, and the sadness in his grey eyes strikes her with fear.

“You’ve met her a few times,” he says. “It’s Faustilla, the serving girl.”

At first, Amara cannot imagine who he means, the only maid she can remember is a shy young thing who never spoke. “But it can’t be the girl I met; she’s so young,” she says. “And Rufus never seemed to notice her. A few times she was even there when…” Amara puts her hand over her mouth, too shocked to continue. Dido puts an arm round her, and this time, she doesn’t push her away.

“Rufus is no different to any young man of his class,” Philos says, sounding a little defensive of his master. “You know they all sleep with their slaves. Whatever happened between them was never any reflection on his feelings for you.”

“That’s not what I’m upset about!” Amara says, although it’s a lie, because she had believed Rufus was different. She thinks of his disarming smile, the way he has always seemed so beguilingly sincere. The way he tells her he loves her. “I’m upset about the girl,” she insists. “No wonder Vitalio hates me. His daughter having to serve the woman who took her place. Did she love him?” Philos does not reply, but he doesn’t need to. “Of course she loved him. She must have thought he was the kindest man she’d ever met.” Amara thinks of the way Felix treats Victoria, his deliberate cruelty. But Rufus is no less cruel to Faustilla, even if he doesn’t mean to be. “Had it even finished between them when Rufus met me?”

“Amara,” Philos says, his voice low, “just remember you have to live with my answers. And so do I.”

“He’s still sleeping with her,” she says, understanding him. “Of course he is. You must think I’m an idiot.”

“I don’t think that at all.” Philos has the studiously blank expression of the slave who is habituated to hiding his feelings. She remembers what he said to her when they were alone. When you’re young, they fuck you; when you’re old, they fuck you over.

“Well,” she says to Dido, with false cheer. “He didn’t rent her a house. So hopefully, I have a little time before I’m serving wine to his next mistress.”

“Just think of Felix,” Dido says. “Think how much safer you will be here. It’s paradise in comparison.”

“She’s right,” Philos agrees, eager to repair the damage. “And I truly believe he loves you. I’ve never seen him do this much for any other woman. Not even close.”

Amara thinks of Hortensius, how he hurt her, insulted her, and yet Rufus said nothing. “The love a master has for his slave,” she says, looking at Philos who quails at the bitterness in her voice. “I suppose it’s as much as any of us can hope to build a life on.”

42

Felix’s study is crammed, his entire motley household of whores and thugs spread around on various stools and blankets like Pompeii’s most peculiar family. Felix himself sits on his desk, an unlikely Paterfamilias, while Thraso and Gallus serve Paris and the women with sweet buns and wine. According to the true Saturnalian spirit, it should be Felix serving everyone, but nobody questions this departure from tradition.

“I’ll have another, maybe two more!” Fabia declares, ransacking Gallus’s basket for a bigger helping. He sighs but doesn’t push her scrawny arms away.

“That’s enough!” Paris snaps. Fabia recoils from her son, dropping the fifth bun back into the basket.

“Be nice to your fucking mother,” Felix says. “Surely you can manage not to be a complete shit for one day?”

Paris hands Fabia back the bun she took, his cheeks flaming. Then he gets up and goes to sit on the opposite side of the room.

“Presents!” Ipstilla says, clapping her hands together. “Is time for presents, yes?”

They all go through the performance of Felix’s gift giving, passing round a purse, taking out a denarius each. He quickly gets bored of all the thanks, waving it away. By the time it is Amara’s turn to take the money, he isn’t even looking. She is sitting in the corner with Dido, her stomach too churned up to eat the sweet pastry. They told Philos the whole brothel would be heading to the Forum in the late afternoon. She cannot relax, wondering if today is the day Rufus will buy her. Every moment, she is expecting a knock at the door, dreading the thought it won’t come.

“Now for the rest of them!” Beronice gets out the small bundle of gifts, all wrapped in a blanket. Her cheeks are shining from the wine, and she looks by far the happiest person in the room. Gallus sits down beside her, getting as close as possible, childlike in his eagerness. Perhaps he does love her after all, Amara thinks. Or maybe he just wants a present. “Not yet! Don’t be greedy,” Beronice says, kissing him.

