“You must miss it, being so far away,” Dido says, her expression wistful.
Lucius replies to her in Punic, and she smiles again then looks down. Amara guesses he just paid her a compliment.
“Weren’t you kidnapped?” Rufus asks Dido. “That means your sale wasn’t legal! I’m convinced yours wasn’t either,” he says to Amara. “Convinced. It’s not possible to go from being a doctor’s daughter to a slave, is it?” He looks round at everyone else. “Don’t you think?”
Amara could wince with embarrassment. Rufus is determined to turn their lives into the plot of a Plautus play, where she is, in fact, a freeborn, marriageable girl. A world where tragedy, not snobbery, is what holds them apart.
Lucius coughs politely. “Perhaps not.”
“It’s completely possible,” Quintus says lazily. “I mean all sorts of people end up as slaves, if they aren’t Roman citizens.”
Drusilla changes the subject before Rufus can object. “Would you both sing for us? Amara told me what a delightful voice you have, Dido.”
“But only if you play the harp,” Amara says.
“Oh, please do,” Dido exclaims. “I’ve been longing to hear you play.”
The three women go through a show of false modesty and reluctance, paying each other little compliments, flirting with the men, while Drusilla’s maids bring out her harp. Dido and Amara drape themselves nearby. It’s meant to look artless, even though they have been practising all afternoon. Then it was a much brisker scene, all three concentrating on the music, trying out different sets, with the odd joke from the hostess, invariably aimed at one of her lovers. Amara had wondered at first why Drusilla was so kind, but now she understands. A steady stream of female guests allows her to rent rooms and entertain, supporting her reputation as one of Pompeii’s most sought-after courtesans.
Drusilla has no reason to fear being upstaged by Amara or Dido. She is a skilled harpist, showing off her graceful arms and slender fingers, while her voice vibrates with emotion, elevating the other women’s singing as they try to compete. The men lounge on the couches, drinking wine and laughing with one another, looking entirely satisfied to be the recipients of so much devoted labour. Amara is touched that Rufus rarely looks at her companions. The other two are quite shameless in eyeing up one another’s girlfriends.
The evening rolls on pleasantly. The food is good, if not lavish, and there’s plenty of wine. The men have a mock wrestling session – which Rufus finds amusing and Quintus takes too seriously – and quote poetry at one another, making up their own rhymes as they get increasingly drunk. Amara is gratified to see how much Lucius has taken to Dido, though she suspects he may not be a man who is looking for love in the way Rufus was when she met him. She touches the new earrings he has given her, feeling the light swing of them against her fingertips. There is an ever-growing hoard of gifts in the wooden box in his room, all hers. She slips her hand into his, stroking his palm, while he smiles, good-natured, at one of Quintus’s jokes.
Amara suspects she should try and share her good fortune with more of her friends, but she struggles to imagine Beronice or Victoria carrying off an evening like this. The thought makes her feel guilty. Victoria would probably be all too popular; she can just imagine her dancing like she did at the Vinalia, doing a striptease, but that, in itself, would tip the balance, tearing the veil that hides the real intentions behind these dinners.
“I think it might be time for bed,” Quintus says, stretching out luxuriously as if he were the host and not Drusilla. “Otherwise, I will be fit for nothing but sleeping.”
“I hope you wouldn’t dare, not under my roof,” Drusilla replies. “I cannot think of a worse insult.”
Everyone laughs, and the men bid each other goodnight, retiring with the women as their spoils for the night. Drusilla’s house is nothing like as grand or large as her clients’ homes, but it is elegant and comfortable. Every room Amara has seen is painted with scenes of mythical lovers, the one she usually stays in has a painting of Leda and the Swan. It is up the stairs, above the small courtyard and dining room.
She and Rufus follow Drusilla’s maid to the bedroom. He starts undressing her before the girl has even finished lighting all the lamps. It is something she has noticed about Rufus, the way he doesn’t seem to see many of the slaves who serve him. At his own house, Vitalio would come in unannounced to set out wine or fruit, even when they were in bed together, until Amara asked that he stop.
