“You see,” Menander says, lightly brushing a curl of hair from her face. “Incidental.”
“But I’m also Amara.” She switches back to Latin, playfully moving his hand away. “Because otherwise I would never have set foot in a tavern, still less have sung for a crowd of men or talked to you!”
Menander smiles and is about to reply when Dido grabs her arm. “Amara! Is that Gallus?”
The familiar figure is bent over the gaming table, gesticulating at Victoria who is trying to scramble her winnings together while she argues with both him and the other gamblers. He smacks his head on a low-hanging oil lamp as he stands up, looking furiously round the room. He spots Amara and Dido. “Get back now!” he shouts.
A few drinkers turn round to discover who he’s yelling at, see the two she-wolves and laugh. “I might come along with you,” one slurs, getting to his feet. “Pretty little lips. Maybe you’ll sing for me.” He says this to Dido, obviously thinking Amara is already with a client.
Menander takes hold of her hand, covering it with both of his. For one moment, she is afraid he will ask to join her at the brothel. He leans in, lowering his voice. “Please take care of yourself, Timarete.”
8
This truly is a Golden Age; for gold High place is purchased; love is bought and sold.
“Almost two denarii! That’s how much I won. Those dice are the best investment I ever made! And you should have seen the other players’ faces. Perfection.”
Victoria is gloating about her victory at the gaming table. All of the women, save Dido, are sitting on the stone bench that hugs the walls of the warm room, listening to her boasts without huge enthusiasm. This section of the women’s baths is always a gossip chamber, and a low babble of voices swells up to the vaulted ceiling. Cracks fan out across its surface and the stucco is chipped. When everyone’s clothes are removed, it’s harder to tell who is citizen, freedwoman or slave; the she-wolves might almost be mistaken for a group of young wives.
Amara usually finds the warm room a pleasant break before braving higher temperatures, but instead of feeling relaxed in the heat, her every sinew is knotted with tension. She found the aftermath of the bar unbearable. The claustrophobia of being back at the brothel, forced to put up with the parade of drunken men and their endless, thankless demands, felt infinitely more painful after her brief time with Kallias. Menander, she tells herself, his slave name is Menander. Just like yours is Amara.
“And then early this morning Felix asked for me for the second day running! A whole hour. That’s how long he had me working for him. And I don’t like to boast,” Victoria says, “but I made him last ages. I think a few tricks even took him by surprise.” She could not look more pleased with herself if she were Psyche recounting a visit from Eros. “I think that must be the longest time he’s wanted to spend with anyone.”
“I don’t know why that’s something to brag about,” Beronice says. Her cheeks are shining in the heat, which makes her look cross, and strands of hair are stuck to her face with sweat. “Felix is such a chore. And he’s always such an ungrateful bastard afterwards. Hardly worth the effort. Not like Gallus. He always…” Beronice sees the others smirking and stops herself. She looks down at her feet and heaves a sigh, obviously desperate to share all the pent-up devotion in her heart but reluctant to face the ridicule. Amara feels sorry they’ve teased her so much.
Victoria smiles slightly but doesn’t say anything. Amara realizes Felix must have complimented her. He understands perfectly how to manipulate us all, she thinks.
“I don’t think Felix has sent for me in weeks,” Cressa says. She is slumped against the wall, arms folded over her breasts, hiding the stretch marks.
“Lucky you,” Beronice retorts, entirely missing the anxiety in Cressa’s voice.
Amara edges away on the bench and closes her eyes. Even outside the brothel, its wretched, violent world wraps round her like a shroud. She tries to tune out her friends’ voices, listening to another conversation.
“…you can’t let your sister make demands like that! Tell her you don’t have the money.”
“I can’t, her husband’s family are impossible. I don’t know what they’ll do to her.”
“You don’t mean...?”
She half opens her eyes, taking in the two women speaking beside her. They are seemingly without attendants and both have tired, careworn faces. One of them is sitting so close to Amara their thighs are almost touching. Her dyed red curls have smudged along her hairline in the heat. She is constantly fiddling with something on her left hand. A cameo ring.
“You’ve heard the rumours about his first wife,” says the redhead. “And the slaves are too frightened to talk. Fulvia says he beat her on their wedding night. What sort of monster does that? And always complaining about the dowry, even though he spent every penny.”
“Gellius will never notice if you take a bit more out of the takings, I suppose.”
“Even Gellius is going to notice eventually. And no point asking him for help. He barely moves his fat arse out of the tavern. All day I’m sweating away behind that counter. Just so he can drink the profits.”
“I’m sorry that I can’t help either,” the other woman fans herself. “I would give you the loan myself, but my husband keeps me so short. And business is always worse at this time of year.”
The redhead’s face falls, and Amara knows that she must have been hoping her friend would put up the money. She recognizes that look of humiliation, shot through with resentment. It reminds her painfully of her mother. After Amara’s father died, her mother asked everyone they knew for help, measuring out what she could afford to entertain her guests in exchange. How far would a handful of dates stretch? Would her father’s former patron be offended by the chipped plate? When the visitors were captive in the house, she would recount the hardships of widowhood, holding back tears while trying not to sound too desperate. Amara would sit quietly, head bowed at her mother’s instruction, watching the flow of sympathy and money slowly dry up. By the end, her mother would have accepted a loan from anyone, whatever the terms.
“Forgive me, mistress,” Amara says in a low voice. “But I may be able to help you.” The two women turn in surprise. She tilts her head politely without being too servile. Let them wonder if she is freedwoman or slave. “I act as agent for my master, he understands the little difficulties we can all face. I would be happy to ask if he would be willing to arrange a loan. Discreetly, of course.”
“And why would your master employ a woman as his agent?” It’s the redhead’s stingy companion. Her face is hard and suspicious.
“The contract would be drawn up by his steward,” Amara says, thinking on her feet. She will need to ask Felix for Gallus, not Thraso. No point scaring this pair away at the last moment by turning up with a thug. She smiles at the redhead who seems less hostile than her friend. “But it’s easier for women to do business with each other. We have so many concerns men are incapable of understanding.”
The redhead is twisting her ring, over and over. “You say he is discreet?”