Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

He is saying goodbye to me , she thinks. She watches Pliny’s mouth move as he talks. There is no cruelty in his face. The merry splash of the fountain mingles with his well-considered words, the air is scented with jasmine. She cannot imagine going back to Felix, back to the brothel with all its darkness, its daily violence. It will kill her.

“I shall miss you,” Pliny says at last, when one of the slaves brings out a large bowl of fruit. He takes an apple. “It has been a pleasure to have you here.”

“Don’t send me back,” Amara says, the words coming unprepared and unbidden. “I beg you, please, please don’t.” He looks at her in surprise, and her sense of desperation grows. She clasps his hand, pressing it against her heart. “I would be loyal to you; I would give my life to your service, I would be the most devoted secretary you could ever wish. I would be anything you wanted, go anywhere you asked.”

“My dear girl,” Pliny says, “there is no need for this…”

“Please don’t send me away from you,” Amara says, losing all sense of dignity, falling to her knees and weeping into the palms of his hands. “ Please . You could buy me from my master. I would read to you every night, dedicate every hour to your work. I would never sleep in your service.”

“You do have the most beautiful voice,” Pliny says. She looks up at him and sees that for a moment he is wavering, considering her offer. Then he looks down. “But I already have a number of secretaries. I don’t know what place there would be for you. I have already asked you everything I need to know for my work. And you know I’m not a man to keep a concubine, enchanting as you are.” He helps her to her feet, seats her beside him. “It is very sweet of you to make such an offer. I am touched by your loyalty. But I cannot accept.”

She collapses, weeping, onto the couch beside him. He rests a hand on her shoulder. “Amara, please , control yourself. There is no sense to this at all.”

But she cannot control herself, and the beautiful garden is filled with the ugly sound of her hysterical crying. Eventually, when she is completely exhausted and her eyes too swollen for more tears, he suggests retiring to bed. He seems weary, irritated even, by her emotion.

“It’s a shame to have wasted your last evening,” he says, watching her undress. “I’ve already explained it to you. It’s not that I don’t find you delightful, but there’s just no place for you in my household. And really, I’m an old man. You must want something else, surely? Plenty of courtesans end up married, or settled in some way, in the end.”

“I don’t want anything else,” Amara says, lying down heavily on the bed, her limbs weighted with misery. She can already feel the walls of the brothel closing in on her.

For once, he does not head straight to his books but lies down beside her. He props himself on one elbow, leaning over her, and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re an intelligent girl. You must understand.”

Amara closes her eyes, tears leaking from beneath the lashes. She feels the warmth of him as he comes closer, his papery lips planting a kiss on her forehead. She turns away, curling into a ball, hiding her face in her hands. He sighs loudly with annoyance and thumps off the bed.

She hears him mutter the word ridiculous as he sits down at his desk. Amara is exhausted by unhappiness. She falls asleep, as she did on the first night, to the sound of Pliny working, the splash of the fountain in the garden below.

When Amara wakes, Pliny is already sitting at his desk, watching her. From his expression, she knows there is no point in repeating her humiliation from last night.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour,” she says, sitting up, holding the covers to her chest. “I did not mean to repay your kindness in such a way. I hope you are not offended.”

Pliny relaxes, obviously relieved to find her calm. He walks over, takes her hand and pats it. “I know women are naturally emotional creatures,” he says. “There was nothing offensive about your offer. I’m only glad you understand. Now,” he ushers her out of bed and shoos her towards her clothes, perhaps nervous she might become tearful again. “I have been thinking this morning about a favour you may be able to do for me. The nephew of a dear friend is calling on me shortly. If you are willing, I should like you to be a friend to him.”

Amara pauses in her dressing. “A friend?”

“All young men need some experience with a woman before they marry,” he says, with a shrug. “A father can only hope his boy doesn’t land on some coarse, unintelligent whore who runs through the family money. Of course, Rufus is rather romantic, a little naïve I suspect. I am trusting you to be a loyal, helpful friend to him. One who always understands her place. No hysterics. Can I rely on you to do that?”

Amara nods. “I would perform any service for you,” she says.

“I hope not too onerous a service,” he says. “Rufus is a pleasant enough boy.” Pliny peers at her face. “Perhaps it might be wise to see the maid this morning. I will meet you in the garden.”

Amara walks out onto the interior balcony, heading to the small room at the front of the house where Sarah, a maid belonging to Pliny’s hosts, has dressed her hair each day. She takes in Amara’s reddened eyes and, without asking any questions, soaks a scrap of cloth in cold water. She motions for her to sit down at the dressing table. “Hold this against your eyelids,” she says. “It will help.”

Amara wonders what Sarah thinks of Pliny sending her a prostitute to look after. She has never been anything but polite. Amara sits obediently in the darkness, the cloth pressed to her closed eyes, while Sarah does her hair. When she has finished, Sarah takes Amara’s hands from her face. “Better,” she says. “Now dry them.”

Sarah picks up the kohl and a slender brush, drawing delicate lines around Amara’s eyes with swift, deft movements then dabs a dark grey powder on her eyelids. A glass vial sits on the dresser, jasmine distilled from the garden. She passes it to Amara who unstoppers the lid and rubs the scent along her neck. Sarah takes it back, hands her the small silver mirror, the final rite in their ritual. Amara looks at her reflection. In the respectable clothes Pliny has given her – no doubt also chosen by Sarah – she does not look like a young woman who works in a brothel.

“Thank you,” Amara says. “For everything.” Sarah nods, polite but not inclined to talk. Whatever she really thinks of Pliny’s guest, it is impossible to guess.

Pliny himself is reading a scroll when she joins him in the garden. She sits down silently, trying not to think about how soon she has to leave this place. She wonders what Rufus will be like, tries to summon the energy to charm him, muster the will to seize the opportunity Pliny has laid out for her. Secundus arrives with bread and fruit. He has not served food since the first day of her visit, when she suspects his real purpose was to examine her, so she is surprised to see him with the tray.

Secundus looks at Amara, as if appraising what is wrong with the scene. “Shall I bring you your lyre, mistress?”

“Thank you,” she says, grateful to be given something to do.

She has breakfast – Pliny is still too engrossed in his scroll to talk to her – then begins to play. The feel of the strings beneath her fingers, the chance to lose herself in singing, is a relief. An hour passes, the sun warming the garden, the flowers opening their faces to its light.