Elodie Harper - The Wolf Den

“Come on,” Menander says, rejoining her. “This way.”

They walk quickly down the street. “I’m sorry,” Amara says. “I’m sorry for what happened between us.” They reach the fountain, where a small gathering of gossips is already milling about. It’s a favourite haunt for loitering slaves.

“Never mind that now,” he says, pulling her to the side to let an impatient man pass. “Tell me what’s wrong. Has somebody hurt you?” His concern for her is so obvious, it makes her want to cry all over again.

“Cressa is dead,” she says. “She was pregnant. We went to the harbour together.” Amara stops, not wanting to describe Cressa’s final moments, the flash of her cloak, the foam on the water. “She drowned herself.”

“It was just the two of you? You were left alone there? At the docks?”

Amara nods. “Nobody would help. Nobody. And when this man asked me why I was upset, I said I didn’t know her.” She covers her face with her hands, overwhelmed by her final act of betrayal. Menander puts down his bucket and embraces her. She clings to him, crying into his shoulder.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Menander says. “It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”

“Nobody helped, nobody cared,” Amara says. “They were just angry she pushed an amphora of oil in the water. She didn’t matter. And now she’s gone, and it’s like she never lived at all. Like she was nothing.”

“She wasn’t though,” he says. “You loved her, didn’t you? She mattered; she mattered to you, to her friends.”

“I didn’t help her; I let her drown.”

“You couldn’t help her,” he says. “And she chose to drown.”

Amara lets Menander hold her, until she becomes suddenly aware that they have attracted a number of gawpers, no doubt listening to every word. She straightens up, wiping her face. Menander confronts the small crowd, hovering with their buckets. “Just leave us alone, will you?”

“Fuck you,” one of the other slaves mutters, but the gossips still turn round to give them some privacy. Nobody here wants a fight, not when they all have masters waiting.

“You did nothing wrong,” Menander repeats, holding her shoulders, making her look at him. “You hear me? Nothing at all.”

Amara looks at his kind face, at the dark eyes she has tried so hard to forget, and knows that she will never love Rufus, not how she loves this man. “I’m sorry I sent Dido,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you myself.” As soon as she says the words, she can see how she hurt him. “I don’t love him,” she says. “But I owe him.”

“He bought you,” Menander says, letting go of her. “I understand.”

It isn’t only money that Amara meant. She owes Rufus for more than that. She owes him some semblance of loyalty, not to make every word she says a lie. But she doesn’t want to hurt Menander even more than she already has. He bends to fill the bucket with water he doesn’t need, except as an excuse for Rusticus. “I didn’t want you wasting your feelings on me,” Amara says, as he works the pump. “Not when I can’t give you anything.” Even though I want to , she thinks. “And I’m sorry I came here, dragging you out, burdening you. I just couldn’t bear what happened to Cressa, and I forgot. I forgot I shouldn’t have been speaking to you. That I should have left you alone.”

“You can always speak to me.” Menander lifts the bucket down, moving away from the well. “Always. And I know you have to look after yourself. I understand that.”

Amara looks down. It feels as if he is letting her go, and she doesn’t want him to. “There is nobody like you,” she says, unable to tell him she loves him. “There is nobody else like you in my life.”

“Or mine, Timarete.” He leans forward, kissing her quickly on the forehead. Then he picks up the bucket, turning to go. “Please be careful. And don’t blame yourself.”

Britannica understands, as soon as she sees Amara, that something is wrong.

“Cressa?” she demands, her voice high with anxiety. “Cressa?”

Amara cannot bear to tell her Cressa is dead while they are alone; she isn’t even sure Britannica will understand. All the other women are out, even Beronice, and she has to wait while Britannica paces the corridor, muttering to herself, sometimes turning to shout at Amara who only shakes her head.

When Dido and Beronice return, they are both with customers. She knows her stricken face will have told them there is bad news as soon as they step over the threshold, but they are still obliged to pleasure the men first. Amara sits in her old cell, waiting for them to finish.

“Where is she?” Beronice says, rushing in as soon as she is free. “Where’s Cressa? What’s happened to her?” Britannica hovers by the bed, looking from Beronice to Amara, her eyes wide with fear.

“I’m sorry,” Amara says. “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Beronice shakes her head, understanding. “No, she isn’t. She can’t be.”

“She jumped into the sea at the harbour,” Amara says, trying to keep her voice steady. “She tied herself to an amphora to make sure she drowned. I couldn’t get there in time to save her. I didn’t realize.”

“No!” Beronice wails. “No!”

It had been Britannica’s grief Amara feared, but instead, it is Beronice who loses all control. She beats her fists on the walls of the cell, tearing at her hair, at her face, screaming and crying. “I loved her!” she sobs. “I loved her! She can’t be dead!”

Amara doesn’t dare touch her; Beronice is like a mad woman. Britannica curls up in a ball on the floor, covering her ears. Dido walks in. She has no need to ask what has happened. She throws herself at Amara, and they hold one another, rocking back and forth.

They are all still crying and keening when Amara hears Victoria, her patter cutting across the noise. “ Oh! I can feel it! How big you are !” There is shrieking and giggling from the Spanish girls, and the deeper tones of male voices. Amara disentangles herself from Dido and steps out into the corridor. She stands in silence, her shadow reaching out across the floor.

A man is draped over Victoria, but her attention is only half on him. She has heard the wailing. “Who?” she says to Amara. “Who is it?”

“Cressa.”

“Out!” Victoria shakes the man’s arm from her shoulders. He looks at her, bewildered by this whore who moments before was panting after him. Victoria shoves him hard. “Get out!” she yells, her face red with fury. “All of you! Out! I don’t want any fucking men in here!”

Ipstilla and Telethusa stand frozen with fear and surprise. One of their customers gives a nervous laugh. “What the fuck is this?”

“I said, all of you, out!” Victoria screams, wrenching his arm from around Ipstilla’s waist. He steps back, too shocked to hit her. His companion makes the sign of the evil eye.

“You heard what she said!” Amara shouts. “We don’t want you in here. Get out!”

Beronice rushes from the cell behind her. She looks unhinged with her scratched face and wild hair. “Bastards!” she shrieks. “She’s dead, can’t you leave us in peace?”

The men need no more urging. They don’t even take the time to hurl insults back. Instead, they hurry from the house of angry women, almost tripping over the doorstep on their way to the street.

On any other morning, Felix would have been down to rage at the takings, but their wild grief has made the women untouchable, for one day at least. Amara wonders if he too might be grieving but crushes her sense of sympathy. Whatever happened to Felix as a child does not change who he is now. Fabia dresses their hair, her own face red from crying. Amara remembers what Cressa said about the old woman trying to find Cosmus, wonders what else the two women talked about, what secrets Fabia might know about their master.