Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“Don’t break the ironmonger’s heart,” Victoria says.

Dido squeezes her arm. “Good luck.”

Amara’s own heart is thumping with nerves as she makes her way down the outside steps of the arena. What if Menander misunderstood and thought she meant the end of all the beast hunts? What if he doesn’t come? She walks quickly to the gate where they have arranged to meet and can see, even from a distance, that he is already waiting for her.

Then they are standing together, and nothing else matters.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he says, taking hold of her hand.

“You too.”

Neither seem able to do anything but stare at one another, until Menander laughs and breaks the moment. “Shall we get a drink?”

They walk out into the square. It’s dotted with stalls selling food, drink and souvenirs. Amara no longer minds the heat or notices the noise. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and they both laugh over nothing, amused by everything. They wander aimlessly for a while, before remembering why they went for a walk and buy a glass of wine to share, and some bread, and head off to sit in the shade under the plane trees beside the Palaestra. The rarity of a day off means they are not the only slave couple taking advantage of the time, though the baying of the crowd as the next hunt starts draws some of the loiterers back into the arena. Menander has still not let go of her hand, and when they sit down, he puts his arm round her. Amara rests her head on his shoulder and can feel his heartbeat, as fast and nervous as her own.

“Would your father have liked me?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, surprised into honesty by his question.

Menander laughs. “That’s better than a no , I guess.”

“What about yours?”

“I think he’d have been quite happy with a doctor’s daughter.”

“My parents wouldn’t have been too pleased by this sort of behaviour.”

“No, I suppose not,” Menander replies, holding her tighter, in case she is minded to honour the dead by sitting further apart. There’s a pause, and she suspects he is thinking, like she is, of all they have lost. “And now I have nothing to offer you,” he says. “No shop to inherit, no freedom.”

“I think we can agree I have even less to offer you,” Amara replies. She says it as a joke, but it hurts, the distance between her old self and her life now.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, smiling. “You would fetch at least five times as much as me at the market.”

“But nobody’s buying anyone, not today.”

“No,” he says. Then he bends to kiss her, quickly, as if he might otherwise lose his nerve. This is what it’s supposed to feel like , Amara thinks, holding him. When you want someone. It’s meant to feel like happiness .

“Are you alright?” Menander breaks off, looking anxiously into her face. “I hope I didn’t upset you?”

Amara realizes she is shaking. “No, you didn’t upset me!” she says, holding him closer to reassure him. “I just feel…” She stops, unable to find words for the mixture of happiness and pain. He is looking at her, waiting, still worried. She tries again. “You get used to having nothing, don’t you? And then suddenly to have something, to feel something, it’s…” She trails off.

“It’s happy–sad?”

“Yes, because nothing belongs to you, not even the happiness.”

“Timarete, even slaves own their happiness. Feelings are the only things we do own.” He passes the small flask of wine to her, and she takes a sip. “And I know that this afternoon is short, but we have it, we own it.”

“Are you going to tell me not to waste it?”

“No, because talking isn’t wasting it,” he says, taking the wine back from her. “Nobody is telling us what to do today. Just feel whatever you want to feel.” He pauses. “Although I’m hoping that means you might feel like kissing me again.”

She laughs. “Might do.”

“I want to know all about your singing too,” he says, brushing the hair from her shoulders. “I half thought you might be too grand to see me now, after all the parties you and Dido go to.”

“Never,” she says. “And anyway, there wouldn’t be any singing if you hadn’t got the lyre for me.”

“It was entirely selfish. I just wanted to hear you play,” he says, drawing her closer. His intensity is familiar, pulling on a dark undertow in her body. She has seen desire in so many men and almost every association is painful. But this is Menander ! She puts her hand out to touch his face, cupping it in her fingers, to remind herself who he is, remind herself that she has chosen to be with him.

“I wish I had known you in our other life.”

“I know.”

“You try to keep it inside, don’t you, all the different parts of yourself, but they don’t exist anymore. I thought of my mother the other day, what she would think of me, who she would see. If we met now. But she wouldn’t know me. I wouldn’t know me.” Amara is talking fast, trying to rush the words out, hoping she makes sense, not sure why she is even telling him this, aside from the longing she feels to be understood. “Sometimes I think it must be harder for you. Because my life is just completely different, there’s nothing left of the past. But for you, it must be like living on the wrong side of the mirror.”

“To be the potter’s slave, rather than the potter’s son?”

“Yes.”

“It is hard. But I know it’s not harder than your life.” He takes her hand and places it against his cheek again, covering her fingers with his. “You are the same person though. I still see you as the same person.”

“I miss so many things.” She sighs then smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “The food for a start.”

Menander makes a face. “Italian cheese! What do they feed their goats?”

“And that horrible fish sauce on everything!”

“No beans so bland they can’t be spiced up by rotten anchovies.”

“And the bread here tastes like somebody tipped grit in it.”

“It does, doesn’t it!” Menander says wonderingly. “What do they put in the flour?”

“I miss my mother’s stew.”

“Me too.” He shoots her a sly look. “Bet mine’s was better.”

“Nobody makes better stew than the women in Aphidnai.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Might be.”

Menander kisses her again, and this time, the darkness stays at the edges, unable to break through.

The afternoon, which always drags so painfully in the brothel, seems to end moments after she has sat down with Menander, even though hours have passed.

“Amara! There you are! You were meant to meet us after the second gladiator fight! We’ve been wandering round and round for ages!”

She has never been sorry to see Dido’s face before, but now, the sight makes her heart drop through her stomach. She stares up at her four friends, ranged round, and instinctively grips Menander’s hand. “It can’t be time to head back, not yet!”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Victoria says, looking furious. “Celadus hasn’t even been on yet!”

Felix had ordered them all to leave in good time, to make sure they missed the crowds and were back at the brothel to pick up the inevitable surge in trade after the event. As the most famous gladiator, Celadus’s duel must have been left until the end.

Menander rests his hand on her arm. “We’ll see each other soon,” he says gently.

“But we won’t! You know we won’t!”

He hugs her, crushing her against him. “We will have another whole day, just for ourselves. I promise. Even if we have to wait until the Saturnalia.”