“He sounds appalling!” Rufus says. “My poor, darling girl.” He squashes her in a hug so tight, the pendant digs into her skin. “I was hoping you would stay all night. But will that make your life more difficult?”
He is clinging on to her, clearly willing her to stay, and Amara herself is longing to accept. But she knows that if she gives in to every desire, fulfils every passion, she risks his infatuation burning itself out too quickly. Better to deny him from time to time. “I think that might be safer,” she says in a small voice. “Next time, I will stay.”
He lets go of her, cupping her face in his hands, kisses her tenderly on the forehead. “Whatever you think is best,” he says.
His sincerity hurts her heart.
31
I see that it’s brothels and greasy bars that stir your desire for the town.
Horace, Satires 1.14
Felix is alarmed to see her before daybreak. He is waiting in the corridor as she comes up the stairs, obviously having heard Philos drop her at the door.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t do what he wanted.”
“I did everything,” Amara says. “I just didn’t want to stay the whole night. I told you, he scares me. And besides”—she meets his cold stare with one of her own—“it keeps him keener that way. We want to string this out as long as possible, don’t we?”
“Little bitch,” Felix says. She starts unfastening her cloak, expecting to be dismissed, but he gestures at her to stop. “Don’t take that off. I’m heading out. You can come with me.”
“Why?” Amara asks, unable to hide her astonishment.
“Doesn’t hurt to show off the wares,” Felix says. He puts an arm around her, and for a bewildering moment, she thinks it is a gesture of affection. Then she feels his fingers, hard and pinching at her waist, like a baker checking the quality of his dough. “Just don’t open that big fucking mouth of yours.”
*
The bar is in an unfamiliar part of town. It is low and cramped, barely more than a hole in the wall, and reeks of pipe smoke. Amara is the only woman present; she sits wedged against the wall, Felix between her and the men he is there to meet. Most of the others are drunk when they arrive, but even though he makes a show of ordering wine, she notices Felix stays sober. His hand is on her thigh, and she understands he is giving a signal to the other men: Don’t touch.
She is not the only one to express surprise at Felix bringing a woman along.
“What did this one do?” asks a man, gesturing at her with his wine. Some slops on the table. She recognizes him from the Palaestra, by the white scar across his face, but he doesn’t recognize her. “Something special, is she? Or is she bored of your cock and here to try some of ours?”
Others join in, but although they’re all talking about her, they’re only talking to Felix, as if she isn’t really there. She says nothing through it all, just looks down at his hand on her leg.
“Plenty more cunt where she comes from,” Felix says. “You can try some later.”
They lose interest in Amara and move on to business. She is so exhausted she could almost rest her head against the wall and fall asleep; it must be the early hours of the morning.
“I think the cobbler’s getting jumpy about paying,” says one man. He is thin and shifty as a weasel. “All the work we do, keeping the streets safe. Not very grateful, is it?”
The man with the white scar laughs, but Felix looks unimpressed. “Maybe he needs a little reminder. Nothing too drastic.” Amara realizes they are not talking about loans. “Best it’s someone he’s not seen before.”
“I know who,” says Weasel, nodding.
The conversation flits back and forth between business and banter: who is paying, who needs persuading, the latest games at the arena, the best whore by the docks. Amara is not surprised Felix is involved in a protection racket but is uneasy that he would take the risk. Doesn’t he earn enough already? What if someone retaliated? Can everyone at this bar be trusted? She hopes any trail to the brothel is well hidden.
Time drags, and she feels like a ghost, only Felix’s hand physically anchors her to the present. She remembers what he said about showing off his wares and doesn’t dare doze off. Instead, she makes occasional eye contact with the men then looks suggestively at Felix, ensuring they remember her role, what they might be getting.
When Felix finally gets up, hauling her to her feet, she could almost cry with relief. A couple of the men walk back with them to the brothel, somehow still awake enough to take Felix up on his offer of a discount. She feels sorry for whoever has to entertain them. Watching them step into the darkened corridor of the brothel, knowing they won’t be arriving at her cell, she realizes exhaustion has sapped her sense of guilt. She follows Felix into the relative safety of his flat.
