Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

Dido is upset. Amara already knows she finds this impossible to imagine, but for Beronice and Victoria who were born into slavery, it is less shocking. “Who did she sell you to?” Victoria asks.

“A local man called Chremes. One of my father’s former patients. My mother thought he would be more respectful because he had known my father. Chremes promised her I would be a protected house slave, that eventually I could regain my freedom.” Even then, as a girl with no experience of men, Amara had suspected that this was a lie. She had seen the sly way Chremes had looked at her as a child, complimenting her father on such a fine daughter. His eyes made her uncomfortable although she could not name the reason. “My mother asked Chremes to buy her too. He refused.” Amara cannot bear to think of her mother any longer. “So, it’s not just Felix,” she says. “He’s not the only man I hate.”

“These fish are so salty.” Beronice stands up. “I’m going to the water fountain for a drink.”

The others barely notice her leave; they are too caught up in Amara’s story. “Chremes obviously had you as a concubine,” Victoria says, her understanding of the world a thousand times sharper than Amara’s mother’s. “I just don’t understand why he sold you. You’re young; you’re beautiful. He can’t possibly have got bored that quickly.”

“His wife Niobe was jealous. She insisted.” Amara prefers not to remember that Chremes never even said goodbye, or the moment she understood Niobe had sold her not as a house slave, but as a whore .

“I don’t like to disrespect your mother,” Dido says. “But I can’t understand her. Better to have starved together. A woman’s honour is the most precious gift she has.” She looks out to sea, as if she half expects to see the North African coastline instead of endless blue. “Every day I want to be home – I dream of it, I see it, I hear my parents’ voices. But it’s impossible. The shame of who I am now. If I went back, it would kill them.”

“My parents didn’t believe all the stories of the gods,” Amara replies. She looks at Dido’s earnest face and for once feels distant from her. She thinks of her father’s work, of his patients – those he saved and those he didn’t – and of the agony of his own death when he knew he was leaving his family behind. She understands the grief Dido feels at the loss of her innocence but doesn’t share the profundity of her shame. “We only have life, nothing else matters beyond that,” she says. “Not honour, not anything. My mother sold me to ensure my survival.”

“And you’re alive ,” Victoria says. She reaches over to take Amara’s hand, her grip fierce. Then she smiles, lifting the darkness of the conversation. “But I still think I win this one. You say men are the worst, but it isn’t true! The worst person in this story is that bitch, Niobe. Chremes was just like any other fool, thinking with his cock. Men are so predictable.” Amara looks at Victoria, her profile backlit by the sun, chin raised. Unconquered , she thinks, like her name .

“How do you know you were a rubbish-heap baby?” Dido asks.

“That’s what the other slaves in the house told me,” Victoria replies. “I was the only one who never had a mother.” She shrugs at Dido’s horrified face. “It’s not that bad. Lots of slaves don’t have any parents. Though I did ask why not once, and the cook told me she picked me up when she went to the dump one morning. Thought I was dead until I started screaming. Nearly dropped me with fright.” Victoria glances at Amara. “Your mother was wrong to think being a house slave is a better life than being a concubine. Ask Beronice about her first mistress in Alexandria, if you don’t believe me.”

They turn round to where Beronice was sitting then realize she is still not back. “She’s been a long time getting a drink,” Dido says.

“Shit,” Victoria scrambles to her feet. The others follow. They never make solo trips to the harbour, a group is always safer. So many men who have been cooped up at sea are roaming around, suddenly released on shore, hungry for what they can get. A recipe for violence.

The three of them walk swiftly along the colonnade towards the water fountain, calling Beronice’s name. There’s no sign of her. They go back along the waterfront and the docks, ignoring the whistles and attention from the men they should be trying to catch. “Perhaps she went for more food?” Amara suggests. They head towards town, walking through the narrow alleyways of the fishermen’s quarters. It’s almost empty here, most of the men are out at sea. They are about to turn back when they hear a woman screaming.

“Beronice!” Victoria yells. They run further in, and there, under an arch in a narrow side street, is Beronice. She is on her knees trying to fend off two men. Victoria starts shrieking, making an astonishing amount of noise for one small woman. Amara and Dido join in, yelling as loud as they can. “ Murder, murder !” Victoria wails. A few doors open. The two men back off.

“For fuck’s sake,” one bellows at the screeching trio. “She was selling!”

“And you weren’t paying!” Beronice shouts back, getting to her feet.

Both men look round, unhappy at the sudden attention. One spits at Beronice. “Fuck you, you lying Egyptian whore!” He scrabbles in his leather purse and throws down a coin before running off, his companion close at his heels. Beronice bends to pick up the money.

Victoria runs over to her as she straightens up, but instead of embracing her, she slaps Beronice hard across the face. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“There was only one customer!” Beronice protests, clutching her cheek. “Then his friend tried to get in for free.”

The few people who had ventured out to see what was going on realize it’s just a women’s brawl rather than the excitement of a dead body. They head back to their lives, grumbling at the false alarm. “You could have been killed!” Dido says. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s for Gallus! I don’t want him getting in trouble for not paying.” Beronice’s three friends gawp at her. She is wide-eyed, her hair wild where one of the men must have grabbed it. She puts both hands to her chest with passionate sincerity. “He loves me,” she says. “Don’t you understand? He loves me.”

Victoria stands with her hands on her hips, facing Beronice, ready for battle, but the sight of her foe clutching her heart like a tragic actress turns her anger into amusement. “Beronice, you amaze me. Of all the whores in the world, you’re the only one stupid enough to pay her own customers.” She turns and the rest of the women follow, heading back to the harbour where there are still men waiting to be caught.

The days pass, the weather grows warmer, The Sparrow’s vegetable stews become more varied, campaign slogans spring up across town for the March elections. Life in the brothel rolls on in all its bleak monotony. Amara tries to learn from Victoria, watches how she charms men, attracting the same locals back time after time. Rusticus the potter, Phoebus the perfume seller, Manlius from the fast-food store. All of them tipping her with gifts and treats rather than money, goods that Felix won’t take. Amara observes Victoria’s every movement, until she knows her friend’s face and body better than her own. She even tries to copy the way she moans.