Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“It was mainly Quintus,” Dido replies. “Cornelius wouldn’t let that really drunk one in. I think he just wanted to watch the women with younger men.”

“His poor wife,” Amara says, imagining all Calpurnia must have endured with such a husband. “Did you hear the way he spoke to her?”

“She has a family, wealth, the respect of other women,” Dido replies with surprising sharpness. “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her.”

All the things Dido wants , Amara thinks. And the two she wants most, she will never have. Amara knows she herself would gladly settle for wealth at the expense of the rest. Respect and family did not, in the end, save her or her mother in Aphidnai.

The voices of the other three women float through the window moments before they step into the brothel.

“You won’t believe the news!” Beronice exclaims as soon as she is inside. “Drauca is dead!”

“ Dead ?” Amara repeats with genuine surprise.

Life is cheap and a slave’s life most of all. Dido, who didn’t know about the fight, is curious but not shocked. “I didn’t know she was ill,” she says.

“She wasn’t sick,” Victoria says. “ Murdered .”

“No!” Dido grips Amara’s arm. This hits closer to home. The threat of a violent customer always casts a long shadow.

“Some drunks turned over Simo’s bar at the Vinalia,” Victoria goes on, as all the others huddle round. “Drauca got caught up in it.”

“She died on the Vinalia?” Dido asks.

“No, a couple of days ago,” Cressa chips in. “She was in a bad way. Maria was at the baths today. She thinks Simo did it, though he denies it. He couldn’t bear to look at her face anymore. It was all…” She trails off.

“She lost an eye,” Victoria says. “Some cunt took out her fucking eye .”

Amara understands the anger. Victoria didn’t like Drauca, hated her even, but this is violence against one of their own. That a man held Drauca’s life so cheap, reflects on all of them. “I imagine Felix would have done the same as Simo,” she says. “If it had been one of us.”

Victoria explodes. “Why do you have to make it about Felix?” she shouts. “Simo kills Drauca, and you turn it on Felix! Can’t you give it a fucking rest for once?”

There are tears in Victoria’s eyes. Her hands, as she pulls them through her hair, shake with agitation. She knows it’s true , Amara thinks.

“We should go out,” Cressa says, moving between them. “Amara, come with me.”

Amara obeys, her own emotions too churned up to do anything but follow. They set off, passing the afternoon crowd at the fountain. Amara’s heart feels heavier to drag along than an overflowing bucket.

“Where are we going?” she asks at last, as they cross the Via Veneria. It’s a sweltering day, the afternoon sky almost white in the heat. They walk on the shady side of the road, hugging the walls of the buildings they pass.

“I don’t know,” Cressa says. “A bar, if you like? I could do with a drink.”

“There’s a fast-food place near the theatre,” Amara says. “I know the landlady.”

“Fine,” Cressa says. She takes Amara’s hand and squeezes it. “Don’t take it personally with Victoria, will you? She was just upset.”

“She’s upset because she knows it’s true. Felix doesn’t give a shit about any of us!” A respectable wife swerves out of their way, tutting. Amara has a sudden, vivid image of meeting her own mother on the pavement. What would she think of her daughter, swearing like a whore on a street corner? I am a whore on a street corner , Amara thinks. The absurdity almost makes her want to laugh.

“Can’t you feel sorry for her then?” Cressa says. “Considering.”

“I suppose,” Amara replies, not sure why Victoria’s anger is more deserving of sympathy than anyone else’s. A sudden wrench of anxiety stops her, and she rests her hand against the wall to steady herself. Unless Victoria has guessed who is really responsible for trashing Simo’s bar and blames Amara? You were the one who suggested turning his bar over in the first place . They were both with Felix when Amara hinted Simo should pay for the slight at the baths. Does Victoria remember what was said?

“She’ll get over it,” Cressa says, mistaking the drawn look on Amara’s face. “Let’s just have a drink. It will make you feel better.”

Marcella’s place makes The Sparrow look grand. It’s nestled in a side street to catch passing trade from the theatre, with very little room to do anything but stand and nurse a flask of wine or else take away one of the greasy-looking pies frying at the back. Cressa doesn’t seem to care. She slumps at the counter. “A small wine. Whatever’s cheapest.”

The slave girl serving is red-cheeked and sweating, slowly roasting in the heat from the oven behind.

“Your mistress not here?” Amara says.

“Back in a minute,” the girl replies. “What you having?”

“I’ll wait until Marcella is back.”

The girl shrugs and pours out Cressa’s drink. She’s careful not to overfill the measure. “Barely an acorn cup,” Cressa complains, showing it to Amara. She takes a sip and pulls a face. “Strong enough to knock out a mule.” She downs it and pushes the flask back towards the girl. “Another.” The girl pours out more wine, and Amara is relieved to see Cressa doesn’t knock this one straight back too. “You know Drauca had a little girl?”

“No,” Amara says, her heart sinking at the thought.

“Simo kept her. She’s about five now, works doing odd jobs at the tavern in the day.”

Amara knows Cressa never talks about the child she lost but, somehow, not mentioning him, not acknowledging her pain, feels even worse. “I’m so sorry about…”

“Don’t,” Cressa stops her. “Don’t say it. I just can’t.” They sit in silence.

Amara fidgets. Cressa is shielding her eyes with her hand, as if to shade them from the sun, but really, Amara suspects, to hide her grief. It’s uncomfortably hot, between the simmering pies and the sun. She feels strung out with nervous energy, waiting for her debtor, still not sure how she is going to persuade her to pay but knowing she must.

Marcella rounds the corner, and Amara darts forwards, blocking her path. “There you are!” she exclaims, taking the other woman by surprise, not giving her a chance to escape. “What a day! The sun’s scorching, isn’t it?” She gestures at the bar. “Gellius still leaving it all to you?”

“What do you want?” Marcella asks, eyes flicking to her slave girl, well aware why Amara is there.

“Just to see how you are. I can’t believe Gellius isn’t here! You have to do all the work.” Amara moves in closer as Marcella edges away. She lowers her voice, as if in sympathy, drawing on her memories of that first overheard conversation at the baths. “Does he even know what goes on at the bar? This bar, I mean. He probably wouldn’t notice if half the stock went missing, would he?”

“Mind the store,” Marcella says to the slave at the counter. “I’m just going to have a talk with… my friend.”

“You’re not having a drink?” Cressa asks, surprised at being abandoned.

“In a minute.” Amara smiles, squeezing Cressa’s shoulder as she passes. She follows Marcella up the narrow ladder to the rooms above the bar. It’s even hotter here, a small airless space that adds to Amara’s tension. It is hard to know who is more agitated, her or Marcella.

“You have to pay up,” she says, anxiety making her voice sound harsh.

“No, you have to stop this,” Marcella hisses back. “I’ve fiddled the takings as much as I can. Either take less or give me longer! Your master must understand. The rate was never reasonable.”