Elodie Harper: The Wolf Den

The Lupanarin Pompeii had two meanings for the Romans – both brothel and den of wolves, just as the word Lupacould mean both prostitute or she-wolf.

She holds her hands up as if in prayer, steam evaporating from her skin. The water laps at her neck as she lies back into its warmth. Laughter and female voices surround her, a confusion of sound echoing off the stone. She filters it out, focusing on her fingers, turning them, watching the water drip down, the steam rise. They could be anybody’s hands, she thinks, they could belong to anybody. But they belong to Felix.

Then another’s fingers interlock with hers, breaking her reverie. Victoria drags her upwards, out of the water.

“Amara! You’re getting your hair wet! You can’t lie back like that!” Victoria’s nails pinch her skin as she tries to revive the curls now plastered to Amara’s shoulders. “They’re like rat’s tails. What were you thinking?”

Anxiety surges through her. So much rests on this afternoon; she cannot believe her own thoughtlessness. “I don’t know, I…”

“It doesn’t look so bad.” Amara turns to face Dido who has slid over to join them, a slight frown on her gentle face. “You can hardly notice.”

“The men aren’t here for hair anyway.” It’s a less friendly voice this time. Drauca, Simo’s most valuable woman, is watching them from across the narrow pool. She rises up out of the water, lifting her arms, and sways. The dark waves of her own hair glisten like a raven’s plumage. Behind her, through the curved windows, the sea looks flat and grey. It’s impossible not to stare. Amara thinks of the statue of Helen of Troy back in Aphidnai, back when she had another name, another life.

“Venus Pompeiana!” Victoria gasps, grabbing Amara in exaggerated astonishment. “The goddess walks among us! Oh, shield my eyes from such glory!” Drauca scowls, dropping her arms with a splash. Victoria laughs. “As if nobody else here has a pair of tits,” she says. Though not loud enough for Drauca to hear.

“She is beautiful though,” Dido says, still staring at their rival. “And she’s been here before, hasn’t she? Maybe the men will prefer her, maybe—”

“Apart from Drauca, what do they have that we don’t?” Victoria interrupts, casting a scathing look at Drauca’s three companions. They are taking up most of the pool, splashing about with theatrical laughter, more posed than playful. “You can tell they’re all barmaids. Maria has arms like a litter-bearer.”

Amara isn’t sure they have the right to sneer, given their own lowly status as brothel whores. She-wolves. A familiar knot tightens in her stomach. “I wonder what the men will be like,” she says.

“They’ll be…” But Victoria doesn’t finish her thought, something behind Amara has caught her attention. “Hey!” she calls. “Let go! Let go of her!” She starts wading through the water towards an old woman who is pulling at Cressa’s arm, trying to drag her out of the pool. Victoria stares up at the woman as she successfully hauls a dripping Cressa out onto the side.

The woman leans down and points a gnarled finger in Victoria’s face. “Felix? You Felix?” Nobody replies. The stranger looks at them all, grouped together. Beronice has swum over too, mouth slightly open in surprise. “Felix whores out!” The old woman says impatiently, waving her hand towards the door, motioning for them to leave. Cressa tries to remonstrate, but the old woman pushes her backwards. Simo’s women have stopped splashing and laughing. Amara senses rather than sees that they are all at the far side of the pool. “Felix whores out now ,” the woman repeats, jabbing her finger at each of them in turn. When no one moves she grabs Amara’s arm. “Out! Out!” she shrieks. “Get out now!”

Stone scrapes Amara’s skin as the old woman yanks her against the side of the pool. Hard fingers dig into the soft flesh of her upper arm with a grip that’s surprisingly strong. She pushes herself up onto the hot tiles, shaking herself free. The woman continues shouting, threatening to call Vibo if they don’t move quickly. The mention of the bath manager’s name finally convinces them. Felix’s women clamber naked out of the water and hurry through to the next room, shivering at the sudden plunge in lighting and temperature. A cascade splashes down into the cold pool, the noise competing with the old woman’s shouts to hurry. Amara clutches at the bright blue wall to steady herself, trying not to lose her footing, squeezing against paintings of sea creatures, the open mouth of a fish huge by her face as she passes.

Victoria is the only one of the five still arguing when they arrive at the bath’s changing rooms. They didn’t come in this way. Rows of polished wooden lockers are topped by paintings of lovers indulging in every possible sexual position. The women’s clothes have been dumped in a heap on the floor.

“Hurry, hurry!” their tormentor demands, throwing a cloak at Beronice who still looks as stupefied as she did in the pool. Amara needs no further encouragement. She bends down and begins rifling through the mass of material, handing a yellow toga to Dido who is shivering badly, perhaps as much from fear as cold. Dido is new to slavery, and every indignity seems to hit her like a knife to the heart. Victoria is the only one who doesn’t rush. She is still fastening her toga long after everybody else is dressed, gazing at the old woman with pure hate. When Victoria finally looks away, Amara sees the woman make the sign of the evil eye.

A final poke with the bony finger between the shoulder blades and Amara and the other women are bundled outside into the baths’ private courtyard. Drizzle hits their faces, and the wind from the sea is cold. They stand in a huddle, already damp beneath their togas and cloaks. Amara glances around, surprised they are alone, then notices two men sheltering under the colonnade, a pair of incongruous, hulking shapes against the wall’s painted nymphs and roses. One of the men strides over, face thunderous. It’s Thraso, Felix’s steward.

“What’s this? What’s happened?” His hands are balled up, ready to fight. Amara steps back. She knows how hard those fists can fall.

“Better ask him,” Amara says, pointing at the other man left standing in the shadows. “Isn’t he with Simo?”

“Somebody double-crossed Felix,” Victoria adds, as Thraso swivels round. “Simo’s women got to stay; we were all thrown out before the men arrived. Bit convenient don’t you think?”

Thraso doesn’t wait to hear more. He charges across the yard, swinging at the other man’s head. “Balbus! I’ll fucking kill you! You fucking liar!”

Balbus dodges, missing the full force of Thraso’s punch, though he still catches a blow to his ear, making him stagger. Thraso grabs the man’s shoulders, smashing his skull into Balbus’s nose. Balbus roars, breaking free, clutching his bloodied face. Thraso attacks him again, and the two men fall to the ground, throwing punches, biting and screaming. The women watch, unsure what to do.

“Felix isn’t going to like this,” Beronice says, stating the obvious.

Amara glances sidelong at Victoria, hoping for a sarcastic remark, but Victoria looks away.

There’s a commotion from the doorway. A group of male slaves rush out, forcing the women to scramble aside. They run over to the brawling pair, trying to intervene, one taking a kick in the face. Vibo, the bath manager, comes out next, huffing, his portly figure swathed in a green toga. He manhandles Cressa out of his path in his haste to reach the fight.