Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

It’s early afternoon, the sun baking the filth in the road, sharpening the smell of manure left by passing horses and pack mules. “Where should we go?” Dido says. Her face is bright with excitement as they head down the street, the back way that joins onto the Via Pompeiiana. “How many outfits can we buy?”

“I guess just one to start with, in case we don’t get more bookings.”

“Don’t let Felix ruin this.” Dido stops, her expression earnest. “Don’t be unhappy. We have so little.”

“You’re right,” Amara says, making an effort to smile. “Let’s try Cominia’s place. I’ve always wanted to go inside.”

The dressmaker’s is on the town’s main shopping street, not far from Rusticus’s lamp store. All the women like to visit from time to time, to loiter at the front billowing with fabrics, softer and finer than anything they can hope to wear. A small, round portrait of a younger Cominia, painted high up on the second storey, looks over her empire. Dido goes first, pushing through a tunnel of hanging material.

Inside, their eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Cominia herself is busy at the main counter with a customer, a matron whose slave lurks behind, ready to carry the load home. The two she-wolves stand, watching, unsure what to do.

“How can we help you, ladies?” A young assistant appears at Dido’s elbow. She is thin, with a small, sharp-featured face. Her expression is polite but firm. If they cannot afford anything, they had better leave.

“We need clothes suitable for the Floralia,” Amara says. “To entertain at a dinner party.”

“You will be guests?”

“No,” Dido says. “We will be… singing.”

“I understand,” the assistant says with a bow. “I am Gaia. Please come with me.”

They follow Gaia, who parts some heavy grey linens hanging at the back of the shop, revealing another smaller room behind. It is much darker in here, and an oil lamp is burning. “I know exactly what you need.” Gaia’s tone is business-like. She has clearly decided these are not customers who need sweet-talking. “We supply a lot of actresses and concubines. This is by far the most popular fabric.”

She is holding up a silvery material, so fine it is transparent. Gaia runs a hand gently underneath, demonstrating its translucence. “Assyrian silk,” she says. “With a silver weave. You can see everything through it. If you want to tease, you can buy more fabric and fold it, making it opaque as required.” She shows them, deftly manipulating the silk so that her skin is half-hidden in a glittery sheen.

“How do you fasten it?” Amara says, too nervous to touch the flimsy fabric. “Wouldn’t a brooch tear it?”

“We sell special pins. I can show you how to fix it. But it doesn’t tear that easily – the weave is tight.” Gaia looks at them a little impatiently. “Are you going to try it on or not?”

Amara and Dido step out of their togas, letting Gaia dress them. They watch each other closely, trying to memorize how to fold the material when they are alone. Gaia gets out a tray of pins. “We go from the basic model”—her finger points at a round stud—“to something more delicate.” Her hand travels to the other end of the tray, with its shaped birds and dragonflies.

“We could try the bird model for now,” Amara says to Dido. “It fits with singing. Don’t you think?”

Gaia pins the fabric in place for them both. They stand apart, looking each other up and down. “It’s like wearing a cobweb!” Dido says.

“That’s part of the magic,” Gaia replies. “The men love it, trust me.”

“Do that again,” Amara says to Dido who has just moved nearer the light. She obeys. “It’s lit you up! You’ve gone completely silver.”

They both walk round the flame, admiring each other, moving to make the silk change colour, feeling it rustle against their skin. “If you really want to make an impact,” Gaia says, “we have this.” She gets out a small jar from the cabinet, opens it for them both to see. Inside is a thick gold paste. “For the eyes,” she says. “And also to gild the nipples.”

There is very little left from Nicia’s coin when Amara and Dido leave Cominia’s shop. They buy the largest jar of gold paste on offer, planning to decant some into another pot for the others to use.

“We’ll have to give the dresses to Felix,” Dido says, holding her parcel close to her chest. “We can’t risk leaving them lying round the brothel. One of the customers will steal them.”

“He wanted proof of where we spent the money anyway,” Amara replies. They are walking the main road home, and she knows they will soon be passing the lamp shop. She is desperate to stop.

“Isn’t that where Menander works?” Dido says.

“Oh, yes.”

“Give me that.” Dido motions for Amara to hand over her new dress. “Why don’t you go in?”

“I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t.” Amara hesitates, half-craning to get a view into the shop while they tussle with the fabric. Menander is inside. She gives up and lets Dido take her parcel. It takes him a while to see her loitering on the street. He is with a customer and gestures for her to wait.

“We were just passing,” Amara says when he comes out, anxious to include Dido. “And we wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“Yes. Because you got us to sing. Our master was listening, and he bought the lyre.” Amara remembers the street musician’s face and hopes Felix did really pay for it. “And now we are booked to sing at the Floralia. At a party.”

None of it is quite what she wanted to say. But at least she is talking to him. “I’m glad he bought you the lyre,” he says. “You played it so beautifully.”

“ Menander !”

“I can’t stay now.” He looks nervously over his shoulder. “Can I write to you? On the wall, outside The Sparrow?” He lowers his voice. “I will use Timarete and Kallias, so nobody knows.”

“Yes,” Amara says. “Yes.”

Menander turns and hurries back inside without saying goodbye.

The line at the well stretches along the street. Not that anyone is paying much attention to waiting their turn. Amara and Dido don’t bother to shove ahead with the rest, loitering in the late morning sunshine instead. It’s not the most restful place to stop. Hammering, banging and shouting rings out from one of the grander houses nearby. It has been dilapidated for as long as Amara can remember, the owners killed in a terrible earthquake, or so Victoria told her. Somebody new must have bought it, decided to spend their money on decking it out like a palace. One of the team of builders leans out from his ladder, whistling at her and Dido. They ignore him. He won’t be buying a woman for hours. Barely worth their notice.

“Everyone liked the gold,” Dido says, raising her voice to be heard. “They all used it last night, didn’t they?”

“Beronice certainly did,” Amara says, remembering the way Beronice had smeared it copiously around her eyes, and her fury when Victoria laughed at her. That’s what men in this stupid town expect Egyptian women to look like! Beronice had insisted, face sparkling like a temple statue. Amara cannot imagine how small Pompeii must feel to Beronice after growing up in a great city like Alexandria, although as a slave, perhaps she never saw much more than the house where she worked. Victoria and Cressa had shared the new pot too, but Amara suspects it will take more than gold paste to smooth over the others’ envy. The shift in power to the Wolf Den’s newest women has unsettled everyone. “Felix will want us to practise for Cornelius today,” she says. “We have to come up with some other songs.”