“How do you know you were a rubbish-heap baby?” Dido asks.
“That’s what the other slaves in the house told me,” Victoria replies. “I was the only one who never had a mother.” She shrugs at Dido’s horrified face. “It’s not that bad. Lots of slaves don’t have any parents. Though I did ask why not once, and the cook told me she picked me up when she went to the dump one morning. Thought I was dead until I started screaming. Nearly dropped me with fright.” Victoria glances at Amara. “Your mother was wrong to think being a house slave is a better life than being a concubine. Ask Beronice about her first mistress in Alexandria, if you don’t believe me.”
They turn round to where Beronice was sitting then realize she is still not back. “She’s been a long time getting a drink,” Dido says.
“Shit,” Victoria scrambles to her feet. The others follow. They never make solo trips to the harbour, a group is always safer. So many men who have been cooped up at sea are roaming around, suddenly released on shore, hungry for what they can get. A recipe for violence.
The three of them walk swiftly along the colonnade towards the water fountain, calling Beronice’s name. There’s no sign of her. They go back along the waterfront and the docks, ignoring the whistles and attention from the men they should be trying to catch. “Perhaps she went for more food?” Amara suggests. They head towards town, walking through the narrow alleyways of the fishermen’s quarters. It’s almost empty here, most of the men are out at sea. They are about to turn back when they hear a woman screaming.
“Beronice!” Victoria yells. They run further in, and there, under an arch in a narrow side street, is Beronice. She is on her knees trying to fend off two men. Victoria starts shrieking, making an astonishing amount of noise for one small woman. Amara and Dido join in, yelling as loud as they can. “Murder, murder!” Victoria wails. A few doors open. The two men back off.
“For fuck’s sake,” one bellows at the screeching trio. “She was selling!”
“And you weren’t paying!” Beronice shouts back, getting to her feet.
Both men look round, unhappy at the sudden attention. One spits at Beronice. “Fuck you, you lying Egyptian whore!” He scrabbles in his leather purse and throws down a coin before running off, his companion close at his heels. Beronice bends to pick up the money.
Victoria runs over to her as she straightens up, but instead of embracing her, she slaps Beronice hard across the face. “What the fuck were you doing?”
“There was only one customer!” Beronice protests, clutching her cheek. “Then his friend tried to get in for free.”
The few people who had ventured out to see what was going on realize it’s just a women’s brawl rather than the excitement of a dead body. They head back to their lives, grumbling at the false alarm. “You could have been killed!” Dido says. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s for Gallus! I don’t want him getting in trouble for not paying.” Beronice’s three friends gawp at her. She is wide-eyed, her hair wild where one of the men must have grabbed it. She puts both hands to her chest with passionate sincerity. “He loves me,” she says. “Don’t you understand? He loves me.”
Victoria stands with her hands on her hips, facing Beronice, ready for battle, but the sight of her foe clutching her heart like a tragic actress turns her anger into amusement. “Beronice, you amaze me. Of all the whores in the world, you’re the only one stupid enough to pay her own customers.” She turns and the rest of the women follow, heading back to the harbour where there are still men waiting to be caught.
7
The whole place rang with their theatrical laughter, while we were still wondering why this sudden change of mood and looking now at each other, now at the women.
Petronius, The Satyricon: ‘Quartilla’s Brothel’
The days pass, the weather grows warmer, The Sparrow’s vegetable stews become more varied, campaign slogans spring up across town for the March elections. Life in the brothel rolls on in all its bleak monotony. Amara tries to learn from Victoria, watches how she charms men, attracting the same locals back time after time. Rusticus the potter, Phoebus the perfume seller, Manlius from the fast-food store. All of them tipping her with gifts and treats rather than money, goods that Felix won’t take. Amara observes Victoria’s every movement, until she knows her friend’s face and body better than her own. She even tries to copy the way she moans.
She gets better at pretending, but Amara is never satisfied. The desire to escape takes hold, its roots digging deep under her skin, breaking her apart. There are days when even fear of Felix doesn’t crush the urge to run away. What stops her is the certainty she would die on the road.
