“But he is!” Victoria insists, her face solemn. “It’s Mr GarlicFarticus who runs that fast-food place near the baths!”
“He was kind of smelly.” Dido looks a little brighter as she starts to play the game.
“And garlicky. And farty.” Victoria nods. “Yes, definitely him. Mr GarlicFarticus.”
“I never knew he was called that,” Beronice says, wonderingly. “I thought he was called Manlius.”
“Of course it was Manlius, you idiot!” Cressa snorts.
They all laugh. Even Beronice smiles. Amara wonders for a moment if she might have played dumb on purpose.
“I think we should write him a message on the wall,” Victoria says. “In case he ever comes back.” She bends down and hands a shard of pottery to Amara. “What shall we say? I know! Thrust SLOWLY.”
“Shall I write it in Greek?” Amara asks.
“What’s the point in that?” Victoria retorts. “We want the smelly idiot to read it, don’t we?”
Amara scratches the motto on the wall. They all sit looking at it when she’s finished, smirking with satisfaction.
“I’ll tell you who does thrust slowly,” Beronice says, her face sly. She pauses, making sure all four are giving her their full attention.
“Go on then,” Cressa says. “Who is this Apollo?”
“Gallus.” Beronice beams. “I love him.”
“Gallus?” Victoria shrieks. “He’s a terrible lay!”
“You’ve not even slept with him!” Beronice says, wounded. She looks round at her friends’ embarrassed faces. “Have you?”
“We all have, sweetheart,” Cressa says kindly.
Beronice flushes. “Well, it’s me he loves. He told me he will buy my freedom one day. He loves me! He’s going to marry me, so I don’t have to do this anymore. We spent a whole hour together when you were all out fishing. He’s really kind and loving and gentle and caring. He even asked what I wanted!”
Amara struggles to picture the oafish Gallus being any of these things. She is about to ask Beronice if he gave her the bread yesterday but decides the answer might be too painful.
“Beronice,” Victoria says, her voice low with warning. “You didn’t fuck him for free, did you?” There’s silence. Beronice pouts, not meeting anyone’s eye. “You idiot!” Victoria hisses. “What if Felix finds out? You can’t spend your days rolling around with Gallus for nothing! He has to pay Felix. The prick’s just playing you; he’s using you!”
“He doesn’t want to pay because he’s saving up to buy me!” Beronice says, stung. “And who’s going to tell Felix? Not any of you I hope!”
“Of course none of us would tell Felix,” Amara says. “But are you sure Gallus isn’t taking advantage?”
“He loves me,” Beronice repeats stubbornly. “He told me he’s never met anyone as kind as me, that he can really talk to me, because I listen, and I care about him.” Victoria rolls her eyes. “Why do you have to make everything dark and ugly and twisted?” Beronice snaps at her. “At least I have better taste than you.” The last word is said with such venom that Amara is surprised, but before Victoria can retaliate, Cressa interrupts.
“Nobody is trying to ruin things for you,” she says to Beronice. “We just want you to look after yourself. That’s all.” Beronice frowns and turns away from her, not willing to be won round yet.
Cressa widens her eyes at Victoria, tilting her head at Beronice, willing her to make amends. Victoria sighs. “Of course we’re happy if Gallus loves you,” she says. “But you need to make him pay. He’s stealing from Felix! That’s much too risky – you know it is. For him as much as you.”
Beronice looks crestfallen. “That’s just typical of him,” she says. “Putting himself in danger for me.”
Victoria looks as if she might explode at this version of Gallus the Hero, but Cressa changes the subject. “Does anyone know how much money we made last night?”
“Thraso took over at the door,” Victoria replies. “I spoke to him before turning in. The last count was just over sixteen denarii.”
“That’s a relief,” says Amara, thinking of Felix. “It’s not as far off as I thought it might be.”
“We’ve got to pay to replace those though,” Dido points at the broken lamps.
Cressa bends over to look at the heap of smashed-up clay cocks. “That’s at least three.”
“Four,” Dido says.
