The Wolf Den

by Elodie Harper

  “You see,” Menander says, lightly brushing a curl of hair from her face. “Incidental.”

  “But I’m also Amara.” She switches back to Latin, playfully moving his hand away. “Because otherwise I would never have set foot in a tavern, still less have sung for a crowd of men or talked to you!”

  Menander smiles and is about to reply when Dido grabs her arm. “Amara! Is that Gallus?”

  The familiar figure is bent over the gaming table, gesticulating at Victoria who is trying to scramble her winnings together while she argues with both him and the other gamblers. He smacks his head on a low-hanging oil lamp as he stands up, looking furiously round the room. He spots Amara and Dido. “Get back now!” he shouts.

  A few drinkers turn round to discover who he’s yelling at, see the two she-wolves and laugh. “I might come along with you,” one slurs, getting to his feet. “Pretty little lips. Maybe you’ll sing for me.” He says this to Dido, obviously thinking Amara is already with a client.

  Menander takes hold of her hand, covering it with both of his. For one moment, she is afraid he will ask to join her at the brothel. He leans in, lowering his voice. “Please take care of yourself, Timarete.”

  8

  This truly is a Golden Age; for gold High place is purchased; love is bought and sold.

  Ovid, The Art of Love II

  “Almost two denarii! That’s how much I won. Those dice are the best investment I ever made! And you should have seen the other players’ faces. Perfection.”

  Victoria is gloating about her victory at the gaming table. All of the women, save Dido, are sitting on the stone bench that hugs the walls of the warm room, listening to her boasts without huge enthusiasm. This section of the women’s baths is always a gossip chamber, and a low babble of voices swells up to the vaulted ceiling. Cracks fan out across its surface and the stucco is chipped. When everyone’s clothes are removed, it’s harder to tell who is citizen, freedwoman or slave; the she-wolves might almost be mistaken for a group of young wives.

  Amara usually finds the warm room a pleasant break before braving higher temperatures, but instead of feeling relaxed in the heat, her every sinew is knotted with tension. She found the aftermath of the bar unbearable. The claustrophobia of being back at the brothel, forced to put up with the parade of drunken men and their endless, thankless demands, felt infinitely more painful after her brief time with Kallias. Menander, she tells herself, his slave name is Menander. Just like yours is Amara.

  “And then early this morning Felix asked for me for the second day running! A whole hour. That’s how long he had me working for him. And I don’t like to boast,” Victoria says, “but I made him last ages. I think a few tricks even took him by surprise.” She could not look more pleased with herself if she were Psyche recounting a visit from Eros. “I think that must be the longest time he’s wanted to spend with anyone.”

  “I don’t know why that’s something to brag about,” Beronice says. Her cheeks are shining in the heat, which makes her look cross, and strands of hair are stuck to her face with sweat. “Felix is such a chore. And he’s always such an ungrateful bastard afterwards. Hardly worth the effort. Not like Gallus. He always…” Beronice sees the others smirking and stops herself. She looks down at her feet and heaves a sigh, obviously desperate to share all the pent-up devotion in her heart but reluctant to face the ridicule. Amara feels sorry they’ve teased her so much.

  Victoria smiles slightly but doesn’t say anything. Amara realizes Felix must have complimented her. He understands perfectly how to manipulate us all, she thinks.

  “I don’t think Felix has sent for me in weeks,” Cressa says. She is slumped against the wall, arms folded over her breasts, hiding the stretch marks.

  “Lucky you,” Beronice retorts, entirely missing the anxiety in Cressa’s voice.

  Amara edges away on the bench and closes her eyes. Even outside the brothel, its wretched, violent world wraps round her like a shroud. She tries to tune out her friends’ voices, listening to another conversation.

  “…you can’t let your sister make demands like that! Tell her you don’t have the money.”

  “I can’t, her husband’s family are impossible. I don’t know what they’ll do to her.”

  “You don’t mean...?”

