Amara collects the brothel’s communal bucket from its place by the back door. They walk together down the street. The silence is anything but companionable. Britannica radiates aggression, staring down anyone foolish enough to look at her. Amara wonders if she would actually be glad should one of the men approach – Britannica seems even more eager for a brawl than Paris.
They reach the well. Two men are already there, perhaps slaves from different households, grabbing the chance to chat. Amara waits patiently, even though they are doing nothing more than blocking the way, neither showing any inclination to fill a bucket. Eventually, they deign to notice the women and step aside, but there’s no mistaking the way they stare at her body. She wouldn’t be surprised if they have kept her waiting on purpose.
Amara says nothing but walks forwards, swinging her bucket into the well. It clanks onto the stone. She starts working the pump, aware the men are standing too close. One places his hand on her backside, pushing her. “Need some help?”
Before she has time to turn round and tell him to back off, Britannica has seized him. Amara drops the bucket, splashing herself. The man is almost off his feet, Britannica has lifted him by his scruff like a dog. He takes a swing at her, but she blocks it, grabbing his arm, twisting it hard. He cries out, and Britannica smiles. One of her front teeth is missing, a memento from a violent customer.
“Alright, no need to overreact!” the second man shouts, darting over. “Look,” he points at Amara. “Nobody is touching her!”
Britannica does not respond. She stares at the man she is holding, still smiling her unfriendly smile. Then she lowers him. She waits a moment, like a cat toying with a mouse, before finally letting go. The two men look at her, then each other. It’s clear neither of them has the stomach for a fight with this unnerving stranger. They hurry off down the street.
Britannica watches them go. “Savage,” she says. Her voice is harsh and rasping from lack of use.
“What?” Amara gasps. “What did you say?”
“Sav-Age,” Britannica repeats the Latin word slowly, as if savouring its hard edges. She smiles again, her fierce gap-toothed grin.
“You speak Latin?” Amara exclaims. “You can speak!”
Britannica inclines her head. The barest acknowledgement. It is the closest she and Amara have ever come to genuine communication.
“I knew you could understand! I knew!” Britannica does not look entirely pleased by this effusiveness. She walks past, starts filling up the abandoned bucket. Amara follows, unable to restrain her eagerness. “Please, talk to me. You can trust me. Please.” Britannica does not answer, just gestures impatiently for the jug she left on the ground. Amara hands it to her. “I promised Cressa I would be your friend. I promised her.”
Britannica stiffens at Cressa’s name. She yanks the bucket from the well, dumping it in Amara’s arms with such force that she staggers and almost drops it. Then Britannica picks up the jug and strides back to the brothel. Amara has no choice but to totter after her. The bucket is too full and heavy for her to have any hope of catching the other woman up. By the time she gets back, Britannica has disappeared into her cell.
“Making yourself useful?” Victoria steps out from the latrine. She leans against the small wall, rubbing her abdomen. “Only good thing about a period is it means you’re not pregnant.”
“Britannica just spoke to me!” Amara says, dumping the bucket. “She just spoke Latin!”
Victoria is surprised. “Really? What did she say?”
“Savage!”
“Savage?” Victoria wrinkles her nose. “Nothing else?”
“No, that was it.”
“That’s not talking then. She’s just repeating sounds she’s heard.”
“She understands though.” Amara looks over at Cressa’s old cell and lowers her voice. “She got upset when I mentioned Cressa.”
The dead woman’s name has a dampening effect on them both. “We should visit her grave,” Victoria says, easing herself down from the steps into the corridor. “None of us have been in ages.”
“Do you want to go now?”
Victoria glances down the corridor, with all its closed curtains. “I suppose so. Why not? We can stop by The Sparrow. Get some wine to offer her.” She goes into her cell, comes out in her cloak, holding a small clay pot. It’s an old one of Cressa’s. “Come on.”
They walk the short distance to the tavern on the square. Amara tries to ignore the wall with its tapestry of graffiti. It pains her to remember Menander writing to her on it; she doesn’t want to see the traces of his last message. Nicandrus is busy at the bar, setting up for the day’s business. He greets them with a smile. “How’s Dido?”
“Fine,” Amara says, feeling awkward.
“You never give up, do you?” Victoria sighs.
“I would if there were another man,” he says. “But there isn’t.” He looks at them nervously. “Is there?”
“No,” Amara replies.
“We wanted to buy some wine for Cressa.” Victoria hands over the pot. “How much?”
Nicandrus fills it then looks over his shoulder, checking Zoskales is out of sight. He shakes his head, the meaning plain. No charge.
“Thank you.” Amara is touched by his gesture.
“Cressa was a good woman,” he says. “We all miss her.”
They leave the bar and walk down the street, bunched close together so they are side by side. “I don’t understand Dido,” Victoria says, gripping the pot. “He’s a sweetheart. Imagine the effort he would make! She might finally have a decent time.”
“She doesn’t want to break her heart loving a man she can never have,” Amara replies. Victoria says nothing. She knows they are both thinking of Felix.
The streets fill up as they wander towards the gate that leads to the town of Nola. Most of the traffic is going in the opposite direction, traders arriving to sell at the Forum or deliver stock to the shops. Those lucky enough to have a cart make a racket over the stones, others trudge along with goods piled up in baskets on their backs. A gaggle of squealing hogs run by, darting between the rolling wheels of their owner’s wagon. Amara watches them scurry off up the street, tails frisking, as if eager for their own slaughter. Victoria nudges her, pointing at a mule cart rumbling up from the other direction. She holds Amara’s arm and stands on tiptoe to get a better look, admiring its rolls of brightly coloured fabric. The muleteer sees them and cracks his whip, laughing as they both jump.
Amara feels less safe here at the edge of town. There are so many strangers drifting into Pompeii only to vanish again like smoke. They wait for a line of wagons to pass, piled up with blocks of masonry, no doubt part of the town’s never-ending building work, then walk under the high stone arch, crossing from the city of the living into the city of the dead. The road here is lined with enormous colourful tombs, some almost as big as the brothel where they work. Only the rich can afford to be remembered this close to the gate. In the doorways of their own graves, the once powerful dead stare out, their brightly painted statues watching the living pass by.
The she-wolves could never have bought Cressa a memorial here, even the smallest would be unimaginably expensive. Instead, Victoria and Amara walk further and further out of town, until the road widens and the crowds thin. They pass a group of mourners gathered round a marble urn in their finest clothes, burning offerings to appease the dead. Amara thinks of her own parents, of all she owes their shades but cannot give, and looks away.