At the top of the stairs, he takes hold of her wrist, leaning back to look at her, as if weighing up the possibility she represents. Then he lets her go. “Send Paris to me,” he says, walking off.
She hurries to the storeroom, nudging the sleeping Paris with her foot. “Get up. Master wants you.”
Paris springs awake like a cat, scrabbling the blankets off himself. “Now?” he gasps. “He wants me now?”
“I’m sorry,” she replies, heading to her corner. “That’s what he said.” Paris gives a stifled sob, a sound of utter wretchedness. Amara watches him creep from the room, unable to feel anything but gratitude that he is the one being tormented instead of her. She is asleep moments after her head rests on the lumpy sack of beans.
*
When she wakes, she is aware of someone leaning over her. She opens her eyes. It is Paris, his face so close, their noses are almost touching. “Brothel day for you, bitch,” he whispers.
“Get away from me!” Amara shoves him, and he lands on his backside with a thud. “What is it with you?”
Paris dusts himself off, angry at being made to look foolish. “Last night was your fault,” he snarls. “Why couldn’t you have fucked Felix? You were awake anyway. And it’s nothing to you. Nothing.” His voice grows shriller. “It’s what you’re there for; it’s the whole point of you!”
Paris stops. He is on the verge of tears, his thin chest rising and falling with the effort of controlling his emotions. Amara thinks about all the cruelties Paris must have endured: the confusion of growing up in the brothel, watching the way his mother was treated, his fear when he became a target himself. And then having to suffer the contempt of other men, even ones like Gallus who he is so desperate to impress. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” Amara replies, keeping her voice steady, not wanting to humiliate him further by a show of sympathy. “But you know it wasn’t because of me. Nobody tells Felix what to do.”
“He doesn’t even screw you, does he, when he has you in the study?” Paris takes her silence as his answer, kicking at the wall in frustration. “All these years I’ve wanted him to trust me with the business, and then he chooses you instead. As if I were the woman.” Paris spits out the last word like a curse that might defile his mouth by speaking it.
Amara does not point out to Paris that he would not be much use to Felix with his accounts, since he cannot even read. “It won’t be forever,” she says. “He won’t treat you like this forever. I’m sure he does trust you.”
Paris looks at her, biting his lip. She can see he wants to talk, all his loneliness pent up inside him like a cranked-up well before the water falls. But pride gets the better of him. He shrugs, as if physically shaking her off. “Nobody’s paying for you to stay up here today, are they? So why don’t you fuck off back to where you belong and leave me in peace.”
Amara gets wearily to her feet. It feels like she only slept a couple of hours. Paris obviously woke her as early as possible. “Behaving like a shit isn’t going to make your life any easier,” she says. She walks past him, closing the storeroom door behind her.
It’s barely light out on the street. Everyone in the brothel is likely to be asleep. The back door is aja
r, and Amara creeps in, resigned to sleeping in the corridor rather than waking Dido. She sinks down, her back to the wall, then hears the sound of muffled weeping. Britannica never makes an effort to be quiet, so at first, she assumes it must be Dido, but after getting to her feet and tiptoeing the length of the corridor, she realizes it is Victoria.
It takes her a while to trust her own ears. Victoria never cries. Amara hesitates before drawing the curtain. It has been weeks since they have spoken properly to each other. But she cannot bear the thought of her friend suffering.
She sticks her head around the curtain. “Are you alright?” she asks, her voice low so as not to wake the others.
She expects Victoria to stop crying or tell her to go away, but instead, she remains curled up on the bed, sobbing into her blankets. Amara hurries over, afraid. She sits down on the bed, touching Victoria’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
Victoria pushes herself upright, furiously wiping her face. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” She stares at Amara, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair wild. “Like you don’t know!”
Amara stares back bewildered. “Know what?”
