“That was later,” Rufus insists.
“Nothing wrong with being a concubine,” Hortensius says, turning to Drusilla and kissing her hand. Drusilla smiles at him, as if charmed. But Amara knows Drusilla is so skilled at hiding her feelings, she could wish Hortensius dead, and he would never know it. “So your father was a doctor. Then you were hurled into tragedy and ended up a heartbroken whore. Is this right?” Amara inclines her head, not liking his sarcasm, even though it is delivered with a smile. “You seem rather young for your master to have become bored.”
“His wife was not happy.”
“If the fool couldn’t control his women, it’s as well you left,” Hortensius says, as if she had any choice in the matter. “Do you dance? Play music? Sing?”
“I told you…” Rufus begins.
“But I’m asking her.”
“My father taught me…”
“Oh, come now!” Hortensius interrupts her, laughing. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m sure your father didn’t teach you how to perform in male company. Not if he really was a doctor. What did your first master teach you?”
“I learnt the lyre at my father’s house,” Amara says, ignoring the insinuation she is a liar. “Then as a concubine I learnt a number of songs by Sappho and other Greek poets. I have continued my musical education in Pompeii.”
“Musical education!” Hortensius raises his eyebrows, amused. “At least you have some wit.”
“Perhaps you would allow us to play for you?” Drusilla says, her silk tunic rustling as she rises. She looks at Hortensius sidelong, as if she finds him irresistible.
“Why not.” Hortensius leans back on the couch, gazing at her.
Amara does not have her lyre, but Drusilla beckons her over to the harp. “I will play Sappho’s ‘Hymn to Aphrodite’,” she murmurs. “But you sing it alone.”
“Thank you,” Amara whispers, grateful she will not have to compete with Drusilla’s superior voice. She sways to the music, using the graceful hand gestures she learnt at Chremes’s house, pouring her heart into the song. Seeing Hortensius watch her, appraising her, it is almost like being back before Chremes, as if all the many changes in her life as a slave have brought her full circle to the point where she started. She thinks of Philos. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t leave you alone with him. Rufus is also watching, beaming with pride. It does not reassure her. How long before he starts to see her through his father’s eyes?
“Very well,” Hortensius says to Rufus, when she has finished singing. “She is delightful. You win.” He turns back to Amara. “But I really don’t understand all this nonsense about renting a place. When he’s bought you, you can just join the family household.”
“Really father, not now.” Rufus is crimson, looking anxiously at Amara.
“Fine, fine. Have your little romance.” Hortensius sighs. He shakes his head at Drusilla and Amara. “Boys. I cannot imagine how you pair put up with them.”
“Rufus is the kindest man I have ever met,” Amara replies.
“I’ve no doubt he is,” Hortensius says with a snort. “Well, I suppose I should let you all enjoy your night of young love.” Everyone rises with him. Hortensius goes to Drusilla, kissing her. “Delighted, as ever.” He turns to Amara but rather than kiss her too, he runs his hands down the length of her body, as if they were in the slave market. She is so shocked she cannot speak. “Very fine.” He smiles at her, though there is no warmth in his eyes. “Not a bad investment at all.” Nobody fills the silence. “Aren’t you going to show me out, boy?” Rufus hurries over and leads his father from the room. He doesn’t look at Amara.
When the men have left, Drusilla makes the sign of the evil eye. “What did he mean?” she hisses. “You told me Rufus was going to free you!”
“That’s what he said!” Amara is shaking.
Drusilla pinches her arm. “Don’t get upset! Don’t! This is too important. Use your head. Make it as hard as possible for Rufus not to do what he promised, use his guilt, whatever you can. You cannot let him believe you will be satisfied as a slave!” She steps back as Rufus returns, smiling serenely, as if she and Amara have been exchanging pleasantries. “I find I am a little tired,” she says, yawning. “I hope you don’t mind if I abandon you both?”
They watch Drusilla leave, her walk effortlessly languid, even though Amara knows she isn’t tired at all. “That went rather well, I thought,” Rufus says. He leans in to kiss her.
Amara pushes him off. “What did he mean, that I could join your family household?”
