“No.” Amara laughs. “Nothing like that.”
“What then?” Beronice says. “Must have been something special to buy you for a week.”
“He wanted me to read to him.”
“Sexy books?” Victoria is too shocked to make a joke out of it. “Is that it?”
“No! I mean we went to bed together,” Amara says defensively, thinking of the nights she spent lying naked beside Pliny, his hand resting on her while they both slept. “Just that…” She trails off, not knowing how to explain what happened or how she feels about it.
“It’s alright,” Dido says, hugging her again. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Went to bed together,” Victoria says, copying her coy phrase. “I’ve heard it all now.”
Amara feels suddenly exhausted. After so much time alone, it is going to be a strain returning to the total lack of privacy. “I might just have a rest so I’m not too tired tonight.”
“Oh, you can’t go in there…” Victoria says as Amara draws the curtain to her own cell.
“Who’s this?” Amara asks in surprise. An unfamiliar woman is sitting on her bed. She is shockingly pale and has a tangled mass of long red hair. At the sight of the others, she springs up, towering over them, babbling urgently in a strange, guttural language. Amara cannot tell if she is furious or terrified. She steps back into the corridor in alarm.
“Sit!” Victoria shouts, pointing at the bed. “Sit!”
The stranger goes back into the cell, still talking in her incomprehensible tongue, gesturing at them.
“Felix bought her with your old man’s money,” Victoria says. “He told us it’s because you and Dido are out so much, we need more bodies in the brothel.”
“Where am I sleeping then?”
“You can come in with me,” Dido says. “Makes sense.”
“Doesn’t speak a word of Latin,” Victoria says. “We’ve called her Britannica, because that’s where she’s from. Cressa’s the only one she seems to like. She’s off buying more food for the greedy thing now.”
“I thought all the Britons had blue faces,” Beronice says, looking at Britannica with disappointment. “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? Blue-faced Britons.”
“She’s certainly a savage,” Victoria says. “She just screams all night, scratching the men, biting. She punched one yesterday! Like some sort of animal!”
Amara doesn’t like the way Victoria is talking about Britannica, even if the other woman doesn’t understand. She glances at her again. The Briton is silent now. She certainly looks like a wildcat, with her mane of red hair and green eyes. But the emotion in them is all too human. Rage at her confinement.
“Are you all just standing there talking about her again?”
It’s Cressa, carrying a lump of bread. She shoves them out of the way so she can get in the cell. “You might have a little compassion.”
Britannica’s face lights up at the sight of Cressa, and she begins gabbling. Cressa sits beside her, talking soothingly to her as if she were a small child, stroking her hair. She gives the bread to Britannica who wolfs it down. “Sorry, Amara, I didn’t realize you were back,” she says, finally noticing her.
“That’s alright,” she replies. “I remember my father telling me about the women in Britain. A lot of them are warriors. Maybe Britannica was a soldier.”
“The women go to war?” Dido says.
“Not all of them. My father told me they had a famous queen; I don’t know her name. But she destroyed a Roman army.”
Beronice makes the sign of the evil eye. “Women aren’t meant to rule. It’s unnatural.”
“Britannica’s hardly a warrior queen! She can’t even defeat a drunken sailor,” Victoria says, though Amara notices that she eyes the stranger with a new, wary respect.
“Were you a warrior?” Cressa asks Britannica gently. “Is that why you hate it here so much?” Britannica smiles at her, not understanding the words, only the kindness behind them.
“Amara!” Thraso is shouting from the doorway of the brothel. “Are you still in there? I told you to go up to Felix.”
“I’m just coming,” she calls back.
“No, you’re not,” he snaps, barging inside and grabbing her hard by the arm. She cries out in pain. “You’re a fucking timewaster. Move it.” He lets go of her and stomps off again.
“He’s just annoyed Balbus gave him a black eye yesterday,” Victoria whispers. “Some stupid fight about Drauca.”
“What about her?” Amara asks, suddenly anxious.
“Who knows,” Victoria shrugs. “Thraso would start a fight about anything.”
It is a room she had hoped never to see again. The red glow, the bulls’ skulls. She stands, saying nothing, as Felix goes through her new clothes.
“Is this all he gave you? After a week?”
“There was this as well,” she says, holding up the scroll but not handing it over.
Felix gestures impatiently, and she gives it to him. He unravels it clumsily, looking for hidden coins or jewellery. “Anatomy?” He frowns, looking more closely at one of the illustrations. Amara doesn’t answer. If Felix understands her attachment to Pliny’s gift, he will only use it against her. He hands it back, and she takes it, rolling it up again, trying not to let the relief show on her face. “Not much after such a long stay.”
“He introduced me to a new client though. So those dresses will come in useful.”
“What new client?”
“A man called Rufus. He will be calling on you to buy me for an evening.” She hesitates, knowing how much Felix hates being given advice. “I’m hoping that he is a long-term investment, so I think we might be better not charging too much at first, so that he continues paying.”
“You’re running the business now, are you?”
“No,” she says. “I didn’t mean…”
“Amara,” Felix says, grinning. “I was joking. You’ve done well. The old man paid a fair price.” He picks up one of the dresses. “If this new one turns into a regular client, you can keep these to wear out with him. If not, I will sell them.” He waves a hand at the clothes she still has on. “But you certainly don’t need to be wearing them now.”
Amara had guessed he might make her change and has brought her old gaudy toga up from downstairs. She strips off, handing him the new clothes.
“You’ve put weight on,” he says, looking her over as she dresses. “It suits you.”
“You’ll have to feed me more then,” she says, risking a joke, “if you like it so much.” Felix shakes his head but looks amused. A memory of the night they spent together comes back to her. The way he rested his head on her shoulder, looked up with the same flash of humour in his eyes. And she had smiled back.
Amara doesn’t like remembering. “Thraso looked worse for wear,” she says. “Why were he and Balbus fighting?”
She knows, as soon as she has asked, that it was a mistake. Any hint of playfulness has gone from his face. “I thought the old man was going to buy you,” Felix says, ignoring her question. “The Admiral of the Fleet! What a change that would have been. But here you are, back at the brothel.” She says nothing. “What did he do with you all week?”
“Just the usual,” she says, her mouth feeling dry.
“I doubt that,” Felix says. He puts his arms round her in an exaggerated parody of affection. “Did he tell you how lovely you were? Gaze into your eyes? Was he gentle?”
“No.”
“He wasn’t gentle?” Felix pretends to be shocked. “What a shit! He certainly fed you well. But I’m not sure I believe you. I think he spoiled you, that old man. Made you forget who you are.”