Amara glances over at Felix, but he seems completely unconcerned by this outburst of affection. She remembers what Cressa said at the Vinalia, that a master never minds a love which keeps his servants obedient. The thought of her dead friend, and her short brutal life, hurts Amara’s heart.

“Right, this one’s yours Fabia,” Beronice says, handing her some coins wrapped in a piece of cloth. They had decided the penniless old woman would prefer five asses in cash rather than some overpriced trinket. “This is yours, this is for you…” Beronice hands out all the other gifts, enjoying her role.

Amara unwraps her gift from its scrap of cloth. It’s a cheap hair clip, not unlike the one she and Dido bought for Victoria. Dido has been given the same. Britannica is staring at her pendant with a frown, dangling it between her fingers. “It’s been dipped in the blood of a gladiator, of a fighter, to give you strength,” Amara explains. She knows Britannica has understood even though she does not thank or even look at her. The Briton slips it on, tucking it under her toga, and rests her hand on her chest. Then her eyes flick over to Amara and Dido. She gives them the briefest nod of acknowledgement.

The men have all bought each other extra wine, more expensive than the sweetened variety the women have been served. Thraso pours it out, tipping an especially generous portion into his own flask. With a stab of remorse, Amara realizes everyone has forgotten Paris. He is sitting slightly away from the gathering, holding his thin knees in his arms, face pinched with disappointment. Fabia is waving at him from across the room, motioning that he can have her five asses. Paris ignores her. As ever, it’s not his mother’s attention that he wants. Gallus nudges Thraso’s elbow as he pours out more wine, gesturing at the forgotten slave.

“Is he really a man though?” Thraso says. “Couldn’t one of the girls have given him a hair clip or something?” He laughs at Paris’s expense, clearly expecting Felix to join in. Their boss doesn’t smile at the joke.

“Give the boy some wine,” he says. “He earned it this year.”

Gallus sits down again beside Beronice. He gives her a quick kiss. “This is for you,” he says, handing over a parcel. She takes it, and he looms over her, getting in the way, almost unwrapping it himself in his excitement to see her reaction.

Beronice gasps. “But it’s beautiful!” She holds it up for everyone to see. It is a cameo pendant, a tiny one, but still by far the most expensive gift anyone has produced. “Oh, I love you!” Beronice exclaims, flinging her arms around him. Then she pulls back. “And I only got you some pomade!”

Victoria is stuck, sitting beside the lovers who are now kissing noisily. She looks down, her shoulders hunched over. All that mockery, and Gallus has done more for Beronice than anyone could ever have imagined. Felix slips off the desk, crouching on the floor beside her. “For my favourite whore,” he says, handing Victoria a packet. She glances at him, eyes full of hope, then slips the contents out into her fingers. It is a string of wooden beads. Victoria gazes up at Felix, the love on her face painful to witness. She beams round at everyone, proud to have been singled out in front of them all. Amara smiles back, not wanting to ruin her happiness. Beronice catches Amara’s eye. Victoria has no idea that her friends pity her, that where she imagines love, they only see cruelty.

The day rolls on, everyone getting increasingly drunk. Everyone, that is, except Amara and Felix. It seems neither is prepared to relinquish control of themselves, not even on the Saturnalia. She is aware of him watching her and wonders if he suspects something, though he surely cannot know about Rufus or Balbina’s loan. She’s been so careful. If he were any other man, she would have said he was looking at her with lust, but she knows this is impossible.

The men insist on trying to cook the bean stew, declaring it a day off for the girls, but they make such a mess, slopping the food over the brazier, almost putting the fire out, that Telethusa shoves them aside and takes over. They laugh at her, still interfering while she tries to cook. “You ruin it!” she shrieks in annoyance. “Go away! Shoo!”

Fabia offers to help, but Telethusa gestures at her to stay sitting. “No reason we all suffer,” she says, with a pointed look at Thraso.

“I’m so happy for Beronice,” Dido says to Amara. “Gallus must really love her after all!” Amara smiles in reply, almost too tense to speak. “He won’t forget,” Dido says to her. “I know he won’t.”

Amara is aware that Felix is watching them again. She takes Dido’s hand. “I love you,” she whispers back. “I meant everything I promised.”