“He doesn’t think anything of it!” Rufus had protested, but Amara was not so sure. It was the way Vitalio had looked at her once, one slave to another, while Rufus waxed on about a play. She knew then that he disliked her, that serving her made him angry, even though she still doesn’t understand why.
Tonight, she is relieved that they have not progressed beyond nakedness before the maid leaves. It is an effort now, always remembering to perform with Rufus. His affection for her seems so genuine; she wonders what would happen if she tried to pursue her own pleasure, or suggest what she might like. But it is easier just to please him and fake it. She knows her inability to enjoy Salvius’s efforts was what cooled his interest in the end, for all he asked her not to pretend.
It is afterwards that she enjoys most, hearing Rufus tell her he loves her, holding her as if he will never let her go. She doesn’t really believe him; she knows he cannot love her, not truly, not the way she loved her family or loves Dido, as someone you consider of equal value to yourself. Still, she never tires of hearing him say the words.
After Rufus has kissed her goodbye and crept from the room, she hears him in the courtyard below, laughing with the other two men. He rarely stays the whole night at Drusilla’s, but Amara has no intention of ever telling Felix this. It is one of the perks, staying over like a guest, not a slave, in the house of a friend. She smiles to herself, imagining Dido safe nearby, stretching out on the sheets, just as she is, a night of blissful, undisturbed sleep ahead.
*
The cool morning air has the scent of autumn. Amara and Dido wait for their host in the small courtyard, enjoying the tranquillity. Drusilla has made clever use of space, the fountain is against the wall rather than taking up too much room in the centre. It falls in a cascade over a mosaic of blue tiles, water splashing against a statue of Venus who stands naked at the edge of the pool beneath, as if poised to bathe.
“It’s so pretty,” Dido says, looking around.
“The fountain is perfect,” Amara agrees.
“I’m glad you ladies approve.” They turn to see Drusilla watching them. She is in a light tunic, the gold band on her arm. Her head is dressed in a silk wrap that Amara instantly wants for herself. It’s the perfect way to disguise undressed hair, if there was ever anyone she needed to impress in the morning. “Why don’t you take some refreshment with me before you leave?”
They are only too eager to agree, following her to the dining room. It has been cleared since last night, and a plate of figs, pears and bread is waiting on a side table.
“So how was Lucius?” Drusilla asks, tucking herself up on a couch and gesturing at the others to take the one opposite. “He seemed quite taken.”
“He is going to try and find my family,” Dido says, looking from Drusilla to Amara, clearly excited to share the news. “He thinks it might be possible, through the census.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Amara exclaims.
“Did he tell you this before, or after?” Drusilla asks.
“After,” Dido says. “As he was leaving.”
“That’s a good sign.” Drusilla nods. “That means he was serious. Though you may still need to remind him. Lucius is not used to thinking of other people.” She pushes the platter towards them, waiting until they have taken some food before helping herself. “And if he finds them? What then?”
“I don’t know,” Dido says, looking more uncertain. “It would mean so much just to know they were alive.”
“Would they not buy you back?”
Drusilla takes a bite of pear.
Amara looks at Dido, anxious for her. They have discussed this many times. “No,” Dido says. “I don’t believe so. Not when… Not after what I’ve been. There would be no place for me at home now. If I were free, if I had some money saved, then they could overlook it. Save face and pretend. But not when I’m… like this.”
“Does Lucius know?”
“Yes. I told him there was no way back for me.”
“Perhaps it’s as well. Less work for him, and he might actually do you the favour if there’s no chance of drama. Unless he has finally found his romantic side.”
“Were you and Lucius once…?”
“We were lovers once, yes.” Drusilla nods. “For some months. And he sometimes still visits. I have a certain fondness for him. Though I have to be careful with Quintus; he has more pride than you might imagine.” She looks at Amara, raising an eyebrow. “Though not as careful as you. Rufus would not take well to a rival at all.”
