Amara thinks of Marcella, wonders if he has sold her cameo yet. She remembers the other woman’s finger, the pale circle where her mother’s ring had sat, the way Marcella struggled to get it off. “I ought to go to the baths today,” she says. “You’re right, I can’t keep Rufus waiting forever. Would you allow me the money to get my hair done? I could do with it being styled.”
Felix squints, looking at her hair, clearly debating whether it’s a necessary expense. Then he takes some coins from a drawer. “You can go in a couple of hours,” he says. “After you’ve been through the rest of those files.”
*
Amara steps onto the street, relieved to have some space from Felix. His clients’ accounts make her wonder what notes he might have made on his women, what observations he has stored away about her. She hesitates as she walks past the back door of the brothel, torn between the desire to see if Dido is in, to ask her to come too, and worry that it will look like she’s lording it over everyone by getting her hair done. Gallus is on the front door.
“Is anyone in?” she asks him.
“Just Victoria,” he says. “Can’t you hear?” Amara realizes she can indeed hear Victoria’s voice, talking to a customer, cooing over his virility. “The others are out fishing. Apart from the savage.”
“Thanks. Give Beronice my love.”
“I’m not some girls’ fucking messenger slave.” Gallus scowls. “Tell her yourself.”
*
Going to the baths by herself is another new experience since she moved upstairs. Amara stores her cheap toga in one of the cubby holes in the changing room, pressing past a couple of gossiping friends who are still loitering after packing their own clothes away. The stone walls echo to the chatter of women’s voices and the shriek and splash of some bathers cooling off in the small plunge pool in the corner. She finds a beauty attendant touting for business and goes through to the hot room, strapping on wooden clogs to protect her feet from the scalding floor.
The attendant is Greek but seems in no mood to swap tales of the home country. She is brisk with Amara’s body, tweezering out the hair under her arms, slathering her legs with waxy resin then scraping them until they are smooth. Amara winces at the pain. All around her, other women are being similarly pruned and primped, though some have opted for the relaxation of a massage instead, and she can hear the slap of hands on bare skin. Her attendant fetches a small tub of water, and Amara cleans herself, washing away the last of the resin and the dirt of the storeroom. She feels scoured from the heat and all the scraping.
Having her hair done is a more restful experience. Dressed again, she goes with another attendant to a small room and sits down. It’s cooler here. The hairdresser places the tongs in a brazier. “That’s enough,” Amara says, watching the glowing heat. “My hair’s already curly, I just need it styled.” And I don’t need you singeing it, she thinks.
“How do you want it?”
“To impress a man.”
“Not a husband?”
“No.”
The hairdresser smirks. As if she didn’t already know from Amara’s toga. While the other woman piles up her hair in a cascade of curls, she thinks of Rufus. It is so hard to know exactly what he would like. Would he prefer her as she really is, to see that she is feeling nervous, even shy, or is he expecting to be lavished with pleasure and treated to all the expertise of a courtesan? She wishes she could ask Victoria’s advice.
“Fit to fuck an emperor,” the hairdresser says when she’s finished. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”
Amara laughs and thanks her. She walks out onto the street, ignoring the whistles of a couple of men hanging around the entrance to the baths. It’s a notorious spot for picking up customers. She wonders if any of her friends have been this way today.
The smell of frying food tempts her on the way home, but she walks past. She will be eating for free this evening, and it’s better to save her money. Paris lets her back into the flat, and his expression when he sees her hair is pure malevolence.
“Master wants you,” he says, turning on his heel as soon as Amara is inside.
She walks up the stairs, wondering what Felix needs, but when she enters his study, he doesn’t speak, just gestures impatiently at a pile of tablets on her table. She sits down to work. Shortly afterwards, one of his clients, Cedrus, arrives. They discuss the loan, chat about business, the scorching summer heat. Felix offers him a discount at the brothel if he ups the amount he is borrowing, something Amara has noticed he does fairly often. Cedrus swivels round to look at her.