“We’ll have to pay for them ourselves,” Victoria says. “We can’t ask Felix for the money, not after yesterday.” Amara feels some of the darkness from last night returning. Felix gives them such a paltry allowance, barely enough for food, especially when they chip in for Fabia. None of them are ever going to save enough for their freedom that way. “It can’t be helped,” Victoria says, as if she can hear Amara’s thoughts. “We’ll make it back.”
Amara stares at their fresh graffiti. Thrust SLOWLY! It doesn’t seem as amusing anymore. Cressa gets to her feet. “We should head to the baths, get cleaned up. Unless you lot want to waft about stinking of man all day.”
It’s a mid-morning ritual at the brothel, their trip to the women’s baths. Amara suspects she isn’t the only one who finds it emotionally as well as physically cleansing. “I’ll stay behind,” Victoria offers. “Somebody else had better go for the lamps.”
There’s a pause. “I’ll go,” Amara offers. She is just as desperate as the others for a wash, but she owes Cressa for rescuing her, Dido had a terrible night and Beronice was trapped inside most of yesterday. Although given her affair with Gallus, this may not have been such a sacrifice after all.
“Take my savings,” says Cressa. “We can split the cost when you get back.”
Fabia is sweeping the floor when they step out into the corridor. Not for the first time, Amara wonders where she slept that night. She has found her huddled on the back doorstep before, wrapped in nothing but her cloak. The old woman smiles at them. “Don’t you all look beautiful,” she says.
Fabia helps the four who are going out to tidy up their hair. Even though they are not fishing, Felix hates his women to wander about town looking a mess. “You’ll never need paste for your lips,” Fabia says to Amara, as she straightens up her yellow toga, fastening it with a cheap pin. “They’re bright as pomegranate seeds. You’re so lucky.” Amara wonders what Fabia looked like when she was young. Her face is not just lined, but beaten, like the ruts in the road where the carts have repeatedly run over the stones. It can’t help that she has such a shit for a son.
“Can I bring you back anything to eat?” Amara asks.
“Gallus brought me some bread yesterday,” Fabia replies. “Don’t you worry.”
Thraso is slumped half asleep on the doorstep when they leave. His lip looks a little better than yesterday, but his nose is still swollen. He asks where they are all going and heaves himself up to check whether the tale of broken lamps is true. Once his surly permission has been granted, they set off. Amara says goodbye to the others a few paces down the road at the entrance to the women’s baths then makes for the pottery shop on the Via Pompeiiana, Cressa’s leather purse tied around her waist.
Last night was dry, and the water level on the road has dropped. It no longer resembles a canal. Instead, the wet surface shines silver in the glare of the late morning light. The town is already busy. It’s not often Amara has an excuse to venture out by herself. She lingers as she passes the doorways of Pompeii’s wealthiest homes, stealing a look inside whenever a tall wooden door is left ajar. She catches the sparkle of fountains, glimpses of winter gardens and elaborate mosaics which sweep up to the edge of the street. Her parent’s house in Aphidnai was not so grand, but some of the homely touches – a woman sitting spinning in the atrium, a sleeping dog – remind her of what she has lost.
The potter’s shop is not too far along the Via Pompeiiana. It’s impossible to miss with its huge mural of Venus surrounded by lamps on the front wall. The painting picks out the warmth of the flames on the
goddess’s features, the light reflected in her eyes. Behind her is a pink shell and the pale blue of the sea. Small potters work at her feet, shaping lamps and statues, feeding a tiny kiln, a miniature representation of the business Amara is about to enter.
The shop front is shallow and apparently empty. Through a doorway at the back she can see slaves and the red glow of the kilns. Somebody will be back in a moment. Around her, every possible surface is lined with lamps. She turns to look, careful not to knock into anything. Some are beautiful, so much lovelier than the ones she is here to buy. Amara picks up a small glazed light from the nearest shelf, gently stroking its surface with her finger. An image of Pallas Athene is stamped on it, an owl’s face on her breastplate.
“That’s one of mine.”
