Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“We could always ask Salvius for help,” Dido says.

“I wouldn’t know where to find him. Do you think Nicandrus might know?”

“He runs the ironmonger’s, the one near Modestus’s bakery. I think he owns it. I spent time with Priscus that night when you were talking to Menander. He told me where they both work.”

Amara feels a sharp tap on her back and spins round, angry, expecting it to be the builder come down from the ladder to try his luck. A young girl steps back in alarm, clutching an enormous bucket to her hip.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says. “But aren’t you from the Wolf Den? I’m sure I’ve seen you both at The Elephant before.”

Amara looks at her. She sees eyes smudged with blue and shoulders stooped with exhaustion. A memory surfaces. The same slight girl scurrying between customers at The Elephant, a nervous smile on her face. “Yes. You’re the waitress, aren’t you?”

“Pitane,” says the girl. “I don’t just wait tables though.”

“No.” Amara remembers Victoria’s taunt to Drauca, about the customers she has to service as well as serve. She turns away, not wanting to think about her former rival or remember her suffering.

“It must be hard work,” Dido says kindly. “The Elephant is always so busy. Have you got friends there?”

“Martha. She was my friend. But she died in childbirth. Hazard of the job, isn’t it?” Pitane is staring at them both, desperation in her face, willing them to understand. “I guess you must both know all about that, about how to avoid it. Or how to…” She trails off.

End it , Amara thinks. “Is it avoiding , you want to ask about?” Pitane shakes her head. Amara glances down at the girl’s waist, taking in her thin figure. “There’s a woman you can see. But don’t wait too long.”

“You don’t keep anything yourselves?”

“The herbs have to be fresh.”

“ Amara ,” Dido is shaking her head. “Not here.”

“I don’t have the money.” Pitane looks disappointed. “I thought you might keep the herbs, that you might spare me some, let me pay you back over time.”

“But why? Wouldn’t your master be pleased?” Amara says. “They’re usually happy to have home-grown slaves.”

“Martha took three days to die,” Pitane says. Amara and Dido exchange glances. Every woman understands the danger, the horror that childbirth can bring.

They have missed their place in the queue, but none of the three women rush to push back in. “If it’s money you need,” Amara says. “Then we might be able to help. But you have to be very sure you can pay it back.”

On their walk to the ironmonger’s Dido does not mention the deal Amara has just done, does not ask her whether Marcella has paid her debt yet, or when it’s due. But Amara can feel her palms sweating at the thought. She tells herself that there’s still time for Marcella to deliver, her debt isn’t late yet. And perhaps finding Pitane will incline Felix to patience.

They pass the bakery and stop at the ironmonger’s, listening to the clang of metalwork inside. “Do you think Salvius will even remember us?” Dido says.

“How many beautiful singers do you imagine he meets?” Amara replies, shifting the lyre higher in her arms, covering her nerves with bravado. It had been difficult to wrest the instrument from Paris. They had to pretend their music lesson was already arranged. No doubt he will drop them in it with Felix if the visit proves a failure. “ Of course he will remember.”

They walk past the front counter where a slave is busy with customers and head deeper inside. The flute player is at the back supervising an apprentice, helping him fashion a lamp stand, holding it steady while the boy hammers at the legs and giving the odd word of encouragement. He is as Amara remembers, the same kind manner and greying hair. The two women wait, not wanting to disturb him.

When Salvius looks up, she can see him take a moment to place them, but then he smiles. “This is unexpected,” he says. “The lovely singing sparrows. What can I do for you?”

“We wanted to ask a favour.” Amara holds up the lyre as an explanation, hoping to pique his curiosity.

Salvius walks over, wiping oil from his hands onto his leather apron. “If you’re looking for an accompanist, I only play the flute.”

“I would be playing,” Amara says. “We were hoping you might teach us some tunes.”

“We would pay for your time,” Dido adds.

“Flavius,” he calls to his apprentice. “Keep working on the feet, please. Just how I showed you.” He turns back to the two women. “Let’s talk.”

They follow him, climbing the narrow wooden stairway to the floor above. “I’m not much of a musician,” he says. “You might be disappointed. Where will you be playing?”

Salvius’s living room is painted in warm shades of yellow. A procession of swans fly from panel to panel and tiny larks are painted around the skirting. He sits on a bench, inviting them to take the one opposite. “It’s a party, much grander than anything at The Sparrow,” Amara says. “On the first day of the Floralia. We were thinking of setting poetry to some popular tunes.”

“Mixing high and low?” Salvius asks.

“Yes,” Dido nods.

“Sounds fun. But what will you pay me? Or should I ask how will you pay me.”

“That depends what you would prefer.” Amara slips her toga off one shoulder, not far enough to show much but enough to make her point. She hopes he will take the bait. Salvius is not an unattractive man, but her reason for wanting him has little to do with desire and everything to do with saving money.

“Deferred payment would suit me best,” Salvius replies. “An evening or two of your company, here, at my house.” He nods at Dido. “I will invite Priscus.”

Amara has no idea how Felix will react to this proposal, evenings are their most lucrative hours, but before she can suggest seeking their master’s approval, Dido answers. “We would be delighted.”

“I cannot spare too long today. Perhaps enough time to teach you a couple of tunes depending how quick you are.” He rises, walking to a desk covered in clutter. His back is turned. They can hear him rifling through pots and boxes before he returns with the flute. “There are so many songs about spring,” he says. “This one is Oscan. I don’t suppose either of you speak the language?” Salvius looks hopeful, and Amara wonders if Campania’s ancient tongue is also his own.

“No.”

“Nevermind. You can adapt the tune as you wish.”

Salvius begins piping. He is a more skilled musician than Amara remembers. She can hear the trill of birdsong in his tune, the sigh of the wind, and imagines Flora dancing, half glimpsed through the trees, in the repeated haunting melody. He stops, taking the flute from his lips. “Again? Or shall we go through it, line by line?”

Amara is nervous she will not match him. She picks up the lyre. “Let’s go through it.”

He is a patient teacher. He breaks the tune down for them, waiting for Amara to find the corresponding notes, nodding when she chooses chords that fit. Dido sings the melody note by note, committing it to memory. Their version is nothing like as lovely as his reed pipe solo, but it is enough to take away and polish.

“How about something a little more playful?” Salvius asks. They nod. He pauses, breathing in deeply, flute poised. Then he begins. This time he bobs and sways, closing his eyes at the higher notes. It is not beautiful like the first tune, but Amara can immediately see the potential. It is a tease of a song, perfect for her and Dido to play to one another. She takes up the lyre, daring to join Salvius as she anticipates the repeated melody. “I thought you might like that,” he says, when they reach the end.