Amara takes a seat on a bench by the wall, and Dido joins her. Victoria tries to pull up stools for her and Cressa, but the man with the missing teeth catches hold of her wrist. “Plenty of room for you to sit here.” White spittle pools in the middle of his lips as he speaks. He spreads his legs out, slapping his knee. His companion snorts with laughter.
“Hope you aren’t bothering the ladies.” Nicandrus arrives with the tray. His tone is light, but he walks deliberately between the tables, forcing the man to let go.
“Oh, they’re no trouble.” Victoria smiles sweetly at the man who just grabbed her. She sits down, moving her cloak so he can see up the length of her thigh, before swiftly covering it. She smiles at him again, and he stares back, flushed. First fish caught, Amara thinks.
Nicandrus puts the bean stew down in front of Dido. “You look cold,” he says.
“It’s so wet out,” she replies.
“Hope this warms you.” He hovers, obviously hoping she will say something more. Amara has noticed the way Nicandrus watches Dido, seen his nervousness whenever an aggressive customer gets too close to her. She almost loves him for it.
“Nicandrus!” Zoskales bellows across the bar. “The wine won’t serve itself!”
Dido bends her head to eat. She is hopeless at fishing. A few short months ago she was a respectable girl from a small suburb of Carthage, never leaving the house with her head uncovered, betrothed to a man chosen by her father, a secluded life of raising children and keeping house stretching out in front of her. Amara feels a pain in her chest. She has been enslaved longer than Dido, but not so long she doesn’t remember the agony of losing her own freedom.
“You’re not from Pompeii,” Victoria says to the two traders. She is making quick work of her stew, dabbing with the bread around the rim, never one to let a potential customer slip away.
“Did you travel by sea?” Cressa says. “I’ve always wanted to travel by sea.” She sips her wine, gazing at the bearded man as if he were the god Poseidon deigning to visit the mortals on shore.
“No. We came over from Puteoli,” he says. “In the meat business. Goats, mainly.”
“Bet you like a bit of meat,” his companion adds, poking Victoria in the leg, the string of saliva between his lips lengthening as he grins. Victoria laughs, covering her mouth prettily with one hand, as if he just said something witty. Amara tries not to wince. Always the same. Why do men never have anything original to say to a prostitute? This pair are moments away from bragging about the size of their cocks.
The toothless man slaps his knee again, and this time Victoria perches on it. Cressa takes a long draught of wine, draining her cup to the bottom, then rises and drapes herself over his companion. Victoria nestles herself back closer against Toothless who is breathing heavily, but Amara notices she is careful not to let his hands wander too far up inside her clothes. There are limits to what Zoskales will tolerate in his bar.
The bearded man is kissing Cressa who breaks away to steal another sip of wine, this time from his cup. He gives her a slap, meant playfully perhaps, but hard enough to make her spill red liquid down her front. “Dirty little she-wolf,” he says.
Cressa exchanges a quick glance with Victoria who bends to whisper in her lover’s ear. After a pause, all four rise, the men a little unsteadily, and they leave the bar.
“That was fast,” Nicandrus says, coming to collect the plates and glasses. “Even for Victoria.” He has switched to speaking Greek, both his and Amara’s mother tongue. Dido speaks it too, though Amara suspects Nicandrus doesn’t realize that Punic, not Greek, is her first language.
“Felix told us to make five denarii each by tomorrow,” Amara replies.
Nicandrus winces. “What brought that on?”
“It didn’t go well at the baths this morning.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he says, looking at Dido who still hasn’t spoken. “I hope nobody gave you trouble.”
Dido shakes her head. Nicandrus smiles at her before heading back to the kitchens with his stack of dirty dishes.
Amara looks round the room, trying to see if there are any other potential customers. Three men engrossed in a game of dice ignore her, another drinking alone at the counter scowls when she finally manages to catch his eye. Lunchtime is never the easiest hour. Victoria and Cressa did well to find a pair of willing men.
“We’re going to have to go further afield, aren’t we?” asks Dido, her slim shoulders sagging at the thought.
“There were a few sailors hanging around the Forum earlier,” Amara says. “And the rain’s easing off. It might not take us too long.”
Dido looks at her, her eyes dark. There’s a grief deep enough to drown in, if you let it rise unchecked. Amara never will. She stands up, waits for Dido to join her, holding out her hand with the poise and confidence that belonged to her other life.
3
All other animals derive satisfaction from having mated; man gets almost none.
The sounds of Victoria entertaining the toothless man – and his appreciation – are loud in the street. Felix gave Victoria the room by the main door for precisely this reason, knowing she would be a good sales pitch for passing trade. Gallus slouches by the wall, looking bored.
“Can you give this to Beronice and Fabia?” Amara asks, handing him half a small loaf. “We’re going to try our luck in the Forum.”
“Sure,” Gallus stuffs the bread into a fold in his cloak. She hopes he won’t eat it himself.
The air smells fresher after the downpour, though it’s left the narrow road looking more like a canal. Amara and Dido walk carefully, holding their cloaks up to stop the hems trailing in the water. In the winter, their profession is harder to tell on sight. Hidden underneath the outer layer, they wear togas, the uniform of men and prostitutes. Amara used to feel naked without swathes of fabric shielding her body from head to foot, but over a slippery pavement when agility matters, it’s almost a relief to have her legs free.
The journey gets easier when they reach the wide main street, the Via Veneria, which leads back to the Forum. They switch to walking side by side, rather than single file. Amara takes Dido’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You can’t look down all the time,” she says. “I understand it’s difficult, but we’re meant to be attracting men’s attention not avoiding it.”
“I know,” Dido says. “But it’s really hard.”
“Not really. Your face is already doing half the work for you. You’re easily the most beautiful woman in Pompeii.” Amara has never seen anyone as lovely as Dido. Though it’s a loveliness shot through with fragility, like the exquisite glass statue of the goddess Athene she remembers from her childhood. It was so precious her parents kept it high out of reach.
“I hate it,” Dido says. “I hate men staring. I hate it when…” she trails off. “I guess I’ll get used to it, all of it, eventually.”
“No. Just endure it. Never get used to it.”
They pass a shop selling jewellery, stop a moment to admire the cut glass and cameos. “My mother wore a stone like that,” Dido says, pointing.
“The red one?”
“Yes. She was wearing it the last time I saw her.”
Amara knows the rest of this story. How pirates swept through Dido’s hometown, stealing people to sell as slaves. Dido was kidnapped along with her younger cousin, her uncle killed trying to defend them. Her cousin died on the voyage from Carthage to Puteoli. Dido, like Amara, was completely alone when they first met, lined up, side by side, at the slave market. Amara wants to tell Dido that she may see her mother again one day but finds she can’t. She doesn’t believe it’s true.