“Her pain is over,” Victoria says. “It was her choice. We should respect that.”
“Hardly a choice,” Amara replies, remembering Cressa’s face turned to hers in the harsh light of the harbour, and the misery in her eyes. “She didn’t want to lose her baby. Whose fault was that?”
“Don’t,” Dido says, shaking her head. “Please don’t. It doesn’t help.”
“It could have been any of us,” Amara continues, ignoring her. “Any of us. We don’t matter to anyone.” Beronice starts crying again, slumping down on the table, her shoulders shaking.
“Just stop,” Dido says.
“Sorry,” Amara replies. She looks guiltily at Beronice, who is wiping her eyes, trying to control herself, while Dido puts an arm round her.
“We should mark a spot for Cressa,” Victoria says. “Use her savings for some offerings, have the rites performed. All pay towards it if we need to.”
The others nod. “And we need to look after Britannica,” Amara adds. “It was the last thing Cressa asked me. She wanted us to be kinder to her.” This proposal is met with less enthusiasm. Paying respects to a shade is an easier task than caring for a large, angry Briton.
“I hope Ipstilla and Telethusa are alright,” Dido says. “They seemed very quiet this morning. It must be strange for them.”
“Pair of complete bitches,” Victoria replies. “I doubt they have any feelings at all. You should have seen them outside the baths yesterday. Shameless! I thought they were going to start screwing a man against the wall, in broad daylight.” She looks at Amara, her expression not entirely kind. “You’re in for a fun night tonight.”
Amara and Dido are due to perform at Cornelius’s house, but they won’t be going alone. Ipstilla and Telethusa have also been booked to dance.
“They can’t be that bad,” Amara says.
“Well,” Victoria says, “you’ll just have to tell us all about the party tomorrow. I’m sure none of us can wait.”
Amara knows it is grief making Victoria lash out, but the look she exchanges with Beronice suggests the bitterness the two women feel runs deep. She understands, watching them both, that there will have been many other conversations like this when they vented their jealousy in her and Dido’s absence. Perhaps Cressa joined in too. Amara knocks back her wine, wanting to blot out the thought.
Amara has never seen Egnatius make a scene like the one he puts on for Ipstilla and Telethusa. He bursts into the chilly waiting room, unable to contain his excitement at meeting the new girls. They all gabble in Spanish together, and Amara can see what an unfeigned joy it is for him to speak his native language. She knows that feeling, remembers what it was like the first time she spoke with Menander, the sense of instant recognition and understanding.
She and Dido practise quietly in the corner. It’s more Ovid tonight; they have set some of his Art of Love to music. Verses about dancing, to blend with the Spaniards’ performance. Egnatius pays them very little attention, and she remembers the first time she came here. Then the fuss was all for her and Dido, and the mime actresses were largely expected to fend for themselves. There is nothing like the lure of the new.
Eventually, Egnatius remembers them. He heads over, semi-apologetic, to dress their hair with garlands. “They’re quite perfect!” he gushes, tucking some leaves behind Dido’s ear. “Your master bought exactly the type of girls I requested.”
“That you requested?” Amara is stunned.
“Slave girls trained in Cadiz.” He nods. “Oh! I remember seeing them in my youth. No other dancing like it in the world. It takes years to learn the skill.” He raises an eyebrow, sly with innuendo. “Trained in other arts too, of course.”
Amara and Dido exchange a horrified look. Who is going to be interested in a pair of sparrows when there are two phoenixes in the room? Egnatius picks up on their alarm, perhaps realizing his lack of tact. “But nothing like your enchanting performance!” he exclaims, without a trace of sincerity. “My fair, innocent little nymphs!”
He prances off, exchanging what is clearly a filthy joke with the Spanish girls as he leaves. All three of them cackle.
“Shit,” Amara says.
“We haven’t even got any new tunes tonight,” Dido whispers. It’s true. Salvius has given them all the songs he knows, or perhaps all the songs he wants to share, and now, they have to spice up their routine with fresh words, but familiar music.
“It will be alright,” Amara says, convincing neither of them. “We’re just different from each other. It’s fine.”
“Did you know Felix was speaking directly to Egnatius?”
Amara shakes her head. All those days she has spent with him, working on his accounts, and he has never mentioned it. “No,” she says.
At first, Amara thinks it will be alright. She is soothed that Fuscus is there, that he has still requested her to lie on his couch for at least part of the meal. It has been many, many weeks since he paid for her company for the entire dinner. They chat about his sons, his business, even his wife, and he caresses her in a lazy, familiar way. But isn’t that how it should be? There’s not the same urgency when you’ve known a lover for a while.
Amara has a niggling sense of unease that there are fewer guests than usual, and no wives are present, not even their hostess, Calpurnia. Even so, much of the dinner feels reassuringly predictable. She and Dido perform, everyone seems to enjoy their singing, and Egnatius graciously steers them around the room. But Ipstilla and Telethusa are not left until the end of the meal like the mime actresses. Instead, Egnatius brings them in as the high point, just when everyone’s spirits have built to an especially convivial pitch.
Amara is reclining on a couch with a man she doesn’t know when they enter. He hasn’t spoken to her directly, but she thinks he might be called Trebius. He runs a tannery and is droning on about leather to his equally dull companion when Cornelius starts talking, his voice loud over the murmur of his guests.
“My friends,” he exclaims, “I think you may enjoy the next course. A Spanish dish with extra spice.”
There is expectant laughter, and Amara realizes that everyone has been waiting for this. She and Dido were only here to whet the guests’ appetites. The entire evening has been based on the new women’s performance.
Ipstilla and Telethusa whirl their way past the fountain of nymphs, clacking their red castanets. Even the tedious Trebius has stopped talking, suddenly interested and alert. The two dancers are naked, though Amara realizes they have made liberal use of the gold paste she and Dido unwisely left unattended in the waiting room.
Their initial flourish over, the two women begin grinding in earnest. Amara stares. She has never seen dancing like this. It makes Victoria’s performance at the Vinalia look matronly. She is not even sure how they manage all that shaking and quivering, lowering themselves to the floor but not quite touching it, without toppling over. And the singing is worse. It’s a medley of wordless wailing and moaning, the least subtle imitation of sex she’s ever heard.
Trebius grabs her leg, and she flinches. She turns to look up at him, but he is not looking back at her, does not even seem conscious of her; his hand is grasping the flesh of her thigh purely because he wants to touch a female body while he watches the dancing. She resists an overwhelming instinct to prise his fingers from her skin, preferably bending them back until the bones snap, and instead glances round desperately for Fuscus. He too is mesmerized by the dancing. She keeps her eyes focused on him, willing him to notice her, sending out a silent plea. Eventually, he glances over. She locks eyes with him, determined that he should understand. He motions to Egnatius, pointing towards the couch where she is trapped with Trebius.