For a moment, Amara thinks she is going to drown in a sea of arms and elbows, crushed in the chaos, then the tall woman is reaching down, grabbing her by the scruff of her cloak, pulling her to safety.
“Dido!” Amara screams, pointing at where she is trapped. Britannica’s eyes widen. She drops Amara and shoves a man aside, punching him in the throat when he doesn’t get out of her way quick enough.
Britannica tries to charge through the crowd, but her strength is no match for so many people. Amara can see her struggling, surrounded. The space for the fight is getting smaller and smaller, pushing Dido ever closer towards the violence. More and more people must be pouring into the Forum, packing everyone together. Amara tries to push towards Dido herself, but people are too drunk or disinterested to let her pass. She drops to her knees, crawling her way through, almost stifled by her fear of being trampled. She reaches the edge of the crowd. The fight is on top of her, and the satyr nearly stamps on her fingers, but she is too low down to be in range. She can see Britannica yelling, held back by a group of drunken, angry men. Just a short distance away, Dido is scrambling, not facing Amara, instead, trying to claw past the crowd, away from the knives, the drunkard still holding her around the waist.
The men have almost run out of room to fight. Felix is so close, she could almost reach out and touch him. There is no fear on his face, but he looks vulnerable, his body more exposed than the satyr’s in his heavy, protective costume. Amara watches, willing Felix to kill his rival, willing him to end it. Instead, Felix swings round and stumbles over someone’s foot, almost crashing into Dido. The red satyr sees his chance, swiping the knife towards his opponent while he is off balance. Felix dives out of the way. The satyr stabs Dido in the back, burying the knife between her shoulder blades. The drunk holding her lets go in shock. Now, when it is too late, people draw back, letting Dido pass. She takes two steps forwards and collapses.
Somebody in the crowd screams, then another. Finally, it is dawning on the gathering that this is not a performance. A group of men rush forwards, seizing the red stayr, tearing off his mask. His face is familiar. It is Balbus, Simo’s freedman. He disappears into the mob, mouth open in terror, buried in a frenzy of kicks and punches. The crowd is clearing, some pushing forwards to watch Balbus die, others fleeing from the violence. Amara reaches Dido. Britannica is already holding her, cradling her in her arms.
“I’m here!” Amara cries, dropping down beside her. She takes Dido’s hand. “We’re all here. You’re safe now.”
Dido does not answer. Blood is coming from her mouth. She looks at Amara, pain and terror in her eyes.
All the times they have exchanged messages without words, only with glances, and Amara knows she cannot hide her own anguish. She kisses Dido on the forehead. In her head, she hears her father’s voice. Nobody should die in fear.
“I’ve seen people recover from worse than this,” she says. “All those patients my father treated. You’ll get better; I know you will.” Dido’s hand is cold, so she holds it against her own body to warm it. “You’re going to be alright, I promise.” Victoria arrives, breathless, and sits down beside her. “And Victoria’s here now too. When Beronice comes, she can get Gallus to fetch a doctor.”
“We’re here with you,” Victoria says. “You’re not on your own. We’re here.”
Dido closes her eyes. “You can have a rest,” Amara says. “It’s alright to have a rest.” She lies the palm of her hand against Dido’s cheek so her friend can feel her, even though she cannot see her. She is still cupping Dido’s face in her fingers, long after she knows she has died.
“She is gone,” Britannica says. Nobody remarks on the fact that she can speak.
Amara shushes her. “Just a moment,” she says, not wanting to let go of Dido. “Not yet. She’s not gone yet.”
“She’s dead, my love,” Victoria says, putting her hand on Amara’s knee. “She’s gone now.” Amara cannot see, tears are blinding her. Victoria drags Amara’s arm around her own shoulders, pulling her upright. Amara realizes a man is watching them. Felix.
“You did this!” she screams. In her grief and rage she knows she could kill him, tear him apart where he stands, but Victoria is holding her, preventing her. “That knife was meant for you. You killed her! You did this!” Felix is silent as Amara shouts at him, threatening him, screaming out her hatred until her voice breaks.
Then a man is picking her up, lifting her over his shoulder, taking her away. She thinks it is Rufus, beats her fists against his back, sobbing, ordering him to put her down, to let her go back. Eventually, she gives up, collapsing against him. It is only when they reach the edge of the Forum and she sees Rufus standing, waiting for her, that she realizes who is carrying her. It is Philos.
44
We thus began to imprison animals to which nature had assigned the heavens as their element.
The Saturnalia is over. Amara sits at her desk, dressed in black. The sound of the fountain does not reach this room, but she knows it is there, murmuring gently in the garden below. She is safe in the house with the golden door. She has her freedom. And her heart is broken.
The wooden box is no longer under Rufus’s bed; it sits in front of her. She opens it. Folded above the jewellery is a letter from Pliny to Rufus. She picks it up. Words jump out at her “…the attagen, also of Iona is a famous bird; but although it has a voice, at other times, it is mute in captivity…” And so it goes on. There is almost no mention of Amara in the letter. Pliny built his case for her freedom by calling on a multitude of birds, perhaps feeling more comfortable making his argument in abstract terms. But she knows what a gift it is. Not only that he paid towards her freedom, but that he gave her his name.
It was the name, not the money, that mattered in the end. Caught between his father’s refusal, and Amara’s desperation to be free, Rufus had written to the admiral, asking his advice about what he should do. It was Pliny who had introduced him to Amara in the first place, so surely, he would know. Pliny responded with unimaginable generosity. “I never asked him for the money,” Rufus has told her, over and over again. “And I did pay half, so it’s not like you didn’t cost me anything.” Amara is beginning to suspect that, for Rufus, the pleasure of opening his hands to see the bird fly will never be quite as satisfying as feeling its fragile form beneath his fingers.
He did not enjoy her grief after Dido’s death. It wasn’t a pretty flurry of tears he could kiss away, but a frenzy of pain and hysteria that swamped her gratitude and his glory. He let Philos take her back here to recover herself. She spent the first two days of the Saturnalia alone, save for a handful of slaves. Rufus has ‘lent’ them all to her. Philos is the only one she knows.
She cannot remember much of that first night, other than the agony, but the following day is stamped on her memory. She was huddled here, in this study, wrapped in a pile of blankets, when Philos brought her hot wine. A drink was the only consolation he had to offer. He stood at the very edge of the room, not getting too close to her, nothing like the man who once offered her his arm on the street. It was as if the sight of her frightened him.
“You can’t be like this when he comes for you,” he said, not looking at her face. “He planned that night for weeks, imagining all your joy, all the adulation. And instead, he got grief and disappointment. I know you loved her. But Rufus will never understand. She was just a pretty slave to him. You will have to mourn her in private.”