At the end of the song, they bow and Zoilus claps. He looks relieved. Perhaps he had been expecting something else. “Charming, charming,” he says. “Very thoughtful of your father, Quintus.”
“You must let them finish with a comic turn,” Quintus replies. “All the best actresses do.”
Amara glances at Dido, who raises her eyebrows. What choice do they have? Nothing for it but to belt out Salvius’s folk number. Another flowery invocation to Venus feels excessive, so Amara begins strumming the strings of her lyre without explanation. Dido launches straight into the role of the shepherd, clasping her hands to her chest with a wail of mock despair. The guests look at each other, a little uncertain how to take the change in tone, but Amara beams round at them before ramping up the melodrama as the scornful mistress. Quintus and Marcus cheer loudly at each chorus, seeming to enjoy the performance even more than they did at the Forum. Other diners look less amused. But Dido’s collapse at the end manages to raise a few laughs, and best of all, the arrival of the sweet dishes brings their performance to a close without the need for laboured goodbyes.
Amara feels light-headed from nerves, excitement and lack of food as they make their way back to the couch. A third man is now sitting upright between their escorts, dressed in a cloak of midnight blue.
“This is Cornelius,” Marcus says, slurring. He tries to slap his friend on the back and misses. Zoilus’s wine has clearly gone to his head. “Cornelius! A lion in a herd of freedmen! He’s in on our little joke.”
Cornelius is older than Marcus and Quintus, and his stare, when he greets them, is harder and more knowing. He pulls Dido onto his knee, gesturing for Amara to sit beside him. “Aren’t you both lovely,” he says. “I could hardly tell from the first song. But that last number would have stretched the credulity of anyone but Zoilus.” He laughs, resting his free hand on Amara’s thigh, higher up her leg than she would like. “With a little more movement, a few more suitable songs, you could be quite delightful.” He is looking at Dido as he says this, stroking her arm. Her face has taken on the blankness Amara recognizes whenever a man is mauling her. She wants to catch his wrist and stop him. Cornelius turns towards Amara, and she blinks. He smiles, as if he sees through her anger and is amused.
“How would you feel about performing at a real dinner party?”
15
He who lies down with dogs will wake up with fleas.
Amara’s head throbs with tiredness and her cheeks ache from laughing. It is a happiness unlike any other, sitting with her fellow she-wolves in The Sparrow, recounting the pleasures of the night before. They have treated themselves to a larger meal than usual. Bowls of chickpeas, bean stew and olives clutter the table.
“The birds in the pie were boiled then?” Beronice shrieks, cackling with laughter. “After all that fuss?”
“Not so loud,” Cressa murmurs, with one hand over her eyes. She is sipping her way through a small glass of wine, trying to recover from her hangover.
“That cook should have taken a few tips from my kitchen,” Zoskales says from behind the bar. “And I could have supplied him with a much more reasonable wine than two thousand sesterces a jar.” He snorts at the absurdity of the sum.
“This Cornelius,” Nicandrus loiters at their table, “the one who liked your singing. He seemed like an honest man?”
Amara and Dido look at each other. “A bit early to tell,” Dido replies, glancing up at him. She has one of the roses he gave her yesterday in her hair. It’s the sole survivor from his garland which spent the night bundled up in her discarded toga.
“Come on!” Victoria says. “What about afterwards?”
Nicandrus moves away, heading back to the kitchen. Amara shrugs. “Not that impressive. I preferred the party.” It had been a strange end to the night. The four of them back at Quintus’s house, all in the same bedroom, slaves wandering in and out to top up the wine, sex just another social exchange.
“You telling me they paid seventy denarii for no poking?” Victoria says. There’s an edge to her voice. She has been laughing along with everyone else, but Amara knows she is devastated to have been excluded from such an exciting night. None of Felix’s women have ever been paid to attend a private house party.
“They were quite drunk,” Dido says.
Beronice and Zoskales laugh. “Money can’t buy you everything,” the landlord says. “Certainly not sense.”
Victoria pulls a disgusted face. “Couldn’t get it up then?”
Dido shakes her head. This isn’t entirely true. Marcus had been unable to perform after the party but had more success in the morning. He had proved an exhausting lover, nagging Dido for constant approval, wanting to know if she was really enjoying herself, would she like it better from behind? Even Quintus had rolled his eyes. Amara guesses Dido would prefer Nicandrus to hear a less eventful version of her exploits whenever the evesdropping Zoskales fills him in.
“Yours was a flop too?” Victoria needles, jigging Amara’s arm. “No action at all?”
She feels irritated at the focus on the least interesting part of the evening. “A few blow jobs,” she replies with a shrug. “The action was the party.” Amara turns back to Dido with a smile. “I still can’t believe we sang that bar song. The look on their faces when you started!”
“And they didn’t even want to swap girls? Having paid for both of you?”
Victoria’s question is interrupted by the arrival of Felix sauntering into the bar, wearing a look of absolute self-satisfaction. “And how are my favourite whores this morning?” he demands, gesturing impatiently for Cressa to move along so he can squash in between Amara and Dido. He kisses them, one after the other, taking their faces in both his hands and squeezing hard. “Your boys paid their debt. Sent their slave round this morning.” He looks elated, Amara thinks. She has never seen him in a mood like this. “Zoskales! Everything for the girls is on me today! Some wine for us all.” He smiles at Beronice, Victoria and the drooping Cressa. “Even if you didn’t all earn it.”
“Poor Dido didn’t even get a fuck out of them,” Victoria sighs. “Her lover was limp as a cabbage.”
“And they still paid!” Felix looks at Dido with renewed respect. “What a girl you are.”
“It wasn’t just about sex,” Amara says. “You heard us sing. That’s what they paid for, that’s what they wanted. To be entertained.”
“They could have dressed up as chickens and ordered a spanking for all I care,” Felix says, taking the wine from Zoskales as he brings it over. “As long as they paid.” Beronice and Victoria snigger. Cressa buries her head in her hands, moaning at the noise. Felix tops up all their glasses. “So what was it like, this party?”
“The house was…” Dido hesitates, trying to find words that will conjure up the scale of the wealth. “Enormous. So much silver and gold! And fountains. And the world’s biggest pie.”
“Apparently the wine cost two thousand sesterces a jar.” Zoskales sets one of his own amphora down behind the bar with a thump. “Madness.”
“Almost everyone at the party was a freedman,” Amara says. “Apart from the posh boys who bought us. And they did nothing but sneer.” She remembers Fortunata and her branded forehead. “If I were rich, I wouldn’t bother inviting men like that to share my wine. Why set yourself up to be laughed at?”