After their burnt, mushy stew, Felix declares it a good time to head outside and walk to the Forum. Beronice and Gallus disentangle themselves with reluctance. They have been sitting huddled in a corner, long since abandoning any pretence of joining in with the party.

“Why don’t you just stay behind and fuck her?” Felix says to Gallus in exasperation. “Join us when you’ve got it out of your system.”

They pile onto the streets, muffled up in their cloaks. The shops are shuttered for the festival, but a number of other households are out for a stroll, taking the chance to get some air before the afternoon grows too dark. Amara takes Dido’s arm as they all amble to the Forum. Everyone on the street seems in high spirits, and even Paris is escorting his mother, who looks as if this was the present she has been waiting for the entire Saturnalia. Amara remembers the way Paris carried Simo from the burning bar, as if he were helping him, all the better to slip in the knife. She shudders.

Dido squeezes her arm. “Are you cold?”

Amara shakes her head.

Crowds are milling around the Forum, drinking and laughing, watching street performers and musicians. They stop near a man juggling torches. Amara watches the flames as they rise and fall, the man catching them in his gloved hands.

“I hoped to see you today.”

His voice is a memory from home. Amara has not met Menander in months, but hearing him, it feels like yesterday since she held him. She turns. For once, he doesn’t look entirely sure of himself.

“We said we would meet at the Saturnalia. I know that was some time ago,” he adds, seeing the flustered look on her face. “I’m only here as a friend. I brought you a gift.”

He holds out an object wrapped in cloth. She takes it, unwraps it. Inside is a beautiful clay lamp with a green glaze. The figure on it is familiar. It is a likeness of Aphidnai’s Helen of Troy, the statue from her hometown, the one she loved to look at as a child, when her father pointed it out to her with such pride. Menander made this for her. She stares at the lamp, unable to speak. Then she flings her arms around his neck. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “It’s the most beautiful present anyone has ever given me.”

Dido yanks hard at her arm, and she lets go, but Menander catches hold of her hand. “I know you have a patron, Timarete, I know this,” he says. “But if I were free, if I gained my freedom, would you feel differently?”

Amara withdraws her hand, at last understanding what Dido saw behind him.

“What’s this?”

She has never known Rufus so angry. Terror almost stops her heart. She pushes Menander aside to reach her boyfriend, but he blocks her embrace. “Who is this?” For a moment she is almost afraid he will hit her.

Amara hesitates. There is no question in her mind what she should do, only whether she has the courage. “This?” She turns round to look at Menander as if she has only just noticed him. “He’s nobody! Some boy who wanted to give me a gift on the Saturnalia, because he said I had a pretty face. I don’t even know his name.” She laughs. “Why are you so angry?” she exclaims, taking Rufus’s hand. “Don’t be ridiculous! You cannot possibly imagine you have anything to be jealous about. He’s just some slave boy.” Amara is aware of Philos, standing beside his master, but she ignores him. It’s not Philos she needs to convince. “Look, I’ll prove it to you,” she says, as if humouring a child. “I can just give it back to him, let him give it to some other girl,” she inclines her head, teasing, looking at him from under lowered eyelashes. “Though I’m sorry if you think I’m not the prettiest girl at the Saturnalia, because that’s who he wanted to give it to.”

Amara is almost carried along by her own performance until she turns to face Menander again. He is staring at her as if she were a stranger. She holds the lamp out, looking into his eyes, willing him to understand. “I’m sorry but I cannot take this.” He does not move. She forces herself to take a step towards him, still holding his gift, offering it to him. Amara’s hand is trembling, and the glaze slips through her fingers. The lamp smashes at Menander’s feet.

The shock of it makes her gasp. She and Menander stare at one another. She understands, seeing his face then, that whatever affection was once between them has ended. Amara looks down at the ground. Shards of glazed clay are scattered at her feet. All that work, engraved with such love, marked with memories of home and who she used to be, gone. She remembers Cressa’s smashed pot at the necropolis, the man dying, the sacrifice Victoria made to save her life. The only choice she can ever make is to survive. “Oops, silly me,” she says, turning to Rufus, biting her lip as if it were a joke. “I seem to have broken it!”

