The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  Amara watches as Celer signs another agreement, scratching his name in the wax. Felix looks bored. When Celer is finished, Felix folds the tablets away and takes out the money from a drawer. Celer thanks him, his voice almost inaudible. His face, when he passes Amara, is flushed with humiliation.

  Felix and Amara are left alone. He files away Celer’s agreement, ignoring her for some minutes while he’s busy at his desk. She knows better than to open her mouth.

  “Yesterday, I asked what happened at the baths,” he says, finally looking up. “I didn’t ask for advice. What made you offer it?”

  His tone has not changed since he spoke to Celer. She can read nothing in his face. “I must have misunderstood what you wanted,” she says.

  “No, you didn’t.” He waves her lie away with a flick of his hand. “And then you recommended I do a deal with Vibo, a man who’s hated by every whore in Pompeii. Why?”

  “Vibo is the only way into the private baths,” Amara says, trying to match his blank face with her own. “We can earn more money there. The men are much richer.”

  “So you want to suck a superior class of cock, is that it?” Felix laughs. She knows better than to react to his sarcasm. “What a selfless whore you are. I can’t believe you’re trying to make me richer.” He glances at the silver earrings which he left out on his desk. “You can’t think you would see that extra money? You’re not as smart as you look if you imagine I’m going to share the profits.” Felix beckons her closer, his manner conspiratorial. “So tell me, what was it about?”

  Amara is wary. “I don’t know.”

  “Come along,” Felix says, “I’m not going to be cross. I’m asking because I’m interested. So tell me.”

  Amara twists her hands, still uncertain what to say. They have never had a conversation like this. Often when she sees Felix, he doesn’t talk at all. Except, of course, to tell her afterwards how bad her performance was, how he cannot imagine why any man would pay money for that. Even though she hates him, his contempt is still wounding. It hurts, the way he touches her as if she were nothing. And now he’s gazing into her eyes as if he’s interested in what she has to say, as if what she thinks is important. All her instincts tell her it’s a ruse, but she’s desperate for it to be true. Perhaps she can reach him.

  “Why did you buy me?” she asks. “I was sold as a concubine. I’m educated, play the lyre. I know that cost you more. If you didn’t want all those skills for yourself, then why? What sort of investment am I if I grind out the rest of my days in the cells downstairs?” Amara thinks of Gallus, of the self-assured way he stands when he’s getting customers to pay up at the door. She tries to hold herself a little taller. “I could make you a lot more money than that, if you let me.”

  For an unbearable period of time, Felix says nothing. Amara waits, the fear she has tried to squash mushrooming in the silence. “Why did I buy you?” He rests his elbows on the table, cupping his chin in his hands. It’s a gesture of familiarity, almost as if they were equals. “It wasn’t for your marvellous tits; let’s be honest, we’ve both seen better. And I wasn’t dazzled by your beauty.” He pauses, letting his words sink in as he looks her up and down. “You weren’t much prettier than all the other girls standing naked in a row. You’re no Dido.” Felix stares into her eyes. “But I couldn’t look anywhere else from the moment I saw you. There you were, being auctioned off as a common whore, but you could have been the goddess Diana, from the way you held yourself. As if at any moment, you would call on your hunting dogs to tear apart every man who had dared to see you naked.”

  Felix crosses from behind the desk. Amara watches him walk towards her, forcing herself to stay still, even though she wants to back away. When he is very close, he puts his hands lightly on her neck. “And you would, wouldn’t you? Tear them all apart.” Felix tightens his grip, pressing down on her throat. “Would you like to tear me apart?” Amara struggles to breathe, and dark spots form at the sides of her vision. Panic seizes her, and she puts her hands over his, unable to supress the instinct to claw them away. He lets go, and she collapses over the desk, gasping for air. “Do you know what happens to people who betray me, Amara?” She nods her head, unable to speak. “You do, don’t you? You didn’t hesitate to encourage me to punish Simo.” Amara is slowly getting her breath back but doesn’t dare stand upright. She stays crouched over the desk, leaning as far away from him as possible. “You are not the goddess Diana.” Felix circles round her. “Or Artemis, as you Greeks would have her.” He draws out the foreign words, mocking her accent. “Porna eis. You are a common whore. Even if you do play the lyre.” He pushes her down on the floor so that she is kneeling in front of him. “And I own you. Don’t ever think you are cleverer than me.”