“No,” she replies. “But there’s no danger of that.” She looks down, peeling her fig, thinking of Menander. It had been Dido who insisted she stop communicating with him, even through graffiti. She had not had the strength to tell him herself that she now had a ‘patron’ and so took the coward’s way out, letting Dido visit the potter’s shop instead. It hurts even thinking of him. She stops peeling. The fruit lies pale and naked in her hands. She glances up at Drusilla. “Have you and Rufus ever been lovers?”
“Would the answer to that matter to you, one way or the other?”
“No,” Amara replies. “My feelings aren’t…” She pauses, not sure how to explain the way she feels. She shrugs instead.
“Only very briefly,” Drusilla answers. She watches Amara’s reaction. “I see I have upset you.”
“No, not at all,” Amara says, surprised to feel as shaken as she does. “Or rather I’m not jealous. It’s just he told me you hadn’t. He was quite convincing.”
Drusilla laughs. “All men are born liars. You should take it as a compliment. He didn’t want to hurt your feelings. At least he realizes you have some.”
“Does Quintus not?” Dido asks.
“Well,” Drusilla says drily, breaking off a piece of bread and leaning back on her cushions. “I don’t even have to ask if either of you have fucked Quintus. I know you must have. Otherwise, he would be pestering me to try you out.” They all laugh. “He is just as he appears,” she continues. “But it is strange how men can grow on you, even Quintus.”
“Some men never do,” Amara says.
“Your master?” Drusilla asks. Amara nods, not wanting to say his name.
“I don’t know,” Dido teases her. “You and Felix sitting together, going over the accounts. Surely you’ve seen his softer side?”
“He’s a shit,” Amara snaps. The ugliness of the word slams into their pleasant morning, bringing the shadow of the brothel with it. “I’m sorry,” she says to Drusilla, flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be crude.”
“I’m sure nobody here is shocked by swearing.” Drusilla laughs. “Quintus is also a shit, though I cannot imagine him making me angry enough to say so.” She looks more serious. “But then he is the one paying the money, and believe me, I understand the difference.”
Because she is free, and we are enslaved, Amara thinks. It is easy to forget with Drusilla – she is so welcoming, so friendly, and yet, she is almost as distant as Rufus in the privilege she holds as a freedwoman. Even if she does have to earn her bread the same way they do.
The thought of Felix brings a strain to the gathering where before there was only playfulness. “I suppose we had better head back,” Dido murmurs, after the second awkward pause in conversation.
Drusilla does not press them to stay, though she is gracious in her insistence that they visit again, as if they were real guests rather than ones paid for by the men they accompany. On the threshold of the house, Dido and Amara stand together for a moment, watching life on the street flow past. Then Dido steps down onto the pavement, and Amara follows.
33
I don’t care about your pregnancy Salvilla; I scorn it
Pompeii graffiti
The brothel feels even less like home now Felix has crammed in yet more women. Only Beronice and Victoria have a cell to themselves, after two Spanish dancers moved into Cressa’s cell a week ago. Cressa is sharing with Britannica, and the pair of them see far fewer customers than anyone else. Felix cannot admit it, but Britannica was a terrible investment.
Ipstilla and Telethusa either speak little Latin, or perhaps they simply prefer not to mix. When Amara and Dido walk in, they are laughing loudly, shouting at one another in Spanish, taking up the entire corridor. Fabia tries to sweep the floor around them, but they ignore her, refusing to move their feet.
“Thank goodness you’re back,” Victoria says, beckoning them into her cell. Amara and Dido sit down on the bed. “Felix wants us to take the new girls out, teach them how to fish.”
“Can’t they go out together?” Amara asks. “I’m sure they’d prefer that anyway.”
“No, he wants us to keep an eye on them. And somebody has to take Britannica out. He’s fed up with her doing nothing.” Amara suspects Victoria is too. She has never warmed to the Briton. “If Dido and I take the Spanish girls, can you have Britannica?”
“Why me?”
“We can’t ask Cressa, can we? And Beronice isn’t too well. Rough customer last night. Besides, I thought you liked her.”
“Fine then,” Amara sighs. “I’ll take her.”