“That’s just what he’s like,” Rufus says. “He knows about the place I’ve rented. He’ll come round.”
“Does he know you will free me?”
Rufus doesn’t look at her, but she can see the blush creep up to his hairline. “Would it be so terrible if I didn’t?” He takes both her hands, pulling her closer. “We’d still be together. You wouldn’t be at the brothel, that’s the important part, isn’t it?”
“I cannot believe that you don’t understand the difference,” Amara says, withdrawing her hands from his. “How often have you told me you can see how hard it was for me, to lose everything in Aphidnai. I lost my self when I was sold. Why would you keep me a slave, if it is in your power to set me free? Why?”
“It’s not so simple. My father isn’t keen on the idea. I don’t know that I can defy him on this.” Rufus sits down heavily on the couch. “Freeing you… I would have to give you the family name. It doesn’t just belong to me.”
Amara sits beside him. She can still feel Hortensius’s hands on her body. She thinks of Philos, of Chremes, of all that happens to slaves who become familiar objects in their masters’ houses. Rufus puts his arms around her, kissing her softly on the forehead, the cheek, her lips.
“I promise you, if you belong to me, I will never let anyone hurt you. I promise.”
40
He who hates life easily scorns god
Pompeii graffiti
Victoria and Amara wait in Felix’s bedroom. Neither imagine they have been summoned for sex. Victoria sits cross-legged on the bed, as if she belongs there, but Amara doesn’t want to touch it, doesn’t want to remember the night she spent there with Felix. She perches on a stool instead.
“It’s about Simo, isn’t it?” Victoria whispers. “It must be.”
“I thought he was going to take care of that himself,” Amara says. “I don’t see why he needs either of us.”
“He told me I saved his life, as well as yours,” Victoria replies. “He’s never been like that with me before.” She looks drunk on love, completely unaware that Felix’s sudden devotion is likely to be as much manipulation as genuine. A warm-up act for whatever horrible job he has lined up for them both now. “He said no woman has ever shown him greater loyalty than me.”
Amara thinks about her own deception, the secret loan with Balbina, her plotting with Rufus. It’s impossible to imagine why anyone would want to be loyal to a master, still less to Felix. She tries not to let Victoria’s stupidity make her angry. “He should be grateful to you,” she says. “If he had any decency, he would free you for what you’ve done.” Victoria’s face falls and she almost regrets her spitefulness. They both know that’s not going to happen.
Felix opens the door. Amara flinches, hoping he wasn’t listening, but he looks distracted. He doesn’t waste time with greetings. “We can’t wait any longer,” he says, sitting down on the bed next to Victoria. “Simo will have given up waiting for his man. We need to strike now, before he does. Make sure he’s finished.”
“What do you need us to do?” Victoria asks, as if she wants to be asked to put herself in danger.
“Some friends of mine will take care of the bar. And of Simo. I need you two to act as a distraction and keep watch.”
“Keep watch on what?” Amara asks.
“Paris will be keeping watch too,” Felix says, ignoring her question. “He’s not as recognizable to Simo as Thraso or Ga
llus.”
“Does Paris know about the necropolis?”
“No. Nobody knows,” Felix says. “Safer that way.” Victoria looks at him gratefully, and he rests a hand on her knee. “You will have to be veiled. Pick up a few men opposite the bar, that should distract some attention.”
“You want us to fuck men in the street?” Amara says. “On our own? No protection?”
“Paris will be around.”
“But he’s not there to look after us though, is he!” Amara protests. “He’ll be watching the bar.”
“There will be two of you,” Felix says. “I don’t see the problem.”
“What are you going to do to the bar? I don’t want to go if we don’t know.”
Felix loses his temper. “Nobody is offering you a choice,” he shouts at her. “Since when did you tell me what to do? If I want to sell you on the fucking street, or in the brothel, it’s not for you to argue.”
“Please,” Victoria says, looking imploringly at her. “Please, we have to. What if Simo attacks us again?”
Amara looks at the pair of them, sitting together like a married couple, united against her. She thinks of all she owes Victoria and knows there is no way out, even if she weren’t bound to Felix. She nods.