  *

  In the women’s baths with Victoria, the steam cannot hide her tears. Amara wants to dive under water, for it to swallow her so that she never has to surface. She stands by a large communal basin, sweating in the heat. Victoria gently wipes Amara’s face, cupping cool water in her hands, splashing her friend’s cheeks.

  “You can’t let every encounter upset you like this,” she says, her fingers gentle on Amara’s skin. “It’s just fucking. It’s just your body; it’s not you. You’re strong. I know you are.”

  It’s noisier and more crowded than at Vibo’s, and the decoration is nothing like as grand, but even without a huge warm pool to soak in, the women’s baths are still more relaxing. Men cannot come here, not even Felix. “It’s not every encounter. Felix is different,” Amara replies. “It’s not just what he does, though that’s bad enough. It’s what he says. How does he know what will hurt the most?”

  Victoria splashes herself with water, sloshing it over her neck and arms. “Felix is different, you’re right.” She is jostled by a pair of matrons flanked by slaves carrying private tubs. The matrons settle themselves nearby, taking pains not to look at the women at the basin. They saw how Victoria and Amara rubbed each other down earlier, too poor to have attendants do it for them. “You might be rich,” Victoria mutters, too quiet for the other women to hear. “But look at your arses.” Amara doesn’t laugh. She would exchange beauty for money in a heartbeat. “I know what you mean,” Victoria continues. “Felix gets under your skin. He does it to everyone. It’s not just you.”

  “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “Oh, he would never do that!” Victoria says indignantly. “Think of the money he would lose!” She peers at Amara’s neck and its faint row of bruises. “Very unusual for him to leave any marks though. You must have made him really angry.”

  “Everything makes him angry!” Amara says. “Just looking at him sends him into a rage. He’s impossible.”

  “You did go on and on yesterday, telling him what to do. He hates that.”

  “I gave him good advice,” Amara says. “What was there to be angry about?”

  “Sweetheart,” Victoria says. “He does not want advice from his whores.”

  “He told me I can’t even…” Amara falters, shame preventing her from repeating exactly what Felix had said. “He said I don’t give him enough pleasure. That I should ask you about it, because you know what you’re doing.”

  “He said that?” Victoria is clearly pleased by the compliment.

  “He said you’re the only one who really knows what they’re doing,” Amara says. She does not add what else Felix said. That Victoria was half as pretty but had ten times the skill. “I think he actually enjoys it with you. He didn’t say so, but I got that impression.”

  “So he should,” Victoria says. “I put the work in. Not that you don’t,” she adds, quickly. Amara is surprised at how happy praise from Felix has made Victoria. It saddens her to think of the power he has. Two more matrons and a teenage girl bump up beside them at the basin, talking loudly about the elections. One of their husbands is standing. The girl, probably a daughter, looks bored and uncomfortable. She glances shyly over at the two beautiful she-wolves, clearly unawa
re of who they are. “I think we’ll save the advice on technique until we get home,” Victoria says. “But you shouldn’t be too upset. He might have been angry today, but over time, he will like you better for not being a coward. He likes a bit of spirit.” She blushes, looking for a moment as shy as the young girl beside them. “He’s told me before that’s why I’m his favourite whore.” She says the last words quietly, close to Amara’s ear, so their neighbours can’t hear.

  Amara suddenly feels claustrophobic in the hot, crowded room. She steps away from the basin. Victoria follows. “The only reason I’d want to be his favourite,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is so he wouldn’t see the knife coming when I kill him.”

  Victoria laughs, thinking she’s joking.