“Is she….?” he asks.
“Yes, but she’s usually booked. Costs a little extra.”
“Wise man,” he says. “I’d keep that one to myself as well.”
“If you’re choosing downstairs, I recommend Victoria,” Felix replies.
“Do all your whores do accounts?” Cedrus asks, amused.
“Just that one. A doctor’s daughter.”
Cedrus is impressed. “You invested in quality stock then. Not got any virgins, I suppose?”
Amara thinks of Dido, of the pain she endured losing her innocence in this place, and almost snaps her stylus from pressing it so hard into the wax.
Felix shakes his head. The men move on to other matters and when Cedrus leaves, he doesn’t so much as glance at her, as if he has forgotten her existence.
“Don’t do that again,” Felix says when they are alone.
“Do what?”
“Listen.”
Amara is about to protest but thinks better of it. “I don’t remember telling you my father was a doctor.”
“It was after I bought you,” he replies. “I gave you and Dido some figs, and you told me they were your father’s favourite. I asked what he did.”
The memory comes back to Amara, so vivid it is searing, like the scalding floor of the baths. The way Felix smiled, touched her gently on the arm, offering her the fruit. Almost with tenderness. And her own foolish relief. This one is kind.
She shrugs. “I don’t remember that.”
Amara works silently the rest of the afternoon, keeping her head down as a procession of clients come in. She does not seem to pay attention, not even when one weeps, begging Felix for more time, but all the while, she disobeys her master, listening intently, hatred coiled in the pit of her stomach. At last, Paris comes to tell them Rufus’s slave Philos is waiting. Felix dismisses him then walks over, watching her pile up the tablets.
When she has finished, he hands her one of Pliny’s dresses, not moving aside as she changes. His presence makes her nervous, and she fumbles with the brooch. Felix helps her, and the sensation of him holding up the fabric, his frown of concentration as he fixes the pin, makes her think of a husband’s familiarity with his wife. When she is dressed, she turns to go, but he catches hold of her wrist, pulling her closer. It is not a moment of intimacy.
“Remember what happens to people who betray me,” he says. Then he lets her arm drop, walking back to his desk without watching her leave.
30
If anyone has not seen Venus painted by Appelles, he should look at my girlfriend; she shines just as bright
Pompeii graffiti
The restaurant is a step up for Amara, a step down for Rufus. She imagines it must give him a thrill, dining out somewhere not quite respectable. Anybody who is worth anything eats in, safe in the knowledge that luxury lies closer to home. For her, the experience is a delight. They are served on a terrace, and the red glow of dusk gives them a view over the terracotta rooftops, the sharp-peaked mountain a darkening shadow beyond. Lamps hang from the trellising above, a far more elaborate affair than at The Elephant, woven with vines and heavy with ripening grapes.
Rufus orders, and she has the anxiety of trying to eat the sea urchins without making a mess. “I thought we could go to the theatre again next week,” he says, sloshing fish sauce everywhere. “One of my favourite plays is on. And it’s an excellent company too, touring al
l the way from Rome. I’m very interested to see how they stage it.”
“That would be wonderful,” she says, as always relieved that he is thinking ahead to another meeting. “Have you ever been to Rome?”
“No. The furthest I’ve travelled is Misenum. Stayed with the admiral, as it happens. He has a beautiful place out there.”
Amara smiles, not wanting to think about how she once aimed to make the admiral’s villa her home.
“I’d love to see Greece,” he continues. “So many of our plays are based on ones your poets had already written. Did you ever spend time in Athens?”
She cannot tell him that her abiding memory of the city was passing through it to the slave docks. “Not really, no. The only place I know is my hometown, Aphidnai. I think you would like our statue of Helen of Troy.”
Rufus takes her hand and kisses it. “I’m sure she is not as beautiful as you.”
They stare at each other, and she can read the question he is asking with his eyes. Have I waited long enough?
