Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“He must mean it as a parody, surely?” Umbricius is saying. “Fucking and shucking? It’s parody.”

Fuscus pulls her onto his knee. “Whatever it was, you looked adorable,” he says, kissing her.

Egnatius leads in the eight mime actresses, two carrying long flutes which Amara had not seen them play in their rehearsal. She settles back against Fuscus, curious to watch them perform. “My wife won’t like this,” Umbricius mutters. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The two flautists let out piercing blasts and the actresses leap into action, more cavorting than dancing. What story there is to the play seems to revolve around some prank played by Flora on her nymphs, though the dialogue is thin and hard to follow. Victoria would be better at this than any of them , Amara thinks, watching the lead actress leap into the fountain like a frog and splash the others who shriek with pre-rehearsed alarm. An unwanted memory of Victoria dancing with Drauca slips into her mind, and she shrinks back instinctively against Fuscus.

He misunderstands her. “Soon, little one,” he whispers in her ear.

By the end of the performance, the eight actresses have ended up sprawled over various men. Egnatius stands in the corner, taking stock of the room, sending a huddled group of slaves off to help where needed. It’s the end of the dinner, but some guests show no signs of leaving, while others rise to say their goodbyes or collect their wives. Many are so drunk, their slaves have to act as human walking sticks. Umbricius stands up, groaning as he takes the weight on his knees. “Best get the old girl home,” he says. “See you next week, Fuscus.” Amara watches him stagger over to his wife whose face suggests she won’t be waiting until they are home to share her thoughts about the evening.

Egnatius is hovering at the side of the couch. “Will you be joining the others?” he asks Fuscus.

“You know I never like to be watched.” Fuscus is a little unsteady as he pushes himself upright.

“Of course.” Egnatius helps Amara from the couch. He follows the direction of her anxious gaze. Quintus is arguing over Dido with the guest who claimed her at the end of their last song. “I will make sure she is safe,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her eyes meeting his as she stands. “For everything.” Egnatius winks. He is as sober as she is.

“The boy will show you both somewhere more relaxing,” he says, beckoning over one of the slaves.

Amara does not look back as the stranger leads her and Fuscus from the heaving dining room. They step into the cool night air, following their guide through the rose garden and into the darkened house.

Amara wakes to the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight on her face. She is alone on the bed. For a moment, she cannot remember where she is, then memories from last night hit her in a rush. She sits upright, clasping the sheets to her chest.

There is no sign of Felix. He must have left for the Palaestra without waking her.

Amara breathes out. The sounds of the street outside the brothel are loud, carts rattling, the babble of conversations. She must have slept until the afternoon.

She follows her memories of the night, like a series of scenes painted round a room. It was Gallus who brought her back to the brothel by torchlight in the early hours, after Fuscus had finished. They came alone, as Dido was still busy entertaining. She had not been expecting Gallus to show her upstairs, but presumed Felix wanted to claim any tips. At that time, it was no surprise to find him in bed, more surprising that he had waited up.

Amara feels her cheeks grow hotter. It had been a pleasure to boast about the success of the night, Egnatius’s promise to book them again, the tip Fuscus had given her. She had almost forgotten Drauca, sitting there with Felix, seeing his excitement at the money mirror her own. It was all the coins spread out on the bed that turned him on, she’s sure of that, and the sex wasn’t even that different from complying to his usual demands, though the lateness of the hour gave it an intimacy which was hard to ignore.

Even though she is alone, Amara covers her face with her hands in shame. When did she realize he wanted her to stay afterwards? Did she want to stay? Did she linger too long? Remembering her feelings is like opening a door onto the darkest part of herself. Felix had held her hand so tightly, was still holding it, so far as she knows, after she fell asleep.

“I hate him,” she tells the empty room. “I hate him.”

She trawls through her memories, remembering every cruelty, the times he has raped her, his violence. Drauca . But other images push through like weeds. The figs he bought her and Dido, the laughter in his eyes when she met him at the Palaestra, his excitement at her stories last night. The fit of his fingers in hers. Amara flops back on the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes. “I hate him,” she says again.

In the bright spots and blackness behind her eyelids, she conjures another memory, one that never existed, a vision brought to life solely by Felix’s voice. You could have been the goddess Diana, from the way you held yourself. As if you would call on your hunting dogs to tear apart every man who had dared to see you naked .

Amara feels her breathing grow easier, soothed by more familiar feelings. The rage she had been searching for is still burning. Felix has seen her, seen all her loneliness and need, but she will not be torn apart by him. “I hate you,” she says. “I will always hate you.”

She swings her legs out over the bed, the wood cool beneath her feet as she stands. Her expensive silk clothes are still folded in a neat pile on a nearby chair. She cannot wear those; it will have to be nothing but her cloak. With the palms of her hands, she smooths out the bed, flattening it, hoping to wipe out all trace of her presence. Then she slips from the room.

Dido is alone in the brothel when she goes downstairs. At the sound of Amara’s footsteps, she rushes into the corridor.

“ Are you alright ?” They ask one another the same question at the same time, then laugh.

“Did you spend the whole night with Fuscus then?” Dido says, leaning her back on the wall. She looks tired. “He seemed very keen.”

“I had to see Felix afterwards.” Amara says, glad she does not have to meet Dido’s eye as she changes into her toga. “But that was nothing; he was fine, pleased we had earned so much,” She changes the subject. “I want to know what happened to you! Egnatius said he would look after you; I hope he did.”

“He did,” Dido says. “As much as he could. You wouldn’t believe how odd that house is. Cornelius has a whole brothel at the end of his garden! A lot more luxurious than this place, and the paintings are better. But it’s a corridor with cells, hidden behind the baths. And the finest room has a window looking into another cell.” She makes a face. “He likes to watch .”

“I should think he was too drunk to do anything but watch,” Amara replies, grateful she only had Fuscus to entertain. He had been a dull lover but not a taxing one. Again, she can feel the warmth of Felix’s body lying close to hers and pushes the memory aside.

“It’s more than that,” Dido says, with a certainty about men’s tastes that would have been unthinkable a few months ago. “He’s a watcher. I’m not sure he ever does anything else, drunk or not.”

“Did you have to entertain a lot of customers?” Amara asks. “I hope they all tipped.”