It is perhaps her callous disregard which finally convinces him. He strides over, puts an arm around her. “Sorry, boy,” Rufus says to Menander, reaching into his purse for some coins. “My girlfriend didn’t mean to be clumsy. I hope this compensates you.”

Menander takes the money, not looking at Amara. “You’re very generous, sir,” he says.

Rufus physically turns her, back towards where Philos and Dido are standing, obviously eager to forget the whole incident. “How ridiculous I am,” he says, kissing her. “I’m sorry to have been jealous.”

“I’m flattered you were,” she replies, gazing up at him. She is conscious of Menander walking away, even though she does not see him leave.

They reach Philos, and Amara realizes that Quintus and Lucius are also there, together with a retinue of their slaves. They make quite an audience. “But I do at least have a small present for you myself, my darling,” Rufus says. His tone is theatrical, aimed as much at his friends as at her. Hope makes her heart beat faster. Rufus lowers his voice. “Where’s your wretched pimp?”

Amara knows Felix will not be far away, spots him almost immediately. He must have watched the whole scene unfold, seen how she treated Menander. She hears his voice in her head. Not every woman is a heartless bitch like you. Felix walks over as soon as she catches his eye.

“Honoured,” he says, bowing to Rufus, who recoils.

“I want to make you an offer,” he says, loud enough that the rest of the brothel gather round to listen. “I would like to buy this woman on behalf of a friend.”

Amara looks at him in bewilderment. “A friend?”

Rufus holds up a hand to silence her. “I would like to buy this woman on behalf of Gaius Plinius Secundus, the Admiral of the Roman Fleet.”

Amara gasps at Pliny’s name, but Rufus does not notice. He is caught up in the drama, relishing his role as hero in front of the crowd. “The admiral has considered her price and is prepared to offer you more than she is worth. There can be no haggling, he will not stoop to it. You must take his offer or leave it.” Rufus gestures at Philos, who produces a seal. “This is his pledge, which you may keep if you agree the sale, as a guarantee you will be paid. He is offering you six thousand sesterces for the slave known as Amara.”

It is two thousand more than Felix paid for her. Amara can see Dido and Victoria clutching one another, open-mouthed, staring at Rufus. She looks at Felix, but his face is inscrutable. Surely, he cannot refuse?

Felix bows. All this time, he has not acknowledged her. “I will accept the admiral’s offer.”

Amara says nothing while her master signs the agreement, transferring ownership. Everyone watches in silence, unable to believe what they have just seen. Shock has almost emptied her of feeling. Rufus hands Felix the seal and turns to her, radiant with his own power. “Amara. On behalf of the admiral and in the presence of witnesses and in the sight of the gods, I grant you your freedom. You are now Gaia Plinia Amara, Liberta.”

Amara stares at him, speechless. Then she bursts into tears.

43

Amara cannot stop crying. Rufus has to restrain her from flinging herself at his feet, as she sobs out her undying love and gratitude. He kisses away her tears, clearly enjoying the adoration. She embraces Dido and Victoria over and over again, weeping onto both their shoulders, holding their faces in her hands, unable to express all the love she feels. The pain of what she has done to Menander, the ecstasy of freedom, is unlike anything she has ever felt. She laughs with Quintus and Lucius, professes her devoted friendship to Ipstilla and Telethusa − who look less than delighted by her good fortune − and startles Paris into giving her a bony hug. When it is Fabia’s turn, the old woman clings to her, weeping, and Amara finds herself promising to help if she is ever in need. Thraso however, is a step too far. She nods at him, the way a queen might acknowledge a peasant. More than he deserves.

It is the only time she has ever seen Felix look truly surprised. He must have realized that all her tales about Rufus and violence were lies. Perhaps he is wondering what else she has lied about. She turns her back. Let him wonder, she thinks. He cannot hurt her now.

Amara wants to wait for Beronice, desperate to share the news, but Rufus is less keen. “My darling,” he says. “I think I may have had enough of whores and pimps for one night. Delightful as I’m sure this other girl is.” He looks at her companions from the brothel, both friends and enemies, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. Quintus and Lucius laugh, obviously eager to return home too.

