They have lingered too long. The shopkeeper comes out to try and persuade them to try on a string of cheap beads, becomes offended when they refuse. They hurry off towards the Forum at the top of the hill. It’s even more crowded than earlier, the street sellers have wasted no time setting up again after the rain. Amara leads Dido towards one of the wide colonnades surrounding the square. “Just smile at everyone,” she says. “Pretend you’re Drauca.”
“Is that what you do? Pretend you are someone else?”
“I am someone else. Amara isn’t even my real name; Dido isn’t yours.”
They walk slowly arm in arm along the brightly painted walkway. For all her bravado, Amara’s heart is beating fast. Nobody pays them much attention. Expensively dressed men, perhaps meeting to discuss the upcoming elections, brush past as if they are invisible. Hawkers ignore them, too busy with their own selling. They’ve no time to buy what the women are offering, not at this time of day. Undeterred, Amara suggests they try another circuit.
They walk again, pausing more often this time. Amara looks everyone in the eye, unwittingly carrying herself with the assurance of a young man rather than a flirt, while Dido occasionally manages a shy smile. They don’t quite hit the mark, neither looking like prostitutes nor respectable women, but this time, a few glance at them out of curiosity. They loiter at a stall for leather shoes, catching its sharp scent of freshly tanned hide. The seller demonstrates the suppleness of a pair of sandals, twisting the straps in his fingers. One man starts to haggle and another, perhaps the customer’s friend, stands waiting. Amara brushes lightly against him, as if by accident. He looks up and sees Dido who manages, somehow, not to look down. For a moment, Amara thinks he is going to see through them, realize they are two frightened women who haven’t any idea what they are doing. But that’s not what he sees. Encouraged that Dido hasn’t walked off, he leans towards her. “Too rough for your lovely little feet, surely?”
“We don’t have far to walk,” Amara answers. “Only a street away.” She stares straight into his eyes so he cannot mistake her meaning. “Why don’t you and your companion join us?”
They are standing so close he can slip his hand inside Dido’s cloak. She stiffens, gripping Amara’s arm until it hurts. It takes all Amara’s willpower not to slap him. She thinks of Felix, thinks of what he might do if they have nothing to give him tomorrow.
“That’s enough,” Amara says, more harshly than she intended. The man drops his hand, surprised. She forces herself into a false, lopsided smile. “Nobody handles goods for free, not if they aren’t buying.”
The man looks them both up and down. “Maybe later, ladies.” He turns his back.
They walk away from the leather stall. This time it is Amara gripping Dido; she feels as if her legs are going to give way. “Do you need to sit down?” Dido asks. She shakes her head. “I had a bad feeling about him,” Dido continues. “It’s just as well.”
“I shouldn’t have let him touch you,” Amara says. “I should have told him to fuck off.”
Dido laughs, taking her by surprise. “The shortest-lived whores in the business. What an opening line that would be. You can ALL fuck off!”
Dido’s laughter is contagious and soon they are both shaking, trying not to snort out loud, overtaken by hysteria. They clasp their hands round a pillar, swinging and leaning back, giggling like children. Neither care that they are attracting contemptuous stares, suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter.
Eventually, they both calm down and straighten up. “Come on,” Amara says. “Back to the beast hunt.”
They walk with more confidence this time; Dido isn’t even having to force her smile, although the men aren’t to know it’s at their expense. They stop by a group dicing near an archway to the indoor food hall. The air is heavy with the smell of meat and spices. They stand at the edge of the circle and watch. “Good throw,” Amara says, as one man scores a six and scoops up a small pile of coins. His friend slaps him on the back.
The players seem to be split into two teams. They all look like out-of-town traders, speaking with a wealth of accents and languages as they argue over the money. Amara and Dido pretend fascination with the game, slowly leaning more towards the winning side, ingratiating themselves. A flask of wine is passed round, and Dido accepts a sip.
“Throw for us.” One of the men pulls at Amara’s arm. “Go on, you throw.” The winners are in good spirits. After the game, they will need to spend that money somewhere.
Amara squats down and takes the dice. “For Venus,” she says, looking up sidelong at the team who’ve claimed her. She rolls a five, higher than their rivals had just managed. The men cheer.
“It doesn’t count,” says one of the losers, face scrunched in anger, watching eager fingers rake through his last few coins. “You can’t get a whore to throw.”
“You can get a whore to do whatever you like,” Amara retorts. “That’s the whole point.”
Her new friends fall about laughing, one slipping his arm round Amara as she stands up, but her opponent is unamused. “Cheating little Greek,” he spits. The loser gathers up his remaining money, gesturing at his three companions to do the same. They hurry away, and Amara and Dido are left with the winners. Five men whose attention has now turned from dice to other games. Her heartbeat quickens. She would prefer not to be outnumbered like this.
“Pompeii has brought you good fortune,” Dido says, inclining her head in a way that reminds Amara of Victoria. “It pays to serve Venus in the goddess’s own city.”
“You’re from Africa,” one of the men says, noticing her accent.
“Venus has a wide dominion,” Amara replies. “And the road to her house is short, if you care to join us.” The man who urged her to throw the dice still has his arm tightly round her waist, his fingers kneading her flesh. There is no way she and Dido could fight this gang off if the men decided to cut the transaction short by taking without paying. The food hall is still being repaired from earthquake damage, and there are plenty of deserted arches where building work has paused.
Dido steps away from the group. “We share a home with three others,” she says. “Five women! Such a happy chance. You must celebrate with our friends; the goddess of love deserves some thanks after all.”
The men exchange glances, perhaps weighing up the possibility that they are going to be led into a den of thieves by a honeyed bait. “Perhaps you’ve seen our home?” Amara says. “We live by The Elephant.”
“The Wolf Den!” one of them laughs. “We’ve got an invite to the town brothel!”
“Is that what you are?” The man holding Amara loosens his grip, turning her towards him, so he can see her face. “A little Greek she-wolf?”
His skin is tanned, cracked across the cheeks from being out in all weathers, and there is a mark at the bottom of his chin where it must have been nicked by a knife. She knows this man will be no stranger to violence, but then, none of them are. Amara decides to roll the dice again. She leans in to kiss him lightly on the lips then pushes him away, darting just out of reach. “Wolves from Greece, Carthage, Egypt and Italy,” she says over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow. “All worshippers of Venus Pompeiiana.”
Dido swiftly joins her, and they hold hands, walking down the colonnade towards the Via Veneria, aware the men are close behind. “We need to get there quickly,” Dido whispers, her eyes wide with fear.