Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“Really?” Quintus says. “How fascinating .”

“He didn’t have to marry her. Zoilus, I mean. But you know what he said to me”—the guest leans closer to them, almost toppling off the couch in his bleary state—“‘Nicia, he said, I couldn’t stand by and have men wipe their dirty hands on my Fortunata’s front at dinner like she’s a fucking napkin . Course I freed her, course I married her.’” Nicia raises his hand in a wobbly toast. “Too fucking right. That’s love, that is.”

“Beautiful,” murmurs Marcus. Amara can feel Quintus shaking bodily with laughter beside her.

“I know many songs about love,” she says. “Few reveal as much true devotion as Zoilus showed Fortunata.”

Nicia nods vigorously. “You’re right, that’s true. That’s true.”

Marcus has to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit. Quintus leans closer, breathing into her ear. “Perfect girl.”

Amara twists round and smiles at him. She understands, finally, how she can entertain all the audiences at this party. Quintus is far too ignorant to understand that she was sincere. She is safe to pay her respects to her host; the men who brought her will only imagine it’s mockery. A little more at ease with herself, Amara taps Dido’s arm. “Can you believe it here?” she whispers. She looks at the other guests, lounging on their couches beside the two streams. Dozens of oil lamps blaze with light and give off a heat that makes her nakedness easier to bear. Nobody else here is short of clothes. Some are sweating under the physical weight of their wealth. One woman wears a headband so heavy with jewels she is struggling to prop herself up on her elbow.

“We can’t sing that old folk song at a party like this,” Dido whispers back. “We can’t .”

“I think you’ll find you can,” Quintus says. “But first, here comes the old man’s novelty dish.” A troop of men in scarlet prance in, carrying an enormous platter on their shoulders, the way you would see slaves carry a litter in the streets. A huge pie sits on top, with a pastry lid crafted to look like a swan.

“Shame you were too late for the seafood.” Nicia sniffs. “Those sea urchins were really something.”

“How do you know Zoilus?” Dido asks him, unable to take her eyes from the monstrous pie.

“He’s my dearest friend. The times we’ve had together!” Nicia sounds maudlin. “Our old masters loved each other as boys. And the pair of them did alright for Zoilus and me in the end. Mine left me my freedom in his will, though not a fortune as well .” He swills his cup, holds it out for more wine. A boy in green scurries over with a large silver wine jug. “Not that old Ampliatus ever had all this. Zoilus can turn anything to gold. Always has done.” Amara cannot imagine Felix leaving her so much as a tunic in his will, let alone her freedom. The thought of him making her his heir is almost comical. “You watch now,” Nicia says to them, gesturing at the giant pie. “You’ll like this.”

The slaves guarding the pie stand aside as another man in red strides towards it brandishing an enormous knife. He bows to his master then skewers the pastry with a flourish, lifting the lid and standing back. He pauses. Something was evidently meant to emerge, but there’s no movement. The cook leans over, poking at the inside with his knife. A handful of sparrows fly out, dazed and twittering. Two don’t make it far from the platter before collapsing.

There’s a mortified silence. “Bravo,” Quintus yells, clapping from his couch. “ Bravo !” Other guests join in, hesitantly at first, but then the applause builds to a crescendo. Amara glances over at Zoilus, sees the gratitude on his face. Fortunata looks furious.

“Shame,” Nicia mutters. “It was meant to be a flock of sparrows, flying out for Venus. Must have smothered in the heat. That cook should have made bigger holes.”

Quintus swings his legs from the couch and stands up. “My most esteemed host, while the dish is served, I insist you enjoy the sweet delights of a musical performance.” He beckons over one of his own slaves who presents the lyre with a bow. Amara hopes the light is not strong enough to reveal what a cheap instrument it is. In this house of wrought silver and beaten gold it looks like a peasant’s plaything.

“Yes, thank you,” Zoilus says, nodding vigorously. “Delighted.”

Amara takes the lyre and helps Dido off the couch. They pause a moment, taking strength from one another. “We’ll sing Sappho’s hymn first,” Amara murmurs. “Aphrodite will smile on us; none of her worshippers are as beautiful as you.”

Amara walks purposefully towards the stream then steps over it, avoiding the floating oil lamps. Dido follows so they are standing side by side between the waterways at the centre of the gathering, light from the flames flickering on their skin. She feels grateful now that they left their togas at the door. She is not ashamed of her body the way she would have felt ashamed of her clothes. She whispers to Dido, and they both turn towards the host and bow.

Zoilus and Fortunata lie on their couch, watching. She knows she can neither speak to them with the crudeness of a whore nor the modesty of a doctor’s daughter. There is no language from her past or her present. She will have to fashion a new one.

“Our names are Amara and Dido,” she says, her voice cutting clearly through the tinkle of the water and murmur of the company. “We are your most grateful guests. We are here to celebrate Venus Pompeiiana. And in a garden of such beauty, the goddess of love would imagine herself in the groves of Olympus, should she choose to grace us here now with her presence.” She nods towards Fortunata, who looks away. “We are, as you can see, the lowliest of her servants. But tonight, on the Vinalia, even worshippers like us have our place.”

Amara takes the lyre, positions it in her arms, trying to ignore the plectrum trembling in her fingers. She strikes a chord. “And who better to praise Aphrodite, than the Tenth Muse, the Poetess of Lesbos?” She turns to smile at Quintus.

Amara and Dido begin Sappho’s song, nervously at first, but with each line, as they sing the verses back and forth, they find their own joy in the music. They sway to the rhythm, copying one another’s movements, just as they repeat each other’s phrases. Dido guides Amara to turn as they sing, focusing on different guests, drawing them in. The crowd are not entirely won over – Amara has given Fortunata up as a lost cause – but many of the men are clearly enjoying the performance.

At the end of the song, they bow and Zoilus claps. He looks relieved. Perhaps he had been expecting something else. “Charming, charming,” he says. “Very thoughtful of your father, Quintus.”

“You must let them finish with a comic turn,” Quintus replies. “All the best actresses do.”

Amara glances at Dido, who raises her eyebrows. What choice do they have? Nothing for it but to belt out Salvius’s folk number. Another flowery invocation to Venus feels excessive, so Amara begins strumming the strings of her lyre without explanation. Dido launches straight into the role of the shepherd, clasping her hands to her chest with a wail of mock despair. The guests look at each other, a little uncertain how to take the change in tone, but Amara beams round at them before ramping up the melodrama as the scornful mistress. Quintus and Marcus cheer loudly at each chorus, seeming to enjoy the performance even more than they did at the Forum. Other diners look less amused. But Dido’s collapse at the end manages to raise a few laughs, and best of all, the arrival of the sweet dishes brings their performance to a close without the need for laboured goodbyes.