“How are we going to do this?” Quintus asks Marcus. “The clothes are part of the joke, but it’s almost funnier if he doesn’t notice what they are.”
“Isn’t the old man’s wife going to kick up a bit of a stink if we walk in with two naked girls though?” Marcus looks nervously at Dido. Amara wonders what they both talked about on the walk from the Forum.
“It’s the Vinalia! Girls are meant to be naked!” Quintus protests. He turns to Amara. “What do you think?”
Both men are looking at her, waiting for an answer. Briefly, she considers the state of her and Dido’s clothes. The colours are bright, but she knows the fabric marks them out instantly as cheap. There are few crimes as great in Pompeii as poverty. A naked entrance will trumpet their status as prostitutes, but perhaps not as objects of total contempt. She tilts her head towards Dido, a silent question, and gets a little shrug in answer. Amara smiles broadly at Quintus. “I say naked.”
He whoops with delight, helping her out of her cloak and handing it to one of the long-suffering slaves in his retinue. Then he gets to work enthusiastically on her toga, removing it in a couple of tugs. Amara notices the clothes-bearer is the old man with the purse. He averts his eyes rather than look at her.
“Are you sure?” Marcus asks Dido, undoing her brooch, fingers fumbling from drunkenness. “You don’t mind?”
“You’re so kind to ask,” Dido says, head down as she steps out of her toga.
“Perfect.” Quintus turns from one woman to the other, both now standing naked and shivering on the threshold of Zoilus’s house. “In we go.”
They walk over a fine black and white mosaic of a snarling dog, elongated the length of the narrow hallway, and emerge into the biggest atrium Amara has ever seen. It is at least five times larger than the one at Chremes’s house, her only real point of comparison. The mosaic from the entrance ripples outwards in ever more intricate patterns, flowing into other darkened chambers that surround the hall. A table of solid silver stands beside a large pool to collect rainwater. Moonlight from the opening at the ceiling’s centre glows on its polished surface, and its pale reflection wavers in the water. Other precious objects – goblets, plates and lamps – are piled in a heap on top. Many look like gold. Put together, she knows it would cost several times the price Felix paid for her.
Behind her, their new masters’ slaves negotiate with Zoilus’s doorman, identifying the party as invited guests. The doorman doesn’t sound happy about something, no doubt the presence of two naked women. She hears the word actresses repeated in the murmured discussion.
“This way,” Quintus says, waving a hand airily, as if he were leading them into his own home. “The master will be in the dining room with his guests.”
Amara resists the urge to skirt the edge of the atrium, following Quintus with a confidence she doesn’t feel, clamping her teeth together to stop them chattering. When they reach the marble pool and the groaning table of silverware a ferocious barking rings out. She and Dido clutch each other, nearly stumbling into the water with fright. She looks back to see a dog straining against its chain on the far wall, a long way out of reach. The doorman shouts at it to be quiet.
Marcus and Quintus both laugh. “Perfect,” Quintus says, slapping her hard on the backside, a gesture that reminds her of Felix. “You pair are absolutely fucking perfect.” Amara likes him less this time. She stands straighter, still smiling, determined not to be the butt of jokes for the entire evening.
They pass through an enormous garden, walking round the painted colonnade. Scenes from the legends of Hercules flicker in and out of view. In the middle of the lawn, a fountain is illuminated by hanging lamps, its spray falling in the darkness like stars.
“This place,” Dido whispers to her. “Where are we?”
“You like the house then, ladies?” Marcus asks.
“It’s beautiful,” Amara replies.
“Zoilus is a freedman,” Quintus says, contempt apparent in the careful way he stresses the word. “Who knows. If you get your freedom one day, maybe you could have a house like this.”
A house with money but no class. The sort of place a whore would find impressive. The meaning behind their visit, which Amara has resisted acknowledging, could not be clearer. She and Dido are intended as an insult to the host, a gift to represent his own low value. She can feel her cheeks burn in the shadows. Whoever Zoilus is, she will try not to disgrace him. Or herself.
They pass into a bigger walled garden, thick with plane trees. It is well lit and even without Quintus as a guide they would be drawn by the growing sound of laughter and conversation. The dining area is at the back, half in the garden, half in a room painted to look like a grotto. Two artificial streams cut through the area, diners sitting and reclining on couches set at the water’s edge.
“Zoilus, my dear fellow,” Quintus says, sounding like a parody of a man of his class, striding towards the host’s couch. “I’m so sorry we are late. My father, sadly, could not come, but he insisted we bring along two of his treasured possessions for your entertainment. A pair of lovely little actresses. What could be more fitting to celebrate the Vinalia?” The background conversation quietens. Amara can hear titters and muttering from the other diners. She stands tall, looking straight ahead, ignoring the wild beating of her heart.
Amara had not formed a clear picture of Zoilus in her mind, but the man lying in front of her is nothing like what she would have imagined. The swathes of expensive fabric, yes, but not the nervous, darting eyes, the thin mouth twitching like a goat when it chews. Now he is staring at her and Dido, his face creased in confusion. Her sense of shame deepens. “Ah,” he stutters at last. “How kind. How kind the young men are, aren’t they, my love? Very modern, don’t you think, Fortunata? To bring actresses.”
Fortunata, who reclines next to Zoilus, has not missed the insult. She has a sharp, intelligent face, marred by thick make-up that sits caked over her forehead in lumps. Slave brands, Amara realizes. Fortunata must be disguising her former humiliation. “Yes, husband,” she says in a loud voice. “Very modern.”
Some of the company laugh. Fortunata smiles coldly at her two new guests, ignoring the naked girls entirely. Quintus smiles back, but Marcus has the decency to look uncomfortable. Zoilus swats at his wife in annoyance. “You’ll have to forgive Fortunata,” he says, the cringe of an apology in his voice. “She’s rather old-fashioned. Please tell your father I am most honoured. I hope he will visit soon, to receive my thanks in person.”
“You must let them sing for you,” Quintus presses. “That would please him most. To know they have pleased you.”
“Very well, very well,” Zoilus says, looking at Amara and Dido without huge enthusiasm. “But first, you must enjoy my new cook’s speciality. We are just about to serve.”
A slave in bright green silk hustles them away to a large empty couch. Amara sees with a pang that they are being placed at one of the most prestigious spots. Zoilus must have really wanted to impress Quintus’s father. The two men recline, and she and Dido join them, draping themselves over the cushioned couch. She is conscious that nearby guests are staring. I am not ashamed, she tells herself as Quintus runs his hand across her breast and down her side. Another slave, dressed in the same lurid green as the first, appears with a silver platter, handing them all glasses of wine.