“Think of the money,” she whispers back. The pair of them are rammed together at the bottom of the smelly, dark stairwell. “Think of all the rich men! Not like the dregs who come here.”
“You’re crazy. What do you think they’re going to do? Turn up at the baths with bags of gold? They go there to screw, not find a bride!” Victoria’s whisper grows louder with exasperation. “And now we have to put up with Vibo!”
Amara wants to explain that she’s willing to try anything, no matter how far-fetched, however horrible, anything that might get them out of the brothel. Paris’s sharp voice calls down. “What are you both doing?”
“Leaving,” Victoria says, pulling the door towards her. They slip out into the rain and, within a couple of paces, are back inside.
Even though the sky is murky and overcast, it is another level of darkness in the brothel. The shutters in the small cells are locked to keep out the damp and the air is thick with smoke from incense and oil lamps. The space is not that much smaller than Felix’s apartment above, but to Amara, it feels as narrow as a tomb.
Fabia is slopping out, trying to stop the latrine from overflowing with rainwater. The stench, never pleasant at this end of the corridor, is worse than usual. She looks up briefly to greet them, then bends back down to her task. Fabia used to work here as a she-wolf before she grew too old. She even gave birth to the wretched Paris in one of the cells. Fabia barely earns her keep now, but so far Felix has not thrown her out on to the streets to fend for herself.
“What did Felix say?” Cressa asks, as she and the other women emerge from Beronice’s cell.
“He’s going to give it another go with Vibo,” Victoria says. “He wants to persuade him to take us back at the baths, which means the smelly prick will be coming here, and we’ve got to give him whatever he wants.” She folds her arms, and Amara is expecting her to tell everyone whose fault this is. But she doesn’t.
“Vibo’s coming here?” Beronice says. “But he can’t be!”
“Is he that bad?” Amara asks. Any lingering satisfaction she felt at impressing Felix is fast disappearing.
“You two not had him yet?” Cressa asks. Amara and Dido shake their heads. “He’s the worst. Practically strangled me last time.” She raises a hand to her throat, as if remembering his fingers around her neck.
Amara looks at Victoria, full of remorse, but she ignores her. “And the best part,” Victoria says, “is that we’ve all got to earn Our Glorious Master five denarii each by tomorrow.”
Cressa groans.
“Was he joking?” Beronice asks, her face hopeful. She’s never very good at spotting when anyone is being humorous.
“Not joking,” Victoria replies. “Safe to say he was not in a jolly mood.”
“But we’ll never manage it!” Beronice wails. “That’s far too much.”
“We’d better get as close to it as we can.” Cressa’s gaze wanders over to Fabia, still sluicing the latrine. “Though Venus herself would struggle to pick up punters in this weather.”
“I’m not going fishing without food,” Victoria says. “We can start at The Sparrow, have something to eat, and maybe after that, the rain won’t be so bad.”
The five women set about extinguishing most of the oil lamps to save fuel and limit the smoke. The constant smelly fug indoors means the paintings Felix recently paid for – endless sex scenes emblazoned round the top of the walls – are already smeared with soot. The picture above Amara’s cell, of a woman being taken from behind, has a new grimy shadow across the bed. She bends down to put out the terracotta lamp burning beneath it. Like every other light in the brothel, it is modelled in the shape of a penis, flames flickering from the tip. One or two even have a small clay man attached, brandishing an enormous fiery erection. Felix finds it amusing, says the lamps get the customers in the mood. Amara hates them. As if they don’t have enough cocks to put up with.
Gallus, Felix’s freedman, is guarding the main door, directly opposite The Elephant. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he’s better looking than Thraso, though just as brutal in a fight. He grasps hold of Beronice’s arm as they try to pass. “Hang on,” he says. “You can’t all go out at once. One of you has to stay behind. What if I get a customer?”
“Can’t you just come and grab one of us from The Sparrow?” Victoria says. “We’ll only be up the road.”
“No,” Gallus replies. “You know Felix’s orders.” He gives Beronice a shove. “Back in there.”
“What a shit,” Victoria mutters, as they hurry along the pavement. “We’ll have to take her something back.”
“And Fabia,” says Cressa. “She’s looking so thin.” The presence of the older woman, barely hanging on to existence, is like the shadow of a future none of them want to face. For Cressa, who is several years older than the rest of them, Amara suspects Fabia’s fate is even more frightening.
The noise from the tavern opposite is loud even at this time of day. A gigantic mural blazes with colour on its outside wall. It’s an elephant surrounded by dancing pygmies and draped in snakes for good fortune. Underneath reads the boast: Sittius Restored The Elephant! The four women don’t stop to go inside. Picking up customers at The Elephant isn’t impossible, but Sittius rents rooms as well as serving food and wine. In this weather, his guests are more likely to head upstairs with one of the women who work at the inn than troop to a brothel in the rain.
The Sparrow is only a few paces further away. Its painted sign is drenched and darkened by the rain, but Amara can still make out the small bird surrounded by flowers, sitting on its innuendo-laden message. The Sparrow is Satisfied, So may You be! Nobody is loitering in the small square outside today. Instead, the stones shine white in the wet. When Amara first arrived in Pompeii, almost every scrap of pavement in front of the bar seemed to be taken up by drinkers, most standing and talking, some scribbling messages on the wall. She’s seen graffiti about Felix on there before, even some reviews of the brothel. Plenty about Victoria. Nothing about her. She’s not sure whether to be grateful for that or not.
They scurry inside, stamping their feet on the floor to shake off the rain. Victoria saunters over to the bar. She leans against its marble top, undoing her cloak and letting the edge of her yellow toga slip from her shoulder. There are whistles from a table in the corner.
“Busy morning, ladies?” The landlord, Zoskales, has a cloth draped round his neck and his face is shining with sweat. There’s almost no room for him behind the counter, the wall is stacked with wine jars from floor to ceiling, but Amara’s never seen him knock anything over. She has no idea what brought Zoskales all the way to Pompeii from Ethiopia, a place so distant she finds it almost impossible to imagine its existence. He likes to joke to customers it was love of his wife. Amara almost never sees her at the bar, more often in the street, harried by their three small children. She makes an unlikely Siren, luring her man halfway across the world.
“Not as busy as we’d like,” Victoria says. “Anybody here need entertaining?”
“I’m sure if there are, you’ll soon find them.” Zoskales replies. Business between tavern and brothel is always brisk. “I’ll get Nicandrus to bring you hot wine and stew.”
The women make their way to a table near the two wolf-whistlers. Amara feels a flicker of fear. She would have crossed the street to avoid men like this in her hometown, her mother no doubt tugging her along to walk faster, whispering at her to look down. The two men are already drunk, dressed in the stained, weatherworn clothes of travelling traders. She sees the one closest to them is missing his four front teeth. His companion has a thick beard, curled and dressed with cheap oil to hide the grey.