The only person who hates life in the brothel even more violently than Amara is Paris. His continued presence in the cells twice a week is a strain for everyone.
“I don’t think I could bear it if Gallus had to do that,” Beronice says. All of them save Paris and Cressa are ‘unoccupied’, hanging about in the smoky corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of Fabia’s son and his customer sweating it out nearby. They are supposed to be naked, but the March nights are still cold, so they huddle together wrapped in blankets. “I just couldn’t look at him the same. For a man to be on the receiving end. The shame!”
“Oh shut up,” Victoria says. “Think what Gallus might say, if that’s the way you’re going. I couldn’t bear MY precious cock in her mouth; think of all the OTHER cocks she’s sucked!”
“It’s not the same thing at all!” Beronice says. “Gallus would never say that about me.” She fusses with her hair. “Though he does get jealous, obviously.”
“What does he say?” Dido asks.
“He says he’d like to kill all the grubby men who lay a finger on me. That’s why he’s going to buy me. So he can have me all to himself. Then nobody else will be allowed to touch me. Not even…” She breaks off, unable to say their boss’s name, but looks up at the ceiling so they understand who she means. Beronice smiles. “That’s how much he loves me.”
Amara doesn’t disbelieve Beronice when she says these things. She is a bit on the dim side though surely not a liar. But it’s a struggle to picture Gallus coming out with these flowery phrases. Does he clasp his breast too? Kiss the hem of Beronice’s robe? He’s clearly a more enterprising little shit than he looks. Absolutely none of the other she-wolves – not even Dido – have ever considered the possibility Gallus might be genuine rather than devious.
“Does he tell you how much his mother would have adored you?” Victoria asks.
“Yes!” Beronice says. “He does! He told me I remind him of her, that I have the same kind eyes, that…” She stops when she realizes the others are trying to suppress their sniggers. A man reels in through the doorway, no doubt fresh from one of the nearby taverns. Beronice stalks towards him, almost bundling him into her cell in her hurry to get away from her friends. “You’re all just jealous!” she shouts, before dragging the curtain across with a scrape.
“You shouldn’t tease her so much,” Amara says.
“I know, I know. But she’s too easy to tease.”
“Like his mother!” Dido is still incredulous at Gallus’s love talk.
“What a weasel,” Victoria says. “He’s got no shame at all.” A stifled, not altogether happy, yelp comes from the direction of Beronice’s cell. Beronice herself is ominously quiet. “She’s really cross, isn’t she? That one won’t be bringing his cock back here in a hurry.”
“In this way.” It’s Thraso’s voice. “We’ll make sure you’re well entertained.”
The women look at each other, suddenly alert. Thraso doesn’t normally give the punters an introduction. A large figure steps over the threshold, flickering into view in the light of the oil lamps. A cloak, a flash of green. Vibo.
“Oh!” Victoria gasps, flinging off her blanket. “Who is this vision? He must be for me!”
“Felix said to be sure to fuck the one called Amara.” Vibo’s voice is not fri
endly.
“But of course! You can’t have just one woman.” Victoria is already winding herself round him, kissing him, helping him off with his clothes. She glances back at the others. “You must have three! Look!” She snaps her fingers. For a moment, Amara cannot think what to do. Then she grabs Dido’s hand, spinning her round. It’s not the most graceful move, but the pair of them end up pressed against Vibo in a bare-limbed tangle which she hopes will give him the right idea.
“Three? All at once?” He doesn’t sound altogether certain. “Two would be fine.”
“You must have us all!” Victoria whispers, her voice husky, as if tormented by desire. “You can’t be stingy, keeping yourself to just two. Not when we all want to fuck you. You have to let us all fuck you!” She lets out a whimpering moan.
It is the most ridiculous performance Amara has ever seen. She cannot believe the man will fall for it. But Vibo’s expression softens, and he pulls Victoria to him, clasping her backside. “What a naughty little wolf you are.”
