“I’m flattered you were,” she replies, gazing up at him. She is conscious of Menander walking away, even though she does not see him leave.
They reach Philos, and Amara realizes that Quintus and Lucius are also there, together with a retinue of their slaves. They make quite an audience. “But I do at least have a small present for you myself, my darling,” Rufus says. His tone is theatrical, aimed as much at his friends as at her. Hope makes her heart beat faster. Rufus lowers his voice. “Where’s your wretched pimp?”
Amara knows Felix will not be far away, spots him almost immediately. He must have watched the whole scene unfold, seen how she treated Menander. She hears his voice in her head. Not every woman is a heartless bitch like you. Felix walks over as soon as she catches his eye.
“Honoured,” he says, bowing to Rufus, who recoils.
“I want to make you an offer,” he says, loud enough that the rest of the brothel gather round to listen. “I would like to buy this woman on behalf of a friend.”
Amara looks at him in bewilderment. “A friend?”
Rufus holds up a hand to silence her. “I would like to buy this woman on behalf of Gaius Plinius Secundus, the Admiral of the Roman Fleet.”
Amara gasps at Pliny’s name, but Rufus does not notice. He is caught up in the drama, relishing his role as hero in front of the crowd. “The admiral has considered her price and is prepared to offer you more than she is worth. There can be no haggling, he will not stoop to it. You must take his offer or leave it.” Rufus gestures at Philos, who produces a seal. “This is his pledge, which you may keep if you agree the sale, as a guarantee you will be paid. He is offering you six thousand sesterces for the slave known as Amara.”
It is two thousand more than Felix paid for her. Amara can see Dido and Victoria clutching one another, open-mouthed, staring at Rufus. She looks at Felix, but his face is inscrutable. Surely, he cannot refuse?
Felix bows. All this time, he has not acknowledged her. “I will accept the admiral’s offer.”
Amara says nothing while her master signs the agreement, transferring ownership. Everyone watches in silence, unable to believe what they have just seen. Shock has almost emptied her of feeling. Rufus hands Felix the seal and turns to her, radiant with his own power. “Amara. On behalf of the admiral and in the presence of witnesses and in the sight of the gods, I grant you your freedom. You are now Gaia Plinia Amara, Liberta.”
Amara stares at him, speechless. Then she bursts into tears.
43
Many who Fortuna has raised high, she suddenly throws down, and hurls them headlong
Amara cannot stop crying. Rufus has to restrain her from flinging herself at his feet, as she sobs out her undying love and gratitude. He kisses away her tears, clearly enjoying the adoration. She embraces Dido and Victoria over and over again, weeping onto both their shoulders, holding their faces in her hands, unable to express all the love she feels. The pain of what she has done to Menander, the ecstasy of freedom, is unlike anything she has ever felt. She laughs with Quintus and Lucius, professes her devoted friendship to Ipstilla and Telethusa − who look less than delighted by her good fortune − and startles Paris into giving her a bony hug. When it is Fabia’s turn, the old woman clings to her, weeping, and Amara finds herself promising to help if she is ever in need. Thraso however, is a step too far. She nods at him, the way a queen might acknowledge a peasant. More than he deserves.
It is the only time she has ever seen Felix look truly surprised. He must have realized that all her tales about Rufus and violence were lies. Perhaps he is wondering what else she has lied about. She turns her back. Let him wonder, she thinks. He cannot hurt her now.
Amara wants to wait for Beronice, desperate to share the news, but Rufus is less keen. “My darling,” he says. “I think I may have had enough of whores and pimps for one night. Delightful as I’m sure this other girl is.” He looks at her companions from the brothel, both friends and enemies, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. Quintus and Lucius laugh, obviously eager to return home too.
Amara feels a jolt. Of course, this is the other side of the deal. A Saturnalia spent without Dido, without any of the women she loves. She wants to go back, to hug them one last time, but Rufus is leading her firmly away. She catches Dido’s eye, hopes she understands it as a reminder of the promise she made.
Leaving is not easy in the press of the crowd. Philos and the other slaves try to go ahead first, clear the path, but nobody is inclined towards deference on the Saturnalia. While they are fighting their way through, a heavy-set man carrying bells dances between them, dressed as the Lord of Misrule. He is wearing a horned satyr mask, dressed all in red. He capers closer, brandishing the bells in Amara’s face. Rufus draws her away, putting his arm around her. For a moment, it looks like the masked man is going to be a nuisance, but Quintus, Lucius and the rich men’s phalanx of slaves are too formidable a barrier.
The satyr dances off. People cheer him and nudge one another to make space. Amara watches. She realizes, as the satyr prances about, stopping now and then to make people laugh, that he is not moving at random. He is slowly heading towards Felix. Her feeling of unease curdles into fear.
She yanks at Rufus, forcing him to stop. Victoria is standing near her boss. Amara shouts at her, but her voice is swallowed by the noise of the crowd. Felix is already aware of the danger. As the red satyr comes towards him, he draws his knife. The red satyr draws too. He is twice Felix’s size, but Amara suspects he has none of her former master’s speed or agility. The satyr lunges at Felix, but he feints, and the blow falls wide, narrowly missing Victoria. She scrambles back, disappearing into the safety of the crowd.
The two men are swiping at each other, and it could almost look as if they are dancing, if it weren’t for the deadly flash of silver. The crowd don’t seem to realize what’s going on, or perhaps mistake the fight for a staged part of the misrule celebrations. They have cleared a small space and are all wedged together, cheering the pair on.
“We should leave,” Rufus says. “He’s nothing to you now.”
“Where’s Dido?” Amara says. “I can’t see her! Where is she?”
“The others will look after her,” Rufus says, losing patience. “This is no place for you.”
She turns back to look again, too afraid to obey him. She can see Ipstilla and Telethusa, arms locked, managing to make a break for it.
“There she is,” Amara cries. “Over there!”
Dido is clearly trapped, alone, unable to scramble her way back into the crowd like Victoria, forced to watch as Felix and the satyr swipe at one another, sickeningly close. A drunk has hold of her arm and is trying to kiss her, unaware of the danger they are both in. Thraso is hovering near Felix, not wanting to get his boss killed by intervening. She spots Britannica on the other side of the circle, close by, avidly watching the fight, unaware of Dido’s distress. Paris and Fabia are nowhere to be seen.
Amara looks desperately at Lucius, the man who promised to find Dido’s family, who has spent so many nights with her at Drusilla’s house. “Can’t you help her? Please!”
Lucius looks uncomfortable but doesn’t answer. Amara feels a surge of anger at his cowardice. She tears her arm from Rufus, shoving her way back towards the fight. “Britannica!” she screams. “Britannica, help me!”