Temple slaves guard the base of the steps to prevent over-zealous worshippers getting too close to the altar. Some of the women are weeping, raising their arms to the statue, milking the moment, others simply drop a sprig and leave. Victoria and Beronice are already at the front. Beronice lobs her rose so hard towards Venus, one of the attendants reprimands her. Victoria is uncharacteristically quiet, unweaving almost all the myrtle from her hair. She kisses it and lets it fall. Cressa lets go of Amara’s arm and pushes ahead. Amara and Dido hang back, uncertain.
“What do we ask for?” Dido whispers.
Amara looks up at Venus. It’s the closest she has been to the statue. Those painted eyes, so black and wide apart, don’t just look watchful but angry. She is not only the goddess of love, Amara thinks, this is a deity who drives men to madness, a destroyer of warriors, author of the fall of Troy.
“We ask her for power over men.”
Amara pulls Dido closer to the steps. She takes her sprig in both hands, crushing it to release the scent. May men fall to me as this offering falls to you, Greatest Aphrodite. May I know love’s power, if never its sweetness. Amara drops her mangled garland on the ever-growing pile of heaped offerings from the desperate whores of Pompeii.
13
Learn singing, fair ones. Song’s a thing of grace;Voice oft’s a better procuress than face.
Felix’s women loiter at the entrance to the Forum, trying to decide which way to go. The Vinalia has taken hold like a fever. Clumps of drinkers stand around, while street musicians and performers stoke the excitement, urging people to dance. At the edge of the square, wine sellers are busy behind their stalls, making sure nobody goes short. Their master has given the she-wolves permission to stay out until evening – an unheard of amount of freedom. As if to prove his point, Felix has already abandoned them and wandered off to join a group of men. Amara isn’t sure what to do with herself.
“Don’t just stand there!” Cressa says, shooing her and Dido towards the nearest wine seller. “Make the most of it!” Cressa buys herself two flasks of honeyed wine, keeping one in reserve, while she knocks back the other.
“Shall we share one?” Amara suggests. The wine is expensive, the sellers’ obviously pricing in the captive audience and the loss of some of their flasks. Even on a festival day, Amara is reluctant to spend a single penny she might save for her future. Time enough to drink when she’s a free woman.
“I can get the next one,” Dido agrees as Amara takes a flask from the seller’s outstretched tray.
“For fuck’s sake!” Victoria laughs, elbowing her. “Live a little! You’re not old women yet.” She makes a point of buying herself a drink, rolling her eyes at them both as she hands over the money.
“That’s the spirit, goddess,” the seller says, looking Victoria up and down. She has a small piece of cloth tied around her breasts, another round her hips. Her legs and waist are bare. “It’s not often I get to sell to Venus herself,” he continues, smacking his lips. “For a kiss, you can have the next for free.”
“Done,” Victoria says. She downs the flask and thumps it back on his tray, making the dark liquid in the other jars wobble.
“You don’t miss a trick.”
“Do you want that kiss or not?” He leans forwards eagerly, but Victoria steps back. “Drink first.” She points to Amara. “My friend will hold it for me.”
He obliges then takes hold of Victoria with one arm, holding his tray out with the other. Before Amara can warn her, the wine seller’s hand has reached the knot at Victoria’s back. He yanks the material down, trying to expose her breasts. She shoves him off, and he lets go, anxious to save his tray.
Victoria laughs. “These will cost you more than a flask of wine,” she says, hoicking the material back up again. “If you’re in the mood later, you can find me at the Wolf Den. That’s if you can afford it.” She takes the wine from Amara, and the three of them push deeper into the crowd. “Best way to get a drink at the Vinalia,” Victoria says. “You shouldn’t have to pay for more than one.”
“Beronice doesn’t seem to be paying for any,” Dido says. “I just saw Gallus get her a flask.”
“So he should,” Victoria replies. “He’s had enough free fucks off her.” They stop to join a small circle that’s formed around a flute player. A woman is dancing to the music, the men clapping and cheering as she lowers herself to the ground, her backside and thighs quivering. “Drauca!” Victoria exclaims. They stand and watch for a moment, but Victoria is restless. “Here, you can keep this,” she says, handing her drink back to Amara. She shoves her way to the centre of the circle, ignoring the catcalls, and stands in front of her rival. “I’ll show you how to move, bitch!”
Victoria flings herself into the dance, bumping and grinding, shaking herself at her yelling audience. Drauca only hesitates a second before joining in. The flute player ups his tempo, piping so fast it seems impossible the dancers will be able to keep time, but they do. One of the men throws his drink at the women, and others follow, screaming encouragement. Red liquid shining on their skin, dancing with the ferocity of wolves, Victoria and Drauca look less like whores and more like the fevered acolytes of Dionysis about to rip each other limb from limb.
“There you are!” Beronice heads towards them. She is draped over Gallus like a garland, her cheeks shining. Nicandrus trails after them both, holding a small bunch of roses. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She stands on tiptoe to see what all the nearby shrieking is about and recognizes Victoria. “Such a show-off! And she’s taken all her clothes off! Do you like it?” She turns anxiously to Gallus. “I can dance like that for you, if you like? Do you want me to? Would it turn you on?”
Gallus answers by seizing her and sticking his tongue down her throat.
Neither of them look likely to break for air anytime soon, so Nicandrus pushes in front. “These are for you,” he says to Dido.
“Thank you.” She takes the roses and holds them to her heart. “You’re always so kind.”
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Amara murmurs, half expecting Dido to protest. But perhaps the honeyed wine or the atmosphere has taken the edge off her shyness. She is pleased to see Dido smile as Nicandrus bends to say something to her.
Amara has no idea where she wants to go. The flask of wine Victoria gave her is warm in her hand, and she sips it, wandering slowly through the square, stopping now and then to listen to various players. She wonders if Salvius might be here with his pipe.
The crush is not as intense as in the procession, and the noise of so many competing musicians, the cheers, the laughter, echoes off the stone and rises into the warm air like an offering to the gods. It’s the first time Amara has been completely alone like this in a crowd. She looks briefly at the people she passes, not to attract unwanted attention but to get a sense of those around her. Has she been with any of these men? It’s hard to know. In the brothel, she tries not to focus on their faces.
Amara walks a little faster, back towards the area where she left Dido, aware that she doesn’t want to drift too far from her friends. She is so intent on her purpose that she almost misses him. Menander. He is walking in her direction, staring at all the women he passes, his brow creased with worry. Then he sees her.