Victoria needs no further encouragement. She has manoeuvred Vibo into her cell, disrobed him and laid him out flat on his back, all by the time Amara and Dido are drawing the curtain. The bath manager is hung like a snail, but Victoria shrieks in rapture at the sight, leaping nimbly on top. Vibo groans.
“Oh! Don’t be greedy!” Amara squeals. She flings herself at Vibo squashing her breasts in his face.
“But I want to sit there!” Dido tries to push Amara aside, panting in her efforts to clamber up onto the bed.
Victoria is bouncing away vigorously, determined not to let the ordeal last longer than necessary, and Vibo, gasping for breath, is not entirely thrilled by the idea of being completely buried under a pile of women.
“No, no,” he says to Dido. “You two enjoy each other. I’d rather watch.”
It’s not the first time Amara and Dido have had this request. They writhe about theatrically, trying not to meet each other’s eye. Vibo doesn’t last long. Taking their cue from Victoria, all three reach a crescendo of screams at the proper moment then drape themselves over the beached bath manager, sighing with fake contentment. Amara is just on the verge of getting a dead arm from lying in the same position for so long when Vibo heaves himself up. “You are,” he says, his sweaty face glistening with pleasure, “the most wonderful girls. Wonderful.”
“Oh, thank you,” Victoria breathes. She takes Vibo’s hand and kisses it as if he were the Emperor. “We adore you.”
“We do, we do!” Dido says, rolling over and gazing at him with delight.
Amara doesn’t trust herself to speak, so lets out what she hopes is a seductive sigh. Victoria slowly helps Vibo into his clothes. They all crowd round the door of the cell to give him lingering kisses goodbye, feigning desolation at his departure. Vibo leaves the brothel in a much better mood than when he came in.
Dido is about to start giggling, but Victoria puts her finger to her lips. “Not yet,” she says. “Wait.”
They sit huddled together on the bed, leaving enough time to be sure that Vibo has really gone. Then Dido whispers in a small voice, “We adore you!” and the three of them collapse with laughter.
*
It’s no longer Thraso on the door when they saunter out in their cloaks to see if Vibo left a tip. Gallus greets them with a grin. “I don’t know what you ladies did, but for saying that was supposed to be a free fuck, he just doubled the night’s takings.”
Victoria lets out a whoop of triumph. “And for that,” she says, laying her head on Gallus’s shoulder in an intimate gesture that would make Beronice seethe, “we deserve a little break at The Sparrow.” He hesitates. “Oh, come on!” Victoria punches his arm. “It’s quiet! You’ve got three in. We’ll just stir up some customers and bring them over.”
“Go on then.” Gallus sighs.
“He’s not so bad,” Dido whispers to Amara as they head across the road. “Maybe Beronice is right about him.”
“She’s got kind eyes like his mother?” Amara asks, raising an eyebrow.
Dido grimaces. “Or maybe not.”
The Sparrow is packed. Lamps are hanging from the doorway and the rafters, shining off the brass pots Zoskales has fixed to the wall. It’s a confusion of light and noise. Nicandrus is busy serving drinks and has been joined in his duties by Sava, a house slave who also works nights as a waitress. Zoskales is telling a long-winded story about his wife at the bar, making the customers laugh.
Victoria is not here to fish, whatever she told Gallus. She shoves her way to a free spot at a table where three men are dicing. “How much are you playing for?”
“How much are you selling for?” one of the men snorts, trying to put his hand on her thigh.
Victoria waves him away in irritation, all her usual flirtatiousness gone. She is a serious gambler, aided by her own weighted dice. “I can raise three asses.”
Amara and Dido watch Victoria muscle her way into the game, the men eventually giving way to the force of her determination to play. “She’s going to win,” Amara says. “They won’t know what’s hit them.”
Nicandrus spots Dido. He smiles, beckoning them across the room, forcing some other customers to make space for the pair of them on a bench. “Hot wine? With honey?” He is already heading to the bar.
“Thank you,” Dido says.