She leaves Dido and Victoria to their noisy negotiations with the Spaniards and trudges to her old cell. Inside, Cressa is lying on the bed, eyes closed, though Amara suspects she is not asleep. Britannica sits on a stool, watching over her like a pale guard dog.
“Britannica.” Amara holds out her hand. “Come with me. Come.” The Briton looks back at Cressa, uncertain. “Come,” Amara repeats more firmly. “We go look for men.”
Britannica stands up, immediately towering over her, and strides to the door, her face grim. Amara is not sure how much Latin she understands now. She suspects a lot more than she lets on, though she has yet to speak a word other than Cressa’s name. They leave by the back door since the shouting and gesticulating is still in full flow in the corridor.
“Baths,” Amara says, shepherding her strapping companion onto the pavement. Walking out with Britannica, they are scarcely short of attention, but none of it is the sort Amara wants. Britannica stalks along, her movements unfeminine, more prizefighter than prostitute. She makes eye contact with all the men, her gaze angry and challenging. If any return the look, she bares her teeth and hisses. They have only walked one street, and Amara begins to feel afraid they will be beaten up before they even make it to the corner.
“That’s enough,” she says, exasperated. “You win. We go back.”
Britannica turns on her heel, striding along the pavement, and Amara scurries after her. The corridor is finally empty, but Amara knows she cannot give up and stay in; she will have to go out fishing with someone. She follows Britannica into the cell where Cressa is still lying, prostrated in misery.
“Cressa? I know you’re awake,” Amara says. “Why don’t you come out with me? The air would do you good.”
“I don’t feel like it,” Cressa says.
“I know, but you can’t stay in all day,” Amara pleads. Britannica is following the discussion anxiously, but Amara ignores her. “We could walk to the harbour. I’ll buy you a wine.”
Slowly, Cressa pushes herself up. Her stomach has filled out, but her face looks hollowed and empty. “Alright,” she says wearily. “I’ll come.”
“Cressa!” Britannica says, her voice urgent. “Cressa!”
“I will be back soon,” Cressa says soothingly, patting the tall woman’s arm as if she were a child. “You rest.”
Amara knows Britannica will not be resting. She’s spied on her alone in here bef
ore, watched her throw endless punches and kicks at imaginary men’s heads. She shoots her a warning look as they leave. No trouble.
The walk to the harbour is slow and laboured. It is hard to believe Cressa once made the same effort with her appearance as the rest of them. Now, she is grubby and dishevelled, her hair unkempt. Whores age in double time, Amara thinks, and the idea chills her.
“I don’t know why everyone is so unkind to Britannica,” Cressa says, looking back over her shoulder, as if somehow, the Briton might be visible behind them. “What did she ever do but hate being trapped here? She has a good heart, you know that? I’d put her loyalty above anyone else’s. And she’s smart. I know nobody else sees it, but she is.”
“She’s not easy though,” Amara says.
“Why should she be easy? Is her life easy?” Cressa’s voice is quavering, and Amara is afraid she might cry.
“I know,” she says, her tone apologetic. The last thing she wants is to upset her already anxious friend. “I know. I’ll try and make more effort, I promise.”
They carry on at their painfully slow pace, until Cressa stops altogether. Amara realizes she is gazing at a small child, perhaps aged three or four. The child’s piping chatter carries, and his mother smiles, indulgent, before noticing the strange, bedraggled woman fixated on her treasure. She puts an arm around her son, nervously steering him out of sight.
“Cressa,” Amara says, trying to usher her along. But Cressa is crying.
“Don’t,” Cressa says, shaking Amara off when she tries to comfort her.
Amara sighs. She almost regrets asking her to come out.
They walk under the marine gate, passing Vibo’s baths where none of them have worked for some months since Felix decided the tips weren’t worth it. Further down the hill, the sea sparkles into view. The air is fresh, the salt sharp. Cressa seems a little calmer now they have reached the harbour. At the docks, several boats are unloading. Men scurry and shout, busy as ants moving crumbs to their nest. Amara offers her arm, nervous after the last rejection, but this time, Cressa accepts. “Shall we have a walk, before fishing?”
The Wolf Den Page 27