Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“Can’t I help you too?” she says, her voice low.

Cressa looks down, as if unable to bear Amara’s kindness. “Nobody can help me.”

She hurries from the brothel, stepping aside to avoid Fabia. When she has gone, the old woman turns to Amara, shaking her head.

Britannica startles when she sees Amara, drawing her legs up towards herself on the bed. She seems wary rather than afraid. There are bruises on her pale arms, including vivid fingerprints where she must have been held down. Dried blood is smeared on her face. Cowards , Amara thinks.

She smiles at Britannica, pointing to herself. “Amara. I am Amara. Friend of Cressa.”

“Cressa?” Britannica looks past Amara, clearly hoping the other woman will appear.

Amara leans over and puts the bread and cheese on the bed. “For you. Cressa will be back soon.”

Britannica takes the food without acknowledging Amara or gesturing thanks. Amara waits for her to finish eating then goes through a painstaking performance, naming objects in the cell, asking Britannica if she can wash her face.

“Water,” she says, pointing to the jug. She dips her hand in it, showing Britannica the drops falling from her fingers. “Water. Now you say it. Water.”

In answer, Britannica releases a torrent of words in her own harsh language. Her gestures are violent, her expression intense, but although the incomprehensible tirade makes Amara feel uncomfortable, she guesses the anger is not directed at her. Amara reaches for the jug again, and Britannica grabs her arm. Her grip is as strong as a man’s. Britannica repeats the same strange word over and over, staring intently, willing Amara to understand. Then she lets go of her with a cry of exasperation, flinging herself back on the bed.

“I know. I want to kill them too,” Amara says. “But it doesn’t work that way. We don’t get a choice.”

Britannica has turned her face to the wall, ignoring her. She doesn’t resist as Amara splashes water on her skin but does nothing to help either.

“Your hair is a mess,” Amara says. “Can I brush it?” She takes the silence as agreement, picking up the brush from Cressa’s shelf. “Red,” she says, trying to tease out the knots. “Your hair is red .” Amara has never seen anything like it. She can imagine it glowing like fire in the July sun when Britannica stood naked in the slave market, her skin unnaturally white. It’s obvious Felix wanted something exotic and didn’t bother about the fact she couldn’t speak. “Fucking idiot,” she mutters to herself.

Britannica doesn’t make a fuss, though it must be painful having so many knots untangled. Amara lets her mind go blank, concentrating on nothing but combing out the mass of hair, until she hears Felix’s voice, talking to Thraso at the door. All her senses are instantly alert.

Someone steps over the threshold of the brothel. Britannica whips round, shouting at Amara. It sounds more like a command than a warning, but she has no idea what it might be.

“Making friends?”

Felix stands at the doorway, looking in. Britannica bunches up, reminding Amara of the tigers in the arena. She bares her teeth at Felix and hisses. Victoria’s insult comes into her mind, unbidden. Savage .

Their master is unconcerned. He draws a small knife from his tunic. Examines it, as if it needs a clean. Britannica stops hissing, watching him, eyes so wide the whites are showing. Felix gestures with the blade, casual rather than threatening. “You don’t like this, do you?”

“She doesn’t understand any Latin,” Amara says.

“Oh, she understands me,” he replies. “We understand each other perfectly well. Don’t we?” As if in answer, Britannica shrinks back. “You see,” he says to Amara, tucking the knife away. “She speaks my language.”

“She doesn’t understand life here,” Amara says. “She screams all night; it’s not good for business.”

“She’ll get used to it. And if not.” He shrugs. “Some customers like that. Not that you have to worry, not after I got this letter from your posh boy,” Felix holds up a note, a look of amusement on his face. “He is demanding you have lodgings outside the brothel.”

“ Rufus ?” Amara is stunned.

“How many posh boys do you have? Yes, Rufus. I’ve sent a reply back with Gallus. He’s not offering enough for every night. But I’ve agreed you will only spend two nights a week here, as long as he pays the retainer.”

Amara thinks of Rufus at the theatre, the way he gave her the jasmine, his acceptance of her anger. She feels touched in ways she cannot express, certainly not to Felix.

“Don’t just sit there!” Felix says, irritated by her lack of reaction. “Pack your things up.”

“But where am I going?”

“You can sleep upstairs. In the storeroom with Paris.”

“I can’t leave Britannica alone; I promised Cressa.”

Felix draws the knife again, crosses to Britannica, points it at her face. She flinches, but Amara is surprised she doesn’t show greater physical fear. “ You. Stay. Here. Not. Move .” He leans forward, gripping her thigh with his free hand, in an unmistakable gesture of sexual aggression. This time Britannica looks more afraid. Felix stays where he is, until she cowers, no longer meeting his eye. Amara has never despised him more.

He stands up. “You just need to be firm with her,” he says, heading for the door. “Now get your things.”

Amara follows him, looking back briefly at Britannica before leaving the cell. She hopes the hate on her face is meant for Felix alone.

Paris is as delighted by the new living arrangements as Amara imagined he might be. Felix’s slave boy doesn’t dare express his discontent in front of their master, especially after the boss makes it clear he doesn’t want any squabbling, but as soon as Felix has left Amara in the storeroom – one more piece of property to be added to the pile – Paris turns on her.

“You can sleep over there,” he says, pointing to some empty sacks in the far corner. “ Right over there. I don’t want your smelly cunt anywhere near me.”

“Oh, piss off,” Amara replies, dropping her father’s bag on the sacks. She isn’t going to argue for a space closer to Paris; the further away they are from each other, the better. “As if you don’t have to rent your arse out too. And I bet you don’t just get down on your knees to scrub floors up here.”

“Fuck you,” Paris says, clenching his fist. His face is red with fury.

“No fighting, remember,” Amara says, plonking herself down on the floor by her bag, making it clear she is here to stay. “You heard what Felix just said. If you give me a black eye, just think what he’ll do to you in return.” Amara sees Paris flinch, a look of fear on his face. She presses home her advantage. “He fucks you too, doesn’t he? Just like all the rest of us.”

In that moment, for the first time, Amara sees something of Fabia in her son. It’s there in the cowed stoop of his shoulders, in his wounded expression. She knows he is not much younger than she is, but with his skinny legs and thin frame, he looks like a beaten child. Guilt pricks her. She is about to say something kinder when he speaks.

“You disgust me,” he says, his face screwed up with malice. “All of you. Dirty fucking whores. And if I find you’ve touched any of my things with your nasty, grubby fingers when I’m out, I’ll kill you!”

Paris stomps from the room, leaving Amara to wonder if Rufus did her such a favour after all. She shifts on the hot, dusty sacks. They are not going to be much more comfortable than the stone bed in Dido’s cell, but at least she will be able to sleep, not work all night. It feels strange being in the quiet of the storeroom, knowing the brothel is downstairs. Cressa’s cell must be right below her, or maybe Beronice’s. She looks up at the shelves in the narrow room, stacked with jars and bundles of cloth. On the floor beside her, there’s a half-empty bag of beans she might be able to use as a pillow. A few spill out from a small hole in the corner as she moves it. She hopes there aren’t too many mice. Or rats.