“Yes,” Felix says with feeling. He glances at her then turns away. It is a rare moment of intimacy between them. “But the question is”—he stretches out his arms and puts them around her and Dido—“can you pull this trick off again?”
They both start answering at once, eager to tell him everything about Cornelius, from his blue robe to the songs he requested. “Too much, too much!” Felix points at Amara. “You can explain it upstairs.” He keeps his hand on Dido’s shoulder, pushing her downwards as he rises. “You stay here. It’s quite enough with one mouthy little whore.”
Amara struggles from the bench after her master, looking back at her friends enjoying their free lunch. Beronice is digging into the food again, Cressa seems to have dozed off and Victoria is purposely avoiding her eye. Dido mouths good luck. She walks round the corner to Felix’s flat, trailing behind him on the narrow pavement. Paris opens the door, and their boss shoves past him, pulling Amara up the stairs.
“In here,” he ushers her into his study. The room, which always used to intimidate her, seems small after Zoilus’s house. The painted bulls’ skulls, usually so full of menace, look flat after the exquisite frescoes in Quintus’s bedroom. She is already imagining herself elsewhere. Felix sits down, making himself comfortable. “So when can we expect more from our boys?”
“At the Festival of Flora,” Amara replies, pulling up a stool without being invited. “But it’s a different client. A man called Cornelius. This booking is a sort of… trial. He wants to see if we can do even better. Then he might have us more regularly.”
“Do better?” Felix frowns. “He fucked you too but without paying?”
“No.” Amara tries not to let her irritation show. “He wants us to do better at the singing and dancing. He’s asked us to join him for the first night of the festival next month, for the Floralia, to perform at a private party. He didn’t use either of us.” She thinks of the way Cornelius gripped her thigh, his calculating stare. “Though I’m sure that would be part of the price. He said to tell you it would be seventy for the trial. Ninety for future bookings.”
“All this money for singing,” Felix says, taking his tablets out of a drawer to scribble down the sums she has promised. “Well, whatever works. You and Dido had better practise. You can play up here, so I know what you’re up to.”
“There was something else,” Amara says. She takes a silver coin from her purse, the one Nicia had pressed into her hand as she and Dido left. For your sweet words, he had said. For Fortunata. It is almost physically painful for her to place it on the desk in front of Felix and move her hand away. “A tip,” she says, looking at him. “I would like to spend it on performance clothes for us both, maybe some music lessons.”
“You expect me to be grateful for your honesty?”
“No. I expect you to understand a good investment. These men want a certain style. This”—Amara plucks at the worn material of her toga—“is not it. We performed naked last night. But you can’t play the same trick every time.”
He pushes the coin back towards her. “Take it then. But I want proof of how you spend it.” Felix stretches his arms out behind his head, leaning back and grinning at her. “You’re not the only one who had a successful night.” Amara is slow to hide her surprise. She hadn’t thought they were so intimate. “Not that, for fuck’s sake,” he says, laughing at her expression. “I wouldn’t call a woman a success.” He inclines his head. “Well, maybe if she earns me ninety denarii. No. I mean Simo has finally been taught a lesson.” Amara feels the smile freeze on her face. “Some drunks trashed his bar late last night. Smashed the place up.” He shrugs. “These things happen at the Vinalia. A lot of drunks around. Sadly, pretty little Drauca didn’t move fast enough. Her face doesn’t look so pretty now. Not after a glass took out her eye.”
Amara stares at him, all the air crushed from her lungs. “No,” she says, as if the word can wipe out what he’s done. “No.” She thinks of Drauca at the baths, her perfect body and lovely face. She covers her own in horror. “No!”
“What’s the problem? You were the one who suggested turning over his bar in the first place. You didn’t even like the girl.”
“But Drauca never did anything to you!” Amara shouts, torn between grief and rage. “She’s just a woman! What will happen to her? How will she work? How will she eat? How will she live? Her poor face…” she breaks off, choked by tears. “Her poor beautiful face.”
“She won’t be competition for any of my girls, that’s for sure,” Felix says, completely unmoved by her distress. “Simo will have to spend a lot of money if he wants to invest in another whore like that. And I doubt he can afford to, not with the bar to repair.”
“Was Drauca the real target?” Amara’s sense of horror is growing. In her mind’s eye she can see Drauca dancing with Victoria at the Vinalia last night, full of life, face lit with passion. She feels like she might pass out.
“Amara, come now.” Felix’s voice is soothing. He gets up from his desk and walks over to her, pulling her up from the stool. He holds her upright, gripping her shoulders, not quite in an embrace. “Don’t pretend. You were the one who suggested biding my time, not striking straight after the baths. None of these men can be traced to me. Why do you think I keep so many of my clients private?” He draws her a little closer. “The thing about revenge,” he says, his breath soft in her ear, “is that destroying your enemies is all that matters. Bragging about it, identifying yourself, that’s for children.” He stands back, releasing her slowly so she doesn’t fall. “Now.” He claps his hands as if to wake her from a trance. “Enough. You and Dido need to get yourselves some pretty clothes, start practising your songs.”
“Why tell me? If it’s not bragging, why tell me?”
Felix perches on the edge of his desk, studying her. “Because you have even more to lose if this gets out than I do.” He looks up at the bulls’ skulls on the wall, as if suddenly noticing a new detail in the design. “Or maybe Simo would consider Dido more valuable than you. She is prettier after all.”
Fear grips Amara. She feels it sink deep inside, like a hook piercing a fish, and understands it is a pain that will never let her go. Felix picks up Nicia’s silver coin and uncurls her fingers, pressing it into her palm. She says nothing. He turns his back on her, settling himself behind the desk again.
“Drauca didn’t do anything to you,” Amara says. “She didn’t deserve this.”
Felix laughs. “Nobody gets what they deserve.” He looks genuinely amused. “What do you think it takes to survive in Pompeii? It’s not all sucking cocks and fine dresses. Now off you go, get a fucking move on.”
Outside his flat, Amara leans against the wall of the brothel. She wants to scream, to smash her fists on the door, howl out her anguish. Instead, she stands silent, jaw clenched shut. The need to tell, to share the burden of knowledge, presses against the sides of her skull. She closes her eyes. Nothing will be gained by sharing this. Why should Dido walk in fear too? Every waking moment shadowed by the memory of what Felix has done. She doesn’t consider trusting any of the others, not with a secret this lethal.