“Rufus!” They are interrupted by a familiar voice. Amara looks up to see Quintus standing by their table. He is accompanied by a beautiful woman. Amara realizes she has seen her before. It is the courtesan she noticed at the theatre, with the dress dipped at her back. She is even more striking close up, hair circling her head in elaborate plaits and her skin unusually dark, like Zoskales. A gold bracelet shines on her upper arm. “I think you know Drusilla?”
“Of course,” Rufus says. “Always a pleasure.” He turns to his own girlfriend with unmistakable pride. “And this is Amara.”
“Indeed!” Quintus says, pursing his lips. “Lucky man. I’ve heard her pretty voice before.” Amara feels a stab of alarm. There is no mistaking the smirk on his face.
“Oh, do you sing?” Drusilla exclaims. “How delightful! I adore music. You must both join us one evening at my home.” She smiles warmly at Amara who smiles back, grateful for the distraction.
“Loves entertaining, this one.” Quintus rolls his eyes. “I can barely set foot in the house; it’s always stuffed full of gossiping girls.”
Drusilla makes a playful show of being affronted. “As if I ever deny you anything.” She flounces off to their table, and Quintus follows with an apologetic shrug.
Amara turns back to Rufus, still smiling, but his expression chills her. “So you already know Quintus?” he says.
“He has attended parties where I was performing,” she replies, with a toss of her head, determined not to show her fear, still less any guilt. “My singing partner Dido knows him better.”
“He’s got a reputation.” Amara cannot tell whether the anger in his voice is for her or Quintus. “I hope you never got too close to him.”
“Do you think I ever had a choice about such things?” she says sharply.
“Forget it.” He waves his hand to dismiss the conversation.
“No,” she says, her voice icy. “I won’t. If you will hold the most painful parts of my life against me, I cannot be your friend.”
“I didn’t mean anything bad by it…” Rufus looks more like himself again, startled into his familiar frown of anxiety at displeasing her.
“I hope not,” she says. “Just because you have been generous enough to allow me a choice, doesn’t mean anyone else has.” Amara feels a sudden weariness. The exhaustion of holding his interest, of trying to explain herself, all the while knowing he is incapable of understanding. A memory of Menander comes to her, of their afternoon outside the arena, talking about the past. You are the same person. I still see you as the same person.
Rufus recognizes her sadness, even though he has no way of guessing the cause. “I’m an idiot, sorry. I know you have… sung at a lot of parties.” He pulls a rueful face, to show the euphemism is mocking him rather than her. “It’s ridiculous of me to be jealous. You’re just so lovely. I know you could have anyone.” He reaches for her hand. “Friends again?”
“The ridiculous thing is imagining I could ever prefer Quintus to you,” she replies, squeezing his fingers. It sounds like a line, but she means it. “Drusilla seems very pleasant.” She lets go again.
“Oh, she’s great fun,” Rufus exclaims, then stops, horrified at himself. “Not that I’ve ever…” he stutters. Amara laughs, and he joins her, relieved. “Well, anyway. She throws the most wonderful dinners. Her old master left her her freedom and, clearly, a fair bit of cash too. Though I think her friends also support her.”
Amara glances over at Drusilla with even greater interest. She has the same poise that she remembers from the theatre. Even the arrogant Quintus seems to be making some effort to impress her.
“We should certainly accept her invitation,” Rufus says, following the direction of her gaze. “If you would like to.”
“I would. Very much.” Amara looks down, her nerves perhaps easy to mistake for shyness. “But then I think I should enjoy being anywhere with you.” She looks up and can see Rufus has understood her meaning.
The rest of their dinner passes without much attention to the food. Both are on a high of anticipation, every small touch of the hand, even when passing the wine, is heightened. It almost feels like love.
