“I thought he was going to kill me.”
“Oh, he would never do that!” Victoria says indignantly. “Think of the money he would lose!” She peers at Amara’s neck and its faint row of bruises. “Very unusual for him to leave any marks though. You must have made him really angry.”
“Everything makes him angry!” Amara says. “Just looking at him sends him into a rage. He’s impossible.”
“You did go on and on yesterday, telling him what to do. He hates that.”
“I gave him good advice,” Amara says. “What was there to be angry about?”
“Sweetheart,” Victoria says. “He does not want advice from his whores.”
“He told me I can’t even…” Amara falters, shame preventing her from repeating exactly what Felix had said. “He said I don’t give him enough pleasure. That I should ask you about it, because you know what you’re doing.”
“He said that?” Victoria is clearly pleased by the compliment.
“He said you’re the only one who really knows what they’re doing,” Amara says. She does not add what else Felix said. That Victoria was half as pretty but had ten times the skill. “I think he actually enjoys it with you. He didn’t say so, but I got that impression.”
“So he should,” Victoria says. “I put the work in. Not that you don’t,” she adds, quickly. Amara is surprised at how happy praise from Felix has made Victoria. It saddens her to think of the power he has. Two more matrons and a teenage girl bump up beside them at the basin, talking loudly about the elections. One of their husbands is standing. The girl, probably a daughter, looks bored and uncomfortable. She glances shyly over at the two beautiful she-wolves, clearly unaware of who they are. “I think we’ll save the advice on technique until we get home,” Victoria says. “But you shouldn’t be too upset. He might have been angry today, but over time, he will like you better for not being a coward. He likes a bit of spirit.” She blushes, looking for a moment as shy as the young girl beside them. “He’s told me before that’s why I’m his favourite whore.” She says the last words quietly, close to Amara’s ear, so their neighbours can’t hear.
Amara suddenly feels claustrophobic in the hot, crowded room. She steps away from the basin. Victoria follows. “The only reason I’d want to be his favourite,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is so he wouldn’t see the knife coming when I kill him.”
Victoria laughs, thinking she’s joking.
6
If anyone wants a fuck, he should look for Attice; she costs 16 asses
The winter sky is clear, the sun high overhead, and although there is little warmth from its blinding light, the brightness is cheering. Amara enjoys the feeling of being clean, even takes some pleasure in Fabia doing up her hair. The old woman’s fingers are deft and gentle. In a different life she could have been a skilled maid serving a grand mistress. Amara tries to let go of the morning’s pain. Like the bruises, she tells herself, the humiliation will fade.
They discuss where to go fishing and decide on the harbour. It’s always good for customers, and the walk will be a pleasure in the sunshine. Cressa offers to stay behind. “I’ve got Fabia for company,” she says, refusing the others’ gratitude. “We can put our feet up together; it will be lovely.” Fabia looks thrilled by the compliment. The old woman is as starved of affection as she is of food. Amara knows Cressa is in for a dreary afternoon of sitting in the dark, hearing endless tales of the wretched Paris’s childhood.
“Cressa’s so kind,” Amara says as they start off down the street. “She’s a born mother.”
“Don’t ever say that!” Beronice looks horrified.
“Why not?”
“Cressa is a mother,” Victoria answers, hurrying them further away from the brothel. “She had a little boy. Felix sold him last year when he was three.” Amara and Dido gasp, and Victoria nods, her expression grim. “We were all amazed he let her keep him that long; it would have been kinder to have exposed the baby when it was born. Before she got attached.”
“That’s terrible!” Dido exclaims. “Poor Cressa.”
“He was called Cosmus,” Victoria says. “Sweet enough child. Fabia used to have him when we were working. Cressa adored him. I didn’t think she was going to survive when Thraso took the boy away. Felix had to lock her upstairs, she was screaming so much. She was up there for days. And then after she came down, she never spoke about Cosmus again.”
“I don’t think she can bear to,” Beronice says.
Amara thinks about the way Cressa saved her from the dice player, her kindness, her endless patience with Fabia. She is amazed Cressa has any compassion left to give after losing her child. “But she’s always so thoughtful,” Amara says. “I would never have guessed she carried all that grief. I had no idea.”
Beronice and Victoria exchange glances. “I think she finds ways of drowning it out,” Victoria says. “You must have seen how much she drinks.”
“You can’t blame her though,” Beronice adds quickly. “And she doesn’t drink that much. Not really.”
“That’s why I always use my herbs at the end of the night,” Victoria says. “Kill off everything inside before it can take hold.”
They have reached the Via Veneria and walk in pairs along the wider pavement. Victoria and Amara in front, Beronice and Dido behind. Victoria changes the subject from Cressa, as if eager to leave their friend’s sadness behind. She points out the clothes of the wealthy women who pass them by, admiring the styles she likes, laughing at the ones she doesn’t. The journey to the harbour is short, but the roads are so busy it takes a while to arrive. The closer they get to the sea, the fresher the air becomes. Amara can almost taste the salt.
They stop to buy their one meal of the day at a roadside stall outside town. Victoria chooses, picking out bread, olives and anchovies, the dried fish stiff with brine. After walking a little further downhill, they reach the water. It is even busier here, merchants are unloading, there’s the yell of sailors and the scrape of cargo, and the constant slap of the waves against the stone walls. A little way off from the busy docks, a colonnade stretches round in a semicircle. From its roof, statues of the gods look out at incoming ships, while in the water itself, at the centre of the harbour, is a giant marble column. Venus Pompeiiana stands naked at the top. She gazes out over the vast expanse of blue, the guardian of her town.
The she-wolves find a sunny patch on the colonnade, dangling their legs over the side. They eat their food quickly to avoid the gulls that swoop overhead. Victoria watches a troop of oar slaves walk up onto the docks for a brief respite. They stand bent and blinking in the light. “What a miserable life that would be.” Victoria says. She stretches back, palms resting on the warm stone, her face to the sun. “Who is luckier than us in Pompeii right now? All this time to enjoy ourselves, no back-breaking loads to carry.” She swings her legs up. “I shouldn’t even be alive. You know I was a rubbish-heap baby? Left out to die in the shit and the fish guts. But here I am. Here we all are.”
“Here we all are,” Amara says. “Four penniless slaves, sucking off idiots for bread and olives. What a life.”