Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

Amara restrains herself from seizing it. “We would be more than delighted.”

Egnatius hands over the small scroll. Amara unrolls it, and she and Dido huddle round. For a moment, she cannot believe what she is reading. Then the words bring a stab of fear. She looks up sharply at Egnatius. “You are certain he will be pleased to hear this recited.”

He meets her eyes, and the unspeakable truth passes between them. “I am certain.” He bows. Then Egnatius gestures towards the mime actresses who are still busy with their rehearsal. “Ladies, goddesses and nymphs, I look forward to being entertained by you all. You will be sent for in the order you are required.” He turns back to Amara and Dido. “I will make sure you have enough time to learn the verses.”

“But it’s terrible ,” Dido says, when he has gone. “How can we stand there and sing this stuff?”

Amara can feel herself sweating under her flimsy clothes. “We will just have to make it work. At least it’s not very long. That last song Salvius taught us, could we sing it to this?”

“I suppose,” Dido says, looking miserable. “But when?”

“At the end. When most of the guests are drunk.”

The mime actresses are standing crowded together in their cloaks to escape the evening chill by the time Egnatius returns to call Amara and Dido in to dinner. There are not many oil lamps where they have been waiting, and Amara finds herself blinking as they pass into the brighter parts of the house.

“You look glorious,” he says, leading them through a bewildering procession of rooms. The place is so large they did not even hear the guests arrive. Somewhere in this labyrinth, she knows Paris and Gallus are waiting out the long night to escort them safely home. Their value to Felix has gone up substantially. “Quite ravishing . Both as lovely as Flora herself.”

Amara has the feeling Egnatius compliments everyone who comes to perform for Cornelius but is still grateful for his encouragement. They are walking too quickly for her to absorb all her surroundings. There is immense wealth here, but no table groaning with silver at the entrance as there was at Zoilus’s house, instead when they reach the main hall, panel portraits of Cornelius’s ancestors line the walls. She can hear laughter and snatches of song.

“Through to the garden,” Egnatius murmurs, ushering them along. “I find it works best if you move between couches as you perform. And don’t be afraid to involve the guests. Or to accept any invitations .”

Dido looks at Amara. Neither of them are sure whether Egnatius means an invitation to share the wine or something else. The air is heavily scented with roses. Their branches have been trained around the walls in trellises, making a pattern of green splashed with colour, reminding Amara of her mother’s skill in weaving the threads on her loom. Cornelius’s dining room is open to the garden on two sides, its walls and ceiling painted with the same flowering rose trees which grow in the front courtyard. The garden behind is so vast it is almost a meadow.

They draw closer. The guests’ bright clothes blur and shimmer, seen through a screen of water. A fountain cascades from a giant conch shell held up by three marble nymphs. Amara realizes that the details on their naked bodies are gilded, not unlike the gold she and Dido have smeared on themselves.

Egnatius nods at the fountain. “I told you you were perfect,” he says, raising his eyebrows. They walk past the nymphs and wait at the edge of the gathering. The atmosphere is more relaxed than their last party. There is also a clear imbalance towards men, with only four or five women present. Cornelius is laughing loudly at something his neighbour has said, at ease with his role as host. She sees him flick his eyes in their direction, but he waits for another guest to finish his anecdote before acknowledging their presence.

“My dear friends,” he says, raising his voice. “We have Marcus and Quintus to thank for finding us these two lovely musicians.” Amara follows the direction of his finger as he points across the room. She sees their Vinalia lovers reclining on a couch, both looking rather less keen to be associated with the she-wolves now than they did at Zoilus’s house. “Our boys were quite taken by these two songbirds.” Cornelius beckons her and Dido over. “Or would that be nymphs of Flora?”

Egnatius has stepped back, melting into the other attendants serving the party. “Yes,” Amara says, picking up on the host’s playful tone. “We learnt our songs from the goddess of spring herself.” She glances back at the fountain. “In our former life as dryads.”

“So many nymphs these days have a taste for gold,” Cornelius replies. “Will you earn yours this evening?”

Both women bow. “Flora is a goddess of pure pleasure,” Amara replies, striking her lyre with the plectrum. “And that is all we intend to give.”

She and Dido slowly walk over to where their former lovers are reclining, while Amara plays the first notes of Salvius’s spring tune. Amara sits on the edge of the couch, smiling coyly at the two men. They both laugh, less nervous now. Quintus rests one hand on her knee, pinching the silk between his fingers. Her closest neighbours are all listening, but she notices that some across the room are still chatting. She begins to play in earnest, and Dido takes up the melody. Her voice rings out clear and sweet, silencing more of the company.

They arranged the Oscan song almost solely for Dido’s voice. She weaves through the couches as she sings, plucking flowers from her hair and handing them to guests as she passes. For a moment, Amara worries she looks almost too pure and graceful – Flora is the goddess of sex not poetry – but Dido has been working long enough for Felix to know how to behave. There is more than a hint of Victoria in the way she bends to drop a rose in Cornelius’s lap.

“You should have given one to my wife,” he says, pulling Dido closer to kiss her when the song is finished. “For all the children she’s given me.” It should be a compliment, but Amara can sense an unpleasant edge to his tone.

“You have a fine son,” a woman replies from another couch, her voice querulous. She is younger than Cornelius and painfully thin. Even the brightly coloured dress she wears, bunched in fat folds of expensive fabric, cannot hide how tiny she is underneath. Lying beside her is another woman, a little older, scowling ferociously. A friend, or perhaps even her mother. Amara still finds it difficult to understand the Roman custom of respectable women attending mixed dinner parties. Her own father would never have insulted his family by insisting they join him.

“Thank you, Calpurnia. Yes, one son after an abundance of girls.”

“And delightful girls they are too,” another man declares. “A credit to you both.”

“Women have their uses,” Cornelius replies, letting go of Dido. “Will you sing another song, little dryad?”

“Would you like a story?” Dido asks, glancing over her shoulder at him as she walks back towards Amara. “We can tell you the tale of Crocus and his love for Smilax.”

“And we will sing of the goddess Flora who gave the unhappy lovers new life,” Amara adds, finally breaking away from Quintus whose wandering hands have made her fearful for her expensive clothes.

Dido heads towards the fountain and Amara follows. In the lamplight, their figures must blend with the marble nymphs, she thinks, the hint of nakedness, the sparkle of gold on their bodies. She begins to play and, as always, watches Dido’s transformation with wonder. The way she stands, so unlike herself, is both comic and somehow sinister. She could almost be one of their customers at the brothel, singing the role of the mortal Crocus in a parody of thwarted masculine lust.