She looks up. A slave is watching her. Amara hurries to put the lamp back, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“No, I mean I designed it.” The slave laughs. “I don’t own any of them.” He is very good-looking, Amara realizes. Slim with dark hair and a friendly, open face. He looks nothing like Felix, she thinks. Then she wonders why the comparison would even matter to her. He walks over, takes the lamp back down from the shelf and turns it over. “That’s my mark,” he says, touching a symbol on the back, the Greek letter M. He has a Greek accent too. He almost sounds like he could have come from her hometown.
“Is Pallas Athene your goddess?” Amara asks, switching to Greek.
He is delighted. “Athenian?”
“No, I’m from Aphidnai.” She smiles back.
“The town with the beautiful Helen of Troy.”
“You’ve been there?” Amara stares at the potter’s slave, wondering who he might have been if they had met in their past lives. Did he ever go to her father when he was sick? Was he always enslaved?
“I spent a little time there when I was a child. Many years ago now. I’m from Athens. From Attica.”
Attica. So much in a single word. Pride in where she’s from, pain for what she’s lost. Home. It feels closer, suddenly, standing next to this stranger. “What happened?” she blurts out. “Why are you here?”
He looks startled. Slaves do not usually ask each other about the past without invitation. Nobody wants their grief dragged up unexpectedly into the light.
“My family ran out of money,” he says. “And I was the last thing they had to sell.” His voice is unchanged, and he has the same easy manner as before, but she can feel his sadness. Amara wants to tell him that she understands, that the story of her life is the same, but she can’t find the words. He looks embarrassed by her silence. “Is this the lamp you wanted?” he asks.
She blushes. Her cloak is hiding her gaudy toga. He has no idea what she is. And now she is going to have to ask this beautiful Athenian stranger for a load of cock lamps. “My master lives opposite The Elephant,” she says slowly. There is a flicker of understanding on his face. She ploughs on. “My name in this country is Amara. I used to worship Pallas Athene, but since I was brought here, I have been subject to Venus. I have no choice. She is the goddess my master serves.”
“Amara,” the stranger says, putting his hand over hers, stopping her from continuing. “I understand. None of us has a choice here.” They stare at each other. Then he moves away, as if only just noticing he is touching her.
“Menander!” a voice calls from the back. “What are you doing out there? I only wanted… Ah, I see, a customer. Forgive me, forgive me.” Rusticus, the potter, is standing in the doorway. He frowns at Amara, trying to place her. She stares back. In her mind’s eye she sees his large naked arse, bobbing up and down, glimpsed through a half-open curtain. He is one of Victoria’s regulars. “Well.” He chuckles, recognition finally dawning. He turns to Menander. “No wonder you were taking your time.” He leans one elbow on the counter, his previous posture of respectful service gone. “And what can we do for you, little wolf.”
Amara is so hot that she feels on fire. “Four lamps, not glazed, of…” She stops, not wanting to say the words. “Of Priapus.” Rusticus smirks, enjoying her humiliation. She has a flash of anger and defiance. “So that will be four cocks,” she adds loudly. There’s a snort. She turns and stares at Menander. Is he laughing? He sees her face, and his expression changes instantly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
She sweeps past him to the counter, as if he hadn’t said a word. “My master does not like to be kept waiting,” she says coldly to Rusticus, as if she has been sent by the Emperor and not some small-town pimp.
“Of course,” Rusticus replies, snapping his fingers at Menander who hurries to gather up the cock lamps from a shelf in the corner. Amara says nothing. She stands rigid, bristling with fury, as Menander wraps the lamps in pieces of old cloth, tying them together to make it easier for her to carry. He is trying desperately to catch her eye, but she refuses to look at him, even when he hands the bundle over. Rusticus is struggling not to laugh. “Never mind,” he says in a mock whisper to his slave. “Maybe you can save your pennies and speak to the fine lady for longer next time.”
Amara hands over Cressa’s money and strides out of the shop without thanking either of them. She walks quickly along the street, clutching the lamps to her chest, hating herself. She is no different from Beronice, swallowing Menander’s charm, as if he would be interested in talking to a she-wolf. Life at the brothel is hard enough, without making a fool of herself.
