He meets her eyes, and the unspeakable truth passes between them. “I am certain.” He bows. Then Egnatius gestures towards the mime actresses who are still busy with their rehearsal. “Ladies, goddesses and nymphs, I look forward to being entertained by you all. You will be sent for in the order you are required.” He turns back to Amara and Dido. “I will make sure you have enough time to learn the verses.”
“But it’s terrible,” Dido says, when he has gone. “How can we stand there and sing this stuff?”
Amara can feel herself sweating under her flimsy clothes. “We will just have to make it work. At least it’s not very long. That last song Salvius taught us, could we sing it to this?”
“I suppose,” Dido says, looking miserable. “But when?”
“At the end. When most of the guests are drunk.”
*
The mime actresses are standing crowded together in their cloaks to escape the evening chill by the time Egnatius returns to call Amara and Dido in to dinner. There are not many oil lamps where they have been waiting, and Amara finds herself blinking as they pass into the brighter parts of the house.
“You look glorious,” he says, leading them through a bewildering procession of rooms. The place is so large they did not even hear the guests arrive. Somewhere in this labyrinth, she knows Paris and Gallus are waiting out the long night to escort them safely home. Their value to Felix has gone up substantially. “Quite ravishing. Both as lovely as Flora herself.”
Amara has the feeling Egnatius compliments everyone who comes to perform for Cornelius but is still grateful for his encouragement. They are walking too quickly for her to absorb all her surroundings. There is immense wealth here, but no table groaning with silver at the entrance as there was at Zoilus’s house, instead when they reach the main hall, panel portraits of Cornelius’s ancestors line the walls. She can hear laughter and snatches of song.
“Through to the garden,” Egnatius murmurs, ushering them along. “I find it works best if you move between couches as you perform. And don’t be afraid to involve the guests. Or to accept any invitations.”
Dido looks at Amara. Neither of them are sure whether Egnatius means an invitation to share the wine or something else. The air is heavily scented with roses. Their branches have been trained around the walls in trellises, making a pattern of green splashed with colour, reminding Amara of her mother’s skill in weaving the threads on her loom. Cornelius’s dining room is open to the garden on two sides, its walls and ceiling painted with the same flowering rose trees which grow in the front courtyard. The garden behind is so vast it is almost a meadow.
They draw closer. The guests’ bright clothes blur and shimmer, seen through a screen of water. A fountain cascades from a giant conch shell held up by three marble nymphs. Amara realizes that the details on their naked bodies are gilded, not unlike the gold she and Dido have smeared on themselves.
Egnatius nods at the fountain. “I told you you were perfect,” he says, raising his eyebrows. They walk past the nymphs and wait at the edge of the gathering. The atmosphere is more relaxed than their last party. There is also a clear imbalance towards men, with only four or five women present. Cornelius is laughing loudly at something his neighbour has said, at ease with his role as host. She sees him flick his eyes in their direction, but he waits for another guest to finish his anecdote before acknowledging their presence.
“My dear friends,” he says, raising his voice. “We have Marcus and Quintus to thank for finding us these two lovely musicians.” Amara follows the direction of his finger as he points across the room. She sees their Vinalia lovers reclining on a couch, both looking rather less keen to be associated with the she-wolves now than they did at Zoilus’s house. “Our boys were quite taken by these two songbirds.” Cornelius beckons her and Dido over. “Or would that be nymphs of Flora?”
Egnatius has stepped back, melting into the other attendants serving the party. “Yes,” Amara says, picking up on the host’s playful tone. “We learnt our songs from the goddess of spring herself.” She glances back at the fountain. “In our former life as dryads.”
“So many nymphs these days have a taste for gold,” Cornelius replies. “Will you earn yours this evening?”
Both women bow. “Flora is a goddess of pure pleasure,” Amara replies, striking her lyre with the plectrum. “And that is all we intend to give.”
