“Can you keep it down?” Beronice is standing in the doorway, looking haggard with exhaustion. “Or else take it outside. Some of us are trying to sleep.” She flings the curtain back across with a swish.
The interruption startles Amara and Victoria out of their anger. “I know he’s a shit; I know it,” Victoria says, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to tell me. But you don’t understand what he can be like sometimes. You’ve never seen it.” Her eyes are shining with tears, and she tumbles over her words, tripped up by all the feelings she keeps buried. “He can be so loving and gentle. And he’s always really sorry when he’s hurt me. He begs me to forgive him; he really begs. I see a side of him the rest of you don’t.” Victoria is unrecognizable in her desperation; Amara almost cannot bear to be near her. “He’s lonely, like I am. I love him so much.”
Amara thinks of the way Felix spoke to Victoria after Paris punched her, the many times she’s seen him hurt her, the way – only yesterday – he offered her body to Cedrus as if she were nothing. She feels sick to her stomach. She takes Victoria’s hand, squeezing it. “I just think you deserve so much more,” she says.
“What more is there?”
“Somebody who wouldn’t hit you,” Amara says. “A man who didn’t sell you.”
“What do you think we are? Where do you think we are living?” Victoria asks, incredulous, gesturing at the soot-stained walls. “This isn’t a fucking play. We’re not goddesses. How high are you aiming? The Emperor?”
There is a sound of violent retching. They look at each other in alarm. “Cressa!”
Beronice has reached the latrine before them, craning over the low wall. “Are you alright in there?”
“No, I’m not alright,” Cressa’s voice comes back, before she vomits again.
The three women wait, helpless, while Cressa is sick. There’s a pause, then Cressa comes out, leaning on the wall to steady herself as if she is on the roiling deck of a ship.
“Do you think you should eat something?” Victoria says.
Cressa nods wearily. “But not The Sparrow.”
“It’s too early anyway,” Beronice says, shooting a look at Amara and Victoria, still annoyed they woke her up. “They won’t be open yet.”
“We can go to a bakery. Get some bread in you,” Amara says.
They leave Dido and Britannica to sleep. Outside the sky is turning blue, and the streets are starting to get busy. Gallus is surprised to see them all out so early. He glances furtively up and down the road, checking for Felix, then kisses Beronice. “Couldn’t you leave them to it?” he says, sneaking his hand inside her cloak, fondling her.
Beronice looks at her friends, torn, while Gallus breathes into her neck. “I’ll catch you up,” she says, letting him lead her back inside.
Amara watches her go, disappointed. “She doesn’t know where we’re headed.”
“Leave her,” Victoria replies, striding off down the street. “She lets that shit walk all over her.”
Amara thinks of Victoria’s own hopeless devotion to Felix, but says nothing.
“Not too fast,” Cressa says, holding Amara’s arm. She looks even worse in the daylight, her skin covered in a film of sweat. “And let’s not walk for miles.”
A few cafés near the baths are open. They pick one and claim a table rather than stand at the counter. The bread is hard and stale. Amara thinks she will cut her cheeks to shreds by chewing it. Cressa orders a sweet wine to settle her stomach. She sits in silence, not looking up, dipping her bread in the wine to soften the crust.
“You can’t keep ignoring the obvious,” Victoria says to her quietly, in case anyone is listening. “We all know you’re pregnant. Just tell us what we can do to help.”
Cressa pauses in her dipping. “Nothing,” she says, her voice flat. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Pitane from The Elephant had an abortion recently,” Amara says. “And it worked really well. Shall I ask her where she got the herbs?”
“No,” Cressa says, still not looking up. “I tried that last time, with Cosmus, and it didn’t work. Just cost a fortune and made me really ill.”
Victoria rubs Cressa’s arm, as if she can rub away her pain. “Perhaps Felix will let you keep the baby this time?” she says, her voice unnaturally cheerful. “Isn’t it at least worth asking?”
Cressa’s shoulders start to shake, and Amara knows she is crying, even though she doesn’t make a sound. “What good would that do?” she whispers, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes to stem the tears. “What life can I give a child? Another Paris? A little girl sold as a whore before she’s even grown? It would kill me to watch that; I would rather die.” She takes a deep breath, trying to control herself. “And besides,” she says, her voice flat again, “he already told me. Any more babies are going straight on the town’s rubbish heap. He doesn’t make enough from selling a child.”
“Maybe that would be best,” Victoria says. “And it doesn’t mean the baby would die. Look at me. I survived.”
“You don’t understand,” Cressa says. “You have no idea. Do you think because I never talk about Cosmus, that I never think of him? Every second of every day I miss him, want him. Just to see his face. All the time, every waking moment.” She holds her hand to her heart, as if to staunch a wound. “It’s a constant pain, like nothing else. I cannot give another child away.”
Amara and Victoria look at each other, unable to think of any words of comfort. “Maybe the pregnancy won’t work out,” Victoria says in a small voice.
“Maybe,” Cressa replies, drinking her wine. “Maybe.”
On the way back, Cressa shakes them both off, choosing to walk alone instead. Victoria takes Amara’s hand, gripping her fingers, like a woman afraid of drowning.
SEPTEMBER
32
Take me to Pompeii where love is sweet!
Amara takes one of the figs from Drusilla’s table, peeling it, savouring the soft sweetness on her tongue. It is nearly October. Rufus is reclining beside her, his body warm at her back. They have been spending more time at Drusilla’s house, ever since Rufus’s parents returned from their summer at Baiae. His parents do know about her, Rufus has assured her, it’s quite proper for him to have a girlfriend, but it’s probably better neither of them bump into her in the atrium. His mother has funny notions. She thinks a household slave is enough for such things; she doesn’t understand what it means to be in love.
Amara would have been desperate if it were not for Drusilla’s generosity in letting them stay over at her house. Rufus pays her, of course. Amara thinks it must be nice to rent out rooms, rather than your own body. She takes another fig from the table. Tonight is the first time Dido has joined them, and this feels as close to happiness as life can get.
“So you are both Punic?” Drusilla says, addressing Dido and Lucius, the wealthy young man she invited for Dido to entertain. Amara suspects he may be one of Drusilla’s former lovers, but she cannot be sure.
Lucius raises an eyebrow at the question, turns to Dido and says something in a language nobody else understands. It is clearly a joke, and Dido laughs, delighted, replying to him in the same tongue. He smiles at her, pleased by whatever it is she has said. He turns back to Drusilla. “It seems so.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Drusilla claps her hands. “Such a coincidence.” Quintus who is sitting beside her, sighs and rolls his eyes. Amara would like to throw a fig at his head. She still cannot imagine why Drusilla, the most glamorous woman she has ever met, would have such an ordinary boyfriend. He must be a lot richer than she realized.