“Is Pallas Athene your goddess?” Amara asks, switching to Greek.
He is delighted. “Athenian?”
“No, I’m from Aphidnai.” She smiles back.
“The town with the beautiful Helen of Troy.”
“You’ve been there?” Amara stares at the potter’s slave, wondering who he might have been if they had met in their past lives. Did he ever go to her father when he was sick? Was he always enslaved?
“I spent a little time there when I was a child. Many years ago now. I’m from Athens. From Attica.”
Attica. So much in a single word. Pride in where she’s from, pain for what she’s lost. Home. It feels closer, suddenly, standing next to this stranger. “What happened?” she blurts out. “Why are you here?”
He looks startled. Slaves do not usually ask each other about the past without invitation. Nobody wants their grief dragged up unexpectedly into the light.
“My family ran out of money,” he says. “And I was the last thing they had to sell.” His voice is unchanged, and he has the same easy manner as before, but she can feel his sadness. Amara wants to tell him that she understands, that the story of her life is the same, but she can’t find the words. He looks embarrassed by her silence. “Is this the lamp you wanted?” he asks.
She blushes. Her cloak is hiding her gaudy toga. He has no idea what she is. And now she is going to have to ask this beautiful Athenian stranger for a load of cock lamps. “My master lives opposite The Elephant,” she says slowly. There is a flicker of understanding on his face. She ploughs on. “My name in this country is Amara. I used to worship Pallas Athene, but since I was brought here, I have been subject to Venus. I have no choice. She is the goddess my master serves.”
“Amara,” the stranger says, putting his hand over hers, stopping her from continuing. “I understand. None of us has a choice here.” They stare at each other. Then he moves away, as if only just noticing he is touching her.
“Menander!” a voice calls from the back. “What are you doing out there? I only wanted… Ah, I see, a customer. Forgive me, forgive me.” Rusticus, the potter, is standing in the doorway. He frowns at Amara, trying to place her. She stares back. In her mind’s eye she sees his large naked arse, bobbing up and down, glimpsed through a half-open curtain. He is one of Victoria’s regulars. “Well.” He chuckles, recognition finally dawning. He turns to Menander. “No wonder you were taking your time.” He leans one elbow on the counter, his previous posture of respectful service gone. “And what can we do for you, little wolf.”
Amara is so hot that she feels on fire. “Four lamps, not glazed, of…” She stops, not wanting to say the words. “Of Priapus.” Rusticus smirks, enjoying her humiliation. She has a flash of anger and defiance. “So that will be four cocks,” she adds loudly. There’s a snort. She turns and stares at Menander. Is he laughing? He sees her face, and his expression changes instantly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
She sweeps past him to the counter, as if he hadn’t said a word. “My master does not like to be kept waiting,” she says coldly to Rusticus, as if she has been sent by the Emperor and not some small-town pimp.
“Of course,” Rusticus replies, snapping his fingers at Menander who hurries to gather up the cock lamps from a shelf in the corner. Amara says nothing. She stands rigid, bristling with fury, as Menander wraps the lamps in pieces of old cloth, tying them together to make it easier for her to carry. He is trying desperately to catch her eye, but she refuses to look at him, even when he hands the bundle over. Rusticus is struggling not to laugh. “Never mind,” he says in a mock whisper to his slave. “Maybe you can save your pennies and speak to the fine lady for longer next time.”
Amara hands over Cressa’s money and strides out of the shop without thanking either of them. She walks quickly along the street, clutching the lamps to her chest, hating herself. She is no different from Beronice, swallowing Menander’s charm, as if he would be interested in talking to a she-wolf. Life at the brothel is hard enough, without making a fool of herself.
5
Grab your slave girl whenever you want: it’s your right to use her
When she gets back, it’s Paris on the door. The way he stands, scrawny chest puffed out and legs akimbo, makes him recognizable long before she reaches the brothel. It’s rare for Paris to be put on door duty; he’s far too slight to make a convincing guard. He looks years younger than his age and is desperate to grow a beard, hoping that then Felix will finally release him from his duties as a prostitute. The only person in the world who loves Paris is his mother, Fabia, and he treats her with a cruelty that makes Amara’s heart ache.
“Felix wants you,” he says as she approaches.
“Did he say why?”
Paris shrugs, trying to imitate Thraso’s easy indifference. Instead, he looks like a petulant teenager.
Amara hurries into the brothel. “Felix is asking for me,” she says, handing the bundle of lamps to Victoria before she can open her mouth for a greeting. “I’ve not even had a bath. He hates that. He’s going to be so angry!”
“You can borrow some of my rose water.” Victoria nods towards her cell as she starts unwrapping the lamps. “Just help yourself. And try not to worry. He almost never asks for a full service, not at this time of day.”
Amara finds the small bottle in Victoria’s cell, dabs a tiny amount of the rose perfume on her neck. She knows one of Victoria’s customers gives her various potions as a tip and doesn’t want to take too much. The thought of climbing the stairs to see Felix again makes her feel nauseous. It had confused her when she first came to Pompeii, why he wanted any of his women. He never seemed prompted by desire, let alone anything more tender. After a few weeks, she understood. All of them are afraid of him, both dreading his summons and dreading being ignored. Like everything else about Felix – it is the exercise of power.
Victoria comes into the cell, pinches her cheeks to give them more colour and fusses with her hair. “What if it’s something else?” Amara asks. “What if he’s angry with me?”
“It will all be fine,” Victoria says. “I promise. Just don’t keep him waiting.”
Paris lets her in, taking the keys from his cloak as they stand together in the street. “You’re to go straight through to his study,” he says, shoving the door open and walking off, as if stopping to talk to her would add a terrible burden to his busy day.
Amara is left alone in the hallway, surprised not to be sent to the bedroom. She wonders what Felix might mean by it. She walks up the stairs and creeps round the corridor to the end. She stops, knocks gently, then carefully opens the door. To her confusion, she sees he already has company. She is about to step back, but Felix raises his hand in a gesture for her to stay. His client turns round to see who it is. When he understands he’s being watched by a prostitute, he flinches. “If this isn’t a good time…” he says.
“Please continue,” Felix replies, offering no explanation for the presence of one of his women. Amara slides into the room. “You were explaining why you want to take out a second loan without paying for the first.”
“I can offer you this,” the man says, taking out a pair of earrings. “They belong to my mother-in-law. Pure silver, made in Herculaneum.”