She and Dido slowly walk over to where their former lovers are reclining, while Amara plays the first notes of Salvius’s spring tune. Amara sits on the edge of the couch, smiling coyly at the two men. They both laugh, less nervous now. Quintus rests one hand on her knee, pinching the silk between his fingers. Her closest neighbours are all listening, but she notices that some across the room are still chatting. She begins to play in earnest, and Dido takes up the melody. Her voice rings out clear and sweet, silencing more of the company.
They arranged the Oscan song almost solely for Dido’s voice. She weaves through the couches as she sings, plucking flowers from her hair and handing them to guests as she passes. For a moment, Amara worries she looks almost too pure and graceful – Flora is the goddess of sex not poetry – but Dido has been working long enough for Felix to know how to behave. There is more than a hint of Victoria in the way she bends to drop a rose in Cornelius’s lap.
“You should have given one to my wife,” he says, pulling Dido closer to kiss her when the song is finished. “For all the children she’s given me.” It should be a compliment, but Amara can sense an unpleasant edge to his tone.
“You have a fine son,” a woman replies from another couch, her voice querulous. She is younger than Cornelius and painfully thin. Even the brightly coloured dress she wears, bunched in fat folds of expensive fabric, cannot hide how tiny she is underneath. Lying beside her is another woman, a little older, scowling ferociously. A friend, or perhaps even her mother. Amara still finds it difficult to understand the Roman custom of respectable women attending mixed dinner parties. Her own father would never have insulted his family by insisting they join him.
“Thank you, Calpurnia. Yes, one son after an abundance of girls.”
“And delightful girls they are too,” another man declares. “A credit to you both.”
“Women have their uses,” Cornelius replies, letting go of Dido. “Will you sing another song, little dryad?”
“Would you like a story?” Dido asks, glancing over her shoulder at him as she walks back towards Amara. “We can tell you the tale of Crocus and his love for Smilax.”
“And we will sing of the goddess Flora who gave the unhappy lovers new life,” Amara adds, finally breaking away from Quintus whose wandering hands have made her fearful for her expensive clothes.
Dido heads towards the fountain and Amara follows. In the lamplight, their figures must blend with the marble nymphs, she thinks, the hint of nakedness, the sparkle of gold on their bodies. She begins to play and, as always, watches Dido’s transformation with wonder. The way she stands, so unlike herself, is both comic and somehow sinister. She could almost be one of their customers at the brothel, singing the role of the mortal Crocus in a parody of thwarted masculine lust.
Amara is Smilax, her voice deliberately shrill in rejection. Nobody is meant to have sympathy for the nymph, after all. She exaggerates the comedy, at times pausing her playing and holding up the lyre between them as a physical barrier. The guests laugh as Dido chases her, the song becoming more and more ridiculous, until they shift into another tune, allowing Flora to transform Crocus into a beautiful flower and Smilax into ugly bindweed. Dido sings the last notes, lifting her arms up like petals to the sun, until she stops, as still as the statues behind them.
The guests cheer, and Amara feels a flood of relief. She looks round at the unfamiliar faces, shining with wine and enjoyment. She smiles, bowing low. Egnatius is beside her when she straightens up, whispering that they must join the diners for a while. He leads them both, leaving Amara at one couch and taking Dido o
n to another.
“I always say Greek girls are the best,” declares one of the two men she is now sitting between. He reminds her of an overfilled wineskin, not quite contained in the tight folds of his clothes.
“I like a bit of Gallic passion myself,” replies the other, sipping his drink. His thick beard is curled, the black shot through with grey and ginger. “Though that was a lovely little number you sang just now. Not heard those words before.”
“It’s from a Greek poem,” Amara replies. “The tune is local to Campania.”
“Fuscus will like that,” the first man says, nodding at his companion. “Always interested in poetry. More time to enjoy it now his stint as duumvir is finished.” Amara turns to Fuscus and smiles, trying not to make her sudden interest in an influential man too obvious. The duoviri are the town’s most powerful elected officials. Fuscus has a mildness to his face, she thinks. Perhaps he will be kind. Surely that’s more important than the fact his hair is thinning? “Can’t say I know so much poetry myself,” the larger man continues. “I’m Umbricius,” he adds, as if expecting her to be able to identify him by name alone.