Amara feels a jolt. Of course, this is the other side of the deal. A Saturnalia spent without Dido, without any of the women she loves. She wants to go back, to hug them one last time, but Rufus is leading her firmly away. She catches Dido’s eye, hopes she understands it as a reminder of the promise she made.

Leaving is not easy in the press of the crowd. Philos and the other slaves try to go ahead first, clear the path, but nobody is inclined towards deference on the Saturnalia. While they are fighting their way through, a heavy-set man carrying bells dances between them, dressed as the Lord of Misrule. He is wearing a horned satyr mask, dressed all in red. He capers closer, brandishing the bells in Amara’s face. Rufus draws her away, putting his arm around her. For a moment, it looks like the masked man is going to be a nuisance, but Quintus, Lucius and the rich men’s phalanx of slaves are too formidable a barrier.

The satyr dances off. People cheer him and nudge one another to make space. Amara watches. She realizes, as the satyr prances about, stopping now and then to make people laugh, that he is not moving at random. He is slowly heading towards Felix. Her feeling of unease curdles into fear.

She yanks at Rufus, forcing him to stop. Victoria is standing near her boss. Amara shouts at her, but her voice is swallowed by the noise of the crowd. Felix is already aware of the danger. As the red satyr comes towards him, he draws his knife. The red satyr draws too. He is twice Felix’s size, but Amara suspects he has none of her former master’s speed or agility. The satyr lunges at Felix, but he feints, and the blow falls wide, narrowly missing Victoria. She scrambles back, disappearing into the safety of the crowd.

The two men are swiping at each other, and it could almost look as if they are dancing, if it weren’t for the deadly flash of silver. The crowd don’t seem to realize what’s going on, or perhaps mistake the fight for a staged part of the misrule celebrations. They have cleared a small space and are all wedged together, cheering the pair on.

“We should leave,” Rufus says. “He’s nothing to you now.”

“Where’s Dido?” Amara says. “I can’t see her! Where is she?”

“The others will look after her,” Rufus says, losing patience. “This is no place for you.”

She turns back to look again, too afraid to obey him. She can see Ipstilla and Telethusa, arms locked, managing to make a break for it.

“There she is,” Amara cries. “Over there!”

Dido is clearly trapped, alone, unable to scramble her way back into the crowd like Victoria, forced to watch as Felix and the satyr swipe at one another, sickeningly close. A drunk has hold of her arm and is trying to kiss her, unaware of the danger they are both in. Thraso is hovering near Felix, not wanting to get his boss killed by intervening. She spots Britannica on the other side of the circle, close by, avidly watching the fight, unaware of Dido’s distress. Paris and Fabia are nowhere to be seen.

Amara looks desperately at Lucius, the man who promised to find Dido’s family, who has spent so many nights with her at Drusilla’s house. “Can’t you help her? Please!”

Lucius looks uncomfortable but doesn’t answer. Amara feels a surge of anger at his cowardice. She tears her arm from Rufus, shoving her way back towards the fight. “Britannica!” she screams. “Britannica, help me!”

For a moment, Amara thinks she is going to drown in a sea of arms and elbows, crushed in the chaos, then the tall woman is reaching down, grabbing her by the scruff of her cloak, pulling her to safety.

“Dido!” Amara screams, pointing at where she is trapped. Britannica’s eyes widen. She drops Amara and shoves a man aside, punching him in the throat when he doesn’t get out of her way quick enough.

Britannica tries to charge through the crowd, but her strength is no match for so many people. Amara can see her struggling, surrounded. The space for the fight is getting smaller and smaller, pushing Dido ever closer towards the violence. More and more people must be pouring into the Forum, packing everyone together. Amara tries to push towards Dido herself, but people are too drunk or disinterested to let her pass. She drops to her knees, crawling her way through, almost stifled by her fear of being trampled. She reaches the edge of the crowd. The fight is on top of her, and the satyr nearly stamps on her fingers, but she is too low down to be in range. She can see Britannica yelling, held back by a group of drunken, angry men. Just a short distance away, Dido is scrambling, not facing Amara, instead, trying to claw past the crowd, away from the knives, the drunkard still holding her around the waist.

