Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“That’s alright,” she replies. “I remember my father telling me about the women in Britain. A lot of them are warriors. Maybe Britannica was a soldier.”

“The women go to war?” Dido says.

“Not all of them. My father told me they had a famous queen; I don’t know her name. But she destroyed a Roman army.”

Beronice makes the sign of the evil eye. “Women aren’t meant to rule. It’s unnatural.”

“Britannica’s hardly a warrior queen! She can’t even defeat a drunken sailor,” Victoria says, though Amara notices that she eyes the stranger with a new, wary respect.

“Were you a warrior?” Cressa asks Britannica gently. “Is that why you hate it here so much?” Britannica smiles at her, not understanding the words, only the kindness behind them.

“Amara!” Thraso is shouting from the doorway of the brothel. “Are you still in there? I told you to go up to Felix.”

“I’m just coming,” she calls back.

“No, you’re not,” he snaps, barging inside and grabbing her hard by the arm. She cries out in pain. “You’re a fucking timewaster. Move it.” He lets go of her and stomps off again.

“He’s just annoyed Balbus gave him a black eye yesterday,” Victoria whispers. “Some stupid fight about Drauca.”

“What about her?” Amara asks, suddenly anxious.

“Who knows,” Victoria shrugs. “Thraso would start a fight about anything.”

It is a room she had hoped never to see again. The red glow, the bulls’ skulls. She stands, saying nothing, as Felix goes through her new clothes.

“Is this all he gave you? After a week?”

“There was this as well,” she says, holding up the scroll but not handing it over.

Felix gestures impatiently, and she gives it to him. He unravels it clumsily, looking for hidden coins or jewellery. “Anatomy?” He frowns, looking more closely at one of the illustrations. Amara doesn’t answer. If Felix understands her attachment to Pliny’s gift, he will only use it against her. He hands it back, and she takes it, rolling it up again, trying not to let the relief show on her face. “Not much after such a long stay.”

“He introduced me to a new client though. So those dresses will come in useful.”

“What new client?”

“A man called Rufus. He will be calling on you to buy me for an evening.” She hesitates, knowing how much Felix hates being given advice. “I’m hoping that he is a long-term investment, so I think we might be better not charging too much at first, so that he continues paying.”

“You’re running the business now, are you?”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t mean…”

“Amara,” Felix says, grinning. “I was joking . You’ve done well. The old man paid a fair price.” He picks up one of the dresses. “If this new one turns into a regular client, you can keep these to wear out with him. If not, I will sell them.” He waves a hand at the clothes she still has on. “But you certainly don’t need to be wearing them now.”

Amara had guessed he might make her change and has brought her old gaudy toga up from downstairs. She strips off, handing him the new clothes.

“You’ve put weight on,” he says, looking her over as she dresses. “It suits you.”

“You’ll have to feed me more then,” she says, risking a joke, “if you like it so much.” Felix shakes his head but looks amused. A memory of the night they spent together comes back to her. The way he rested his head on her shoulder, looked up with the same flash of humour in his eyes. And she had smiled back.

Amara doesn’t like remembering. “Thraso looked worse for wear,” she says. “Why were he and Balbus fighting?”

She knows, as soon as she has asked, that it was a mistake. Any hint of playfulness has gone from his face. “I thought the old man was going to buy you,” Felix says, ignoring her question. “The Admiral of the Fleet! What a change that would have been. But here you are, back at the brothel.” She says nothing. “What did he do with you all week?”

“Just the usual,” she says, her mouth feeling dry.

“I doubt that,” Felix says. He puts his arms round her in an exaggerated parody of affection. “Did he tell you how lovely you were? Gaze into your eyes? Was he gentle ?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t gentle?” Felix pretends to be shocked. “What a shit! He certainly fed you well. But I’m not sure I believe you. I think he spoiled you, that old man. Made you forget who you are.”

His fingers are digging painfully into her upper arms, but she doesn’t flinch. Amara has belonged to Felix so long, she knows that he is going to rape her, to humiliate her, to try and destroy the last traces of the happiness she has brought back, now fading like the scent of jasmine on her skin. She grips the scroll Pliny gave her. There are parts of herself Felix cannot know or touch.

“I never forget,” she says.

“Good,” Felix lets go of her. “You should get back to work then.”

She is almost over the threshold of the doorway, giddy with relief, when he stops her. “Did I say you could take that?” Amara waits as he walks up to her, lets him take Pliny’s gift from her hands. “I might be able to sell it.” He turns the scroll over, a dismissive look on his face. “You never know what someone else will value.”

The theatre’s stage is blazing with torches, even though dusk has not yet fallen. The brightly painted columns and statues, the flamboyance of the actors, the laughter, reminds her of the atmosphere at the Vinalia. Amara has never been to see a play before and is enjoying the luxury of watching rather than being watched. Let someone else have the hard work of entertaining for a while. Beside her, Rufus has taken her hand, and his look of utter delight at the unfolding scene endears him to her. He really is like a child , she thinks.

She finds the play easy to follow. It is The Eunuch by Terence who, Rufus eagerly assures her, is a greater master than Virgil. She would certainly like to borrow the luck of the play’s courtesan, Thais, who seems to rule the men through charm alone. Amara suspects Thais never encountered a pimp like Felix.

She finds herself laughing at this world where the slaves are cleverer than their masters, and the men love women to distraction. She remembers Rufus telling her he admired the theatre for telling the truth – can he really think the world is like this? On stage, she watches as an actor disguises himself as a eunuch in order to rape the slave girl he fancies. He is a tall man, lisping and mincing to convince everyone he is safe to leave with the young virgin. Laughter ripples round the theatre at the absurdity and audacity of the joke.

“The comic timing!” Rufus whispers to her. “It’s perfect.”

The girl’s exaggerated screams off stage cause further titters of amusement. Rufus laughs with the rest. Amara sits listening to the actress’s cries, a fixed smile on her face. Perhaps comedy is a mirror after all.

The sky turns a deeper blue, and the shadows on stage lengthen. Rufus is caressing her hand, teasing out the shape of her fingers with his own. She had worried, before this evening, about being out of place in a respectable crowd. Victoria had insisted she let her make some changes to the white robe Pliny gave her – “You don’t want Rufus thinking he’s taken his mother! At least show a bit of shoulder.” – and now she is grateful to her friend. Many of the women here are obviously courtesans, out with wealthy lovers. Her eye is drawn to one woman, sitting with the poise of a queen, her robes elegantly dipped at the back to show the line of her dark brown shoulder blades. Amara shuffles on her seat, trying to pull her own dress a little further down her arm.