Amara stares after him. “What did he mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing. You know Vitalio; he’s always bad-tempered.” Philos smiles, but he looks uncomfortable. Vitalio’s outburst was too extreme for this to be a reasonable explanation, and they all know it.
“No,” Amara says, feeling nervous. “He meant something in particular. What did he mean? Please tell me. Please.”
Philos does not look at her. “Rufus was fond of Vitalio’s daughter for a while.”
“His daughter? Is she part of the family household?” Dido takes Amara’s hand, trying to lead her away, to calm her down, but Amara shakes her off. “Tell me.” She stares at Philos, willing him to obey, and the sadness in his grey eyes strikes her with fear.
“You’ve met her a few times,” he says. “It’s Faustilla, the serving girl.”
At first, Amara cannot imagine who he means, the only maid she can remember is a shy young thing who never spoke. “But it can’t be the girl I met; she’s so young,” she says. “And Rufus never seemed to notice her. A few times she was even there when…” Amara puts her hand over her mouth, too shocked to continue. Dido puts an arm round her, and this time, she doesn’t push her away.
“Rufus is no different to any young man of his class,” Philos says, sounding a little defensive of his master. “You know they all sleep with their slaves. Whatever happened between them was never any reflection on his feelings for you.”
“That’s not what I’m upset about!” Amara says, although it’s a lie, because she had believed Rufus was different. She thinks of his disarming smile, the way he has always seemed so beguilingly sincere. The way he tells her he loves her. “I’m upset about the girl,” she insists. “No wonder Vitalio hates me. His daughter having to serve the woman who took her place. Did she love him?” Philos does not reply, but he doesn’t need to. “Of course she loved him. She must have thought he was the kindest man she’d ever met.” Amara thinks of the way Felix treats Victoria, his deliberate cruelty. But Rufus is no less cruel to Faustilla, even if he doesn’t mean to be. “Had it even finished between them when Rufus met me?”
“Amara,” Philos says, his voice low, “just remember you have to live with my answers. And so do I.”
“He’s still sleeping with her,” she says, understanding him. “Of course he is. You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I don’t think that at all.” Philos has the studiously blank expression of the slave who is habituated to hiding his feelings. She remembers what he said to her when they were alone. When you’re young, they fuck you; when you’re old, they fuck you over.
“Well,” she says to Dido, with false cheer. “He didn’t rent her a house. So hopefully, I have a little time before I’m serving wine to his next mistress.”
“Just think of Felix,” Dido says. “Think how much safer you will be here. It’s paradise in comparison.”
“She’s right,” Philos agrees, eager to repair the damage. “And I truly believe he loves you. I’ve never seen him do this much for any other woman. Not even close.”
Amara thinks of Hortensius, how he hurt her, insulted her, and yet Rufus said nothing. “The love a master has for his slave,” she says, looking at Philos who quails at the bitterness in her voice. “I suppose it’s as much as any of us can hope to build a life on.”
42
The Saturnalia, the best of days!
Felix’s study is crammed, his entire motley household of whores and thugs spread around on various stools and blankets like Pompeii’s most peculiar family. Felix himself sits on his desk, an unlikely Paterfamilias, while Thraso and Gallus serve Paris and the women with sweet buns and wine. According to the true Saturnalian spirit, it should be Felix serving everyone, but nobody questions this departure from tradition.
“I’ll have another, maybe two more!” Fabia declares, ransacking Gallus’s basket for a bigger helping. He sighs but doesn’t push her scrawny arms away.
“That’s enough!” Paris snaps. Fabia recoils from her son, dropping the fifth bun back into the basket.
“Be nice to your fucking mother,” Felix says. “Surely you can manage not to be a complete shit for one day?”
Paris hands Fabia back the bun she took, his cheeks flaming. Then he gets up and goes to sit on the opposite side of the room.
“Presents!” Ipstilla says, clapping her hands together. “Is time for presents, yes?”
They all go through the performance of Felix’s gift giving, passing round a purse, taking out a denarius each. He quickly gets bored of all the thanks, waving it away. By the time it is Amara’s turn to take the money, he isn’t even looking. She is sitting in the corner with Dido, her stomach too churned up to eat the sweet pastry. They told Philos the whole brothel would be heading to the Forum in the late afternoon. She cannot relax, wondering if today is the day Rufus will buy her. Every moment, she is expecting a knock at the door, dreading the thought it won’t come.
“Now for the rest of them!” Beronice gets out the small bundle of gifts, all wrapped in a blanket. Her cheeks are shining from the wine, and she looks by far the happiest person in the room. Gallus sits down beside her, getting as close as possible, childlike in his eagerness. Perhaps he does love her after all, Amara thinks. Or maybe he just wants a present. “Not yet! Don’t be greedy,” Beronice says, kissing him.
Amara glances over at Felix, but he seems completely unconcerned by this outburst of affection. She remembers what Cressa said at the Vinalia, that a master never minds a love which keeps his servants obedient. The thought of her dead friend, and her short brutal life, hurts Amara’s heart.
“Right, this one’s yours Fabia,” Beronice says, handing her some coins wrapped in a piece of cloth. They had decided the penniless old woman would prefer five asses in cash rather than some overpriced trinket. “This is yours, this is for you…” Beronice hands out all the other gifts, enjoying her role.
Amara unwraps her gift from its scrap of cloth. It’s a cheap hair clip, not unlike the one she and Dido bought for Victoria. Dido has been given the same. Britannica is staring at her pendant with a frown, dangling it between her fingers. “It’s been dipped in the blood of a gladiator, of a fighter, to give you strength,” Amara explains. She knows Britannica has understood even though she does not thank or even look at her. The Briton slips it on, tucking it under her toga, and rests her hand on her chest. Then her eyes flick over to Amara and Dido. She gives them the briefest nod of acknowledgement.
The men have all bought each other extra wine, more expensive than the sweetened variety the women have been served. Thraso pours it out, tipping an especially generous portion into his own flask. With a stab of remorse, Amara realizes everyone has forgotten Paris. He is sitting slightly away from the gathering, holding his thin knees in his arms, face pinched with disappointment. Fabia is waving at him from across the room, motioning that he can have her five asses. Paris ignores her. As ever, it’s not his mother’s attention that he wants. Gallus nudges Thraso’s elbow as he pours out more wine, gesturing at the forgotten slave.
“Is he really a man though?” Thraso says. “Couldn’t one of the girls have given him a hair clip or something?” He laughs at Paris’s expense, clearly expecting Felix to join in. Their boss doesn’t smile at the joke.
“Give the boy some wine,” he says. “He earned it this year.”