APRILIS
12
Celebrate the power of Venus, girls of the street; Venus is appropriate for the earnings of women who promise a lot. With an offering of incense ask for beauty and popular favour, ask for seductiveness and words that are fit for fun. And give your mistress pleasing mint along with her own myrtle, and bonds of reed covered with well arranged roses.
Amara is caught in a river of women, unable to break from the flow, even if she wanted to. There are so many of them, they have burst the banks of the pavements and spilled over into the road. Mud is splashing up her legs, but she doesn’t care. They are a noisy crowd, singing, laughing, wrists and ankles jingling with bells. The sweet smell of mint mingles with the reek of sweat. She would never have suspected Pompeii had so many prostitutes.
Out of sight at the front of the procession, musicians blow their shrill pipes, and her blood pulses to its beat. She squeezes Dido’s fingers. The kohl she drew around her friend’s dark brown eyes has smudged a little but that only makes them look wider. Neither have watched the Vinalia before, still less taken part. The April festival of whores and wine is hardly an event a respectable girl would attend, or even try to glimpse from the window.
Plenty of others are watching though. People stand bunched together outside shopfronts or hang out of balconies to see the women pass. Men loiter at the edges of the procession, drinking and shouting, vying for a chance to grab a kiss or maybe more. Amara knows Felix, Thraso and Gallus will be weaving through the crowds, keeping watch, even when she cannot see them. After all, the women aren’t just here to celebrate but to sell. Everything in Pompeii turns to making a profit.
“Keep up!” Victoria yells, looking back over her shoulder. She is almost naked and has dressed her hair in myrtle, Venus’s own flowers. Amara knows how much this day means to Victoria. To spend your life classed as infamia, unable – even if you win your freedom – to rub off the taint is a shame that can eat into your bones if you let it. But the Vinalia upends the usual order. Today, they own the streets. Nobody can deny the whores’ importance to Pompeii’s most powerful patron.
“Look at the goddess!” Beronice says, pointing. As the road to the Forum rises, they can see the plaster statue of Venus more clearly. Carried on a platform, she stands above the crowd as an immortal should, swaying on the shoulders of her temple’s slaves, draped in garlands. “I’m going to ask her to help me marry Gallus,” Beronice says, glancing round, trying to spy her lover in the crowd. “He’s bought me roses to give her.”
“Gallus bought them?” Amara asks.
“Well, he’s going to buy them,” Beronice replies. “When we get to the Forum.”
“He’ll be lucky if the sellers have any left,” Cressa says.
Beronice doesn’t reply; she has seen her beloved and rushes to the edge to be closer to him. “Won’t Felix notice?” Dido asks, watching her with an anxious frown. “She’s not very subtle.”
“Probably useful for him,” Cressa says. “All that foolishness keeps them both obedient.”
At the Forum, their river hits a bank of humanity. Hawkers ride slipstreams through the crowd, balancing trays on their shoulders, selling everything from garlands to hot pies. And of course, wine. Venus isn’t the only deity worshipped at the Vinalia, it’s also a day to thank Jupiter for Campania’s fruitful vineyards. Although she cannot see it, Amara knows the faithful will be pouring wine on his altar, a sacrifice to please the most libidinous of gods. Although looking at the state of the worshippers, she suspects even more has been poured down their throats. Those who aren’t already too drunk, cheer at the women’s arrival, pressing towards them. The surge brings their procession to a standstill. Ahead, the musicians blast on their pipes more insistently, driving the men back from the goddess. Amara feels a hand grip her arm and whips round. Felix.
“Keep close,” he says, as if she has any choice with his fingers digging into her flesh.
“What about the others?” she asks, realizing she can no longer see Beronice or Victoria. Cressa is stuck with Thraso.
“Gallus has them,” he says, looking down at her and Dido. “Just concentrate on getting to the temple.”
They shuffle forwards, so slowly it’s almost painful. Felix’s presence stops her from getting trampled but also squashes her excitement. His hand on her arm, steering her along, owning her, makes this day more like any other, not the brief moment of freedom she had imagined. In her sweaty fingers, the sprigs of mint and myrtle are already wilting. Fabia went out early to buy their offerings but didn’t bring back any roses. Felix thinks they are overpriced.
At last, the goddess reaches the narrow road that leads to the temple. The plaster Venus dips and jerks as the slaves carry her over the uneven stones. The women follow, squeezing into the passageway. The mud is even deeper here, and Amara doesn’t like to imagine what might be in the damp sludge she is squelching through; everyone is packed so closely together she cannot see her feet. Getting through the arch into the temple grounds feels like she is being pressed through a sieve. On the other side, there’s a little more room to breathe.
Amara has never been here before. The precinct is enormous, perhaps half the size of the Forum, and although the temple itself is only part built, the vast colonnade which encircles it on three sides gives the illusion of opening out onto the sky. In spite of the crowds, from this position, high up on the edge of the hilltop, she can see the glittering sweep of the bay, the blue haze of the mountains. She stands, mesmerized. The first time Amara saw the sea was at the harbour in Piraeus, waiting to be loaded onto the cargo boat with all the other goods. The water had looked dark and frightening then, the savage kingdom of monsters which kept Odysseus from his home, just as she was being taken from hers. But here at Pompeii the sea looks different. From this height, it has the illusion of calm, a burnished silver mirror, reflecting the sky.
Blasts from horn pipes and flutes draw her attention back to the ceremony. The slaves have carried their painted Venus up the steps onto the dais and set her in front of the altar. Facing the crowd, the goddess of love’s eyes are thickly lined with black, giving her a staring, watchful look. She is naked apart from gold jewellery encircling her arms and the garlands draped around her neck. Behind her, the temple is a half-finished shell. Worshippers aren’t usually allowed in here, but the priests seem to hope today’s offerings will encourage the goddess to bless the construction work. Amara catches sight of Victoria and Beronice squashed beside Gallus. Beronice is leaning against her lover, and Amara realizes with a jolt of surprise that she is clutching a single pink rose to her cheek.
More blasts on the pipes, and the ceremony begins. A waft of smoke drifts towards Amara and she breathes in. It smells sweet with the tang of cinnamon. Priests are burning incense, making offerings of grain and wine. One miscalculates the strength of the flames and an attendant has to step in to protect the goddess from flying sparks. People in the crowd murmur and exchange uneasy glances. Surely that’s not a good sign? Amara looks up at Felix, but his face is impassive. She supposes he can’t be especially pious, or he would have bought them better garlands.
The women are called on to approach the steps. For a moment, Amara wonders if Felix is going to come too, but he releases her arm and gestures for her and Dido to go ahead. Cressa joins them, lips moving in prayer, and they walk forwards arm in arm. Amara wonders what Cressa is asking for. She looks down at her own crumpled offering. All the prayers of her childhood were to Athene; she doesn’t know what she should ask her new mistress, doesn’t know how much she believes in the gods at all.