  She half opens her eyes, taking in the two women speaking beside her. They are seemingly without attendants and both have tired, careworn faces. One of them is sitting so close to Amara their thighs are almost touching. Her dyed red curls have smudged along her hairline in the heat. She is constantly fiddling with something on her left hand. A cameo ring.

  “You’ve heard the rumours about his first wife,” says the redhead. “And the slaves are too frightened to talk. Fulvia says he beat her on their wedding night. What sort of monster does that? And always complaining about the dowry, even though he spent every penny.”

  “Gellius will never notice if you take a bit more out of the takings, I suppose.”

  “Even Gellius is going to notice eventually. And no point asking him for help. He barely moves his fat arse out of the tavern. All day I’m sweating away behind that counter. Just so he can drink the profits.”

  “I’m sorry that I can’t help either,” the other woman fans herself. “I would give you the loan myself, but my husband keeps me so short. And business is always worse at this time of year.”

  The redhead’s face falls, and Amara knows that she must have been hoping her friend would put up the money. She recognizes that look of humiliation, shot through with resentment. It reminds her painfully of her mother. After Amara’s father died, her mother asked everyone they knew for help, measuring out what she could afford to entertain her guests in exchange. How far would a handful of dates stretch? Would her father’s former patron be offended by the chipped plate? When the visitors were captive in the house, she would recount the hardships of widowhood, holding back tears while trying not to sound too desperate. Amara would sit quietly, head bowed at her mother’s instruction, watching the flow of sympathy and money slowly dry up. By the end, her mother would have accepted a loan from anyone, whatever the terms.

  “Forgive me, mistress,” Amara says in a low voice. “But I may be able to help you.” The two women turn in surprise. She tilts her head politely without being too servile. Let them wonder if she is freedwoman or slave. “I act as agent for my master, he understands the little difficulties we can all face. I would be happy to ask if he would be willing to arrange a loan. Discreetly, of course.”

  “And why would your master employ a woman as his agent?” It’s the redhead’s stingy companion. Her face is hard and suspicious.

  “The contract would be drawn up by his steward,” Amara says, thinking on her feet. She will need to ask Felix for Gallus, not Thraso. No point scaring this pair away at the last moment by turning up with a thug. She smiles at the redhead who seems less hostile than her friend. “But it’s easier for women to do business with each other. We have so many concerns men are incapable of understanding.”

  The redhead is twisting her ring, over and over. “You say he is discreet?”

  Amara nods. “As am I.”

  “I run a fast-food store,” the redhead says. “He can’t be turning up, asking for me. My husband wouldn’t like it.”

  “You need only deal with me,” Amara says. She shoots a look at the sour-faced companion who is shaking her head. “That’s the advantage of a female agent.”

  “I don’t like it Marcella,” says Sour Face. “Who is this girl? What’s her master’s business?”

  “Forgive me,” Amara replies. “But discretion is the cornerstone of my master’s business. Loans are not his main concern, and he takes great care not to expose his clients.” She turns back to Marcella. “If you want to secure a loan, tell me the amount, and I will meet you with the proposed agreement and my master’s steward at the Temple of Apollo tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t do it,” Sour Face hisses. “Fulvia w
ill just have to look after herself! You’ve done enough for her as it is. She’s a married woman now; she’s not your responsibility.”

  “She’s my sister,” Marcella says. “I can’t just abandon her! I promised our mother.”

  “I don’t want to be party to this,” Sour Face says, standing up. “I’ll meet you in the steam room.” She walks off without looking back. Marcella watches her go, shoulders hunched with anxiety.

  “I understand your hesitation,” Amara says, lightly touching her arm to return her to the present. “But sometimes we have to take the opportunities Fortuna grants us.”

  Marcella chews her lip, staring at the floor as if the answer will be written across the small diamond tiles. “Twenty denarii,” she says at last. “That’s what I need. And I can bring a necklace as surety.”

