“Oh, thank you,” Victoria breathes. She takes Vibo’s hand and kisses it as if he were the Emperor. “We adore you.”
“We do, we do!” Dido says, rolling over and gazing at him with delight.
Amara doesn’t trust herself to speak, so lets out what she hopes is a seductive sigh. Victoria slowly helps Vibo into his clothes. They all crowd round the door of the cell to give him lingering kisses goodbye, feigning desolation at his departure. Vibo leaves the brothel in a much better mood than when he came in.
Dido is about to start giggling, but Victoria puts her finger to her lips. “Not yet,” she says. “Wait.”
They sit huddled together on the bed, leaving enough time to be sure that Vibo has really gone. Then Dido whispers in a small voice, “We adore you!” and the three of them collapse with laughter.
It’s no longer Thraso on the door when they saunter out in their cloaks to see if Vibo left a tip. Gallus greets them with a grin. “I don’t know what you ladies did, but for saying that was supposed to be a free fuck, he just doubled the night’s takings.”
Victoria lets out a whoop of triumph. “And for that,” she says, laying her head on Gallus’s shoulder in an intimate gesture that would make Beronice seethe, “we deserve a little break at The Sparrow.” He hesitates. “Oh, come on!” Victoria punches his arm. “It’s quiet! You’ve got three in. We’ll just stir up some customers and bring them over.”
“Go on then.” Gallus sighs.
“He’s not so bad,” Dido whispers to Amara as they head across the road. “Maybe Beronice is right about him.”
“She’s got kind eyes like his mother?” Amara asks, raising an eyebrow.
Dido grimaces. “Or maybe not.”
The Sparrow is packed. Lamps are hanging from the doorway and the rafters, shining off the brass pots Zoskales has fixed to the wall. It’s a confusion of light and noise. Nicandrus is busy serving drinks and has been joined in his duties by Sava, a house slave who also works nights as a waitress. Zoskales is telling a long-winded story about his wife at the bar, making the customers laugh.
Victoria is not here to fish, whatever she told Gallus. She shoves her way to a free spot at a table where three men are dicing. “How much are you playing for?”
“How much are you selling for?” one of the men snorts, trying to put his hand on her thigh.
Victoria waves him away in irritation, all her usual flirtatiousness gone. She is a serious gambler, aided by her own weighted dice. “I can raise three asses.”
Amara and Dido watch Victoria muscle her way into the game, the men eventually giving way to the force of her determination to play. “She’s going to win,” Amara says. “They won’t know what’s hit them.”
Nicandrus spots Dido. He smiles, beckoning them across the room, forcing some other customers to make space for the pair of them on a bench. “Hot wine? With honey?” He is already heading to the bar.
“Thank you,” Dido says.
“Here for the night?” It’s one of the men who made room for them. His question is friendly rather than suggestive. He has a pleasant face and black hair that’s greying at the temples. There’s a small reed flute on the table in front of him, his fingers just resting on it as if to keep it safe.
“We might be if you play,” Amara says.
He laughs. “Are you singers?”
“Yes.”
Dido shoots her a look. Both women were taught music at home, but the respectable songs they’re familiar with are unlikely to be bellowed out in a bar. “Honoured to meet two fellow musicians,” the man says. “I’m Salvius.” He points to his companion. “This is Priscus.”
Priscus bows his head in greeting.
“Amara and Dido. May I?” She picks up the flute. “My father had one like this,” Amara says. She does not add that, for her father, it was the very least of his instruments, that she herself had learnt to play the lyre.
She hands the flute back to Salvius who puts it to his lips and starts to play. He’s more skilled than she expects. It’s a popular tune from Campania, a few lively verses about a shepherd longing for his love. Priscus starts to sing, encouraging the women to join in. Amara listens a few times to catch the words then sings with him. She has a strong, clear voice, and some of the customers break off talking and begin clapping in time.
When they come to an end, the cry goes round for more. Salvius starts piping again, a famous tune about Flora and the spring. “Sing with me,” Amara says to Dido. “You know this one!”
Dido’s voice is not as strong as Amara’s though much sweeter. She begins hesitantly, but as they repeat the song again, joy takes her over. Her face is lit up in a way Amara has never seen before. Nicandrus is gazing at her, still holding the honeyed wine, not daring to put it down in case he breaks the spell. Priscus pushes the table back, urging the women to stand up. “Another song!” he shouts.
Salvius plays festival music, perhaps guessing their unfamiliarity with local folk tunes. Amara and Dido sing together, and for the first time since coming to Pompeii, Amara is almost happy. Some of the customers leer, and one shouts at them to get their tits out, but mainly, everyone is enjoying the music too much to be a nuisance. Eventually Salvius grows tired and puts down the flute, promising to start again when he’s had a drink. Priscus turns animatedly to Dido, leaning across Nicandrus before he has a chance to say anything, asking which other tunes she knows. She sits down politely to answer him.
“That was beautiful.” Amara turns at a familiar voice, one she cannot immediately place. It is Menander, the potter’s slave.
The blood rushes to her face. “What are you doing here?”
“You said you worked nearby.” He leans closer so she can hear over the noise. “This is the second time I’ve been in here, hoping to catch you. And now I have.”
“Only two visits? Not very determined.”
Menander laughs. “I’m a slave. Rusticus is a generous master but not that generous.”
His mention of the potter reminds Amara of her humiliation in the shop. She glances over at Victoria, still deep in her game, wonders if the master jokes to the slave about his own visits to the brothel. “Lucky you,” she says coldly.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says. “But it was very funny, the way you stared him out like that. I’ve never seen a woman do that before.” He pauses. “You were magnificent.”
“So I asked for four cocks magnificently?” Amara says, trying not to laugh. They are standing close together in the crush. She takes a sip of the honeyed wine, already a little drunk on singing and attention. “Good to know.”
“You stood your ground. That was magnificent,” Menander replies, switching to Greek. “The cocks were incidental.”
“I wish they were.”
She says it to make him laugh, but Menander catches the dark undercurrent. His eyes meet hers, and she understands that he shares her grief, that her losses are also his. He puts his hand over his heart in greeting, bowing his head, as if they have only just met. “My name is Kallias,” he says. “I am the son of Kleitos, the finest potter in Athens. One day, I will take over my father’s business and sell my work all over Attica, including the beautiful town of Aphidnai. What is your name?”
Nobody in Pompeii has ever dared ask her this. It’s the last remnant of privacy, of self, that a slave who was once freeborn possesses. Their real name. It’s so loud in the crush that she almost has to shout, but still, she doesn’t hesitate to give this boy from Athens what he asks for. “My name is Timarete,” she says. “I am the only child of Timaios, the most learned doctor of Aphidnai, and the most loved. To him, I am both a daughter and a son.”