Cheering and yelling from the crowd alerts them to the beast hunters’ entrance. The three men hold their arms up to the crowds, enjoying the glory before facing the danger.
“Will that be Celadus?” Amara asks, unable to tell one fighter from another at this distance.
“He wouldn’t do a beast hunt!” Victoria is outraged. “He’s a combat gladiator!”
There’s more screaming, a mixture of fear and excitement, as the animals are released into the ring. The women jump to their feet to get a better view.
“What are they?” Cressa asks, standing on tiptoe. “I can’t see.”
“Tigers!” Dido says. “They’ve let loose tigers!”
Amara can see the beasts circling, lean and hungry, while the men stand with their backs together in the centre of the arena. She has never seen a tiger before, but she’s watched enough cats stalk their prey to recognize the low, slow prowl, muscles bunched, ready to spring. Beronice grabs her arm as the first attacks. It moves so fast, she cannot imagine how any of the hunters have time to react, but one catches it with his spear, and the animal sheers off, limping and wounded. Another tiger charges and, this time, lands a blow, knocking a man to the ground.
The yelling from the crowd is so intense, the action in the arena so frantic, she cannot work out what is happening. Beside her, Beronice is jumping up and down, Victoria is screaming and then she realizes she is too, though she’s not sure who she is shouting for, the men or the beasts. Even Dido is caught up in the hysteria, punching the air when one man saves another, leaping on the back of the attacking tiger as if it were a horse.
The role of hunter and hunted switches back and forth, sometimes the beasts are in retreat, sometimes the men. The skill of the fighters, the grace of the tigers, all of it is punctuated by acts of savagery which make Amara gasp. She keeps watching, unable to look away, until the last tiger has been slaughtered. Their bodies are dragged from the arena, leaving thick red trails in the sand. One of the men is taken off too, his chest covered in blood from a shoulder wound. The remaining two hunters stand together, throwing their arms up to receive the adulation of the crowds.
“Doubt the injured one will make it,” Victoria says, raising her voice above the din. “That tiger practically had his arm off!”
“Will they replace him?” Dido asks. “Or will the next fight just have two hunters?”
“They usually replace them if it’s this early, otherwise the hunt doesn’t last long enough,” Cressa says.
A few women are getting up, making use of the break to go to the latrine. “I think I had better go,” Amara says.
“Don’t break the ironmonger’s heart,” Victoria says.
Dido squeezes her arm. “Good luck.”
Amara’s own heart is thumping with nerves as she makes her way down the outside steps of the arena. What if Menander misunderstood and thought she meant the end of all the beast hunts? What if he doesn’t come? She walks quickly to the gate where they have arranged to meet and can see, even from a distance, that he is already waiting for her.
Then they are standing together, and nothing else matters.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he says, taking hold of her hand.
“You too.”
Neither seem able to do anything but stare at one another, until Menander laughs and breaks the moment. “Shall we get a drink?”
They walk out into the square. It’s dotted with stalls selling food, drink and souvenirs. Amara no longer minds the heat or notices the noise. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and they both laugh over nothing, amused by everything. They wander aimlessly for a while, before remembering why they went for a walk and buy a glass of wine to share, and some bread, and head off to sit in the shade under the plane trees beside the Palaestra. The rarity of a day off means they are not the only slave couple taking advantage of the time, though the baying of the crowd as the next hunt starts draws some of the loiterers back into the arena. Menander has still not let go of her hand, and when they sit down, he puts his arm round her. Amara rests her head on his shoulder and can feel his heartbeat, as fast and nervous as her own.
“Would your father have liked me?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” she says, surprised into honesty by his question.
Menander laughs. “That’s better than a no, I guess.”
“What about yours?”
“I think he’d have been quite happy with a doctor’s daughter.”
“My parents wouldn’t have been too pleased by this sort of behaviour.”
“No, I suppose not,” Menander replies, holding her tighter, in case she is minded to honour the dead by sitting further apart. There’s a pause, and she suspects he is thinking, like she is, of all they have lost. “And now I have nothing to offer you,” he says. “No shop to inherit, no freedom.”
“I think we can agree I have even less to offer you,” Amara replies. She says it as a joke, but it hurts, the distance between her old self and her life now.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, smiling. “You would fetch at least five times as much as me at the market.”
“But nobody’s buying anyone, not today.”
“No,” he says. Then he bends to kiss her, quickly, as if he might otherwise lose his nerve. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, Amara thinks, holding him. When you want someone. It’s meant to feel like happiness.
“Are you alright?” Menander breaks off, looking anxiously into her face. “I hope I didn’t upset you?”
Amara realizes she is shaking. “No, you didn’t upset me!” she says, holding him closer to reassure him. “I just feel…” She stops, unable to find words for the mixture of happiness and pain. He is looking at her, waiting, still worried. She tries again. “You get used to having nothing, don’t you? And then suddenly to have something, to feel something, it’s…” She trails off.
“It’s happy–sad?”
“Yes, because nothing belongs to you, not even the happiness.”
“Timarete, even slaves own their happiness. Feelings are the only things we do own.” He passes the small flask of wine to her, and she takes a sip. “And I know that this afternoon is short, but we have it, we own it.”
“Are you going to tell me not to waste it?”
“No, because talking isn’t wasting it,” he says, taking the wine back from her. “Nobody is telling us what to do today. Just feel whatever you want to feel.” He pauses. “Although I’m hoping that means you might feel like kissing me again.”
She laughs. “Might do.”
“I want to know all about your singing too,” he says, brushing the hair from her shoulders. “I half thought you might be too grand to see me now, after all the parties you and Dido go to.”
“Never,” she says. “And anyway, there wouldn’t be any singing if you hadn’t got the lyre for me.”
“It was entirely selfish. I just wanted to hear you play,” he says, drawing her closer. His intensity is familiar, pulling on a dark undertow in her body. She has seen desire in so many men and almost every association is painful. But this is Menander! She puts her hand out to touch his face, cupping it in her fingers, to remind herself who he is, remind herself that she has chosen to be with him.
“I wish I had known you in our other life.”
“I know.”
“You try to keep it inside, don’t you, all the different parts of yourself, but they don’t exist anymore. I thought of my mother the other day, what she would think of me, who she would see. If we met now. But she wouldn’t know me. I wouldn’t know me.” Amara is talking fast, trying to rush the words out, hoping she makes sense, not sure why she is even telling him this, aside from the longing she feels to be understood. “Sometimes I think it must be harder for you. Because my life is just completely different, there’s nothing left of the past. But for you, it must be like living on the wrong side of the mirror.”