It’s dark when they walk the short distance back to Rufus’s house. Philos and another slave accompany them, lighting their path. The house is familiar to her now. The jasmine has faded in the garden, instead, the air is scented with myrtle. She remembers her offering to Venus at the Vinalia, the favour she asked. It helps her make her decision about how to behave. Tonight will be all about performance.
She is grateful when Rufus dismisses the other slaves; she prefers to be alone with him. Philos has left the lamps burning, and wherever their glow touches the walls, they illuminate scenes from the stage, though much of the room is draped in shadow. Amara realizes she has never been inside Rufus’s home in daylight.
She had half-expected him to leap on her, the way he did on their first evening together, but instead, she finds he is reticent. Amara steps out of her clothes – slowly, so that he misses nothing – and steps into the role she has chosen for herself: the courtesan in love. It sits halfway between truth and lie. Every trick she has ever learnt, every means of giving pleasure, she gives to Rufus. She even finds her nights with Salvius useful, not for herself, but because he taught her about delay, in his own unfulfilled quest to please her.
None of it is unpleasant. She even finds, for the first time, a certain enjoyment in making a man happy, because this particular man is one she likes. But it is impossible to separate her affection from her need to make him want her, not just for the one night, but to want what she can give like this, over and over.
Afterwards they lie together, covered in sweat, his skin warm against hers. “I love you,” he says, kissing her. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replies, holding him tighter.
“I’ve never known a woman like you. You never ask for presents. The only thing you’ve ever asked is that I give you time.”
Amara thinks of her friends, of Dido and Victoria. She knows there are many women like her, but they are rarely afforded the compassion Rufus gives her. “You have already been generous to me,” she says. “You listen. You protect me, even when we are not together.”
“This is why I love you,” he says, kissing her again. Then he props himself up on an elbow, and leans over his side of the cushions, searching for something underneath the couch. He hands her a wooden box, his face expectant like a small boy.
“What’s this?”
“Open it, open it!”
Amara does as she is told. Inside is a silver necklace with an amber pendant. For a moment, she is too stunned to speak. “It’s beautiful!”
Rufus helps her fasten the clasp. “It does look very lovely on you, I must say.” He is extremely pleased with his choice. “It’s from my family’s own business. I got one of our best craftsmen to work on it.”
Amara has seen the jewellery store and gem-cutting
workshops that surround Rufus’s house; she sneaked past one morning with Dido to have a look. She touches the smooth drop of resin at her neck. Amber makes her think of Marcella, of the necklace she and Fulvia brought to the Forum, but she pushes the unhappy women from her mind. “It’s the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me,” she says. “But my darling, I cannot take it with me. My master would never let me keep it.”
“But this is a personal gift!” Rufus says, outraged. “He would have no right.”
“I will wear it whenever we are together,” she replies, putting her hand over his to reassure him. “You can keep it safe for me, here. It will remind you that I am always waiting for you.”
“But what about you? What will you have to make you think of me.”
Amara looks at him, her lover with all his wealth, his endlessly sociable life, and she can see that he is genuinely worried she might forget him, as if she could do anything other than count the hours in Felix’s storeroom until she sees him again. “I know!” she says. “You can buy me some cheap glass beads, wooden even, that I will wear as a bracelet. Felix would never bother with that, but it would remind me of your love whenever I saw it.”
“It is romantic,” Rufus says, somewhat mollified. “Though it will make me look abominably tight if you go around telling your friends that’s all your boyfriend has given you. Particularly if they know about my family’s business!”
“I promise I won’t,” Amara says, amused that he might fear a poor reputation among the whores of the town brothel. Unless he imagines she has other, classier friends.
“Will he try to stop you seeing me,” Rufus asks her. “Your master? If he thinks you care for me?”
At first, Amara cannot understand what he means, then she remembers the lie she told to ensure he didn’t come to the brothel – that Felix is monstrously jealous of her happiness. “Oh,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind. I told him I was afraid of you. He was pleased by the thought you might be cruel to me.” No need to add that it was the prospect of charging extra for violence that Felix liked.
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