“We all have, sweetheart,” Cressa says kindly.
Beronice flushes. “Well, it’s me he loves. He told me he will buy my freedom one day. He loves me! He’s going to marry me, so I don’t have to do this anymore. We spent a whole hour together when you were all out fishing. He’s really kind and loving and gentle and caring. He even asked what I wanted!”
Amara struggles to picture the oafish Gallus being any of these things. She is about to ask Beronice if he gave her the bread yesterday but decides the answer might be too painful.
“Beronice,” Victoria says, her voice low with warning. “You didn’t fuck him for free, did you?” There’s silence. Beronice pouts, not meeting anyone’s eye. “You idiot!” Victoria hisses. “What if Felix finds out? You can’t spend your days rolling around with Gallus for nothing! He has to pay Felix. The prick’s just playing you; he’s using you!”
“He doesn’t want to pay because he’s saving up to buy me!” Beronice says, stung. “And who’s going to tell Felix? Not any of you I hope!”
“Of course none of us would tell Felix,” Amara says. “But are you sure Gallus isn’t taking advantage?”
“He loves me,” Beronice repeats stubbornly. “He told me he’s never met anyone as kind as me, that he can really talk to me, because I listen, and I care about him.” Victoria rolls her eyes. “Why do you have to make everything dark and ugly and twisted?” Beronice snaps at her. “At least I have better taste than you.” The last word is said with such venom that Amara is surprised, but before Victoria can retaliate, Cressa interrupts.
“Nobody is trying to ruin things for you,” she says to Beronice. “We just want you to look after yourself. That’s all.” Beronice frowns and turns away from her, not willing to be won round yet.
Cressa widens her eyes at Victoria, tilting her head at Beronice, willing her to make amends. Victoria sighs. “Of course we’re happy if Gallus loves you,” she says. “But you need to make him pay. He’s stealing from Felix! That’s much too risky – you know it is. For him as much as you.”
Beronice looks crestfallen. “That’s just typical of him,” she says. “Putting himself in danger for me.”
Victoria looks as if she might explode at this version of Gallus the Hero, but Cressa changes the subject. “Does anyone know how much money we made last night?”
“Thraso took over at the door,” Victoria replies. “I spoke to him before turning in. The last count was just over sixteen denarii.”
“That’s a relief,” says Amara, thinking of Felix. “It’s not as far off as I thought it might be.”
“We’ve got to pay to replace those though,” Dido points at the broken lamps.
Cressa bends over to look at the heap of smashed-up clay cocks. “That’s at least three.”
“Four,” Dido says.
“We’ll have to pay for them ourselves,” Victoria says. “We can’t ask Felix for the money, not after yesterday.” Amara feels some of the darkness from last night returning. Felix gives them such a paltry allowance, barely enough for food, especially when they chip in for Fabia. None of them are ever going to save enough for their freedom that way. “It can’t be helped,” Victoria says, as if she can hear Amara’s thoughts. “We’ll make it back.”
Amara stares at their fresh graffiti. Thrust SLOWLY! It doesn’t seem as amusing anymore. Cressa gets to her feet. “We should head to the baths, get cleaned up. Unless you lot want to waft about stinking of man all day.”
It’s a mid-morning ritual at the brothel, their trip to the women’s baths. Amara suspects she isn’t the only one who finds it emotionally as well as physically cleansing. “I’ll stay behind,” Victoria offers. “Somebody else had better go for the lamps.”
There’s a pause. “I’ll go,” Amara offers. She is just as desperate as the others for a wash, but she owes Cressa for rescuing her, Dido had a terrible night and Beronice was trapped inside most of yesterday. Although given her affair with Gallus, this may not have been such a sacrifice after all.
“Take my savings,” says Cressa. “We can split the cost when you get back.”
Fabia is sweeping the floor when they step out into the corridor. Not for the first time, Amara wonders where she slept that night. She has found her huddled on the back doorstep before, wrapped in nothing but her cloak. The old woman smiles at them. “Don’t you all look beautiful,” she says.
Fabia helps the four who are going out to tidy up their hair. Even though they are not fishing, Felix hates his women to wander about town looking a mess. “You’ll never need paste for your lips,” Fabia says to Amara, as she straightens up her yellow toga, fastening it with a cheap pin. “They’re bright as pomegranate seeds. You’re so lucky.” Amara wonders what Fabia looked like when she was young. Her face is not just lined, but beaten, like the ruts in the road where the carts have repeatedly run over the stones. It can’t help that she has such a shit for a son.
“Can I bring you back anything to eat?” Amara asks.
“Gallus brought me some bread yesterday,” Fabia replies. “Don’t you worry.”
Thraso is slumped half asleep on the doorstep when they leave. His lip looks a little better than yesterday, but his nose is still swollen. He asks where they are all going and heaves himself up to check whether the tale of broken lamps is true. Once his surly permission has been granted, they set off. Amara says goodbye to the others a few paces down the road at the entrance to the women’s baths then makes for the pottery shop on the Via Pompeiiana, Cressa’s leather purse tied around her waist.
Last night was dry, and the water level on the road has dropped. It no longer resembles a canal. Instead, the wet surface shines silver in the glare of the late morning light. The town is already busy. It’s not often Amara has an excuse to venture out by herself. She lingers as she passes the doorways of Pompeii’s wealthiest homes, stealing a look inside whenever a tall wooden door is left ajar. She catches the sparkle of fountains, glimpses of winter gardens and elaborate mosaics which sweep up to the edge of the street. Her parent’s house in Aphidnai was not so grand, but some of the homely touches – a woman sitting spinning in the atrium, a sleeping dog – remind her of what she has lost.
The potter’s shop is not too far along the Via Pompeiiana. It’s impossible to miss with its huge mural of Venus surrounded by lamps on the front wall. The painting picks out the warmth of the flames on the goddess’s features, the light reflected in her eyes. Behind her is a pink shell and the pale blue of the sea. Small potters work at her feet, shaping lamps and statues, feeding a tiny kiln, a miniature representation of the business Amara is about to enter.
The shop front is shallow and apparently empty. Through a doorway at the back she can see slaves and the red glow of the kilns. Somebody will be back in a moment. Around her, every possible surface is lined with lamps. She turns to look, careful not to knock into anything. Some are beautiful, so much lovelier than the ones she is here to buy. Amara picks up a small glazed light from the nearest shelf, gently stroking its surface with her finger. An image of Pallas Athene is stamped on it, an owl’s face on her breastplate.
“That’s one of mine.”
She looks up. A slave is watching her. Amara hurries to put the lamp back, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“No, I mean I designed it.” The slave laughs. “I don’t own any of them.” He is very good-looking, Amara realizes. Slim with dark hair and a friendly, open face. He looks nothing like Felix, she thinks. Then she wonders why the comparison would even matter to her. He walks over, takes the lamp back down from the shelf and turns it over. “That’s my mark,” he says, touching a symbol on the back, the Greek letter M. He has a Greek accent too. He almost sounds like he could have come from her hometown.