“That’s enough,” she says, exasperated. “You win. We go back.”
Britannica turns on her heel, striding along the pavement, and Amara scurries after her. The corridor is finally empty, but Amara knows she cannot give up and stay in; she will have to go out fishing with someone. She follows Britannica into the cell where Cressa is still lying, prostrated in misery.
“Cressa? I know you’re awake,” Amara says. “Why don’t you come out with me? The air would do you good.”
“I don’t feel like it,” Cressa says.
“I know, but you can’t stay in all day,” Amara pleads. Britannica is following the discussion anxiously, but Amara ignores her. “We could walk to the harbour. I’ll buy you a wine.”
Slowly, Cressa pushes herself up. Her stomach has filled out, but her face looks hollowed and empty. “Alright,” she says wearily. “I’ll come.”
“Cressa!” Britannica says, her voice urgent. “Cressa!”
“I will be back soon,” Cressa says soothingly, patting the tall woman’s arm as if she were a child. “You rest.”
Amara knows Britannica will not be resting. She’s spied on her alone in here before, watched her throw endless punches and kicks at imaginary men’s heads. She shoots her a warning look as they leave. No trouble.
The walk to the harbour is slow and laboured. It is hard to believe Cressa once made the same effort with her appearance as the rest of them. Now, she is grubby and dishevelled, her hair unkempt. Whores age in double time, Amara thinks, and the idea chills her.
“I don’t know why everyone is so unkind to Britannica,” Cressa says, looking back over her shoulder, as if somehow, the Briton might be visible behind them. “What did she ever do but hate being trapped here? She has a good heart, you know that? I’d put her loyalty above anyone else’s. And she’s smart. I know nobody else sees it, but she is.”
“She’s not easy though,” Amara says.
“Why should she be easy? Is her life easy?” Cressa’s voice is quavering, and Amara is afraid she might cry.
“I know,” she says, her tone apologetic. The last thing she wants is to upset her already anxious friend. “I know. I’ll try and make more effort, I promise.”
They carry on at their painfully slow pace, until Cressa stops altogether. Amara realizes she is gazing at a small child, perhaps aged three or four. The child’s piping chatter carries, and his mother smiles, indulgent, before noticing the strange, bedraggled woman fixated on her treasure. She puts an arm around her son, nervously steering him out of sight.
“Cressa,” Amara says, trying to usher her along. But Cressa is crying.
“Don’t,” Cressa says, shaking Amara off when she tries to comfort her.
Amara sighs. She almost regrets asking her to come out.
They walk under the marine gate, passing Vibo’s baths where none of them have worked for some months since Felix decided the tips weren’t worth it. Further down the hill, the sea sparkles into view. The air is fresh, the salt sharp. Cressa seems a little calmer now they have reached the harbour. At the docks, several boats are unloading. Men scurry and shout, busy as ants moving crumbs to their nest. Amara offers her arm, nervous after the last rejection, but this time, Cressa accepts. “Shall we have a walk, before fishing?”
Cressa nods, and they head to the colonnade that circles the port. Amara feels her spirits rise. Sunlight, reflected from the sea, ripples over the pillars and painted statues, and the call of the gulls, the sing-song shouts of the sailors sound almost musical. She helps Cressa sit down in a patch of sun by the water’s edge. Below their swinging feet, she can see grey fish darting in the clear water.
“Felix never told me where he sold Cosmus,” Cressa says. The mention of her son is so unexpected Amara does not know what to say. She looks at Cressa but cannot read her expression as her face is turned to the sea. “Fabia tried to find out for me, but we never managed it.”
“Fabia?” Amara asks in surprise. She cannot imagine Paris’s mother having the necessary bravery, or cunning, to make such an attempt.
“Why not Fabia? She sees more than you think. And everyone overlooks her. That’s what happens when you get old.” There is no mistaking the bitterness in Cressa’s voice.
“Even though it was so hard for you,” Amara says, desperate to try and make Cressa feel better. “Do you think maybe it might have been for the best? So that Cosmus wasn’t trapped at the brothel?”
Cressa turns to her, and Amara is shocked by how old and tired her face is in the full glare of the light. “I know that none of you understand,” she says. “That you think it’s something I should just get over,” Amara starts to protest, but Cressa raises a hand to stop her. “If you ever have a child, Amara, you will understand what I feel.”
She says nothing, aware of Cressa’s swelling belly, of the new baby she is carrying. They sit in silence, until Cressa starts to heave herself to her feet. Amara tries to help, but Cressa motions for her to stay where she is.
“Do you mind if I have a few moments to myself?” Cressa says. “You can wait here. I won’t be long.”
Amara is not keen on the idea. It’s never too safe at the harbour. But Cressa is looking down at her, eyes pleading, and she cannot refuse. “Alright,” she says. “But not far. I don’t want to be by myself out here for ages.”
Cressa sets off at a swift pace. She looks stronger and more determined than she has done for a while. The sea air was a good idea, after all. Amara holds onto the base of a pillar and cranes her neck round so she can see where Cressa is going. She watches her approach the docks then come to a stop by some amphora that are being unloaded from a boat. Cressa leans against one of the large jars, perhaps taking the weight off her swollen feet. She is looking out to sea, at the heave and swell of the water. Amara does too. The light is dancing on the waves. She looks further out, to where Venus Pompeiiana stands, the water breaking against the heavy stone base of her column. The goddess of love, Amara’s new mistress. She has more respect for her since the Vinalia. It was after her prayers to the goddess that her fortunes began to change. Don’t forget me, Aphrodite, she thinks, staring at the statue. Show me a way out, and the rest of my life is yours.
She glances back to where Cressa was standing and gasps, scrambling to her feet in alarm. A man is remonstrating with her, trying to stop Cressa leaning on his goods, but she is stubbornly clinging on. Amara breaks into a run. The man is shouting; it looks as if he is about to grab hold of her. Amara yells at her to let go, and to her relief, Cressa steps away, but then, in a violent movement, she pushes an amphora over the edge of the harbour wall. Cressa goes with it, pulled so fast over the side, she is almost a blur. She must have tied her cloak to the handle.
Amara cries out in shock. She hurtles past people, knocking them aside in her desperation to reach the water’s edge, oblivious to their anger. At the docks, she flings herself onto her knees. “Cressa!” she screams, leaning over the side of the jetty. “Cressa!” Her heart is pounding, her mind unable to take in what she has seen. She stares at the waves, but there’s no sign of her friend, just foam and a slight disturbance of the water where she broke its surface.
Amara stands up, distraught, looking for help. The man who shouted at Cressa is standing beside her, staring at the water, as dumbstruck as she is. She grabs his arm. “Can you swim? Can you jump in and save her?” She is sobbing, hysterical, almost pushing him in the water in her urgency. “Please, do something! Please! She’s going to die!”