Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

Amara and Victoria look at each other, unable to think of any words of comfort. “Maybe the pregnancy won’t work out,” Victoria says in a small voice.

“Maybe,” Cressa replies, drinking her wine. “Maybe.”

On the way back, Cressa shakes them both off, choosing to walk alone instead. Victoria takes Amara’s hand, gripping her fingers, like a woman afraid of drowning.

Amara takes one of the figs from Drusilla’s table, peeling it, savouring the soft sweetness on her tongue. It is nearly October. Rufus is reclining beside her, his body warm at her back. They have been spending more time at Drusilla’s house, ever since Rufus’s parents returned from their summer at Baiae. His parents do know about her, Rufus has assured her, it’s quite proper for him to have a girlfriend, but it’s probably better neither of them bump into her in the atrium. His mother has funny notions. She thinks a household slave is enough for such things; she doesn’t understand what it means to be in love .

Amara would have been desperate if it were not for Drusilla’s generosity in letting them stay over at her house. Rufus pays her, of course. Amara thinks it must be nice to rent out rooms, rather than your own body. She takes another fig from the table. Tonight is the first time Dido has joined them, and this feels as close to happiness as life can get.

“So you are both Punic?” Drusilla says, addressing Dido and Lucius, the wealthy young man she invited for Dido to entertain. Amara suspects he may be one of Drusilla’s former lovers, but she cannot be sure.

Lucius raises an eyebrow at the question, turns to Dido and says something in a language nobody else understands. It is clearly a joke, and Dido laughs, delighted, replying to him in the same tongue. He smiles at her, pleased by whatever it is she has said. He turns back to Drusilla. “It seems so.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Drusilla claps her hands. “Such a coincidence.” Quintus who is sitting beside her, sighs and rolls his eyes. Amara would like to throw a fig at his head. She still cannot imagine why Drusilla, the most glamorous woman she has ever met, would have such an ordinary boyfriend. He must be a lot richer than she realized.

“My family are all from Carthage,” Lucius says. His accent is similar to Dido’s but not identical. Amara supposes he must be several thousand leagues above her on the social scale. “I’ve been banished to Italy to look after the business. We have a number of bases here in Campania.”

“You must miss it, being so far away,” Dido says, her expression wistful.

Lucius replies to her in Punic, and she smiles again then looks down. Amara guesses he just paid her a compliment.

“Weren’t you kidnapped?” Rufus asks Dido. “That means your sale wasn’t legal! I’m convinced yours wasn’t either,” he says to Amara. “Convinced. It’s not possible to go from being a doctor’s daughter to a slave, is it?” He looks round at everyone else. “Don’t you think?”

Amara could wince with embarrassment. Rufus is determined to turn their lives into the plot of a Plautus play, where she is, in fact, a freeborn, marriageable girl. A world where tragedy, not snobbery, is what holds them apart.

Lucius coughs politely. “Perhaps not.”

“It’s completely possible,” Quintus says lazily. “I mean all sorts of people end up as slaves, if they aren’t Roman citizens.”

Drusilla changes the subject before Rufus can object. “Would you both sing for us? Amara told me what a delightful voice you have, Dido.”

“But only if you play the harp,” Amara says.

“Oh, please do,” Dido exclaims. “I’ve been longing to hear you play.”

The three women go through a show of false modesty and reluctance, paying each other little compliments, flirting with the men, while Drusilla’s maids bring out her harp. Dido and Amara drape themselves nearby. It’s meant to look artless, even though they have been practising all afternoon. Then it was a much brisker scene, all three concentrating on the music, trying out different sets, with the odd joke from the hostess, invariably aimed at one of her lovers. Amara had wondered at first why Drusilla was so kind, but now she understands. A steady stream of female guests allows her to rent rooms and entertain, supporting her reputation as one of Pompeii’s most sought-after courtesans.

Drusilla has no reason to fear being upstaged by Amara or Dido. She is a skilled harpist, showing off her graceful arms and slender fingers, while her voice vibrates with emotion, elevating the other women’s singing as they try to compete. The men lounge on the couches, drinking wine and laughing with one another, looking entirely satisfied to be the recipients of so much devoted labour. Amara is touched that Rufus rarely looks at her companions. The other two are quite shameless in eyeing up one another’s girlfriends.

The evening rolls on pleasantly. The food is good, if not lavish, and there’s plenty of wine. The men have a mock wrestling session – which Rufus finds amusing and Quintus takes too seriously – and quote poetry at one another, making up their own rhymes as they get increasingly drunk. Amara is gratified to see how much Lucius has taken to Dido, though she suspects he may not be a man who is looking for love in the way Rufus was when she met him. She touches the new earrings he has given her, feeling the light swing of them against her fingertips. There is an ever-growing hoard of gifts in the wooden box in his room, all hers. She slips her hand into his, stroking his palm, while he smiles, good-natured, at one of Quintus’s jokes.

Amara suspects she should try and share her good fortune with more of her friends, but she struggles to imagine Beronice or Victoria carrying off an evening like this. The thought makes her feel guilty. Victoria would probably be all too popular; she can just imagine her dancing like she did at the Vinalia, doing a striptease, but that, in itself, would tip the balance, tearing the veil that hides the real intentions behind these dinners.

“I think it might be time for bed,” Quintus says, stretching out luxuriously as if he were the host and not Drusilla. “Otherwise, I will be fit for nothing but sleeping.”

“I hope you wouldn’t dare, not under my roof,” Drusilla replies. “I cannot think of a worse insult.”

Everyone laughs, and the men bid each other goodnight, retiring with the women as their spoils for the night. Drusilla’s house is nothing like as grand or large as her clients’ homes, but it is elegant and comfortable. Every room Amara has seen is painted with scenes of mythical lovers, the one she usually stays in has a painting of Leda and the Swan. It is up the stairs, above the small courtyard and dining room.

She and Rufus follow Drusilla’s maid to the bedroom. He starts undressing her before the girl has even finished lighting all the lamps. It is something she has noticed about Rufus, the way he doesn’t seem to see many of the slaves who serve him. At his own house, Vitalio would come in unannounced to set out wine or fruit, even when they were in bed together, until Amara asked that he stop.

“He doesn’t think anything of it!” Rufus had protested, but Amara was not so sure. It was the way Vitalio had looked at her once, one slave to another, while Rufus waxed on about a play. She knew then that he disliked her, that serving her made him angry, even though she still doesn’t understand why.

Tonight, she is relieved that they have not progressed beyond nakedness before the maid leaves. It is an effort now, always remembering to perform with Rufus. His affection for her seems so genuine; she wonders what would happen if she tried to pursue her own pleasure, or suggest what she might like. But it is easier just to please him and fake it. She knows her inability to enjoy Salvius’s efforts was what cooled his interest in the end, for all he asked her not to pretend.