Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

He begins again, not breaking it up this time, instead, letting them pick up the tune as he plays, as if they were back at The Sparrow. Amara throws herself into the music, even forgetting for a few moments that they are together for work rather than pleasure. She is expecting to perform it a third time, but Salvius stops a few notes in, almost as if he has forgotten what comes next. Dido’s voice trails off into the silence.

“That should be enough for now.” He turns his back to them, returning the flute to its box. Then he stands, resting his hands on the desk. “We can leave it there.” His tone is not unfriendly, but something has shifted. Amara wonders if they offended him in some way, or if he has simply remembered his work.

He faces them again, making an effort to smile. “I hope that gives you something to work on.”

Amara and Dido talk over each other in their effort to mollify him.

“It does! It was so helpful…”

“We’re very grateful, I hope we didn’t…”

Salvius waves away their thanks, ushering them both to the stairs. “I will send your master a message, to explain the arrangement.” They wait, expecting him to go down first, but he holds out his arm as a gesture for them to leave. “I have some business up here. Be careful how you go.”

At the brothel, Amara lets Dido do most of the talking. She watches Felix, his smile, the way he listens, his nods of encouragement. She sees Dido relax, lulled into thinking he is in a good mood, but all she can think about is Drauca. Destroying your enemies is all that matters . She stares at the bulls’ skulls on the wall, the shadows of their empty sockets. It is not until Felix turns to her that she realizes Dido has just offered to perform for him, and they are both waiting for her to pick up the lyre. She finds she cannot move.

“No need to be shy,” Felix says.

“We haven’t chosen the words yet,” she stammers. “Maybe we could practise a little first?”

“Music means nothing to me,” Felix shrugs. “I just want to know you’re working. Play next door if you like.”

Dido helps her up. “Thank you,” she says, answering for Amara who hasn’t spoken. “We appreciate it.” They walk out onto the balcony, and Dido slips an arm around her. “You shouldn’t be so afraid. He wasn’t angry today.”

“I don’t think you can ever know with Felix,” she mutters as they head down the corridor.

“ Amara .”

His voice stops them. Felix is standing in the doorway of his room. “A moment, before your singing. There is something I forgot to ask. No, not you,” he says as Dido turns to go back with her. “Take the lyre for her.”

Amara watches her own feet cross the painted wooden floor as she walks towards him. He takes her hand, guiding her over the threshold. “You didn’t tell her,” he says when they are inside. Amara says nothing. She knows it isn’t a question. He takes her chin between his finger and thumb, forcing her to look up. “There are many ways to spill a secret. Especially if you sit there like a quivering sheep. Do you understand?”

“You are threatening me not to be frightened?”

“That’s better. A bit of temper.”

She isn’t sure what she hates more, feeling afraid of him or sliding into familiarity. She pushes his hand away. “One of the waitresses at The Elephant wants a loan from you,” she says. “Two denarii.”

“ Two denarii? Why chase small change like that when you will be making me seventy next week?”

“It’s all money. Nobody got rich turning down a deal.”

“What’s the debt for?”

“An abortion.”

“And she can afford it?”

“She says so.”

“Like your fast-food seller.” Felix crosses to the desk, looks through the drawers until he finds the agreement with Marcella. “We’re still waiting for her. I didn’t think you were meant to be taking on any more debtors until the first had paid up?”

“But her loan isn’t due yet.”

“Don’t try it. You know her instalments have been too light. And I never accept late payments, particularly not from a woman .” He smiles, as if suddenly remembering he is not meant to be threatening. “But then, of course, it’s you who is collecting her payment, isn’t it? So she is quite safe. Until the day it’s late. Then the debt is mine.”

The room still holds the heat of the spring day and is much more crowded than Amara was expecting. A troop of mime actresses, all of them naked save for garlands of flowers, are practising their routine. She and Dido look overdressed in comparison, with their silvery robes and gilded bodies. One of the actresses glances at them sidelong then turns back to her friends, laughing through pretty fingers.

“I didn’t know there would be so many other performers,” Dido whispers.

Amara’s own fingers are sticky with paste. They had tried to decorate the lyre, and although it now shines golden, so do the palms of her hands. “It’s as well we look different,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Dido. “We couldn’t all be naked.”

“A few more flowers and you will be perfect .” It is a deep boom of a voice. Egnatius, the self-declared master of Cornelius’s entertainments. Amara is startled by his interruption; she didn’t notice his return, but there is no sign he took their mutterings amiss. Instead, he is now fussing with Dido’s hair, weaving the white roses he went to fetch between her curls. She has never seen a man wear so much make-up. His eyes are lined with kohl and the thick powder on his cheeks is cracked like badly dried plaster. The grooves cut deeper every time he smiles, which is often. “Such a pretty little thing,” he says, standing back to admire Dido. “I never saw a face more exquisite.” He turns to Amara, teasing his remaining flowers into her hair. “Except yours, of course , darling,” he drawls, raising his eyebrows. She finds herself laughing. Egnatius purses his lips, pleased to have amused her. He is standing so close, his breath is warm on her cheek and the smell of acacia pomade in his hair is almost overpowering. He tweaks the last rose behind her ear. “Now!” He claps his hands together in a theatrical gesture of excitement. “What will you two nymphs be singing for us this evening?”

“Several verses from Sappho,” Amara says. “A medley of songs about Flora and the spring and the tale of Crocus and Smilax.”

Egnatius nods. “Very pretty. Perhaps you could sing me a line or two, so I know where to place you?”

Amara begins to play Salvius’s Oscan song, which she and Dido have set to a well-known hymn to Flora. The mime actresses break off their own rehearsal out of curiosity, and Amara is gratified to see their expressions change from amusement to grudging recognition. She couldn’t ask for a higher compliment.

“Delightful!” Egnatius beams. “Your voices are as sweet as flowers falling from the mouth of Flora herself! Have you read any Ovid? Oh, you must, you must ,” he declares when they both shake their heads. “I will write you out some of Cornelius’s favourite verses for next time.”

Amara wishes she had known Cornelius had a favourite poet before this evening but is touched by Egnatius’s generosity. “Thank you,” she says.

“You are too kind,” Dido adds, laying her hand on his arm. Her sincerity is unmistakably genuine.

“You know,” Egnatius continues, “my master is something of a poet himself. He has composed a few lines for the Floralia, if you could find some way of weaving them in…” He reaches inside the folds of his cloak and brings out a roll of parchment.