Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“Yes, but that’s not love . I’d just rather be a freedwoman running an ironmonger’s than a slave working for Felix. Wouldn’t you?”

“Is he an amazing lay?”

Amara pauses.

“He is an amazing lay!” Victoria yells. The other two start laughing, and Amara finds herself laughing too.

“He just made an effort, that’s all. Customers don’t normally, do they?”

“That’s why you steer them,” Victoria says. “You can take some control of the situation.”

“I’m not sure,” Beronice says, frowning. “I know what she means.”

“Nobody wants to hear what a great lover Gallus is,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes. “Please spare us.”

“Yes, but, it is different, if the man makes an effort. It just is,” Beronice says. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s never any different,” Dido says.

“You can’t rely on the man to give you any pleasure,” Victoria states, as if this were obvious. “You just have to do what you like and take them along.”

“What if you don’t like any of it?” Dido asks.

“Then,” says Victoria, putting an arm round her like a conspirator, “you just have to hope, one day, if you are really lucky , an ironmonger asks you to dress up as his dead wife.”

Amara looks at the three of them falling about on the bed, hooting with laughter, and smiles. Perhaps there are some pleasures in the life of a whore, after all.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Paris glowers in the doorway. Ever since Victoria offered him the golden paste and asked if he wanted to gild his arsehole, he has been even less friendly than usual.

“Oh, is laughing forbidden now?” Victoria asks. “I didn’t realize. But I’m afraid a scowl isn’t going to scare the customers away. They can’t see your face from behind.”

Paris moves so fast none of the others have a chance to try and stop him. He punches Victoria hard in the face then swings back to hit her again. Beronice leaps, shrieking, onto his back, clawing at his arms, and he staggers, blow landing wide. Amara and Dido scramble in front of Victoria, holding their hands up, screaming at him to stop. Paris tries to dislodge Beronice, but she’s clinging to his neck, putting pressure on his windpipe. Cressa runs into the room, tugging at Beronice, trying to stop her from strangling Paris, yelling at her to let go.

“ What the fuck is going on ?”

At the sound of Felix’s voice, the screaming stops, and Beronice drops to the floor like a stone. Paris rubs his neck, gasping.

“I said what the fuck is this?”

“He hit her face!” Amara says, pointing at Victoria. “He hit her in the face!” It is the unbreakable rule at the Wolf Den. Neither Felix nor any of the other men are allowed to mark their faces.

Felix does not have to ask if it’s true. Victoria is cradling her eye, the skin on her cheek bright red. “Let me see.” He crosses swiftly to the bed. Amara and Dido scramble out of the way. Felix takes Victoria’s hand from her face, examining the damage, pressing his finger against her cheekbone. She winces. “Nothing’s broken,” he says, standing up. “It will mend.” He walks over to Paris, shoving him. “What the fuck were you thinking? Not such a big man now, are you? Get the fuck out of here.”

Paris doesn’t wait to be asked again; he lurches from the cell.

“And you,” Felix says, turning back to Victoria who quails against the wall. “Mind your mouth. I know what will have happened. You provoked him. Didn’t you?” She says nothing, and he grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her. “ Didn’t you ?”

Amara looks at the pots of perfume lined up on Victoria’s windowsill, imagines grabbing one, smashing it on Felix’s head, pictures herself yelling at him to stop. But she does nothing. Just shrinks terrified against the wall, like all the other women.

Felix lets go of Victoria who pushes herself to safety, clambering away from him on the bed. The pain on her face grips Amara’s heart, but Victoria’s eyes are dry. Amara realizes she has never seen her friend cry.

“You watch your fucking mouths, all of you,” Felix says. “I don’t want a Drauca on my hands, with a useless, ugly face. Look at you.” He spits the words at Victoria. “No man is going to want to touch you for days.” He flings the curtain aside and storms out of the brothel.

“Don’t,” Victoria says, raising her hand to prevent Dido coming near. “Don’t say anything. Just leave me.”

All the women go back to their own cells, as if seeking comfort from one another would diminish Victoria’s suffering. Amara sits alone on the bed, staring at her father’s mouldy bag. She thinks of Felix upstairs, Marcella’s cameo ring in his desk drawer, the smile on his face when she handed it over, and she closes her eyes.

The sun overhead is so hot Amara feels she will faint, only the crush of the crowd and Victoria jabbing her excitedly in the ribs are keeping her upright. This is not how she would have chosen to spend her first proper day off in Pompeii. Up at dawn, trooping to the far end of town, standing out in the cool darkness, watching the sun rise and, later, wilting in the baking heat, all to get the best view of the gladiators’ parade into the amphitheatre. It is the first of July, the day the town’s new elected officials take office and, more importantly, the day free games are held to celebrate it.

Amara wonders if Fuscus is already in the arena, sitting at the front, fretting about whether this extravaganza will overshadow the games he threw last year. He was quite peevish on the subject last time she saw him. Egnatius has done her many favours, but none perhaps as great as introducing her to the duumvir. She and Dido perform regularly at both his and Cornelius’s houses, though Fuscus is a less demanding host. There, they are rarely expected to do much more than sing, mainly because Fuscus’s wife holds greater sway over her husband. It feels strange, how intimate she is now with powerful men. At Cornelius’s house, Fuscus will tell her little details about his life – the fountain he has ordered for his father-in-law, the books his two sons are reading – and of course, she knows exactly what he likes in bed. At his own home, he takes the role of a distant employer, bestowing her on his guests, part of the service to be enjoyed along with the fruit platter. In the street, should they bump into one another, she has no doubt he would ignore her. In that sense her life has not changed at all.

“There he is!” Victoria shrieks. “It’s Celadus!”

Amara would never have heard her if Victoria were not yelling right beside ear. The blast of trumpets as the gladiators approach, the wall of sound from the crowd, makes her feel as if her skull might split open. But at last their long, tedious wait has paid off. They are rammed in, right at the front, just by the amphitheatre entrance.

“Celadus!” Victoria screams. “Celadus!”

He cannot possibly have heard one scream above any other, and yet, at that moment, the Thracian giant turns, as if impelled by the force of Victoria’s will. He takes two strides towards them, lifts Victoria off her feet in a single sweep, and kisses her. She is so astonished that, for once, she doesn’t respond. The crowd around them erupts. Amara is smacked hard on the head by a girl wedged behind, thrusting her arms out, trying to grab at the gladiator’s leather harness, touch his oiled chest.

“ Celadus! Celadus! ”

The gladiator sets Victoria down, says something in her ear then rejoins the procession, waving both arms at the crowd.