Victoria slaps her across the face. Amara gasps, clasping a hand to her stinging cheek, too shocked to retaliate. “Don’t pretend to be such a fucking idiot,” Victoria shouts at her. “Rich old men and fancy boyfriends aren’t enough for you, you have to have Felix as well? You don’t even like him, still less want him! What are you doing? Rubbing everyone else’s nose in it, making us all feel worthless?”
“Like I have any choice!” Amara shouts back. “You think I enjoy being around Felix? And anyway, why do you care? You hate him as much as I do!” As soon as she has said it, she remembers the afternoon she and Dido overheard Victoria panting out her devotion. I love you; I would die for you. Amara looks at her anguished face and understands what she should have realized long ago. Victoria wasn’t pretending. “But you can’t; you can’t love him,” she says. “He’s a fucking monster! He doesn’t care about any of us.”
“Can you keep it down?” Beronice is standing in the doorway, looking haggard with exhaustion. “Or else take it outside. Some of us are trying to sleep.” She flings the curtain back across with a swish.
The interruption startles Amara and Victoria out of their anger. “I know he’s a shit; I know it,” Victoria says, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to tell me. But you don’t understand what he can be like sometimes. You’ve never seen it.” Her eyes are shining with tears, and she tumbles over her words, tripped up by all the feelings she keeps buried. “He can be so loving and gentle. And he’s always really sorry when he’s hurt me. He begs me to forgive him; he really begs. I see a side of him the rest of you don’t.” Victoria is unrecognizable in her desperation; Amara almost cannot bear to be near her. “He’s lonely, like I am. I love him so much.”
Amara thinks of the way Felix spoke to Victoria after Paris punched her, the many times she’s seen him hurt her, the way – only yesterday – he offered her body to Cedrus as if she were nothing. She feels sick to her stomach. She takes Victoria’s hand, squeezing it. “I just think you deserve so much more,” she says.
“What more is there?”
“Somebody who wouldn’t hit you,” Amara says. “A man who didn’t sell you.”
“What do you think we are? Where do you think we are living?” Victoria asks, incredulous, gesturing at the soot-stained walls. “This isn’t a fucking play. We’re not goddesses. How high are you aiming? The Emperor?”
There is a sound of violent retching. They look at each other in alarm. “Cressa!”
Beronice has reached the latrine before them, craning over the low wall. “Are you alright in there?”
“No, I’m not alright,” Cressa’s voice comes back, before she vomits again.
The three women wait, helpless, while Cressa is sick. There’s a pause, then Cressa comes out, leaning on the wall to steady herself as if she is on the roiling deck of a ship.
“Do you think you should eat something?” Victoria says.
Cressa nods wearily. “But not The Sparrow.”
“It’s too early anyway,” Beronice says, shooting a look at Amara and Victoria, still annoyed they woke her up. “They won’t be open yet.”
“We can go to a bakery. Get some bread in you,” Amara says.
They leave Dido and Britannica to sleep. Outside the sky is turning blue, and the streets are starting to get busy. Gallus is surprised to see them all out so early. He glances furtively up and down the road, checking for Felix, then kisses Beronice. “Couldn’t you leave them to it?” he says, sneaking his hand inside her cloak, fondling her.
Beronice looks at her friends, torn, while Gallus breathes into her neck. “I’ll catch you up,” she says, letting him lead her back inside.
Amara watches her go, disappointed. “She doesn’t know where we’re headed.”
“Leave her,” Victoria replies, striding off down the street. “She lets that shit walk all over her.”
Amara thinks of Victoria’s own hopeless devotion to Felix, but says nothing.
“Not too fast,” Cressa says, holding Amara’s arm. She looks even worse in the daylight, her skin covered in a film of sweat. “And let’s not walk for miles.”
A few cafés near the baths are open. They pick one and claim a table rather than stand at the counter. The bread is hard and stale. Amara thinks she will cut her cheeks to shreds by chewing it. Cressa orders a sweet wine to settle her stomach. She sits in silence, not looking up, dipping her bread in the wine to soften the crust.