  6

  If anyone wants a fuck, he should look for Attice; she costs 16 asses

  Graffiti near Pompeii’s Marine Gate

  The winter sky is clear, the sun high overhead, and although there is little warmth from its blinding light, the brightness is cheering. Amara enjoys the feeling of being clean, even takes some pleasure in Fabia doing up her hair. The old woman’s fingers are deft and gentle. In a different life she could have been a skilled maid serving a grand mistress. Amara tries to let go of the morning’s pain. Like the bruises, she tells herself, the humiliation will fade.

  They discuss where to go fishing and decide on the harbour. It’s always good for customers, and the walk will be a pleasure in the sunshine. Cressa offers to stay behind. “I’ve got Fabia for company,” she says, refusing the others’ gratitude. “We can put our feet up together; it will be lovely.” Fabia looks thrilled by the compliment. The old woman is as starved of affection as she is of food. Amara knows Cressa is in for a dreary afternoon of sitting in the dark, hearing endless tales of the wretched Paris’s childhood.

  “Cressa’s so kind,” Amara says as they start off down the street. “She’s a born mother.”

  “Don’t ever say that!” Beronice looks horrified.

  “Why not?”

  “Cressa is a mother,” Victoria answers, hurrying them further away from the brothel. “She had a little boy. Felix sold him last year when he was three.” Amara and Dido gasp, and Victoria nods, her expression grim. “We were all amazed he let her keep him that long; it would have been kinder to have exposed the baby when it was born. Before she got attached.”

  “That’s terrible!” Dido exclaims. “Poor Cressa.”

  “He was called Cosmus,” Victoria says. “Sweet enough child. Fabia used to have him when we were working. Cressa adored him. I didn’t think she was going to survive when Thraso took the boy away. Felix had to lock her upstairs, she was screaming so much. She was up there for days. And then after she came down, she never spoke about Cosmus again.”

  “I don’t think she can bear to,” Beronice says.

  Amara thinks about the way Cressa saved her from the dice player, her kindness, her endless patience with Fabia. She is amazed Cressa has any compassion left to give after losing her child. “But she’s always so thoughtful,” Amara says. “I would never have guessed she carried all that grief. I had no idea.”

  Beronice and Victoria exchange glances. “I think she finds ways of drowning it out,” Victoria says. “You must have seen how much she drinks.”

  “You can’t blame her though,” Beronice adds quickly. “And she doesn’t drink that much. Not really.”

  “That’s why I always use my herbs at the end of the night,” Victoria says. “Kill off everything inside before it can take hold.”

  They have reached the Via Veneria and walk in pairs along the wider pavement. Victoria and Amara in front, Beronice and Dido behind. Victoria changes the subject from Cressa, as if eager to leave their friend’s sadness behind. She points out the clothes of the wealthy women who pass them by, admiring the styles she likes, laughing at the ones she doesn’t. The journey to the harbour is short, but the roads are so busy it takes a while to arrive. The closer they get to the sea, the fresher the air becomes. Amara can almost taste the salt.

  They stop to buy their one meal of the day at a roadside stall outside town. Victoria chooses, picking out bread, olives and anchovies, the dried fish stiff with brine. After walking a little further downhill, they reach the water. It is even busier here, merchants are unloading, there’s the yell of sailors and the scrape of cargo, and the constant slap of the waves against the stone walls. A little way off from the busy docks, a colonnade stretches round in a semicircle. From its roof, statues of the gods look out at incoming ships, while in the water itself, at the centre of the harbour, is a giant marble column. Venus Pompeiiana stands naked at the top. She gazes out over the vast expanse of blue, the guardian of her town.

  The she-wolves find a sunny patch on the colonnade, dangling their legs over the side. They eat their food quickly to avoid the gulls that swoop overhead. Victoria watches a troop of oar slaves walk up onto the docks for a brief respite. They stand bent and blinking in the light. “What a miserable life that would be.” Victoria says. She stretches back, palms resting on the warm stone, her face to the sun. “Who is luckier than us in Pompeii right now? All this time to enjoy ourselves, no back-breaking loads to carry.” She swings her legs up. “I shouldn’t even be alive. You know I was a rubbish-heap baby? Left out to die in the shit and the fish guts. But here I am. Here we all are.”

