She swings her legs out over the bed, the wood cool beneath her feet as she stands. Her expensive silk clothes are still folded in a neat pile on a nearby chair. She cannot wear those; it will have to be nothing but her cloak. With the palms of her hands, she smooths out the bed, flattening it, hoping to wipe out all trace of her presence. Then she slips from the room.
Dido is alone in the brothel when she goes downstairs. At the sound of Amara’s footsteps, she rushes into the corridor.
“Are you alright?” They ask one another the same question at the same time, then laugh.
“Did you spend the whole night with Fuscus then?” Dido says, leaning her back on the wall. She looks tired. “He seemed very keen.”
“I had to see Felix afterwards.” Amara says, glad she does not have to meet Dido’s eye as she changes into her toga. “But that was nothing; he was fine, pleased we had earned so much,” She changes the subject. “I want to know what happened to you! Egnatius said he would look after you; I hope he did.”
“He did,” Dido says. “As much as he could. You wouldn’t believe how odd that house is. Cornelius has a whole brothel at the end of his garden! A lot more luxurious than this place, and the paintings are better. But it’s a corridor with cells, hidden behind the baths. And the finest room has a window looking into another cell.” She makes a face. “He likes to watch.”
“I should think he was too drunk to do anything but watch,” Amara replies, grateful she only had Fuscus to entertain. He had been a dull lover but not a taxing one. Again, she can feel the warmth of Felix’s body lying close to hers and pushes the memory aside.
“It’s more than that,” Dido says, with a certainty about men’s tastes that would have been unthinkable a few months ago. “He’s a watcher. I’m not sure he ever does anything else, drunk or not.”
“Did you have to entertain a lot of customers?” Amara asks. “I hope they all tipped.”
“It was mainly Quintus,” Dido replies. “Cornelius wouldn’t let that really drunk one in. I think he just wanted to watch the women with younger men.”
“His poor wife,” Amara says, imagining all Calpurnia must have endured with such a husband. “Did you hear the way he spoke to her?”
“She has a family, wealth, the respect of other women,” Dido replies with surprising sharpness. “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her.”
All the things Dido wants, Amara thinks. And the two she wants most, she will never have. Amara knows she herself would gladly settle for wealth at the expense of the rest. Respect and family did not, in the end, save her or her mother in Aphidnai.
The voices of the other three women float through the window moments before they step into the brothel.
“You won’t believe the news!” Beronice exclaims as soon as she is inside. “Drauca is dead!”
“Dead?” Amara repeats with genuine surprise.
Life is cheap and a slave’s life most of all. Dido, who didn’t know about the fight, is curious but not shocked. “I didn’t know she was ill,” she says.
“She wasn’t sick,” Victoria says. “Murdered.”
“No!” Dido grips Amara’s arm. This hits closer to home. The threat of a violent customer always casts a long shadow.
“Some drunks turned over Simo’s bar at the Vinalia,” Victoria goes on, as all the others huddle round. “Drauca got caught up in it.”
“She died on the Vinalia?” Dido asks.
“No, a couple of days ago,” Cressa chips in. “She was in a bad way. Maria was at the baths today. She thinks Simo did it, though he denies it. He couldn’t bear to look at her face anymore. It was all…” She trails off.
“She lost an eye,” Victoria says. “Some cunt took out her fucking eye.”
Amara understands the anger. Victoria didn’t like Drauca, hated her even, but this is violence against one of their own. That a man held Drauca’s life so cheap, reflects on all of them. “I imagine Felix would have done the same as Simo,” she says. “If it had been one of us.”
Victoria explodes. “Why do you have to make it about Felix?” she shouts. “Simo kills Drauca, and you turn it on Felix! Can’t you give it a fucking rest for once?”
There are tears in Victoria’s eyes. Her hands, as she pulls them through her hair, shake with agitation. She knows it’s true, Amara thinks.
“We should go out,” Cressa says, moving between them. “Amara, come with me.”
Amara obeys, her own emotions too churned up to do anything but follow. They set off, passing the afternoon crowd at the fountain. Amara’s heart feels heavier to drag along than an overflowing bucket.
“Where are we going?” she asks at last, as they cross the Via Veneria. It’s a sweltering day, the afternoon sky almost white in the heat. They walk on the shady side of the road, hugging the walls of the buildings they pass.
“I don’t know,” Cressa says. “A bar, if you like? I could do with a drink.”
“There’s a fast-food place near the theatre,” Amara says. “I know the landlady.”
“Fine,” Cressa says. She takes Amara’s hand and squeezes it. “Don’t take it personally with Victoria, will you? She was just upset.”
“She’s upset because she knows it’s true. Felix doesn’t give a shit about any of us!” A respectable wife swerves out of their way, tutting. Amara has a sudden, vivid image of meeting her own mother on the pavement. What would she think of her daughter, swearing like a whore on a street corner? I am a whore on a street corner, Amara thinks. The absurdity almost makes her want to laugh.
“Can’t you feel sorry for her then?” Cressa says. “Considering.”
“I suppose,” Amara replies, not sure why Victoria’s anger is more deserving of sympathy than anyone else’s. A sudden wrench of anxiety stops her, and she rests her hand against the wall to steady herself. Unless Victoria has guessed who is really responsible for trashing Simo’s bar and blames Amara? You were the one who suggested turning his bar over in the first place. They were both with Felix when Amara hinted Simo should pay for the slight at the baths. Does Victoria remember what was said?
“She’ll get over it,” Cressa says, mistaking the drawn look on Amara’s face. “Let’s just have a drink. It will make you feel better.”
Marcella’s place makes The Sparrow look grand. It’s nestled in a side street to catch passing trade from the theatre, with very little room to do anything but stand and nurse a flask of wine or else take away one of the greasy-looking pies frying at the back. Cressa doesn’t seem to care. She slumps at the counter. “A small wine. Whatever’s cheapest.”
The slave girl serving is red-cheeked and sweating, slowly roasting in the heat from the oven behind.
“Your mistress not here?” Amara says.
“Back in a minute,” the girl replies. “What you having?”
“I’ll wait until Marcella is back.”
The girl shrugs and pours out Cressa’s drink. She’s careful not to overfill the measure. “Barely an acorn cup,” Cressa complains, showing it to Amara. She takes a sip and pulls a face. “Strong enough to knock out a mule.” She downs it and pushes the flask back towards the girl. “Another.” The girl pours out more wine, and Amara is relieved to see Cressa doesn’t knock this one straight back too. “You know Drauca had a little girl?”