Amara waits for Philos to collect her. She sits alone on the hard sack of beans in the storeroom, her head resting on the wall, eyes closed. She tries to imagine herself back in Pliny’s garden, tries to recreate the sense of tranquillity, the sound of the fountain. It has been hours since the man from the baths touched her, but she can still feel him. Afterwards, she walked to the well in the rain, struggled back with a bucket of icy water, stripped herself off. She tried to scrub away every trace, the water so cold on her skin it was painful. Perhaps when Rufus tells her he loves her later, the feeling might start to fade.
“I hope you don’t show the posh boy such a fucking miserable face.”
She opens her eyes. Felix is standing in the doorway, watching. She didn’t hear him approach. She resists the urge to put her hand to her neck, to check Balbina’s chain is still hidden. “I told you he’s violent,” she says, not bothering to stand up. “A miserable face makes him happy.”
“As long as he keeps paying,” Felix answers. She looks at him, standing there, an ugly sneer on his face, as if he can still pretend that he is any better than she is. Your mother was a whore and so were you. The words are too potent to risk saying aloud, but just knowing his secret makes her feel stronger. Amara has tried to find out more from Fabia, ingratiating herself with presents of food, asking what the old woman remembers of their master’s childhood. Fabia had opened her mouth, pinching her own tongue between her fingers. “He told me he would cut it out himself,” is all she said.
“Gallus let you know I brought in two customers today?” Amara says.
Felix nods. “I’ll let it pass this time. Next time I want at least three.” She says nothing, not letting her anger show. She hopes now he has thrown his taunt he will leave, but he doesn’t. “Posh boy never leaves any marks. A violent lover usually does.”
“You don’t.”
They stare at each other. Their silence is like that of two tigers, circling one another. Her hatred for this man is more ferocious than desire could ever be.
A loud rapping announces Philos’s arrival on the street below. Felix stands aside to let her pass, but she can feel his animosity follow her, even when she is out of sight and heading down the stairs. She opens the door. Philos, with his cheerful smile and friendly greeting, is like a visitor from another world.
Philos never speaks until they are walking side by side down the street, well out of earshot of the brothel. He turns to her when they are at a safe distance, and she can see the smile in his eyes, even though his face is solemn. “We’re going somewhere new tonight.”
“Not the theatre?”
“It’s a surprise.” He laughs at her curious expression. “More than my life is worth to spoil it.”
Amara feels her pulse quicken with hope. “Is it…?”
“I’ve said too much already!” Philos exclaims, but his broad smile is surely her answer. “Just make sure you look astounded, that’s all I’m saying.”
Amara laughs too. She likes Philos; he has a kind, easy manner. Rufus relies on him for everything, in the way she remembers Pliny relied on Secundus. She suspects Philos is considerably smarter than his master, but far too discreet to show it. “Did you have anything to do with it?” she asks.
“Possibly.”
“Then I know it will be wonderful.” Philos looks pleased by the compliment. Amara knows only too well how little thanks any slave gets for his labour. They walk to the cheaper part of town, and she feels her excitement growing.
“Here we are,” Philos says, stopping at a darkened doorway. She stands close to him, eager to see everything, and he pushes her away slightly, as if they were children jostling over a toy. He gives her the lamp to hold and fishes out some heavy keys, deliberately taking his time with the lock, until she hits him playfully on the arm. Philos turns the key, cranking open the wooden door. They step inside. The small atrium is cold, with a few oil lamps set on the floor, their flickering light dimmed by the moonlight from the opening in the ceiling. She turns to ask Philos where they are, but he has already melted into the shadows.
“Welcome home, darling.”
Rufus is standing in the archway to the garden, his figure cutting a deeper shade of black in the darkness.
Amara flings herself at him with a cry. She can scarcely get the words out, all her love and relief and fear are jumbled together, the threads too tangled to unwind.
“You’re shaking!” Rufus exclaims. He sweeps her up into his arms, relishing the theatricality of the gesture. Amara is perhaps a little heavier than he was expecting, as he stumbles on the first step, but then he regains his footing and strides towards one of the darkened rooms. It is cold and barely furnished. A couch and a burning lamp stand in the corner. More than enough.
There is no pretence to Amara’s happiness. That side of her performance, at least, is genuine. And after she has given him every pleasure his body can bear, Rufus hardly has the chance to tell her he loves her. She has already said the words herself, over and over again.
The chill is too sharp to lie together on the bed for long. “I’m afraid the house is only rented at the moment,” Rufus says, hurrying to get dressed. “But perhaps we can buy the place if we like it enough.” A sliver of fear prickles Amara, as cold as the sweat drying on her skin. She shivers. Surely this house is more than proof that he will free her? Rufus leans towards her, kissing her again. Slowly, she relaxes. He cups her face in his hands. “We can decide when you belong to nobody but me.”
38
A common night awaits us, we all must walk death’s path.
Amara stands alone in the brothel corridor. Nobody else is awake yet. She looks at the familiar space, the sooty walls, the paintings above the doorways. A woman on top for Victoria. A man with two cocks for Beronice. All those women on the walls, never taking a break from getting fucked, even when the real whores are sleeping. She wonders how many more nights she will have to spend in this place and hugs herself, thinking of the empty house. Waiting for her.
She is sure Rufus will free her soon, he must do. But even if he doesn’t, if he only buys her, it will still be a thousand times better to be his slave than belong to Felix. The prickle of fear returns, but she rubs her arms angrily, as if she can physically brush off her anxiety. A bang from Cressa’s old cell distracts her. Britannica.
The cell’s curtain is moving slightly, swayed by the movement behind it. She bunches the fabric in her hands. It stinks. “It’s Amara,” she says in a low voice, announcing herself before she enters.
Britannica does not look over. Not for the first time, Amara is struck by her strangeness. She is far too tall for a woman, and now her red hair is too short. It grew so matted they had no choice but to cut it. She is almost ugly in her disregard for herself, yet Amara still feels a sense of admiration for Britannica’s body, for its undoubted strength. All the effort the rest of them put into looking desirable seems feeble in comparison.
Amara watches the pale arms, jabbing the air. She wonders when Britannica last left her cell, when she last saw daylight. She thinks of the promise she made Cressa. “You should get out for a while,” Amara says. “Come to the well with me.”
At first, the other woman gives no sign of having heard, but Amara waits. She has learnt that Britannica will always respond eventually. She watches her aiming punches that fall just short of the wall. If she misjudged, she would surely break her hand. Then, without warning, she suddenly stops. Britannica rifles through the blankets on her bed, finds her cloak and flings it on, before picking up a jug on the floor. She tilts her head to one side, looking at Amara, impatient. What are you waiting for?