  *

  Amara knows exactly where Felix will be at this time of day. There’s an unspoken rule among the women to steer clear of the Palaestra, precisely to avoid him. She hopes he isn’t so angered by her presence that he doesn’t listen to her proposal. She goes over the details of the deal in her head as she walks swiftly along the Via Veneria. Surely, he will see the opportunity it offers?

  It was difficult to hide her reasons for needing time off from her friends, but an offer to stay in for the entire day in return eventually secured their help without too many questions. They had set out as if in pairs, to fool Thraso, then met up again so that Dido wouldn’t be alone. She didn’t ask Amara anything, just pressed her hand and begged her to be careful. Amara knows Dido imagines she is going to see Menander, as if love could be the only possible reason for secrecy. Her friend’s naivety feels like a reproach. Amara knows Dido would never try to make extra money without telling the others. Even Victoria is open about her gambling. Amara walks faster, guilt pricking at her heart. It’s not a feeling she can afford, not if she wants to escape from the brothel.

  The Palaestra is at the opposite end of Pompeii, a public park surrounded by a forbidding walled enclosure. Amara tells herself her breathlessness is due to the long walk, rather than nerves. A couple of men slouching by the entrance break off their chat to stare at her as she passes through the gate. Inside, she is greeted by high, piping voices. A gaggle of young boys sit learning their letters at the corner of the colonnade. She skirts between them, attracting a disapproving look from their schoolmaster. It’s clear he knows what she is.

  Only men are permitted within the exercise grounds. She hopes Felix is on the track rather than in the pool, as brazening her way past the tall plane trees that surround it would be impossible. She waits at the very edge of the track. It’s warm here, the sun high overhead. The Palaestra is open to the public for a few set hours and is always crowded. Young men jostle each other, running circuits. She picks out Felix as he sprints past, bare torso shining with sweat. He doesn’t see her. She watches him as he runs the length of the grounds. His movements are so fluid and graceful, he looks like a stag in a herd of cattle. It’s painful, now, to remember how she felt when he bought her. Her sense of relief that at least he was attractive. What a limited imagination she had then when it came to human nature.

  The second time Felix passes, one of his cronies spots her staring after him and smacks his arm, laughing. The men slow down. They stop just off the edge of the track, looking back at her. Felix is flanked by three others. There’s so much she doesn’t know about his business or his life. Could these be clients? Friends? Rivals even? Fortunately, whoever the other men are, they seem to find the idea of Felix being trailed by a jealous, lovesick whore hilarious.

  “You didn’t fuck her hard enough,” one says, slapping him on the back. “She wants more of your dick.”

  “Maybe she’ll pay you.”

  Felix shrugs them off, but the attention doesn’t seem to have annoyed him. He jogs towards her. His friends whistle and call after him, yelling out their advice before starting up their circuits again. Felix stops, resting his hands on his thighs to get his breath back. “What’s this?” He looks up, amused and curious, not a hint of his usual cruelty. Perhaps Victoria really did put him in a good mood.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you,” she says, trying to sound as relaxed as he does, but failing. Felix straightens up, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “There’s a woman called Marcella. She runs a fast-food store near the theatre, lots of business, regular income. But her husband drinks too much, and there’s nothing to spare for a loan to her sister. She needs twenty denarii.”

  “And you want me to do this friend of yours a favour?” Felix sounds incredulous rather than angry, but she knows his rage can rest on a knife edge.

  “No, no!” Amara protests. “I only met her this morning at the baths. It’s a business deal.”

  “You came all this way, interrupted my day, to do a deal for twenty denarii?”

  “But it’s not just this deal, is it?” Amara says. “Women are never going to come to you; they’re not even allowed to. But women still need money. So what do we do? We talk to each other; we lend to each other. But if Marcella, or anyone else, does business with me, she does business with you.”

  Felix’s friends run past on the track, whooping. He swears, making them laugh. They keep going, and he turns back to her. “And what do you expect to get from this?”

  “Same commission as we all get for sex,” she replies. “I know Victoria gets extra because she brings in more business, and that’s only fair. But if I get you more money through loans, rather than men, what’s the difference?”