“Here for the night?” It’s one of the men who made room for them. His question is friendly rather than suggestive. He has a pleasant face and black hair that’s greying at the temples. There’s a small reed flute on the table in front of him, his fingers just resting on it as if to keep it safe.
“We might be if you play,” Amara says.
He laughs. “Are you singers?”
“Yes.”
Dido shoots her a look. Both women were taught music at home, but the respectable songs they’re familiar with are unlikely to be bellowed out in a bar. “Honoured to meet two fellow musicians,” the man says. “I’m Salvius.” He points to his companion. “This is Priscus.”
Priscus bows his head in greeting.
“Amara and Dido. May I?” She picks up the flute. “My father had one like this,” Amara says. She does not add that, for her father, it was the very least of his instruments, that she herself had learnt to play the lyre.
She hands the flute back to Salvius who puts it to his lips and starts to play. He’s more skilled than she expects. It’s a popular tune from Campania, a few lively verses about a shepherd longing for his love. Priscus starts to sing, encouraging the women to join in. Amara listens a few times to catch the words then sings with him. She has a strong, clear voice, and some of the customers break off talking and begin clapping in time.
When they come to an end, the cry goes round for more. Salvius starts piping again, a famous tune about Flora and the spring. “Sing with me,” Amara says to Dido. “You know this one!”
Dido’s voice is not as strong as Amara’s though much sweeter. She begins hesitantly, but as they repeat the song again, joy takes her over. Her face is lit up in a way Amara has never seen before. Nicandrus is gazing at her, still holding the honeyed wine, not daring to put it down in case he breaks the spell. Priscus pushes the table back, urging the women to stand up. “Another song!” he shouts.
Salvius plays festival music, perhaps guessing their unfamiliarity with local folk tunes. Amara and Dido sing together, and for the first time since coming to Pompeii, Amara is almost happy. Some of the customers leer, and one shouts at them to get their tits out, but mainly, everyone is enjoying the music too much to be a nuisance. Eventually Salvius grows tired and puts down the flute, promising to start again when he’s had a drink. Priscus turns animatedly to Dido, leaning across Nicandrus before he has a chance to say anything, asking which other tunes she knows. She sits down politely to answer him.
“That was beautiful.” Amara turns at a familiar voice, one she cannot immediately place. It is Menander, the potter’s slave.
The blood rushes to her
face. “What are you doing here?”
“You said you worked nearby.” He leans closer so she can hear over the noise. “This is the second time I’ve been in here, hoping to catch you. And now I have.”
“Only two visits? Not very determined.”
Menander laughs. “I’m a slave. Rusticus is a generous master but not that generous.”
His mention of the potter reminds Amara of her humiliation in the shop. She glances over at Victoria, still deep in her game, wonders if the master jokes to the slave about his own visits to the brothel. “Lucky you,” she says coldly.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says. “But it was very funny, the way you stared him out like that. I’ve never seen a woman do that before.” He pauses. “You were magnificent.”
“So I asked for four cocks magnificently?” Amara says, trying not to laugh. They are standing close together in the crush. She takes a sip of the honeyed wine, already a little drunk on singing and attention. “Good to know.”
“You stood your ground. That was magnificent,” Menander replies, switching to Greek. “The cocks were incidental.”
“I wish they were.”
She says it to make him laugh, but Menander catches the dark undercurrent. His eyes meet hers, and she understands that he shares her grief, that her losses are also his. He puts his hand over his heart in greeting, bowing his head, as if they have only just met. “My name is Kallias,” he says. “I am the son of Kleitos, the finest potter in Athens. One day, I will take over my father’s business and sell my work all over Attica, including the beautiful town of Aphidnai. What is your name?”
Nobody in Pompeii has ever dared ask her this. It’s the last remnant of privacy, of self, that a slave who was once freeborn possesses. Their real name. It’s so loud in the crush that she almost has to shout, but still, she doesn’t hesitate to give this boy from Athens what he asks for. “My name is Timarete,” she says. “I am the only child of Timaios, the most learned doctor of Aphidnai, and the most loved. To him, I am both a daughter and a son.”
The Wolf Den Page 6