“You can mouth off all you like,” Maria says, jutting out her chin. “You don’t impress me. Think I’ve never been called fat before? Well, my big, fat arse is staying right here.”
This time it’s Maria who raises the laugh. Felix nods, and Amara recognizes his smiling expression as one of pure cruelty. “No doorman though, is there?” he says, looking theatrically up and down the road for her non-existent protector. “Simo can’t think much of you if he’s selling cunt straight on the street. Anything could happen. You leave your goods for a moment and”—he snaps his fingers—“somebody’s stolen them. Or smashed them.” He is staring at Maria as he says this, so that she cannot mistake his meaning.
For the first time, Amara can see that Maria is afraid, but she chooses to cover it with bravado. “If I’m so fucking ugly, not worth your while to threaten me, is it?”
Felix bows. “I’m sure, for your performance tonight, you will have the pick of all the men here.” In answer, a couple of the drunken bystanders jostle towards Maria’s small, dark cell, and Felix watches her discomfort as she realizes she will have no means of limiting or controlling her customers. He must really hate her, Amara thinks, to frighten her at the expense of making Simo some money. She thinks of Drauca and feels afraid of what might happen to Maria. Felix turns to the remaining men. “If you prefer wine to water, the brothel’s this way.”
Most were only there for the spectacle and slope off, not willing to pay for their fun, but a couple tag along. They walk along the narrow pavement in a gaggle. Ipstilla and Telethusa exchange anxious glances. Surely, the master doesn’t expect them to entertain drunks like this, not after their performance at the grand house? Ipstilla catches his arm. “Why does she go upstairs?” She points at Amara. “She is better in brothel. We make you much more money tonight.”
Felix slaps Ipstilla hard across the back of the head, and she yelps. She stares at Felix, bewildered, obviously not used to a master with no favourites and no loyalty. “She didn’t brawl in the street like a rabid bitch either,” he says. “Don’t fucking question me again.” They arrive back at the brothel, and Felix greets Paris at the door. “Make sure you take the clothes from them first,” he says, pointing at the women who have returned from the party. “I don’t want them torn.” He clicks his fingers at Amara, and she follows him. She cannot bear to look back at Dido, left behind with the rabble.
“Little dog,” Ipstilla hisses as she passes. “He will tire of you.”
Felix says nothing to her as they walk up the stairs, but before she can head to the storeroom he stops her. “Did the dancers earn more than you tonight?” It is the first time they have spoken alone since he told her about his mother.
“Yes,” Amara says, not wanting to betray any emotion in her answer.
He leans on the wall, looking her over. She can tell from the hatred in his eyes that he will never forgive her for seeing him as she did, that he will always need to diminish her. “Posh boy today, isn’t it? You’d better get some sleep. You look tired. Like Cressa.” He presses his finger to her cheek, testing its softness, as if she were fruit at the market. “Pretty face. Nobody ages faster than a whore.”
Drusilla’s dressing table reminds her of the luxurious mornings she spent with Sarah, at Pliny’s house. Amara is conscious of the favour the courtesan is showing her, allowing her into her intimate space. Drusilla’s favourite maid, Thalia, is dressing Amara’s hair. She has dark brown skin like her mistress, and deft, clever fingers. Drusilla has already explained Thalia’s worth, how expensive it was to find a woman who would know the best styles for her own hair. Thalia listened to it all in silence, without betraying how she might feel, or what it meant to her, being shipped all the way from Axum to Pompeii to make a stranger look beautiful.
“I was only a small child when I came here,” Drusilla says. “I remember almost nothing of my family. My master Veranius became everything to me.” She fingers the gold bracelet on her upper arm. It is the most Amara has ever heard her speak about herself.
“Was that his gift to you?” she asks.
In answer, Drusilla slips the bracelet down her arm and hands it to Amara. It is heavier than she expects, shaped like a snake, its eyes glittering gemstones. Inside is an inscription. From the master to his slave girl. Amara admires it then gives it back. “He must have loved you dearly to have made you such a beautiful bracelet,” she says.
Drusilla slides it back on. “I was the fifth woman in his life to wear it,” she says. “I knew some of those who wore it before me.” She smiles at Amara, seeing the expression on her face. “An early lesson in men. The fourth was Procris, his wife’s maid. She raised me. When I was a grown woman, she had to give this up to me, along with all the favour that went with it. He broke her heart.”
Amara does not know what to say. Drusilla just told her Veranius meant everything to her, yet the man sounds as monstrous as Felix. “I loved him,” Drusilla says, as if guessing her thoughts. “And I despised him. What else is possible towards the man who gives everything and takes everything?”
“He must have favoured you the most,” Amara says. “As you kept it, and he freed you.”
Drusilla laughs. “You can be as naïve as Rufus!” she says. “I survived him, that’s all. Nothing more to it than luck. If he had died when Procris was wearing this, no doubt she would be free, and I would be dressing his widow’s hair.”
Thalia stands back from Amara, offering her the mirror to see her work. Amara turns her face, admiring her curls. “It’s lovely, thank you,” she says, carefully laying the silver disc on the table. Drusilla nods at Thalia who leaves the room. “Thank you for letting me come here,” Amara says, when the maid has gone. “I could not continue to see Rufus otherwise.”
“He will never love you more than he does now,” Drusilla replies. Amara puts her hand to her neck, upset because she knows it is true. “I don’t say it to be cruel,” Drusilla continues. “But you need to think carefully about what you want from him. There will never be a better time to ask.”
“He is always saying he will marry me,” Amara admits. “But it’s impossible! I would be arrested, the marriage dissolved. Roman citizens don’t marry brothel whores. Life isn’t one of his plays.”
“I didn’t mean marriage!” Drusilla is amused. “Perhaps aim a little lower.”
Amara laughs with her, embarrassed to have exposed the heights of her own ambition. “Can I ask you something?” she says, feeling a little shy. “Why did it not work out between Rufus and you?”
“Rufus wants to give everything to a woman. You could almost say he wants to make her.” Drusilla cups her hands, as if sheltering something precious. “What he wants is a little wounded bird he can hold, feel its wings flutter against his fingers.” Her voice is low and crooning. Amara can almost imagine holding the bird herself, its tiny, frightened heart beating beneath soft feathers. “I was not fragile enough for him. You are.” Amara stares at Drusilla, still sitting with her hands cupped together. There are no words for the pain she feels, knowing it is true. “I have been you,” Drusilla says. “Veranius would never have let me go, only his death did that. But Rufus might be different. You might persuade him that there would be no greater pleasure than opening his fingers, watching the bird fly, knowing every beat of its wings, every breath it takes, it owes to him.” Drusilla opens her hands, and they both stare at the empty air. Then she drops her arms, sadness in her eyes. “At least, you have to try.”