It is Victoria who remembers the turning. A narrow road cutting through a gap between two monuments. The tombs become smaller the further they get from the main highway. They pass a large vineyard, its branches bare above the stone walls. Amara wonders if it might be one of the vineyards Pliny visited on his tour but supposes it isn’t grand enough. She turns and looks towards Vesuvius, the mountain whose plants he wanted to study. Its sharp peak is shrouded in cloud.
Eventually, they reach the place they came for. The paupers’ field. It stretches out in an ugly jumble of mounds and piles of rock and broken amphora necks. The last stick out from the earth like gaping mouths. There is a foul smell from the nearby dump, and Amara wonders, but does not ask, if that is where Victoria was found as a baby.
“How will we know where it is again?” Amara whispers, as if the unhappy dead might hear her. The only other mourner she can see is an old man, crying over a heap of freshly dug earth.
“I know the spot,” Victoria says, picking her way confidently through the jagged field. She stops by a small tomb, barely more than a slab, though still grander than anything else nearby. At its base is a pile of stones. All that is left to remember Cressa. There had been no point in burying an amphora jar; they had no ashes to put in the bottom, no human remains to receive their gifts of wine. Victoria takes the flask Nicandrus gave her and pours The Sparrow’s cheapest vintage over Cressa’s stones. “She always did like a drink,” she says.
They stand, staring at the spattered pile, remembering the dead woman. Amara thinks the stones look like all the kindnesses Cressa heaped up in her life, insignificant, yet touching the people closest to her. She tries not to remember Cressa’s last day, the sight of her standing at the water’s edge, watching the waves.
“How much?”
It’s a thin, wheedling voice, right behind them. Both women jump. A man is hunched in a craven position, like a beggar, but something about his eyes frightens Amara.
“We don’t have any wine to sell you,” she says, pulling her cloak around herself.
“How much to suck me?” He paws at his crotch.
“Have some respect!” Victoria snaps, shooing him away. “Can’t you see we’re mourning?”
The man reaches out to her. “Take pity!” he whines.
Amara can feel Victoria’s fear in the way she snatches her arm. They hurry over the field of ashes, back towards the narrow road. The man is too quick, darting in front. “Why won’t you fuck me?” he pleads. “Please fuck me!”
They walk even faster, stepping over the amphoras’ dead lips. The beggar keeps pressing closer, and his voice is getting deeper, losing its thin whine. Amara calls out to the old mourner, still stooped over his mound, but he ignores her. He must have heard the other man pleading for sex and has no interest in helping a couple of whores fend off a customer.
The beggar starts to run, and at first, Amara thinks her cries for help might have scared him off, but then she realizes he has only gone ahead to block the road. The stone walls of the vineyard are on one side of him, a large tomb on the other, making it almost impossible to get past. They edge closer, trying to decide on which side to break through.
“Come with me,” he says, staring straight into Amara’s eyes. He is like a snake, poised to strike. She stares back, too frightened to look away. He lunges forwards, grabbing for her arm, but she anticipates his move. Victoria seizes her hand, and they run back to the field, heading for the old man. The beggar skirts round again, forcing them towards the tombs, towards the opening of another, unfamiliar path. There is nowhere else for them to go.
They flee, their pursuer close behind, driving them on through the necropolis. Amara trips, looks down and realizes grass is growing through the paving stones. With a flash of fear, she understands that this is not only a quiet road but a deserted one. He has trapped them. She gasps, lurching forwards in panic and stumbles again, only just catching her footing.
“Keep going,” Victoria yells.
Amara has no idea where they are. The tombs are getting closer together, harder to run between. She looks back and screams. The man is on her, catching her round the waist, dragging her over. She hits the ground hard. He straddles her body, a knife in his hand. Victoria grabs his arm, shouting, but he throws her wide. Amara sees her strike her head on the side of the tomb and fall, dazed, on the ground.
“Your master thinks he can do anything.” The man has her by the throat, his ragged breathing hot in her face. She is so terrified she cannot move. “Covering his fucking tracks. As if Simo wouldn’t find out in the end.” He brings the knife closer, pointing it towards her eye. “This is for Drauca.”
The sound of smashing pottery startles them both. Her attacker turns, just as Victoria plunges a shard deep into his neck. He claws at it, his hands drenched in blood, but Amara knows whatever he does, he is already dead. She stares at the clay buried in his throat then scrambles out from underneath, not wanting to be stained in the spatter. She stands back, watching, Victoria beside her, the remnants of Cressa’s clay pot on the ground at their feet.
The man is shuddering where he lies. Death only takes a moment. Amara grabs Victoria’s hand and they run.
39
He who does not know how to protect himself does not know how to live
They cower together behind a tomb, trying to get their breath back, to collect their thoughts, to make sense of what has happened. Victoria is in shock, shaking so badly Amara is afraid her friend’s teeth will break from chattering. She holds her close to keep her warm.
“He was going to kill me,” she whispers, rubbing Victoria’s shoulders. “You saved my life. You saved me.”
“I killed a man,” Victoria whispers, the horror of it slowly sinking in. “I killed him! I’m a murderer!”
“Nobody is ever going to know,” Amara replies. “Nobody will find out. You’re safe. We’re both safe.” She thinks of the man’s body lying on the ground and feels a sense of calm. He is dead. All that matters now is avoiding suspicion. She inspects their clothes, peers at Victoria’s face, wipes a hand on her own cheeks, then checks her fingers. They are both lucky not to have more blood on them. She gathers mud in her hands, rubbing it over any red spots she can see on their cloaks. “Is there anything on me?” She turns her face, as if asking her friend to check her make-up. Victoria shakes her head. “Good. Then we should head back.”
“We have to tell Felix.” Victoria is still trembling. “Did you hear what he said?”
“That Felix killed Drauca.”
“Do you think he did?” There is desperation in Victoria’s eyes. It is one thing to suspect the man you love might be capable of murder, another to know it for sure.
“I think so,” Amara says. Victoria turns away, too upset to speak. “I owe you everything,” she says, taking Victoria’s hand. Her skin is icy cold. “And so does Felix. Without you, he would have no warning of what is coming.”
“How are we going to get home? What if somebody remembers us?”
“Nobody will. We are nobody. We’ll just head back into town slowly, keep our heads down. It will be days before the body is discovered. If it ever is.”
Victoria stands up, gripping the tomb to steady herself. “Some benefits to being worthless, I guess.”
They pick their way slowly through the necropolis, not walking back the way they came. It takes a long time to find the road again, and when they do, it’s an even longer trudge. Victoria is jumpy, but Amara grips her hand, stops her walking too fast. They pull their hoods up, as if to keep out the cold, half hiding their faces. Neither of them says a word.