“Forgive me,” Amara replies in her thickest Greek accent. “I only just arrived in Pompeii.”
“Oldest fish sauce business in town,” Umbricius says. “And the best.” He picks up a small jug from the side table and pours it liberally onto the plate of meat in front of them. Then he tears a strip off and holds it out for her on his knife. “Tell me what you think.”
Amara takes it, eating the unknown food smothered in fish sauce as daintily as she can. It tastes like fermented anchovies left out too long in the sun. “Delicious!” she exclaims.
“What other Greek poems will you be singing?” Fuscus asks.
He is watching her lick the last of the sauce from her fingers. “Sappho,” she says, leaning closer.
“Not very original.” Fuscus stares through the transparent fabric of her dress. “But still a goddess among poets.”
“What about some Latin?” Umbricius sniffs, clearly irritated at being overlooked.
“We will be performing a few lines by our host.”
The two men laugh. “Oh, you poor girls,” Fuscus says. “Do you have to?”
Amara knows it is one thing for Cornelius’s friends to mock him, quite something else for her to join them. “It is always a pleasure to honour our host.”
“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Fuscus says, rolling his eyes. “Well, I shall look forward to Sappho, at any rate.” He takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her fingers in an insistent, circular motion. “And perhaps you will join me again, afterwards.”
*
The atmosphere of the evening shifts as the hours pass and the wine flows. After every song, the guests become freer with her and Dido, their comments lewder. Fuscus exchanges words – or perhaps money – with Egnatius, who makes it clear that she is now the duumvir’s special ‘guest’. As the men become louder, the small group of wives play less and less of a role, retreating into their own self-contained gathering across two couches. Not that this assuages Cornelius’s bitterness towards his wife. He contradicts everything she says – if she enjoys the honey-glazed dormouse, he finds it too sweet, her hopes of sunshine tomorrow are scorned. Even when she is silent, he cannot leave her alone, finding reason to mock her posture, her spinning, the way she holds her glass.
Already small, she seems to shrink further with every comment. Amara notices that her hand, when she raises the wine to her lips, is shaking. “I find I am exhausted,” Calpurnia says at last. “I am sorry to leave you all.”
Cornelius says nothing, as if she hasn’t spoken. Thin and pale, his wife slips from her own dining room, looking more like a servant than the hostess.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t just divorce the poor girl,” Fuscus says to Umbricius. “Put her out of her misery.”
“Severus would ask for the whole dowry back if he had to take his daughter home. He’s told me so himself.” Changing his focus, Umbricius nods towards the older scowling woman who was sharing Calpurnia’s couch and is now stabbing at the fruit on her plate with vicious determination. “My wife dotes on Calpurnia. I’ll be getting a fucking earful after this, I can tell you. She’ll be nagging me all night to talk to Cornelius. I’ve told her it makes him worse. But women never listen.”
“That’s why I left mine at home,” Fuscus replies, his arm draped round Amara.
“You’ll be staying then?” There’s more than a hint of envy in Umbricius’s voice.
“Oh, I think so, don’t you?” Fuscus replies, drawing Amara a little closer. “I think so.”
She smiles at him, hoping to convey how irresistible she finds the idea. Behind his head, she can see Dido sitting with Quintus and Marcus. The three of them are laughing together, like a pastoral scene of young lovers. She feels a pang of envy then reminds herself what a powerful friend Fuscus may prove to be. Neither of the Vinalia boys have shown much promise as regular patrons.
“Time for the mime, don’t you think?” Cornelius’s voice is loud over the hubbub. He is slurring badly.
“Not yet, not yet,” Fuscus, shouts back. “I think the two little sparrows have a final present for you.” He squeezes Amara’s arm. “Sorry, darling,” he whispers. “I couldn’t resist.”
