28
Poems are praised, but it’s for cash they itch; A savage even is welcomed if he’s rich.
It’s hot in The Sparrow, even though it’s not yet midday. Cressa has stayed in the brothel to look after Britannica, and Amara and the others sit at a table, sharing some bread and cheese, a small pot of cold vegetable stew. Amara can already feel her clothes sticking to her skin with sweat.
“So the boyfriend turned up then?” Victoria asks. There is none of the usual spark to her question.
Amara nods, not wanting to talk about Menander, and Victoria doesn’t press her. “Sorry you two had to share together,” Amara says.
“We thought you might want some space,” Dido replies.
“Thanks.”
They lapse back into silence. “What are we going to do about her?” Beronice says. Nobody has to ask who she means. “When is she going to stop with the fighting and screaming?”
An old man is mumbling at the table next to them, either drunk or unwell. He reaches out a shaky hand. It’s not clear if he is trying to reach for their bread or grope Beronice. “Not today, Grandad!” Victoria snaps, her voice loud. “Can’t get any fucking peace anywhere,” she mutters, turning back to the table.
“It’s not right,” Beronice continues. “It put my customer off his stride. Then he was in a bad mood and rough with it.”
“I think she’s brave,” Dido says.
“Brave?” Victoria says. “She’s a savage.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Amara says. “Just because she doesn’t speak Latin. And I agree with Dido. She’s only doing what the rest of us would, if we had the guts.”
“If you think she’s so fucking fabulous, why don’t you teach her some Latin then?” Victoria says. “And it’s not brave. It’s stupid. Have you seen the bruises on her? Who fights a battle they’re never going to win?”
“That’s what courage means.”
“Oh, get lost, seriously,” Victoria says. “If you can’t see what a problem she is, maybe it’s because you spend all your time at fancy fucking parties. You won’t be around when the rest of us get attacked, will you? What do you care?”
Amara gets up from the table, taking a piece of bread and cheese with her. She was already in a terrible mood before this and doesn’t trust herself not to lose her temper.
“Where are you going?” Victoria asks, halfway between conciliatory and cross.
“To try and teach Britannica some Latin.”
Amara stomps back towards the brothel, almost barging into Nicandrus walking along the pavement to The Sparrow with a bucket of water. “Careful!” he says.
She holds her hands up in apology but doesn’t stop to chat. Seeing him makes her think of Menander, of the choice Dido made not to let her feelings for Nicandrus take root when there is nowhere for love to grow. Perhaps she was wise.
Thraso is still on the door, exhausted from guarding the brothel all night. He barely steps aside to let her in, making her squeeze past him.
“Cressa?”
“She’s not well,” Fabia says, not looking up as she sweeps the corridor. “She’s feeling sick.” There’s a sound of retching from the latrine.
Amara hurries to the end of the corridor. “Cressa! Are you alright?”
Cressa comes out, holding onto the wall. She is pale, her eyes dark with misery. Amara feels sick herself, guessing what Cressa is facing.
“You should eat something,” she says quietly. “It will help. The others are still in The Sparrow.”
Cressa shakes her head. “Nothing will help.”
“At least eat something, please. You will feel less nauseous.”
“What about Britannica?”
“I can look after her.”
“Are you sure?” Cressa looks relieved. “Be kind to her, won’t you? You promise?” Amara nods, touched that Cressa’s first thought is always for someone else. “She’s in my cell. I was just about to help her wash.” Cressa starts to head past Amara who stops her, catching hold of her arm.
“Can’t I help you too?” she says, her voice low.
Cressa looks down, as if unable to bear Amara’s kindness. “Nobody can help me.”
She hurries from the brothel, stepping aside to avoid Fabia. When she has gone, the old woman turns to Amara, shaking her head.
Britannica startles when she sees Amara, drawing her legs up towards herself on the bed. She seems wary rather than afraid. There are bruises on her pale arms, including vivid fingerprints where she must have been held down. Dried blood is smeared on her face. Cowards, Amara thinks.
She smiles at Britannica, pointing to herself. “Amara. I am Amara. Friend of Cressa.”
“Cressa?” Britannica looks past Amara, clearly hoping the other woman will appear.
Amara leans over and puts the bread and cheese on the bed. “For you. Cressa will be back soon.”
Britannica takes the food without acknowledging Amara or gesturing thanks. Amara waits for her to finish eating then goes through a painstaking performance, naming objects in the cell, asking Britannica if she can wash her face.
“Water,” she says, pointing to the jug. She dips her hand in it, showing Britannica the drops falling from her fingers. “Water. Now you say it. Water.”
In answer, Britannica releases a torrent of words in her own harsh language. Her gestures are violent, her expression intense, but although the incomprehensible tirade makes Amara feel uncomfortable, she guesses the anger is not directed at her. Amara reaches for the jug again, and Britannica grabs her arm. Her grip is as strong as a man’s. Britannica repeats the same strange word over and over, staring intently, willing Amara to understand. Then she lets go of her with a cry of exasperation, flinging herself back on the bed.
“I know. I want to kill them too,” Amara says. “But it doesn’t work that way. We don’t get a choice.”
Britannica has turned her face to the wall, ignoring her. She doesn’t resist as Amara splashes water on her skin but does nothing to help either.
“Your hair is a mess,” Amara says. “Can I brush it?” She takes the silence as agreement, picking up the brush from Cressa’s shelf. “Red,” she says, trying to tease out the knots. “Your hair is red.” Amara has never seen anything like it. She can imagine it glowing like fire in the July sun when Britannica stood naked in the slave market, her skin unnaturally white. It’s obvious Felix wanted something exotic and didn’t bother about the fact she couldn’t speak. “Fucking idiot,” she mutters to herself.
Britannica doesn’t make a fuss, though it must be painful having so many knots untangled. Amara lets her mind go blank, concentrating on nothing but combing out the mass of hair, until she hears Felix’s voice, talking to Thraso at the door. All her senses are instantly alert.
Someone steps over the threshold of the brothel. Britannica whips round, shouting at Amara. It sounds more like a command than a warning, but she has no idea what it might be.
“Making friends?”
Felix stands at the doorway, looking in. Britannica bunches up, reminding Amara of the tigers in the arena. She bares her teeth at Felix and hisses. Victoria’s insult comes into her mind, unbidden. Savage.
Their master is unconcerned. He draws a small knife from his tunic. Examines it, as if it needs a clean. Britannica stops hissing, watching him, eyes so wide the whites are showing. Felix gestures with the blade, casual rather than threatening. “You don’t like this, do you?”