5
Grab your slave girl whenever you want: it’s your right to use her
Pompeii graffiti
When she gets back, it’s Paris on the door. The way he stands, scrawny chest puffed out and legs akimbo, makes him recognizable long before she reaches the brothel. It’s rare for Paris to be put on door duty; he’s far too slight to make a convincing guard. He looks years younger than his age and is desperate to grow a beard, hoping that then Felix will finally release him from his duties as a prostitute. The only person in the world who loves Paris is his mother, Fabia, and he treats her with a cruelty that makes Amara’s heart ache.
“Felix wants you,” he says as she approaches.
“Did he say why?”
Paris shrugs, trying to imitate Thraso’s easy indifference. Instead, he looks like a petulant teenager.
Amara hurries into the brothel. “Felix is asking for me,” she says, handing the bundle of lamps to Victoria before she can open her mouth for a greeting. “I’ve not even had a bath. He hates that. He’s going to be so angry!”
“You can borrow some of my rose water.” Victoria nods towards her cell as she starts unwrapping the lamps. “Just help yourself. And try not to worry. He almost never asks for a full service, not at this time of day.”
Amara finds the small bottle in Victoria’s cell, dabs a tiny amount of the rose perfume on her neck. She knows one of Victoria’s customers gives her various potions as a tip and doesn’t want to take too much. The thought of climbing the stairs to see Felix again makes her feel nauseous. It had confused her when she first came to Pompeii, why he wanted any of his women. He never seemed prompted by desire, let alone anything more tender. After a few weeks, she understood. All of them are afraid of him, both dreading his summons and dreading being ignored. Like everything else about Felix – it is the exercise of power.
Victoria comes into the cell, pinches her cheeks to give them more colour and fusses with her hair. “What if it’s something else?” Amara asks. “What if he’s angry with me?”
“It will all be fine,” Victoria says. “I promise. Just don’t keep him waiting.”
*
Paris lets her in, taking the keys from his cloak as they stand together in the street. “You’re to go straight through to his study,” he says, shoving the door open and walking off, as if stopping to talk to her would add a terrible burden to his busy day.
Amara is left alone in the hallway, surprised not to be sent to the bedroom. She wonders what Felix might mean by it. She walks up the stairs and creeps round the corridor to the
end. She stops, knocks gently, then carefully opens the door. To her confusion, she sees he already has company. She is about to step back, but Felix raises his hand in a gesture for her to stay. His client turns round to see who it is. When he understands he’s being watched by a prostitute, he flinches. “If this isn’t a good time…” he says.
“Please continue,” Felix replies, offering no explanation for the presence of one of his women. Amara slides into the room. “You were explaining why you want to take out a second loan without paying for the first.”
“I can offer you this,” the man says, taking out a pair of earrings. “They belong to my mother-in-law. Pure silver, made in Herculaneum.”
Felix takes the earrings, examining them briefly, before dropping them on his desk. “This will cover the previous debt. What about the new loan?”
“They’re worth far more than just the first loan!” the man protests. “This should cover at least half the value of the next one too!”
“They cover the first loan, but not the interest.”
“Please, Felix,” the man says, lowering his voice. “Please be reasonable. I can get you more money as soon as the shipment is in. Just give me a little time. You know I always come through.”
Felix sighs, like a disappointed father. “We’ve been doing business for so many years Celer. And still you take me for a fool.” He points at the earrings. “I’m assuming Salvia wants them back?” Celer is silent. “And I imagine it would be a terrible shock for your parents-in-law if my men had to turn up at their fabric store uninvited and take back what you owe me in yards of silk?”
“Felix, please, you can’t, you know that I—”
“You can have ten denarii,” Felix says. “Until the shipment comes in. Then if you’ve kept up with the other payments, we can consider that second loan.”
“But that won’t cover the earrings!”
“These”—Felix says, picking up the jewellery and dangling them at him—“are for the first loan. The offer of ten denarii is pure generosity on my part. Take it or take nothing.”
The Wolf Den Page 4