The men have almost run out of room to fight. Felix is so close, she could almost reach out and touch him. There is no fear on his face, but he looks vulnerable, his body more exposed than the satyr’s in his heavy, protective costume. Amara watches, willing Felix to kill his rival, willing him to end it. Instead, Felix swings round and stumbles over someone’s foot, almost crashing into Dido. The red satyr sees his chance, swiping the knife towards his opponent while he is off balance. Felix dives out of the way. The satyr stabs Dido in the back, burying the knife between her shoulder blades. The drunk holding her lets go in shock. Now, when it is too late, people draw back, letting Dido pass. She takes two steps forwards and collapses.

Somebody in the crowd screams, then another. Finally, it is dawning on the gathering that this is not a performance. A group of men rush forwards, seizing the red stayr, tearing off his mask. His face is familiar. It is Balbus, Simo’s freedman. He disappears into the mob, mouth open in terror, buried in a frenzy of kicks and punches. The crowd is clearing, some pushing forwards to watch Balbus die, others fleeing from the violence. Amara reaches Dido. Britannica is already holding her, cradling her in her arms.

“I’m here!” Amara cries, dropping down beside her. She takes Dido’s hand. “We’re all here. You’re safe now.”

Dido does not answer. Blood is coming from her mouth. She looks at Amara, pain and terror in her eyes.

All the times they have exchanged messages without words, only with glances, and Amara knows she cannot hide her own anguish. She kisses Dido on the forehead. In her head, she hears her father’s voice. Nobody should die in fear.

“I’ve seen people recover from worse than this,” she says. “All those patients my father treated. You’ll get better; I know you will.” Dido’s hand is cold, so she holds it against her own body to warm it. “You’re going to be alright, I promise.” Victoria arrives, breathless, and sits down beside her. “And Victoria’s here now too. When Beronice comes, she can get Gallus to fetch a doctor.”

“We’re here with you,” Victoria says. “You’re not on your own. We’re here.”

Dido closes her eyes. “You can have a rest,” Amara says. “It’s alright to have a rest.” She lies the palm of her hand against Dido’s cheek so her friend can feel her, even though she cannot see her. She is still cupping Dido’s face in her fingers, long after she knows she has died.

“She is gone,” Britannica says. Nobody remarks on the fact that she can speak.

Amara shushes her. “Just a moment,” she says, not wanting to let go of Dido. “Not yet. She’s not gone yet.”

“She’s dead, my love,” Victoria says, putting her hand on Amara’s knee. “She’s gone now.” Amara cannot see, tears are blinding her. Victoria drags Amara’s arm around her own shoulders, pulling her upright. Amara realizes a man is watching them. Felix.

“You did this!” she screams. In her grief and rage she knows she could kill him, tear him apart where he stands, but Victoria is holding her, preventing her. “That knife was meant for you. You killed her! You did this!” Felix is silent as Amara shouts at him, threatening him, screaming out her hatred until her voice breaks.

Then a man is picking her up, lifting her over his shoulder, taking her away. She thinks it is Rufus, beats her fists against his back, sobbing, ordering him to put her down, to let her go back. Eventually, she gives up, collapsing against him. It is only when they reach the edge of the Forum and she sees Rufus standing, waiting for her, that she realizes who is carrying her. It is Philos.

44

The Saturnalia is over. Amara sits at her desk, dressed in black. The sound of the fountain does not reach this room, but she knows it is there, murmuring gently in the garden below. She is safe in the house with the golden door. She has her freedom. And her heart is broken.

The wooden box is no longer under Rufus’s bed; it sits in front of her. She opens it. Folded above the jewellery is a letter from Pliny to Rufus. She picks it up. Words jump out at her “…the attagen, also of Iona is a famous bird; but although it has a voice, at other times, it is mute in captivity…” And so it goes on. There is almost no mention of Amara in the letter. Pliny built his case for her freedom by calling on a multitude of birds, perhaps feeling more comfortable making his argument in abstract terms. But she knows what a gift it is. Not only that he paid towards her freedom, but that he gave her his name.