  “Here we all are,” Amara says. “Four penniless slaves, sucking off idiots for bread and olives. What a life.”

  Victoria laughs. “So bitter! You can’t still be mad about Felix,” she says. “That was ages ago.”

  “Not just Felix,” Amara replies, looking at one of the larger merchant ships navigating its way into dock. She thinks about her own voyage over from Greece. The cold nights out on deck under the stars, rammed together with other slaves. The smell of vomit, the weeping, the terror of what awaited should they survive the journey. “You started life on a rubbish heap,” Amara says, “but I had a home. I was a doctor’s daughter. I had a life.” She has never told anyone in Pompeii – except Dido – about her past.

  “Your father was a doctor?” Beronice asks in surprise. “What are you doing in a brothel?”

  The doctor’s daughter. The role she inhabited for the first half of her life. A cocoon as warm as her parents’ love, shielding her from the world. “He died,” Amara says. She knows the others will respect her silence if she leaves it here, but now she’s opened the door to the past, she doesn’t want to close it. “My mother struggled on alone for a few years, helped out by family. Then her cousin, our main protector, died too. We sold everything we owned.” She thinks of her home, of each beloved object being stripped away. The valuable glass statue of Athene was the first to go. By the end, they only had one plate left, not even beds to sleep on. “It was too late to marry me off. There had been no dowry to start with, and by then, we were destitute.” Amara doesn’t want to recount the end of the story, but now it’s impossible to stop. They are all looking at her, waiting for her to finish. “So she sold me.”

  Dido is upset. Amara already knows she finds this impossible to imagine, but for Beronice and Victoria who were born into slavery, it is less shocking. “Who did she sell you to?” Victoria asks.

  “A local man called Chremes. One of my father’s former patients. My mother thought he would be more respectful because he had known my father. Chremes promised her I would be a protected house slave, that eventually I could regain my freedom.” Even then, as a girl with no experience of men, Amara had suspected that this was a lie. She had seen the sly way Chremes had looked at her as a child, complimenting her father on such a fine daughter. His eyes made her uncomfortable although she could not name the reason. “My mother asked Chremes to buy her too. He refused.” Amara cannot bear to think of her mother any longer. “So, it’s not just Felix,” she says. “He’s not the only man I hate.”

  “These fish are so salty.” Beronice stands up. “I’m going to the water fountain
for a drink.”

  The others barely notice her leave; they are too caught up in Amara’s story. “Chremes obviously had you as a concubine,” Victoria says, her understanding of the world a thousand times sharper than Amara’s mother’s. “I just don’t understand why he sold you. You’re young; you’re beautiful. He can’t possibly have got bored that quickly.”

  “His wife Niobe was jealous. She insisted.” Amara prefers not to remember that Chremes never even said goodbye, or the moment she understood Niobe had sold her not as a house slave, but as a whore.

  “I don’t like to disrespect your mother,” Dido says. “But I can’t understand her. Better to have starved together. A woman’s honour is the most precious gift she has.” She looks out to sea, as if she half expects to see the North African coastline instead of endless blue. “Every day I want to be home – I dream of it, I see it, I hear my parents’ voices. But it’s impossible. The shame of who I am now. If I went back, it would kill them.”

  “My parents didn’t believe all the stories of the gods,” Amara replies. She looks at Dido’s earnest face and for once feels distant from her. She thinks of her father’s work, of his patients – those he saved and those he didn’t – and of the agony of his own death when he knew he was leaving his family behind. She understands the grief Dido feels at the loss of her innocence but doesn’t share the profundity of her shame. “We only have life, nothing else matters beyond that,” she says. “Not honour, not anything. My mother sold me to ensure my survival.”

  “And you’re alive,” Victoria says. She reaches over to take Amara’s hand, her grip fierce. Then she smiles, lifting the darkness of the conversation. “But I still think I win this one. You say men are the worst, but it isn’t true! The worst person in this story is that bitch, Niobe. Chremes was just like any other fool, thinking with his cock. Men are so predictable.” Amara looks at Victoria, her profile backlit by the sun, chin raised. Unconquered, she thinks, like her name.