“It’s the parting I cannot forgive you for,” Amara says as she gets up from the couch, letting go of his hand with a show of reluctance. She joins Dido back by the fountain, the blood beating loud in her ears. Neither of them have drunk much wine, but the same cannot be said for anyone else. Which is just as well. Cornelius’s verses would be impossible to sit through sober.
“In honour of our gracious host,” Amara says. “We have been bold enough to set your own hymn to music.” She does not wait to hear the room’s reaction but loudly strikes up on the lyre, at a much faster pace than when she played the same tune earlier. She and Dido sing in unison, as quickly as they can without gabbling.
“Oh lovely Flora!
Goddess of flowers and fucking,
With your lovely toes and your dainty nose,
Your fanny like corn ripe for shucking,
Bless the spring with your lovely ring!
Oh lovely Flora!”
Cornelius either does not care that everyone is laughing when they reach the final refrain or is too drunk to realize. He smiles as they all applaud, waving a hand as if to deprecate the admiration. “Just a trifle, a trifle,” he says. “Though the girls sang it very prettily.”
“Mime, mime, mine!” A number of people are stamping their feet, impatient for the final performance.
One of the nearby guests staggers up and takes hold of Dido, almost pulling her over in the effort to get her onto his couch. Amara hurries back to Fuscus.
“He must mean it as a parody, surely?” Umbricius is saying. “Fucking and shucking? It’s parody.”
Fuscus pulls her onto his knee. “Whatever it was, you looked adorable,” he says, kissing her.
Egnatius leads in the eight mime actresses, two carrying long flutes which Amara had not seen them play in their rehearsal. She settles back against Fuscus, curious to watch them perform. “My wife won’t like this,” Umbricius mutters. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”
The two flautists let out piercing blasts and the actresses leap into action, more cavorting than dancing. What story there is to the play seems to revolve around some prank played by Flora on her nymphs, though the dialogue is thin and hard to follow. Victoria would be better at this than any of them, Amara thinks, watching the lead actress leap into the fountain like a frog and splash the others who shriek with pre-rehearsed alarm. An unwanted memory of Victoria dancing with Drauca slips into her mind, and she shrinks back instinctively against Fuscus.
He misunderstands her. “Soon, little one,” he whispers in her ear.
By the end of the performance, the eight actresses have ended up sprawled over various men. Egnatius stands in the corne
r, taking stock of the room, sending a huddled group of slaves off to help where needed. It’s the end of the dinner, but some guests show no signs of leaving, while others rise to say their goodbyes or collect their wives. Many are so drunk, their slaves have to act as human walking sticks. Umbricius stands up, groaning as he takes the weight on his knees. “Best get the old girl home,” he says. “See you next week, Fuscus.” Amara watches him stagger over to his wife whose face suggests she won’t be waiting until they are home to share her thoughts about the evening.
Egnatius is hovering at the side of the couch. “Will you be joining the others?” he asks Fuscus.
“You know I never like to be watched.” Fuscus is a little unsteady as he pushes himself upright.
“Of course.” Egnatius helps Amara from the couch. He follows the direction of her anxious gaze. Quintus is arguing over Dido with the guest who claimed her at the end of their last song. “I will make sure she is safe,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”
“Thank you,” she replies, her eyes meeting his as she stands. “For everything.” Egnatius winks. He is as sober as she is.
“The boy will show you both somewhere more relaxing,” he says, beckoning over one of the slaves.
Amara does not look back as the stranger leads her and Fuscus from the heaving dining room. They step into the cool night air, following their guide through the rose garden and into the darkened house.
18
I hate and I love. How is this possible? Perhaps you ask. I don’t know. But I feel it, and I am tortured.
Catullus, Poem 85
Amara wakes to the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight on her face. She is alone on the bed. For a moment, she cannot remember where she is, then memories from last night hit her in a rush. She sits upright, clasping the sheets to her chest.
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