“Simo might be a dick,” Drauca sighs, turning her pretty face to look out over the sea as if she’s bored. “But at least he tips. That’s the point.”
“I suppose he gave you extra to have us thrown out last time,” Amara says, still annoyed at the thought of being cheated. “Shame that didn’t work out for you.”
“Oh,” says Victoria. “I don’t think it was the money.” She stands up on the steps where she has been sitting in the water, nimbly hopping up onto the heated floor. She flexes her body, not in the coy way Drauca does, but like an athlete, showing off her strength as well as her beauty. “Are you scared of the competition? Afraid those legendary tits of yours aren’t going to look as good next to mine?”
“I think you’ll find the men are looking for Venus not Hercules,” Drauca sneers. Simo’s other women laugh, but Amara can see Drauca is rattled. She stares at Victoria who is now doing backflips, a small crease on her beautiful forehead.
“Shut up!” Beronice hisses. “Listen.” The women fall silent. An echo of male voices reaches the pool.
“Here they come.” Victoria splashes back down into the water. She is flushed with excitement. It’s not about sex, Amara realizes, looking at her. Her eyes take on that same look at the gaming table. The ferocious will to win.
Six men walk through an archway encrusted with coloured shells, bare feet slapping on the stone. Their faces are red, and their bodies shine with sweat. They must have come from the steam room. Amara watches as they drift towards the pool, chatting, unhurried, not yet acknowledging the women’s presence.
Drauca may have picked the most scenic spot, but Victoria, sprawled over the steps, beats her by proximity. “You’re new,” says a young man as he eases himself into the water next to her.
“Victoria,” she breathes in his ear, twisting herself round his body like a vine. She starts kissing him to forestall any further conversation.
“Lucius got a lively one,” laughs another man, following his companion down the steps. He wades towards Drauca. “And how’s my lovely girl?”
Amara realizes she has unconsciously shrunk back against the side, away from where the customers are getting in. She thinks of Felix, of Vibo, of all she has gone through to get this second chance. There’s no point wasting her time by allowing nobodies like Maria and Attice to upstage her. Swallowing down the feeling of dread, she swims towards two older men who are sitting talking at the side of the pool, their thin legs dangling in the water.
“So I told him, at that price, we will look for another supplier. People need bread, but the city won’t pay for grain at any cost…” He trails off, noticing Amara leaning against the side next to him. “Not now.” He shoos her away. “Maybe later.” She freezes, not sure what to do.
“Maybe this one doesn’t speak Latin,” says the other man. He turns to her, enunciating slowly, as if she is stupid. “You. Greek. Whore. Yes?” The man’s white hair is stuck to his head in sweaty tufts like a newborn duckling. His pale eyes stare at her with a lack of focus, as if he doesn’t expect to see anyone looking back.
Amara thinks of her father. The crooked way he would smile when he talked about the power of the Roman state. Everything they have is borrowed from us, Timarete. Always remember that. “I am from Aphidnai,” she replies, speaking fluent Latin. “Twelfth city of Attica, once the home of Helen of Troy.” She inclines her head graciously, one hand over her heart in greeting, her father’s smile on her face. “In this country, I am called Amara. I wish nothing other than to be of service to you both.”
Duckling Head is not charmed. “Aphidnai didn’t keep hold of Helen for long, if your myths are true.”
His companion laughs. “Don’t be so bad-tempered Gaius.” He looks at Amara with more interest. She looks back under lowered lashes. He is old, it’s true, but not entirely unattractive. His square jaw and iron-grey hair at least make him more prepossessing than his rude companion. She glances downwards. There are gold rings on his fingers, the flesh around them swollen in the heat. Her heart flutters. Could this be the patron she has been hoping for? Can he see how much she has to offer? In her imagination, she leaps forwards in time, sees him devotedly draping her in jewels, entranced by her every word… “You have a pretty mouth, Amara from Aphidnai. Don’t waste it talking to him.” He parts his legs in a not very subtle sign of what he wants. Of course, it’s not interest in his eyes. It’s nothing more than the drunk look of lust she has seen so many times before. Amara hesitates, the disappointment of reality taking a few seconds to dissipate her fantasy. Then she bends her head to oblige.
Duckling Head harrumphs in annoyance. “Not very entertaining for me, and now you’ve gone and taken the last pretty one.”
“Don’t make a fuss,” groans his companion. “That fat one over there isn’t doing anything. It’s not like you have to look at their faces anyway!”
The men shout at Maria to join them. Amara finds it distracting to have to work next to her. Duckling Head does nothing but complain, threatening to shove Maria’s head under the water if she doesn’t make more effort. It seems Drauca’s warning wasn’t a joke. The rage Amara feels is blinding. For a moment, she thinks of Felix. Imagines what it must be like to have the power to act on your anger rather than bury it.
Amara’s customer – whose name she still doesn’t know – finishes with a whimper. He pulls his legs up out of the water and rises unsteadily. He waits for Duckling Head then helps him get to his feet. They walk off without offering any thanks.
“Is it always like this?” Amara asks Maria.
“Like what?” Maria snaps, wiping her face. There are red marks on her cheek where her customer must have dug his fingernails into her skin.
Amara glances round the luxurious room which is now reverberating with the women’s fake gasps and moans. Victoria is the loudest, but she seems far more interested in what Drauca is up to than in the man beneath her. The two women are showing off and out-performing each other, their customers the unknowing recipients of their rivalry. Amara looks over at the window then looks away – she isn’t sure she wants to know what two men are doing with Beronice over there. Dido and Cressa have the easiest deal, giving a double massage to a man sprawled over the bench they were sitting on.
“I thought maybe…” Amara trails off, silenced by Maria’s angry, uncomprehending stare. She isn’t sure what she would say anyway. That she was hoping for a watery symposium, impressing rich men with her conversation like the courtesans of Greek high society? Her humiliation feels worse for being self-inflicted. Better to expect nothing than be made a fool.
There’s laughter as three more customers walk into the baths from the steam room. This time, Amara doesn’t wait. She leaves Maria, wading towards the men. It isn’t Victoria she imitates as climbs the steps, water dripping off her. She remembers the way Felix moved at the Palaestra, the sharp lines of his body as he ran past his rivals, the violence and the rage.
She stalks towards the men, interrupting their conversation without apology. “I am Amara of Aphidnai,” she says. “Twelfth city of Attica, home of Helen of Troy. Which of you imagines he may command my attention?” The three men look at each other, amused but not entirely sure how to respond. The illusion of power she has created is fragile; she knows any one of them could force her if they choose to. Rather than frighten her, the knowledge makes her even more aggressive. She holds out her hand to the most confident-looking man, the one she hopes will have the least to prove by humiliating her.