“You can’t keep ignoring the obvious,” Victoria says to her quietly, in case anyone is listening. “We all know you’re pregnant. Just tell us what we can do to help.”
Cressa pauses in her dipping. “Nothing,” she says, her voice flat. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Pitane from The Elephant had an abortion recently,” Amara says. “And it worked really well. Shall I ask her where she got the herbs?”
“No,” Cressa says, still not looking up. “I tried that last time, with Cosmus, and it didn’t work. Just cost a fortune and made me really ill.”
Victoria rubs Cressa’s arm, as if she can rub away her pain. “Perhaps Felix will let you keep the baby this time?” she says, her voice unnaturally cheerful. “Isn’t it at least worth asking?”
Cressa’s shoulders start to shake, and Amara knows she is crying, even though she doesn’t make a sound. “What good would that do?” she whispers, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes to stem the tears. “What life can I give a child? Another Paris? A little girl sold as a whore before she’s even grown? It would kill me to watch that; I would rather die.” She takes a deep breath, trying to control herself. “And besides,” she says, her voice flat again, “he already told me. Any more babies are going straight on the town’s rubbish heap. He doesn’t make enough from selling a child.”
“Maybe that would be best,” Victoria says. “And it doesn’t mean the baby would die. Look at me. I survived.”
“You don’t understand,” Cressa says. “You have no idea. Do you think because I never talk about Cosmus, that I never think of him? Every second of every day I miss him, want him. Just to see his face. All the time, every waking moment.” She holds her hand to her heart, as if to staunch a wound. “It’s a constant pain, like nothing else. I cannot give another child away.”
Amara and Victoria look at each other, unable to think of any words of comfort. “Maybe the pregnancy won’t work out,” Victoria says in a small voice.
“Maybe,” Cressa replies, drinking her wine. “Maybe.”
On the way back, Cressa shakes them both off, choosing to walk alone instead. Victoria takes Amara’s hand, gripping her fingers, like a woman afraid of drowning.
SEPTEMBER
32
Take me to Pompeii where love is sweet!
Pompeii graffiti
Amara takes one of the figs from
Drusilla’s table, peeling it, savouring the soft sweetness on her tongue. It is nearly October. Rufus is reclining beside her, his body warm at her back. They have been spending more time at Drusilla’s house, ever since Rufus’s parents returned from their summer at Baiae. His parents do know about her, Rufus has assured her, it’s quite proper for him to have a girlfriend, but it’s probably better neither of them bump into her in the atrium. His mother has funny notions. She thinks a household slave is enough for such things; she doesn’t understand what it means to be in love.
Amara would have been desperate if it were not for Drusilla’s generosity in letting them stay over at her house. Rufus pays her, of course. Amara thinks it must be nice to rent out rooms, rather than your own body. She takes another fig from the table. Tonight is the first time Dido has joined them, and this feels as close to happiness as life can get.
“So you are both Punic?” Drusilla says, addressing Dido and Lucius, the wealthy young man she invited for Dido to entertain. Amara suspects he may be one of Drusilla’s former lovers, but she cannot be sure.
Lucius raises an eyebrow at the question, turns to Dido and says something in a language nobody else understands. It is clearly a joke, and Dido laughs, delighted, replying to him in the same tongue. He smiles at her, pleased by whatever it is she has said. He turns back to Drusilla. “It seems so.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Drusilla claps her hands. “Such a coincidence.” Quintus who is sitting beside her, sighs and rolls his eyes. Amara would like to throw a fig at his head. She still cannot imagine why Drusilla, the most glamorous woman she has ever met, would have such an ordinary boyfriend. He must be a lot richer than she realized.
“My family are all from Carthage,” Lucius says. His accent is similar to Dido’s but not identical. Amara supposes he must be several thousand leagues above her on the social scale. “I’ve been banished to Italy to look after the business. We have a number of bases here in Campania.”
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