Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

Having her hair done is a more restful experience. Dressed again, she goes with another attendant to a small room and sits down. It’s cooler here. The hairdresser places the tongs in a brazier. “That’s enough,” Amara says, watching the glowing heat. “My hair’s already curly, I just need it styled.” And I don’t need you singeing it, she thinks.

“How do you want it?”

“To impress a man.”

“Not a husband?”

“No.”

The hairdresser smirks. As if she didn’t already know from Amara’s toga. While the other woman piles up her hair in a cascade of curls, she thinks of Rufus. It is so hard to know exactly what he would like. Would he prefer her as she really is, to see that she is feeling nervous, even shy, or is he expecting to be lavished with pleasure and treated to all the expertise of a courtesan? She wishes she could ask Victoria’s advice.

“Fit to fuck an emperor,” the hairdresser says when she’s finished. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

Amara laughs and thanks her. She walks out onto the street, ignoring the whistles of a couple of men hanging around the entrance to the baths. It’s a notorious spot for picking up customers. She wonders if any of her friends have been this way today.

The smell of frying food tempts her on the way home, but she walks past. She will be eating for free this evening, and it’s better to save her money. Paris lets her back into the flat, and his expression when he sees her hair is pure malevolence.

“Master wants you,” he says, turning on his heel as soon as Amara is inside.

She walks up the stairs, wondering what Felix needs, but when she enters his study, he doesn’t speak, just gestures impatiently at a pile of tablets on her table. She sits down to work. Shortly afterwards, one of his clients, Cedrus, arrives. They discuss the loan, chat about business, the scorching summer heat. Felix offers him a discount at the brothel if he ups the amount he is borrowing, something Amara has noticed he does fairly often. Cedrus swivels round to look at her.

“Is she….?” he asks.

“Yes, but she’s usually booked. Costs a little extra.”

“Wise man,” he says. “I’d keep that one to myself as well.”

“If you’re choosing downstairs, I recommend Victoria,” Felix replies.

“Do all your whores do accounts?” Cedrus asks, amused.

“Just that one. A doctor’s daughter.”

Cedrus is impressed. “You invested in quality stock then. Not got any virgins, I suppose?”

Amara thinks of Dido, of the pain she endured losing her innocence in this place, and almost snaps her stylus from pressing it so hard into the wax.

Felix shakes his head. The men move on to other matters and when Cedrus leaves, he doesn’t so much as glance at her, as if he has forgotten her existence.

“Don’t do that again,” Felix says when they are alone.

“Do what?”

“Listen.”

Amara is about to protest but thinks better of it. “I don’t remember telling you my father was a doctor.”

“It was after I bought you,” he replies. “I gave you and Dido some figs, and you told me they were your father’s favourite. I asked what he did.”

The memory comes back to Amara, so vivid it is searing, like the scalding floor of the baths. The way Felix smiled, touched her gently on the arm, offering her the fruit. Almost with tenderness. And her own foolish relief. This one is kind .

She shrugs. “I don’t remember that.”

Amara works silently the rest of the afternoon, keeping her head down as a procession of clients come in. She does not seem to pay attention, not even when one weeps, begging Felix for more time, but all the while, she disobeys her master, listening intently, hatred coiled in the pit of her stomach. At last, Paris comes to tell them Rufus’s slave Philos is waiting. Felix dismisses him then walks over, watching her pile up the tablets.

When she has finished, he hands her one of Pliny’s dresses, not moving aside as she changes. His presence makes her nervous, and she fumbles with the brooch. Felix helps her, and the sensation of him holding up the fabric, his frown of concentration as he fixes the pin, makes her think of a husband’s familiarity with his wife. When she is dressed, she turns to go, but he catches hold of her wrist, pulling her closer. It is not a moment of intimacy.

“Remember what happens to people who betray me,” he says. Then he lets her arm drop, walking back to his desk without watching her leave.

The restaurant is a step up for Amara, a step down for Rufus. She imagines it must give him a thrill, dining out somewhere not quite respectable. Anybody who is worth anything eats in, safe in the knowledge that luxury lies closer to home. For her, the experience is a delight. They are served on a terrace, and the red glow of dusk gives them a view over the terracotta rooftops, the sharp-peaked mountain a darkening shadow beyond. Lamps hang from the trellising above, a far more elaborate affair than at The Elephant, woven with vines and heavy with ripening grapes.

Rufus orders, and she has the anxiety of trying to eat the sea urchins without making a mess. “I thought we could go to the theatre again next week,” he says, sloshing fish sauce everywhere. “One of my favourite plays is on. And it’s an excellent company too, touring all the way from Rome. I’m very interested to see how they stage it.”

“That would be wonderful,” she says, as always relieved that he is thinking ahead to another meeting. “Have you ever been to Rome?”

“No. The furthest I’ve travelled is Misenum. Stayed with the admiral, as it happens. He has a beautiful place out there.”

Amara smiles, not wanting to think about how she once aimed to make the admiral’s villa her home.

“I’d love to see Greece,” he continues. “So many of our plays are based on ones your poets had already written. Did you ever spend time in Athens?”

She cannot tell him that her abiding memory of the city was passing through it to the slave docks. “Not really, no. The only place I know is my hometown, Aphidnai. I think you would like our statue of Helen of Troy.”

Rufus takes her hand and kisses it. “I’m sure she is not as beautiful as you.”

They stare at each other, and she can read the question he is asking with his eyes. Have I waited long enough ?

“Rufus!” They are interrupted by a familiar voice. Amara looks up to see Quintus standing by their table. He is accompanied by a beautiful woman. Amara realizes she has seen her before. It is the courtesan she noticed at the theatre, with the dress dipped at her back. She is even more striking close up, hair circling her head in elaborate plaits and her skin unusually dark, like Zoskales. A gold bracelet shines on her upper arm. “I think you know Drusilla?”

“Of course,” Rufus says. “Always a pleasure.” He turns to his own girlfriend with unmistakable pride. “And this is Amara.”

“Indeed!” Quintus says, pursing his lips. “Lucky man. I’ve heard her pretty voice before.” Amara feels a stab of alarm. There is no mistaking the smirk on his face.

“Oh, do you sing?” Drusilla exclaims. “How delightful! I adore music. You must both join us one evening at my home.” She smiles warmly at Amara who smiles back, grateful for the distraction.

“Loves entertaining, this one.” Quintus rolls his eyes. “I can barely set foot in the house; it’s always stuffed full of gossiping girls.”

Drusilla makes a playful show of being affronted. “As if I ever deny you anything .” She flounces off to their table, and Quintus follows with an apologetic shrug.