  “How did you leave it with this woman, with this Marcella?” Felix sounds dismissive, but she knows he’s interested. He has the same look on his face as he did when he took ownership of her and Dido at the slave market. The sweet anticipation of making money.

  “I told her I would be at the Temple of Apollo tomorrow morning with your steward, Gallus, and a contract. She doesn’t know about the brothel; I thought it best she sees the cash before I tell her who you are. Once the money is in her hands, once she can smell it, she won’t be able to say no.”

  Felix grins at her, a look of such genuine warmth that she understands for a moment why Victoria is so addicted to pleasing him. “Amara, do you have any idea what happens to people who can’t pay me?”

  She thinks of Celer begging Felix for money, of the threats that her master made to Celer’s family business. Marcella will be able to pay, she tells herself; nothing bad is going to happen to her. I won’t let anything bad happen to her. “I can guess,” she says.

  “Enough of the fucking lover’s chat!”

  Felix’s companions have stopped running and are stretching at the side of the track a few feet away. The amusement value of their friend’s tryst is obviously wearing thin. “Your girlfriend can suck you off another time,” says one, wandering over. He has a mark down the length of his face, a white line that his beard refuses to grow through. “You should try my dick,” he says to Amara, rocking his pelvis. “You won’t be wanting him to fuck you after that.”

  Felix laughs, but Amara senses he is irritated. More, she suspects, at being asked to hurry his business along than at any slight to his manhood. “Your cock’s so small, none of my whores can even find it,” Felix says, pulling her towards him, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her face. He kisses her, long enough for the others to start whistling, then slaps her on the backside in an obvious sign of dismissal. “Mind how you go,” he says, already walking away. “I can’t have anything happening to my favourite whore.”

  9

  “Tomorrow I’ll start living”, you say, Postumus: always tomorrow. Tell me, that “tomorrow”, Postumus, when’s it coming? How far off is that “tomorrow”?

  Martial, Epigrams 5.58

  The cell is the cold, dark of night-time, even though the sun is still bright outside. Stone walls muffle the noise from the street, making it seem more distant. Amara catches the odd word as voices, raised in argument, pass her window. The hustle
and excitement of the Palaestra feels like another world. Lying here on the hard bed, the air still stale with last night’s smoke, she could have passed into Hades, the kingdom of the dead.

  The only colour on the walls is the light reflected through Victoria’s treasured bottles of perfume, lined up carefully on the windowsill. Everyone uses Victoria’s cell when they work alone here; it’s the biggest and closest to the street. Outside the door, she can hear Fabia sweeping the corridor. The old woman must have scrubbed the entrance to the cell several times over, desperate to be invited in for company and food. Amara thinks of Cressa and heaves herself upright, swinging her legs off the bed.

  “Would you like to share some lunch, Fabia?”

  There’s the clatter of the broom dropping. The old woman scurries inside. “Only if you have some to spare.”

  Fabia sits beside her, watching as Amara portions up the bread, olives and cheese. She says nothing, but her eyes follow every morsel like a starving dog waiting for a careless guest to drop a crumb from the table. The bones of Fabia’s thin hands bulge through her skin as she clasps them together. Amara suspects she is having to physically restrain herself from starting to eat before all the food has been shared out. Lunch with Fabia is never enjoyable. Either you have to eat at the same speed, meaning it’s over too quickly, or endure her agonized staring while she watches you finish. Amara chooses to eat quickly.

  Fabia tears into the bread first, demolishing it in a few mouthfuls. It’s not clear how she manages to chew so fast without choking. Amara is never going to be able to keep up. “I always liked this cell best,” Fabia says, worrying away at an olive, extracting every last scrap of green flesh with her teeth. “It used to be Mola’s. She’s long dead now. That there, in the corner, is where I used to draw for Paris.”

  Amara follows the line of her pointing finger to the very bottom of the wall. She squints and the crude scratch marks take on the shape of a dog. “It must have been hard, raising a child here.”