Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

Amara gets up and creeps to the door. She doesn’t know much about what goes on in Felix’s flat. She supposes the room next door must be where Gallus and Thraso sleep. She regrets not being friendlier with Paris, if only to try and get more information out of him.

Already Amara misses her friends downstairs, and it has only been a few minutes. She wonders if Thraso will even tell them what’s happened, why Felix has moved her. For a moment, the strangeness of being alone makes her feel emotional. She leans her head against the wooden door jamb, trying to clear her thoughts. There’s no point being miserable and wasting her time up here; it’s impossible to say how long Rufus will keep her, whether his interest will ever pay off. But she could use this time to learn more about how Felix runs his loans, see if she can convince him to use her that way, rather than selling her. It would at least be a better life than the one in the brothel. She sets off down the corridor.

His study door is ajar, to let in a breeze in the summer heat. He must have spotted her shadow, because he calls out before she even has a chance to knock.

“What do you want?” His tone is not inviting.

Amara steps into the room but doesn’t approach too close to his desk. “That girl from The Elephant who paid off her loan. Pitane. She mentioned to me that she might have another customer for you. I thought I could use this time to do some business.”

“I can’t spare anyone to go with you.”

“Couldn’t I go on my own?” Amara asks. “It’s only to The Elephant. I could make a note and see if you like the terms.”

She waits for Felix to answer, palms sweating. “It’s like a never-ending itch for you, isn’t it?” he says. “Making money.”

If Felix were a different man, if she thought he would be pleased by the comparison, she would say: As it is for you . Instead, she shrugs. “Everyone wants to make money. Though in this case I’m making it for you.”

“Go then,” he says, turning back to his accounts, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

The Elephant is a grander bar than The Sparrow, attached as it is to a large inn. A copper lantern shaped like an elephant hangs over the doorway, dangling with chiming bells, and the walls inside are lined with pictures of the giant beasts pitted against gladiators in the arena.

There is a fair exchange in trade between the brothel and the inn, and Sittius, the landlord, gives Amara a nod of recognition when she leans against the bar.

“Not many customers in for you today,” he says.

“I wondered if Pitane might be free for a moment,” she answers.

“She’s in the courtyard,” he replies. “But if you’re going to keep her chatting, best get a drink.”

Amara buys the smallest wine she can, missing the easy charm of Zoskales at The Sparrow. Sittius is notoriously tight. She walks through to the small courtyard behind the bar. It is partly shaded by a vine growing over a trellis and dotted with outdoor tables. A couple of guests sit drinking in a corner. Pitane is busy sweeping the flagstones. She brightens as soon as she sees Amara.

Amara did not just get the waitress a loan but her undying gratitude along with it. The abortion worked, and Amara paid off the last few pennies of the interest when it looked like Pitane wouldn’t manage it. Without telling Felix. It is not only that she couldn’t bear to endure another Marcella; she guessed it would be worth the money to build up a few favours. Felix might be able to rely on brute force, but she needs a different model, if she is going to win any clients.

“You look very well,” Amara says to her.

“I am!” Pitane replies, then lowers her voice. “And I’ve been using that sponge just as you suggested,” she whispers, with a sidelong look at the drinkers in the corner.

“You said there was another woman who might need help.” Amara perches on the edge of a table in the shade, sipping her wine. She makes a face. Sittius has given her the cheapest vintage. It tastes like vinegar. She is becoming spoiled by all the Falernian the rich men drink.

Pitane nods, clearly delighted to be called on. “It’s Terentia. You know, who runs the fruit stall, the last one on the corner before the Forum? Well,” she lowers her voice again, enjoying the chance to gossip. “She made a loss last month – some bastard sold her a rotten batch. She was telling me when I got our supplies for the inn, and I said I knew someone who could get her a loan, so she can get more stock in, make it back sooner.”

“Fancy selling rotten fruit! What a crook.” Amara tuts. “How much does she want?”

“Ten denarii.”

Amara calculates Felix’s extortionate rate of interest in her head. She hopes Terentia will be able to pay up – her own savings would never stretch that far. “I think I can help,” Amara replies. “I will call on her this week.”

“Beronice was telling me you and Dido go to so many parties these days!” Pitane says, clearly reluctant to let Amara go. “It must be exciting.”

“It makes a change.’ Amara smiles. She spends some more time chatting with Pitane, enjoying being out in the sunny courtyard rather than cooped up in the dusty storeroom. The guests in the corner fall silent and watch them, curious. Amara’s toga makes her low status obvious, and Pitane has no doubt had to serve them already, yet here the two women are, ignoring the chance of picking up an extra tip.

“Hey ladies,” one calls. “What does a man need to do around here to get a bit of attention?”

Amara thinks of Rufus’s retainer and feels warm with gratitude. She doesn’t have to entertain any idiots today. “I’d better let you get back to work,” she says to Pitane, giving the two men behind her an unfriendly stare.

“Oh,” Pitane is crestfallen. “I suppose so, yes. See you around.” She heads over to the guests, narrow shoulders drooping, her fun over for the morning.

Amara’s life above the brothel takes on its own disjointed rhythm. It is a huge relief to spend her nights unmolested, something she has not enjoyed since her stay with Pliny. Not that she sleeps as well as she did under the admiral’s protection. The sacks are scratchy and uncomfortable, the mice scrabble, and she can hear the sounds of her friends working below, which fills her with both guilt and relief.

Some nights she dreams of Menander, and when she wakes, his absence is like a weight on her chest. In the dark of the storeroom, she relives every moment she has spent with him, finds herself turning the memories over in her mind like precious stones, until they start to lose their sharpness and she cannot be sure where fantasy and reality meet. Then she will remember Dido’s warning about wasted love and forces herself to relive the last time she saw him, when he was powerless to protect her, or himself.

Paris is a largely silent companion, often ignoring Amara if she tries to speak with him. She suspects their master has warned him off, not wanting a repeat of the black eye he gave Victoria. Even so, she is never sorry to have the storeroom to herself when he has to work in the brothel. Worse are the nights when Felix lends him to Thraso. Paris is completely unresisting, as if Thraso were having sex with a corpse. Amara curls up as small as possible, facing the wall, trying to give Paris some dignity. She finds his total silence almost as disturbing as Britannica’s screaming. The first time it happens, after Thraso has left, she risks asking Paris if he is alright. “It should have been you,” is all he says.