“Enough!” he shouts. “Or you will answer to your masters for disobedience!”
The two men finally roll apart. Thraso is the first to stand, Balbus has to be helped to his feet by two slaves.
“Are you trying to close down my business?” Vibo demands. “Brawling on my doorstep like dogs in the gutter? I should have you both whipped!” Balbus mutters something, but Amara cannot hear what he says. “I’m not interested!” Vibo shouts. “Clear off now, both of you. And take that rag bag of whores with you.”
The women don’t wait for anyone to move them on. They cross the yard before Thraso can reach them. Amara notices he is limping. Balbus came off worse but must still have landed several hefty blows. Thraso’s lip is split and he’s cradling one arm. Nobody is foolish enough to ask him how he is feeling.
The women climb the steps up to the tall gate, Victoria leading the way, Beronice at the back, not quite quick enough to avoid Thraso’s angry slap. They all know why he’s lashing out. It’s the prospect of Felix’s rage when they get back to the brothel. Amara can feel the fear building, a lump in her throat she cannot swallow.
Stepping onto the street is like rejoining a fast-flowing river. She grips Dido’s hand, and they force their way through the crush of people, heading up the hill to the Forum Gate. The stones are wet and slippery. The first time Amara came to Pompeii was with Dido. It can only have been a few months ago but feels longer. They travelled in on this road, together, after Felix had bought them at the slave market in Puteoli. The weather was warmer then under the clear blue skies of late October. She remembers Felix buying ripe figs for the journey. The fruit smelt so sweet, its insides pink and shining when she split it open, sticky on her fingers. It was almost a moment of happiness. If happiness could exist in a world where she had been bought and sold. Amara still wonders at this act of kindness from Felix. They were not to know, then, how uncharacteristic it would be.
A man carrying a heavy basket of fish on his head shoves past, turning his shoulders into the crowd like a weapon. They follow him under the high archway into the dark, echoing tunnel, the road growing steeper and the crush more intense. Amara glances back to see Cressa, a look of resignation on her face, lugging the puffing Beronice up the hill. Thraso is almost out of sight behind. His leg must be giving him a lot of difficulty or he would be berating Beronice’s slowness. Victoria, of course, has darted ahead. She is the only one of Felix’s five women who was born in this town, and although a slave, she owns the place in a way that none of the others ever will.
Inside the town walls, the road evens out but also becomes wetter, water sloshing over Amara’s shoes. Dido helps her up onto the raised pavement, two fabric sellers muttering at having to shuffle out of their way. A man heaped in garlands of myrtle, offerings for the Temple of Venus, presses close.
“For your goddess? For love? One penny for two. Good price. Bring you good fortune.” He is holding the leaves so close to Dido’s face she instinctively puts her hand up to draw across the veil she no longer wears.
Amara pushes the garlands away. “No.”
The crush thins as they reach the Forum, absorbed into its vast space. Hawkers act like stones, breaking the eddies of the crowd. Some passers-by dawdle to look or haggle, others stride past. At the far end of the square sits the Temple of Jupiter, incense rising from its steps. The building wavers in the heat before the smoke fades out over the blue mountain behind. Amara thinks of her father, of the way he would smile when she asked him if he believed in the gods. Stories have power whether we believe them or not. She shuts out the memory of his voice.
The others are still looking round for Thraso. Dido points him out, sweating his way through the crowd.
“Is his nose broken again?” Beronice asks. “He looks awful.”
“Worse than usual? Are you sure?” Victoria replies. “I think maybe Balbus knocked it back the right way.”
Beronice misses the joke. “No, he looks AWFUL!” she insists, raising her voice even louder to make her point.
Cressa shakes her head. “He’ll hear you.”
Thraso catches up, snapping at them to move it, and they all weave across the square. A group of sailors, probably just docked at the port, whistle as Amara passes, one gesturing what he’d like. She smiles at him then lowers her eyes. The men slap each other and laugh.
The road leading downhill from the Forum is overflowing with rainwater, its surface a broken mosaic of red and yellow, reflecting the painted buildings that line its banks. The women stare as a team of soaked litter-bearers trudge their way through, water sloshing over their knees, their lucky cargo raised up high, safe behind thick curtains. Amara notices the body of a dead dog wedged between two stepping stones, held there by the weight of the stream rushing past. Not all the filth is getting washed away by the morning’s downpour. The women pick their way laboriously along the walkway, turning left into a narrow street that winds round to the brothel. The space to move shrinks further, but the crowds are thinner here too.
As a child, Amara would have enjoyed the thought of returning home out of the wet, of sitting with her mother in front of the brazier, their maid bringing them hot wine with spices to warm up. But the looming bulk of the brothel doesn’t give her any sense of homecoming. There’s no hot drink waiting, just Felix and his anger.
They huddle outside the building, pressed single file against the wall, keeping dry under the overhanging balcony. Thraso looks almost as nervous as the women.
“You two,” he points at Victoria and Amara. “You had plenty to say for yourselves at the baths. You can explain it all to Felix.”
The others slink inside, Dido looking back anxiously. Victoria touches Thraso’s good arm, inclining her head. “I’ll tell Felix how hard you fought,” she says, gazing up at him with a sincerity so earnest Amara almost believes her. “You defended his honour. That will mean something.”
Thraso cannot quite bear to show gratitude to a whore but nods curtly. He glances at Amara, clearly expecting something similar, but she cannot think of anything ingratiating to say. Victoria stares at her, eyes widening with warning. “Yes,” she says at last, nodding at Thraso. “You did. Very brave.” Her Greek accent sounds thick through fright.
Thraso knocks on the wooden door leading to Felix’s apartment above the brothel. It’s answered by Paris, his permanently sour expression topped by a mono-brow. Standing in the doorway, Amara catches a whiff of the latrine hidden in the darkness of the stairwell. She used to feel sorry for Paris, for the loneliness of his young life, shuttling between scrubbing his master’s floors upstairs and servicing customers in the brothel below. But Paris has shown no indication that he wants the she-wolves’ company or friendship.
“Felix,” says Thraso, waving at him with impatience.
“He’s with a client, so you’ll have to wait.”
Paris turns and climbs the stairs. They follow, emerging onto the narrow, covered balcony that surrounds Felix’s flat. It makes her think of a spider’s web, the way the walkway circles her master’s rooms, slowly drawing you further in, not cutting straight to the centre. Amara can hear an unfamiliar male voice, too faint to make out all the words. Though she catches one phrase: pay you. Paris gestures for them to go through to the small waiting room.
Thraso sits heavily on the bench by the brazier, barely leaving space for the two women on either side. They squash in next to him. The balcony lets in daylight but also cold air. The warmth from the fire is feeble. Amara’s heart is thumping. It doesn’t help knowing Felix is currently squeezing some poor debtor for every last penny just down the corridor. Thraso stares straight ahead as if mesmerized by the small tongues of flame near his feet. She can feel the fear coming off him.