“Better if you both stay upstairs until tonight,” he says. He looks from one woman to the other, his expression sly. “You can go to the storeroom now,” he says to Amara. “Leave us.”
She hurries out, not wanting to see Felix push Victoria back on the bed, and closes the door. Paris is outside on the balcony, scrubbing the floor with noticeably more vigour than usual. She tries to step clear of the suds and give him space, but he stops her, his thin face eager. “Did Felix tell you?” he says, getting to his feet and glancing up and down the corridor. “Did he tell you he’s sending me on a job? Not Thraso. Not Gallus. Me.”
Amara nods. She thinks about Felix’s reasoning, that Paris is less noticeable. No doubt he is also more expendable. She has little affection for her room-mate but also knows that Fabia’s unhappy son is going to be solely responsible for her safety tonight. “I told you he would start to use you more,” she says, flattering him. “It’s a big job he’s given you.”
“You’ll both have to do as I say,” he says, not sure if she is mocking him. “I’m the man; I’ll be in charge.”
“Of course.” Amara bows her head slightly to show him she understands. Paris swallows, flicking his eyes to Felix’s room, and she can see that for all his bravado he is also afraid. “You don’t have to do anything you will regret though,” she says, thinking again of Fabia, of all that the young man means to his mother. “You don’t have to put yourself in danger.”
Paris draws himself up to stand even taller, throwing his shoulders back like Gallus. “It’s what I was born for,” he says. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a woman.”
*
The day drags, but Amara still wants it to go on longer, doesn’t want darkness to come. She is not sure exactly what Felix has planned for Simo but knows he must intend to kill him. How else is he going to end the feud? Amara thinks about how close she is to leaving this place, the Saturnalia is only a few days away. She cannot die now, not when her escape is all but guaranteed. She thinks about trying to smuggle out a message to Rufus, or even Philos, begging one of them to come and get her. But who could she possibly trust to deliver it? Paris would see her if she tried to sneak out. And Felix’s rage would be terrible.
It is Victoria who finally comes to collect her from the storeroom. She is swathed in a veil, like a married woman. Though it looks more like a shroud. Amara’s heart starts to race with fear.
“I don’t think we should do this,” she says, not wanting to touch the veil Victoria is holding out to her. “What if somebody from Simo’s bar recognizes us? What if Maria or Attice come out?”
“He promised me we would be safe,” Victoria says, throwing the material over Amara’s head. “And anyway, what choice do we have? Let’s just get it over with.”
“But won’t Simo be watching the brothel? Won’t one of his spies see us leaving like this?”
“Paris is outside the door,” Victoria replies, fussing with the cloth, making sure Amara is covered properly. “He will check it’s clear and then open it. Felix said when that happens, we walk as quick as we can, up towards the well on the corner then round the back way to Simo’s bar.”
Amara wonders if Victoria is enjoying being in Felix’s confidence. The thought makes her bitter. She has to remind herself that she owes her friend her life, even if Victoria is now making her risk it all over again.
It is dark on the street, made worse by the material over her face that obscures what little light remains. They shuffle along, their hands to the wall, feeling their way. Paris is supposed to be following, but there’s no sign of him or his lamp to light the path. They skirt a small group at the well, somehow avoiding attention, and head further into a less familiar part of town.
“I don’t even know where the bar is,” Amara whispers. “I don’t know where we’re going!”
“Felix told me the way several times,” Victoria replies. “I’m sure I can get us there. And we don’t really have to keep watch; we’re more of a distraction.”
“Isn’t that worse?” Amara asks. Victoria doesn’t answer.
Simo’s bar is sitting in a pool of lamplight. A hanging bronze Priapus casts its sickly glow over the door. Simo must have repaired the place since Felix’s earlier attack. It seems full, several drinkers standing on the street in spite of the cold. Amara finds she is too scared to walk any closer. “Come on,” Victoria hisses, pulling at her arm. “Let’s just do this and get home.”
