Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

Amara turns back to Rufus, still smiling, but his expression chills her. “So you already know Quintus?” he says.

“He has attended parties where I was performing,” she replies, with a toss of her head, determined not to show her fear, still less any guilt. “My singing partner Dido knows him better.”

“He’s got a reputation.” Amara cannot tell whether the anger in his voice is for her or Quintus. “I hope you never got too close to him.”

“Do you think I ever had a choice about such things?” she says sharply.

“Forget it.” He waves his hand to dismiss the conversation.

“No,” she says, her voice icy. “I won’t. If you will hold the most painful parts of my life against me, I cannot be your friend.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it…” Rufus looks more like himself again, startled into his familiar frown of anxiety at displeasing her.

“I hope not,” she says. “Just because you have been generous enough to allow me a choice, doesn’t mean anyone else has.” Amara feels a sudden weariness. The exhaustion of holding his interest, of trying to explain herself, all the while knowing he is incapable of understanding. A memory of Menander comes to her, of their afternoon outside the arena, talking about the past. You are the same person. I still see you as the same person .

Rufus recognizes her sadness, even though he has no way of guessing the cause. “I’m an idiot, sorry. I know you have… sung at a lot of parties.” He pulls a rueful face, to show the euphemism is mocking him rather than her. “It’s ridiculous of me to be jealous. You’re just so lovely. I know you could have anyone.” He reaches for her hand. “Friends again?”

“The ridiculous thing is imagining I could ever prefer Quintus to you,” she replies, squeezing his fingers. It sounds like a line, but she means it. “Drusilla seems very pleasant.” She lets go again.

“Oh, she’s great fun,” Rufus exclaims, then stops, horrified at himself. “Not that I’ve ever…” he stutters. Amara laughs, and he joins her, relieved. “Well, anyway. She throws the most wonderful dinners. Her old master left her her freedom and, clearly, a fair bit of cash too. Though I think her friends also support her.”

Amara glances over at Drusilla with even greater interest. She has the same poise that she remembers from the theatre. Even the arrogant Quintus seems to be making some effort to impress her.

“We should certainly accept her invitation,” Rufus says, following the direction of her gaze. “If you would like to.”

“I would. Very much.” Amara looks down, her nerves perhaps easy to mistake for shyness. “But then I think I should enjoy being anywhere with you.” She looks up and can see Rufus has understood her meaning.

The rest of their dinner passes without much attention to the food. Both are on a high of anticipation, every small touch of the hand, even when passing the wine, is heightened. It almost feels like love.

It’s dark when they walk the short distance back to Rufus’s house. Philos and another slave accompany them, lighting their path. The house is familiar to her now. The jasmine has faded in the garden, instead, the air is scented with myrtle. She remembers her offering to Venus at the Vinalia, the favour she asked. It helps her make her decision about how to behave. Tonight will be all about performance.

She is grateful when Rufus dismisses the other slaves; she prefers to be alone with him. Philos has left the lamps burning, and wherever their glow touches the walls, they illuminate scenes from the stage, though much of the room is draped in shadow. Amara realizes she has never been inside Rufus’s home in daylight.

She had half-expected him to leap on her, the way he did on their first evening together, but instead, she finds he is reticent. Amara steps out of her clothes – slowly, so that he misses nothing – and steps into the role she has chosen for herself: the courtesan in love. It sits halfway between truth and lie. Every trick she has ever learnt, every means of giving pleasure, she gives to Rufus. She even finds her nights with Salvius useful, not for herself, but because he taught her about delay, in his own unfulfilled quest to please her.

None of it is unpleasant. She even finds, for the first time, a certain enjoyment in making a man happy, because this particular man is one she likes. But it is impossible to separate her affection from her need to make him want her, not just for the one night, but to want what she can give like this, over and over.

Afterwards they lie together, covered in sweat, his skin warm against hers. “I love you,” he says, kissing her. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replies, holding him tighter.

“I’ve never known a woman like you. You never ask for presents. The only thing you’ve ever asked is that I give you time.”

Amara thinks of her friends, of Dido and Victoria. She knows there are many women like her, but they are rarely afforded the compassion Rufus gives her. “You have already been generous to me,” she says. “You listen. You protect me, even when we are not together.”

“This is why I love you,” he says, kissing her again. Then he props himself up on an elbow, and leans over his side of the cushions, searching for something underneath the couch. He hands her a wooden box, his face expectant like a small boy.

“What’s this?”

“Open it, open it!”

Amara does as she is told. Inside is a silver necklace with an amber pendant. For a moment, she is too stunned to speak. “It’s beautiful!”

Rufus helps her fasten the clasp. “It does look very lovely on you, I must say.” He is extremely pleased with his choice. “It’s from my family’s own business. I got one of our best craftsmen to work on it.”

Amara has seen the jewellery store and gem-cutting workshops that surround Rufus’s house; she sneaked past one morning with Dido to have a look. She touches the smooth drop of resin at her neck. Amber makes her think of Marcella, of the necklace she and Fulvia brought to the Forum, but she pushes the unhappy women from her mind. “It’s the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me,” she says. “But my darling, I cannot take it with me. My master would never let me keep it.”

“But this is a personal gift!” Rufus says, outraged. “He would have no right.”

“I will wear it whenever we are together,” she replies, putting her hand over his to reassure him. “You can keep it safe for me, here. It will remind you that I am always waiting for you.”

“But what about you? What will you have to make you think of me .”

Amara looks at him, her lover with all his wealth, his endlessly sociable life, and she can see that he is genuinely worried she might forget him, as if she could do anything other than count the hours in Felix’s storeroom until she sees him again. “I know!” she says. “You can buy me some cheap glass beads, wooden even, that I will wear as a bracelet. Felix would never bother with that, but it would remind me of your love whenever I saw it.”

“It is romantic,” Rufus says, somewhat mollified. “Though it will make me look abominably tight if you go around telling your friends that’s all your boyfriend has given you. Particularly if they know about my family’s business!”

“I promise I won’t,” Amara says, amused that he might fear a poor reputation among the whores of the town brothel. Unless he imagines she has other, classier friends.

“Will he try to stop you seeing me,” Rufus asks her. “Your master? If he thinks you care for me?”

At first, Amara cannot understand what he means, then she remembers the lie she told to ensure he didn’t come to the brothel – that Felix is monstrously jealous of her happiness. “Oh,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind. I told him I was afraid of you. He was pleased by the thought you might be cruel to me.” No need to add that it was the prospect of charging extra for violence that Felix liked.