It was the name, not the money, that mattered in the end. Caught between his father’s refusal, and Amara’s desperation to be free, Rufus had written to the admiral, asking his advice about what he should do. It was Pliny who had introduced him to Amara in the first place, so surely, he would know. Pliny responded with unimaginable generosity. “I never asked him for the money,” Rufus has told her, over and over again. “And I did pay half, so it’s not like you didn’t cost me anything.” Amara is beginning to suspect that, for Rufus, the pleasure of opening his hands to see the bird fly will never be quite as satisfying as feeling its fragile form beneath his fingers.

He did not enjoy her grief after Dido’s death. It wasn’t a pretty flurry of tears he could kiss away, but a frenzy of pain and hysteria that swamped her gratitude and his glory. He let Philos take her back here to recover herself. She spent the first two days of the Saturnalia alone, save for a handful of slaves. Rufus has ‘lent’ them all to her. Philos is the only one she knows.

She cannot remember much of that first night, other than the agony, but the following day is stamped on her memory. She was huddled here, in this study, wrapped in a pile of blankets, when Philos brought her hot wine. A drink was the only consolation he had to offer. He stood at the very edge of the room, not getting too close to her, nothing like the man who once offered her his arm on the street. It was as if the sight of her frightened him.

“You can’t be like this when he comes for you,” he said, not looking at her face. “He planned that night for weeks, imagining all your joy, all the adulation. And instead, he got grief and disappointment. I know you loved her. But Rufus will never understand. She was just a pretty slave to him. You will have to mourn her in private.”

Amara had been too upset to reply. She has avoided Philos since then, though she still took his advice. She wore her white dress when Rufus returned, lavished him with affection, professed her boundless loyalty, enthused about the house. She even apologized for her own grief, fearing that it might have marred all he had done for her. Rufus was gracious in reassuring her that he understood. He never mentioned her friend by name and neither did she.

Amara doesn’t have to name Dido to think about her. When she is alone, she spends time standing in the atrium at the same place where Dido stood, trying to take comfort from the fact she was here, in this very house – she saw it, she touched it. Amara remembers their conversations, Dido’s kindness, her surprising boldness when she performed, the way she sang, with a grace like no other. But at night, she cannot blot out her last memory, the blood on Dido’s face, the pain and the horror.

Amara realizes her hands are shaking. She puts Pliny’s letter away. Dido deserves more than private mourning. From her desk drawer, Amara takes a crude wooden carving, a small statue of the goddess Diana, armed with her hunting bow. She wraps the figure in cloth, ties around the label she has written. I am the gift of Gaia Plinia Amara, Liberta.

She gets up, walks down the stairs, looking across the open space. In the garden, painters will soon be starting work on a large fresco. Rufus had seen it as a delightful sign that she is so thrilled with the house, that she wants to make it special for them both, make it somewhere suitable for him to stay. He had been less certain about the myth she chose. It will be Acteon turning into a stag, while his own hounds tear him apart. Wouldn’t she prefer scenes from the legends of Venus, rather than Diana? Perhaps the virgin goddess isn’t quite the thing for a love nest? But Amara laughed, teasing him. We can always have Venus in the bedroom.

She steps down into the atrium. A young woman is waiting by the pool. Amara hurries over. The girl is early, and Amara knows she has very little time to herself. It is Pitane, the waitress from The Elephant, the one who owes Amara for her abortion.

“It’s beautiful,” Pitane says, looking round. “How well you’ve done! I can’t believe it!”

“I’m sorry you can’t stay longer or have some wine with me,” Amara replies. “But I know what it’s like. I’m grateful you spared the time to come at all.”

“It’s no trouble,” Pitane says. “I’m on a run for supplies. They’ll never notice.”

Amara hands her the wooden statue, hidden in its cloth. “Could you give this to Paris for me please? It is for his master. Paris should tell Felix that I apologize the gift is too late for the Saturnalia. But it has not been sent with any less feeling. Can you remember all that?”

“Of course!” Pitane nods. “You’re nicer than me I must say. If I got my freedom from a new master, I wouldn’t be sending Sittius any fucking presents.”

Pitane turns and walks across the atrium, slipping through the heavy wooden door. Amara stands alone, shivering slightly from the breeze. It is quiet here. She pictures Pitane, rejoining the noise and the chaos, carrying her Diana through the streets of Pompeii. And when her gift arrives, Amara knows Felix will understand what it means.