Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

Felix slips between them, swift as smoke. “The girls are mine,” he says, bowing low. Amara has never seen him speak with men of this class before. He is slighter than the two drunks, but she knows who would win in a fist fight.

“Perfect for Zoilus, don’t you think?” The man says to his companion, barely acknowledging her master’s presence.

The other laughs hysterically, slapping his thighs. “You have to, Quintus! You have to!”

Quintus smiles at Felix, the sort of grimace the rich reserve for servants. “How much to rent the pair for the evening?”

“The whole night?” Felix asks. Amara understands he is playing for time, trying to assess how far he can push it. She feels the warmth of Dido’s body press closer to hers. Their proper role in this exchange is silence, but there are other ways to communicate. She answers with a brief brush of the fingertips.

“Of course the whole night, man! We want them to adorn our esteemed host’s party!” His companion again collapses into guffaws. “You must have heard of Zoilus?” Quintus continues with a smirk. “Foremost freedman in Pompeii.”

Felix is himself a freedman. Amara suspects that neither Quintus, nor his friend, have any slaves in their own ancestry. Her master inclines his head graciously. “For such a host,” he says. “Fifty denarii.”

The man called Quintus doesn’t flinch. “Done.”

“Of course, if you want the lyre as well,” Felix replies. “That will be another twenty.”

Even Quintus is not such a fool as to miss the fact he’s been tricked, but he clearly doesn’t wish to haggle like a grocer. “Very well,” he replies. “You can have twenty now as surety for the rest.”

It is Felix’s turn to hesitate. Amara hopes he is not going to whip out a wax tablet, insist the men sign a promise for the extra cash in their own blood. Twenty is already more than she and Dido would earn overnight at the brothel. And surely, he must understand that men like this trade on their names all the time? Felix gives another bow. “For such honoured customers, my pleasure.”

Quintus snaps his fingers and several men in the crowd hurry over. Of course this pair wouldn’t go anywhere without a retinue of slaves for protection. “Twenty for the gentleman ,” he says, nodding at Felix, and the oldest slave takes out a purse, well-hidden under his cloak. Thraso steps in beside the line of men, ensuring the trade is screened from view. Behind them, she can see the musician craning to get a look, no longer smiling at her. Gallus is at his elbow. They must have already cut a deal for the gift of his lyre. She hopes it was based on promises rather than threats.

“Quintus Fabius Proculus,” says their temporary master, showing Felix his signet ring. “Where shall I send the payment?”

“To Gaius Terentius Felix Libertus at the establishment opposite The Elephant Inn.”

“The Wolf Den?” Quintus begins laughing so hard, Amara thinks he will choke. “Marcus! We did a deal with the town brothel! Wait until I tell the others we brought Zoilus a pair of she-wolves!”

Felix does not defend his business, the promise of a small fortune no doubt providing enough balm to soothe his pride. Amara knows she should also say nothing but wants to reassert her presence. “I hope we will still be pleasing to you.” She lowers her head, looking up at the men through dark eyelashes. “We only wish to serve.”

“ Darlings .” Marcus puts an arm around her and Dido, breathing wine in their faces. “You are perfect .”

Dusk has cast its haze over the streets as they walk to Zoilus’s house, the stone buildings darkening into silhouettes against the orange sky. Amara had been surprised by just how many men in the crowd belonged to Marcus and Quintus. Six slaves now follow behind, a silent, protective troop, while two more go ahead with oil lamps. Quintus has her arm; Marcus has taken ownership of Dido.

“What are you doing working for that greasy little pimp?” Quintus asks, helping her over a stepping stone. “You’re both so pretty. Lovely voices too.”

“Thank you,” Amara replies. His denigration of Felix gives her a strange feeling. For all her hatred, she realizes she must share some sense of identification with him. He does own her, after all. “I used to be free. In Attica. My father was a doctor in Aphidnai.”

“Your old pa didn’t teach you Sappho’s songs though,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“No. I learnt that as a concubine.”

“Yes, I’m sure you know plenty of tricks.” He stops to look at her more closely. The slaves in front also come to a halt, attuned to their master’s movements. “Has anyone ever told you what beautiful lips you have? Red, like the heart of a pomegranate.”

Amara understands the role he wants her to play. She smiles, dark eyes promising all he might wish to see.

“Hey!” Marcus complains, thumping his friend on the back to interrupt their kiss. “We’re already late for Zoilus.”

“Fuck’s sake. Not like you’ve got an armful of one of the prettiest fucking whores I’ve ever seen,” Quintus replies, as they start walking again. “You’re lucky I took this one.” He shrugs at Amara in apology. “No offence. She is more beautiful. You just have the sexier mouth. I like that.”

Amara laughs. “And you’re bold,” she says. “I like that too.” Quintus purses his own lips in pleasure. It always amazes her the way men accept flattery from a prostitute. Though in this case it’s not a complete lie. She can see Marcus and Quintus are different from the rich men at the baths. No doubt, by the end of the night, they will expect the same service, but a whole evening of entertainment, conversation and singing is the prelude. Her heart beats faster, and she glances back anxiously at the slaves carrying her lyre. It’s a long time since she has felt this alive.

They have walked down the length of the Via Veneria to the less fashionable end of town, not far from the Palaestra. The two lamp-bearing slaves stop outside a tall doorway, its massive wooden doors set ajar. Light from inside shines dimly on the marble doorstep.

“How are we going to do this?” Quintus asks Marcus. “The clothes are part of the joke, but it’s almost funnier if he doesn’t notice what they are.”

“Isn’t the old man’s wife going to kick up a bit of a stink if we walk in with two naked girls though?” Marcus looks nervously at Dido. Amara wonders what they both talked about on the walk from the Forum.

“It’s the Vinalia! Girls are meant to be naked!” Quintus protests. He turns to Amara. “What do you think?”

Both men are looking at her, waiting for an answer. Briefly, she considers the state of her and Dido’s clothes. The colours are bright, but she knows the fabric marks them out instantly as cheap. There are few crimes as great in Pompeii as poverty. A naked entrance will trumpet their status as prostitutes, but perhaps not as objects of total contempt. She tilts her head towards Dido, a silent question, and gets a little shrug in answer. Amara smiles broadly at Quintus. “I say naked .”

He whoops with delight, helping her out of her cloak and handing it to one of the long-suffering slaves in his retinue. Then he gets to work enthusiastically on her toga, removing it in a couple of tugs. Amara notices the clothes-bearer is the old man with the purse. He averts his eyes rather than look at her.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asks Dido, undoing her brooch, fingers fumbling from drunkenness. “You don’t mind?”