“No,” Amara says, her heart sinking at the thought.
“Simo kept her. She’s about five now, works doing odd jobs at the tavern in the day.”
Amara knows Cressa never talks about the child she lost but, somehow, not mentioning him, not acknowledging her pain, feels even worse. “I’m so sorry about…”
“Don’t,” Cressa stops her. “Don’t say it. I just can’t.” They sit in silence.
Amara fidgets. Cressa is shielding her eyes with her hand, as if to shade them from the sun, but really, Amara suspects, to hide her grief. It’s uncomfortably hot, between the simmering pies and the sun. She feels strung out with nervous energy, waiting for her debtor, still not sure how she is going to persuade her to pay but knowing she must.
Marcella rounds the corner, and Amara darts forwards, blocking her path. “There you are!” she exclaims, taking the other woman by surprise, not giving her a chance to escape. “What a day! The sun’s scorching, isn’t it?” She gestures at the bar. “Gellius still leaving it all to you?”
“What do you want?” Marcella asks, eyes flicking to her slave girl, well aware why Amara is there.
“Just to see how you are. I can’t believe Gellius isn’t here! You have to do all the work.” Amara moves in closer as Marcella edges away. She lowers her voice, as if in sympathy, drawing on her memories of that first overheard conversation at the baths. “Does he even know what goes on at the bar? This bar, I mean. He probably wouldn’t notice if half the stock went missing, would he?”
“Mind the store,” Marcella says to the slave at the counter. “I’m just going to have a talk with… my friend.”
“You’re not having a drink?” Cressa asks, surprised at being abandoned.
“In a minute.” Amara smiles, squeezing Cressa’s shoulder as she passes. She follows Marcella up the narrow ladder to the rooms above the bar. It’s even hotter here, a small airless space that adds to Amara’s tension. It is hard to know who is more agitated, her or Marcella.
“You have to pay up,” she says, anxiety making her voice sound harsh.
“No, you have to stop this,” Marcella hisses back. “I’ve fiddled the takings as much as I can. Either take less or give me longer! Your master must understand. The rate was never reasonable.”
“Then you shouldn’t have signed for it.” Amara gazes around the room. There is very little of value here, at least not on display. She wonders where the amber necklace came from. Perhaps the sisters’ family fell on hard times, like she and her mother did. Anyone’s fortune can turn on a knife edge.
“Keep the necklace then,” Marcella says, her voice cracking. “I can’t pay any faster.”
“The necklace doesn’t cover the interest.”
Marcella looks at her, for a moment, too shocked to speak. “You can’t be serious!”
Heat is radiating up through the floor, and Amara is now pouring with sweat. The smell of hot pies and the smothering sensation of guilt make her feel nauseous. She thinks of Drauca, of all Felix might do to the woman in front of her. She cannot leave without payment. “What about the ring?” she says, pointing to the cameo Marcella is unconsciously twisting round and round.
Marcella puts her hand behind her back like a child. “No.”
“It would put an end to the payments. We could write off the whole loan today.”
“It was my mother’s. She’s dead. I cannot give it to you.”
Marcella looks fragile, standing alone in the shabby lodgings she shares with her drunken husband. Amara wonders how long it would take Felix to smash up the place, how much damage he could do. “Fires start easily in smoky little bars,” she says. “You should be more careful with that oven downstairs.” She leaves a moment of silence, allowing the threat to hang between them, then holds out her hand. “Give me the ring. If you don’t, I cannot protect you.”
Nobody has ever stared at her with more hatred than Marcella does as she turns the ring round and round her finger for the last time. It takes some time to pull it off – her fingers must be swollen in the heat, and she worries away at her hand, as if fighting with her own flesh over the parting. At last she drops it in Amara’s palm. “Never come back here.”
“Believe me,” Amara says, “I just did you a favour.” She knows it’s true, that Marcella would have lost more than the cameo, but still, the words seem to come from someone else. She realizes she sounds just like Felix.
19
I like not joy bestowed in duty’s fee, I’ll have no woman dutiful to me.
“Those are the worst verses I have ever heard!”
Priscus is laughing, almost overwhelmed with amusement after hearing the she-wolves sing Cornelius’s hymn to Flora. Dido and Amara laugh too, while Salvius shakes his head. “If I had known what words you were setting to such a beautiful tune, I would never have taught it to you,” he says, his voice grave, though his eyes are smiling.
It is the night of their repayment, but it feels more like a holiday. Salvius’s small dining room twinkles with candles, and the cool of the evening air drifts through the open windows. It is nothing like as grand as the two parties they attended recently – there’s bean stew, a small portion of roasted pigeon – but this feels the closest thing to a family meal that Amara has experienced since she left her father’s house. She suspects it is the same for Dido.
Salvius pours them all more wine, handing the empty jug to his slave to refill. The young boy slips from the room. “So when is your next performance?”
“The last night of the Floralia!” Dido says. “Though we are reciting Ovid this time. Egnatius gave us some verses to learn.”
“I will have to think of some more suitable tunes,” Salvius says. “Unless you know any, Priscus?”
“There’s that one your father always used to play. I love that song.”
“Have you two known each other since childhood then?” Amara asks, dipping a piece of bread into her stew.
“Our fathers were in business together,” Priscus says. “As we were too, until a decade or so ago. Responsible for some of the finest paintings in Pompeii, if I say so myself. My artists repainted half the Forum after the great earthquake. My father-in-law’s men painted the other half,” he gestures at Salvius. “That was after his wife persuaded him to desert us for metal work.” The two men glance at each other, then away. “May she rest in peace.”
Amara is not surprised their music teacher is a widower. It is stranger to think of Priscus with a wife waiting at home. No doubt she is the reason Salvius is the one hosting dinner. For a moment, the missing woman casts a shadow over the cosy pretence that this is an ordinary gathering of friends and equals. “And how did you two both come to Pompeii?” Salvius asks.
“Oh,” Amara replies. “That’s not a very happy story.”
“Neither of you were born slaves, were you?” he says. Amara wonders how he guessed, then remembers Fabia’s words: You still act as if you matter. She is not going to ask the same question again. “You are too educated,” Salvius goes on. “I’m sorry; your current life must no doubt be painful for you both.”
He means it kindly, but Amara wishes he hadn’t said anything. She can sense Dido growing tense beside her. Can he not understand the need, sometimes, to forget?
“And you are far too modest,” Priscus says to Dido, drawing a pointed distinction between them that makes Amara snort with laughter. “Sorry.” He turns to her. “I didn’t mean to offend.”