“Fabius,” Victoria says. Amara wonders how she keeps track of all the names. “He’s not so bad.”
“She got drunk again,” Beronice mutters, leaning out into the corridor and looking back at Cressa’s cell. “I don’t know where she finds the money. She’ll drink every last penny she’s ever saved at this rate.”
“Wasn’t Cosmus born about this time of year? She’s probably missing him.” Victoria goes back to brushing her hair. “Did Fabius have his usual cry afterwards?”
Beronice sits down heavily on the bed. “So boring,” she says.
“That’s why you have to get them in the right mood!” Victoria says. “You can’t blame him for crying, not if you’re lying there with your sour I’d-rather-be-with-my-boyfriend face. At least make a bit of effort.”
Beronice doesn’t defend herself but lies in a slump. “He slapped me,” she says.
“What? Fabius?” Victoria is shocked. “He’s such a weed!”
“No. Gallus,” Beronice looks miserable. “He says I enjoy it too much. The other men, I mean.”
“What does he expect you to do? Wail and moan about your lost virtue all night? Prick.”
“Do you enjoy it?” Amara blurts out. They both stare at her.
“What a question!” Victoria says. “You sound like a customer, Amara.”
“But, I mean…” She stops, unsure what she wants to say. Last night with Salvius had hardly been a revelation. She didn’t feel pleasure, in spite of his considerable efforts. But it hadn’t been totally unpleasant either. For the first time, she had had an inkling that it might be different, if the man were different.
“Was there more to this dead-wife fuck than you’re telling us?” Victoria asks.
“Dead wife?” Beronice says.
“You told them about Salvius then?” It’s Dido leaning against the doorway. Victoria shoves Beronice along to make room for Dido to sit on the bed, leaving Amara the only one standing. All three of them are looking at her.
“Please don’t tell us you’re in love with a man who gets you to dress up as his dead wife,” Victoria says.
“No!” Amara says. “Although, I do quite like him. As a friend.”
“A friend?” Beronice repeats in disbelief.
“Would you marry him if he asked you to be wife number two?” Victoria is enjoying her role as prosecutor.
“Yes, but that’s not love. I’d just rather be a freedwoman running an ironmonger’s than a slave working for Felix. Wouldn’t you?”
“Is he an amazing lay?”
Amara pauses.
“He is an amazing lay!” Victoria yells. The other two start laughing, and Amara finds herself laughing too.
“He just made an effort, that’s all. Customers don’t normally, do they?”
“That’s why you steer them,” Victoria says. “You can take some control of the situation.”
“I’m not sure,” Beronice says, frowning. “I know what she means.”
“Nobody wants to hear what a great lover Gallus is,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes. “Please spare us.”
“Yes, but, it is different, if the man makes an effort. It just is,” Beronice says. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s never any different,” Dido says.
“You can’t rely on the man to give you any pleasure,” Victoria states, as if this were obvious. “You just have to do what you like and take them along.”
“What if you don’t like any of it?” Dido asks.
“Then,” says Victoria, putting an arm round her like a conspirator, “you just have to hope, one day, if you are really lucky, an ironmonger asks you to dress up as his dead wife.”
Amara looks at the three of them falling about on the bed, hooting with laughter, and smiles. Perhaps there are some pleasures in the life of a whore, after all.
“What’s so fucking funny?” Paris glowers in the doorway. Ever since Victoria offered him the golden paste and asked if he wanted to gild his arsehole, he has been even less friendly than usual.
“Oh, is laughing forbidden now?” Victoria asks. “I didn’t realize. But I’m afraid a scowl isn’t going to scare the customers away. They can’t see your face from behind.”
Paris moves so fast none of the others have a chance to try and stop him. He punches Victoria hard in the face then swings back to hit her again. Beronice leaps, shrieking, onto his back, clawing at his arms, and he staggers, blow landing wide. Amara and Dido scramble in front of Victoria, holding their hands up, screaming at him to stop. Paris tries to dislodge Beronice, but she’s clinging to his neck, putting pressure on his windpipe. Cressa runs into the room, tugging at Beronice, trying to stop her from strangling Paris, yelling at her to let go.
“What the fuck is going on?”
At the sound of Felix’s voice, the screaming stops, and Beronice drops to the floor like a stone. Paris rubs his neck, gasping.
“I said what the fuck is this?”
“He hit her face!” Amara says, pointing at Victoria. “He hit her in the face!” It is the unbreakable rule at the Wolf Den. Neither Felix nor any of the other men are allowed to mark their faces.
Felix does not have to ask if it’s true. Victoria is cradling her eye, the skin on her cheek bright red. “Let me see.” He crosses swiftly to the bed. Amara and Dido scramble out of the way. Felix takes Victoria’s hand from her face, examining the damage, pressing his finger against her cheekbone. She winces. “Nothing’s broken,” he says, standing up. “It will mend.” He walks over to Paris, shoving him. “What the fuck were you thinking? Not such a big man now, are you? Get the fuck out of here.”
Paris doesn’t wait to be asked again; he lurches from the cell.
“And you,” Felix says, turning back to Victoria who quails against the wall. “Mind your mouth. I know what will have happened. You provoked him. Didn’t you?” She says nothing, and he grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her. “Didn’t you?”
Amara looks at the pots of perfume lined up on Victoria’s windowsill, imagines grabbing one, smashing it on Felix’s head, pictures herself yelling at him to stop. But she does nothing. Just shrinks terrified against the wall, like all the other women.
Felix lets go of Victoria who pushes herself to safety, clambering away from him on the bed. The pain on her face grips Amara’s heart, but Victoria’s eyes are dry. Amara realizes she has never seen her friend cry.
“You watch your fucking mouths, all of you,” Felix says. “I don’t want a Drauca on my hands, with a useless, ugly face. Look at you.” He spits the words at Victoria. “No man is going to want to touch you for days.” He flings the curtain aside and storms out of the brothel.
“Don’t,” Victoria says, raising her hand to prevent Dido coming near. “Don’t say anything. Just leave me.”
All the women go back to their own cells, as if seeking comfort from one another would diminish Victoria’s suffering. Amara sits alone on the bed, staring at her father’s mouldy bag. She thinks of Felix upstairs, Marcella’s cameo ring in his desk drawer, the smile on his face when she handed it over, and she closes her eyes.
JULIUS
20
All the girls fancy Celadus the Thracian gladiator!
The sun overhead is so hot Amara feels she will faint, only the crush of the crowd and Victoria jabbing her excitedly in the ribs are keeping her upright. This is not how she would have chosen to spend her first proper day off in Pompeii. Up at dawn, trooping to the far end of town, standing out in the cool darkness, watching the sun rise and, later, wilting in the baking heat, all to get the best view of the gladiators’ parade into the amphitheatre. It is the first of July, the day the town’s new elected officials take office and, more importantly, the day free games are held to celebrate it.