They stand together, sheltering in a small archway across the road. From the smell, Amara suspects they are not the first whores to work this spot. Victoria hitches her cloak and toga up, showing her bare legs, and after a pause, Amara does the same. At first, nobody notices, then a couple of the drinkers spot them. They point and laugh. A couple of men walk across.
“What’s with the covered faces?” one asks. “Too ugly to see?” Amara takes a step back. Both men reek of alcohol.
“We’re married,” Victoria says, her voice a plaintive whine. “We need to feed the children.”
“That’s what every woman says,” the man replies, hitching her cloak up further.
A third man passes by, stopping to see what’s going on. “Leave some cunt for me.”
Amara recognizes the voice. She squints through the weave of her veil. It’s the man with the white scar, the one she saw at the Palaestra with Felix, and again at the bar. He turns and saunters across the street, chatting with the remaining men outside, pointing at the women, urging them on. There’s laughter. The drinkers head over and then they are surrounding her and Victoria, jeering, yelling encouragement. Amara begins to panic.
One of the men already has her backed against the wall, pulling at her clothes. She looks over his shoulder, trying to see between the faces of the baying onlookers. Everything is grey and distorted through the fabric. The man with the white scar is standing alone outside Simo’s bar. She sees him reach up, take down the fiery hanging Priapus, swiftly light a torch from its flame. He starts setting fire to the timber frame of the building, waiting a moment until it starts to take hold. Then he flings the lamp through the door and runs off down the street.
At first, the men surrounding her aren’t distracted by the noise. Then customers pour out of the bar, yelling, pointing up at the burning building. The drunks finally start to realize what is happening. The man crushing her against the stone is dragged off by a friend, his anger at being interrupted quickly turning to alarm. Victoria and Amara are left alone as their tormentors scatter, adding to the chaos.
“We should leave now,” Amara says. “Quickly!”
“Felix asked me to make sure Paris finished the job,” Victoria says, grabbing her arm to stop her escaping. “Simo can’t leave here alive.”
Amara feels caught, too afraid to run back blindly on her own, even more terrified to stay. She clings on to Victoria. They huddle back into the hollow of the arch, watching. In the light of the flames, the gaggle of shouting men are more hindrance than help. Some rush back with water fetched from a nearby well, but a few buckets are not going to save the bar. She notices another familiar figure, the weaselly man from Felix’s protection racket. And Paris is there. She would recognize his scrawny form anywhere, even though his hood is up. They are both hanging around the doorway, looking like idle gawpers but, no doubt, checking who is coming out. It must be almost empty inside, the roar from the flames is getting louder, the heat oppressive even from the opposite side of the road.
Amara has never seen Simo before, but she knows it must be him from the way Paris and the other man take a step forwards. He is coughing, almost bent double from the smoke. Paris grabs him, as if to help, but shortly afterwards, Simo collapses in his arms. Paris lays him gently on the ground. Others rush forwards. Paris edges back, until he’s at the fringes of the crowd. Then he turns and walks quickly in the direction of the well.
“We have to leave now,” Amara says. “He must have stabbed him. It’s going to get worse.”
They don’t run but walk as fast as they dare. By now, people from the neighbouring buildings have spilled out onto the street, trying to stop the spread of the fire. A woman is screaming from an upstairs room. Sparks swirl in the heat, Amara is afraid their cloaks might catch fire. Then there’s a noise like thunder, a terrible crack as the roof of the bar collapses, the upwards rush of the flames. She looks back at the inferno in horror. Anybody still inside will not have survived.
Victoria tugs her arm, and they keep walking, leaving the light and the noise, slipping back into the darkness.
41
The pair of us were here, dear friends forever
Pompeii graffiti
Felix keeps Victoria upstairs with him after the fire, moving her into his room. A reward for helping him kill Simo. He barely acknowledges Amara’s role. She tells herself it doesn’t matter, that his coldness cannot hurt her if she hates him. It’s harder to watch Victoria, to see the way she opens up like a flower that has finally found the sun. In the mornings, Amara can hear her singing for Felix, imagines how she must be lying in his arms, gazing at him, pouring out all the love in her heart. The thought makes her furious.
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