Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“He sounds appalling!” Rufus says. “My poor, darling girl.” He squashes her in a hug so tight, the pendant digs into her skin. “I was hoping you would stay all night. But will that make your life more difficult?”

He is clinging on to her, clearly willing her to stay, and Amara herself is longing to accept. But she knows that if she gives in to every desire, fulfils every passion, she risks his infatuation burning itself out too quickly. Better to deny him from time to time. “I think that might be safer,” she says in a small voice. “Next time, I will stay.”

He lets go of her, cupping her face in his hands, kisses her tenderly on the forehead. “Whatever you think is best,” he says.

His sincerity hurts her heart.

Felix is alarmed to see her before daybreak. He is waiting in the corridor as she comes up the stairs, obviously having heard Philos drop her at the door.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t do what he wanted.”

“I did everything,” Amara says. “I just didn’t want to stay the whole night. I told you, he scares me. And besides”—she meets his cold stare with one of her own—“it keeps him keener that way. We want to string this out as long as possible, don’t we?”

“Little bitch,” Felix says. She starts unfastening her cloak, expecting to be dismissed, but he gestures at her to stop. “Don’t take that off. I’m heading out. You can come with me.”

“Why?” Amara asks, unable to hide her astonishment.

“Doesn’t hurt to show off the wares,” Felix says. He puts an arm around her, and for a bewildering moment, she thinks it is a gesture of affection. Then she feels his fingers, hard and pinching at her waist, like a baker checking the quality of his dough. “Just don’t open that big fucking mouth of yours.”

The bar is in an unfamiliar part of town. It is low and cramped, barely more than a hole in the wall, and reeks of pipe smoke. Amara is the only woman present; she sits wedged against the wall, Felix between her and the men he is there to meet. Most of the others are drunk when they arrive, but even though he makes a show of ordering wine, she notices Felix stays sober. His hand is on her thigh, and she understands he is giving a signal to the other men: Don’t touch.

She is not the only one to express surprise at Felix bringing a woman along.

“What did this one do?” asks a man, gesturing at her with his wine. Some slops on the table. She recognizes him from the Palaestra, by the white scar across his face, but he doesn’t recognize her. “Something special, is she? Or is she bored of your cock and here to try some of ours?”

Others join in, but although they’re all talking about her, they’re only talking to Felix, as if she isn’t really there. She says nothing through it all, just looks down at his hand on her leg.

“Plenty more cunt where she comes from,” Felix says. “You can try some later.”

They lose interest in Amara and move on to business. She is so exhausted she could almost rest her head against the wall and fall asleep; it must be the early hours of the morning.

“I think the cobbler’s getting jumpy about paying,” says one man. He is thin and shifty as a weasel. “All the work we do, keeping the streets safe. Not very grateful, is it?”

The man with the white scar laughs, but Felix looks unimpressed. “Maybe he needs a little reminder. Nothing too drastic.” Amara realizes they are not talking about loans. “Best it’s someone he’s not seen before.”

“I know who,” says Weasel, nodding.

The conversation flits back and forth between business and banter: who is paying, who needs persuading, the latest games at the arena, the best whore by the docks. Amara is not surprised Felix is involved in a protection racket but is uneasy that he would take the risk. Doesn’t he earn enough already? What if someone retaliated? Can everyone at this bar be trusted? She hopes any trail to the brothel is well hidden.

Time drags, and she feels like a ghost, only Felix’s hand physically anchors her to the present. She remembers what he said about showing off his wares and doesn’t dare doze off. Instead, she makes occasional eye contact with the men then looks suggestively at Felix, ensuring they remember her role, what they might be getting.

When Felix finally gets up, hauling her to her feet, she could almost cry with relief. A couple of the men walk back with them to the brothel, somehow still awake enough to take Felix up on his offer of a discount. She feels sorry for whoever has to entertain them. Watching them step into the darkened corridor of the brothel, knowing they won’t be arriving at her cell, she realizes exhaustion has sapped her sense of guilt. She follows Felix into the relative safety of his flat.

At the top of the stairs, he takes hold of her wrist, leaning back to look at her, as if weighing up the possibility she represents. Then he lets her go. “Send Paris to me,” he says, walking off.

She hurries to the storeroom, nudging the sleeping Paris with her foot. “Get up. Master wants you.”

Paris springs awake like a cat, scrabbling the blankets off himself. “Now?” he gasps. “He wants me now?”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, heading to her corner. “That’s what he said.” Paris gives a stifled sob, a sound of utter wretchedness. Amara watches him creep from the room, unable to feel anything but gratitude that he is the one being tormented instead of her. She is asleep moments after her head rests on the lumpy sack of beans.

When she wakes, she is aware of someone leaning over her. She opens her eyes. It is Paris, his face so close, their noses are almost touching. “Brothel day for you, bitch,” he whispers.

“Get away from me!” Amara shoves him, and he lands on his backside with a thud. “What is it with you?”

Paris dusts himself off, angry at being made to look foolish. “Last night was your fault,” he snarls. “Why couldn’t you have fucked Felix? You were awake anyway. And it’s nothing to you. Nothing.” His voice grows shriller. “It’s what you’re there for; it’s the whole point of you!”

Paris stops. He is on the verge of tears, his thin chest rising and falling with the effort of controlling his emotions. Amara thinks about all the cruelties Paris must have endured: the confusion of growing up in the brothel, watching the way his mother was treated, his fear when he became a target himself. And then having to suffer the contempt of other men, even ones like Gallus who he is so desperate to impress. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” Amara replies, keeping her voice steady, not wanting to humiliate him further by a show of sympathy. “But you know it wasn’t because of me. Nobody tells Felix what to do.”

“He doesn’t even screw you, does he, when he has you in the study?” Paris takes her silence as his answer, kicking at the wall in frustration. “All these years I’ve wanted him to trust me with the business, and then he chooses you instead. As if I were the woman.” Paris spits out the last word like a curse that might defile his mouth by speaking it.

Amara does not point out to Paris that he would not be much use to Felix with his accounts, since he cannot even read. “It won’t be forever,” she says. “He won’t treat you like this forever. I’m sure he does trust you.”

Paris looks at her, biting his lip. She can see he wants to talk, all his loneliness pent up inside him like a cranked-up well before the water falls. But pride gets the better of him. He shrugs, as if physically shaking her off. “Nobody’s paying for you to stay up here today, are they? So why don’t you fuck off back to where you belong and leave me in peace.”