Amara wonders if Fuscus is already in the arena, sitting at the front, fretting about whether this extravaganza will overshadow the games he threw last year. He was quite peevish on the subject last time she saw him. Egnatius has done her many favours, but none perhaps as great as introducing her to the duumvir. She and Dido perform regularly at both his and Cornelius’s houses, though Fuscus is a less demanding host. There, they are rarely expected to do much more than sing, mainly because Fuscus’s wife holds greater sway over her husband. It feels strange, how intimate she is now with powerful men. At Cornelius’s house, Fuscus will tell her little details about his life – the fountain he has ordered for his father-in-law, the books his two sons are reading – and of course, she knows exactly what he likes in bed. At his own home, he takes the role of a distant employer, bestowing her on his guests, part of the service to be enjoyed along with the fruit platter. In the street, should they bump into one another, she has no doubt he would ignore her. In that sense her life has not changed at all.
“There he is!” Victoria shrieks. “It’s Celadus!”
Amara would never have heard her if Victoria were not yelling right beside ear. The blast of trumpets as the gladiators approach, the wall of sound from the crowd, makes her feel as if her skull might split open. But at last their long, tedious wait has paid off. They are rammed in, right at the front, just by the amphitheatre entrance.
“Celadus!” Victoria screams. “Celadus!”
He cannot possibly have heard one scream above any other, and yet, at that moment, the Thracian giant turns, as if impelled by the force of Victoria’s will. He takes two strides towards them, lifts Victoria off her feet in a single sweep, and kisses her. She is so astonished that, for once, she doesn’t respond. The crowd around them erupts. Amara is smacked hard on the head by a girl wedged behind, thrusting her arms out, trying to grab at the gladiator’s leather harness, touch his oiled chest.
“Celadus! Celadus!”
The gladiator sets Victoria down, says something in her ear then rejoins the procession, waving both arms at the crowd.
“He would have kissed me,” Beronice shouts at Amara. “He would have kissed me, if I’d been at the front!” Her face is wild, almost unrecognizable in its rage and disappointment. Amara is glad Victoria cannot hear. Instead, she is standing uncharacteristically still, feet rooted exactly where Celadus placed her, buffeted by the passing flow of people now cramming to get into the arena.
“Come on!” Amara yells, grabbing her arm. “Or we won’t get a seat!”
All five of them hold on to each other, clasping hands, grabbing one another’s togas, anything to prevent themselves from being separated. They know their place at these games; they will have to climb all the way to the back row at the very top.
It’s a long queue. They join a slow-moving column of women, all waiting to sit wedged into the worst seats in the arena. Amara’s legs feel like they might give way by the time they get to the top. The back row is filling up fast and there’s a lot of irritable shuffling around until Cressa spots a space where they might all be able to cram together. After a heated exchange with another group of women, they finally manage to sit down, though as the slightest out of the five, Dido is forced to sit half-perched on Amara’s knee.
“You have to tell us what Celadus said,” Amara says to Victoria, who has been resisting answering that question the whole way up the steps.
Victoria smiles, enjoying the secret. “Imagine what it would be like to have a man like that! Just imagine.”
“Maybe he’s nothing special,” Beronice says. “Might be a rubbish lay.”
“Oh, don’t be so bitter!” Cressa laughs. “As if you’d turn him down.”
“I would, I would turn him down!” Beronice insists. “I wouldn’t do that to Gallus.”
The rest of them laugh. “Even I might be tempted by Celadus,” Dido says. “And that’s saying something.”
“The feel of his chest!” Victoria sighs. “Like being held by Apollo.”
Amara shifts on her wooden seat. Even though Dido isn’t very heavy, it’s still uncomfortably hot having her on her knee. Awnings are stretched overhead to keep the sun off, but they also trap the rising heat. Not only will they have the worst view, it’s also sweltering up here. The murmur of so many people talking, reverberating round the arena, makes it sound as if they are in a beehive.
“What time are you meeting Menander?” Dido asks her.
“After the first beast hunt.”
“He must be something special, this boyfriend of yours, for you to miss the gladiators,” Victoria says.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sorry, that’s the ironmonger isn’t it?”
Amara rolls her eyes as they all laugh. She and Dido have only had three nights with Salvius and Priscus, but from the way Victoria teases her, it’s as if she’s embroiled in a breathless love affair. It gives her an odd feeling to think of Salvius now, when she is about to see Menander. Her intimacy with the widower has happened almost by accident, through the time they spend playing music together and his unexpected gentleness. But she never forgets that for all his kindness, he is a customer.
It’s Menander she is attracted to – could imagine loving even – although their relationship has consisted of little more than a few snatched moments and graffiti exchanges outside The Sparrow. That’s how she knows where to meet him. I will wait for you by the second gate, Timarete. May fortune smile on us both! She was the one who suggested the timing underneath. Then she spent hours agonizing over whether that looked too keen or too cool. Would it have been better to have suggested before the games started? Or later, after one of the gladiator fights?
“Salvius is just a friend,” she says.
“If he’s just a friend,” Victoria says. “You wouldn’t mind if he did a swap and had Dido next time, would you?”
Amara winces. “He wouldn’t do that!”
“You don’t like the idea though, do you?”
“I think of Priscus as my friend too,” Dido says, coming to her rescue. “They’re just not like that, either of them.”
“You’ll be saying they’re better lovers than Gallus next!”
“Oh, fuck off!” Beronice rounds on Victoria. “Just because some gladiator kissed you, doesn’t mean you get to lord it over the rest of us all day like fucking Venus!”
One or two of the more respectable women sitting on the row in front shuffle disapprovingly, though none is brave enough to risk a direct confrontation with a gang of rowing whores.
“Just leave it,” Cressa says wearily. “She’s only teasing.”
The sound of trumpets rings out, and the murmuring hive subsides slightly, though not enough for the opening speeches to be heard clearly from the back. Amara thinks again of Fuscus, imagines how much he must have enjoyed his moment of glory last year. Perhaps he has brought his sons with him today, or would they be too young? She has never met them.