“She doesn’t understand any Latin,” Amara says.
“Oh, she understands me,” he replies. “We understand each other perfectly well. Don’t we?” As if in answer, Britannica shrinks back. “You see,” he says to Amara, tucking the knife away. “She speaks my language.”
“She doesn’t understand life here,” Amara says. “She screams all night; it’s not good for business.”
“She’ll get used to it. And if not.” He shrugs. “Some customers like that. Not that you have to worry, not after I got this letter from your posh boy,” Felix holds up a note, a look of amusement on his face. “He is demanding you have lodgings outside the brothel.”
“Rufus?” Amara is stunned.
“How many posh boys do you have? Yes, Rufus. I’ve sent a reply back with Gallus. He’s not offering enough for every night. But I’ve agreed you will only spend two nights a week here, as long as he pays the retainer.”
Amara thinks of Rufus at the theatre, the way he gave her the jasmine, his acceptance of her anger. She feels touched in ways she cannot express, certainly not to Felix.
“Don’t just sit there!” Felix says, irritated by her lack of reaction. “Pack your things up.”
“But where am I going?”
“You can sleep upstairs. In the storeroom with Paris.”
“I can’t leave Britannica alone; I promised Cressa.”
Felix draws the knife again, crosses to Britannica, points it at her face. She flinches, but Amara is surprised she doesn’t show greater physical fear. “You. Stay. Here. Not. Move.” He leans forward, gripping her thigh with his free hand, in an unmistakable gesture of sexual aggression. This time Britannica looks more afraid. Felix stays where he is, until she cowers, no longer meeting his eye. Amara has never despised him more.
He stands up. “You just need to be firm with her,” he says, heading for the door. “Now get your things.”
Amara follows him, looking back briefly at Britannica before leaving the cell. She hopes the hate on her face is meant for Felix alone.
Paris is as delighted by the new living arrangements as Amara imagined he might be. Felix’s slave boy doesn’t dare express his discontent in front of their master, especially after the boss makes it clear he doesn’t want any squabbling, but as soon as Felix has left Amara in the storeroom – one more piece of property to be added to the pile – Paris turns on her.
“You can sleep over there,” he says, pointing to some empty sacks in the far corner. “Right over there. I don’t want your smelly cunt anywhere near me.”
“Oh, piss off,” Amara replies, dropping her father’s bag on the sacks. She isn’t going to argue for a space closer to Paris; the further away they are from each other, the better. “As if you don’t have to rent your arse out too. And I bet you don’t just get down on your knees to scrub floors up here.”
“Fuck you,” Paris says, clenching his fist. His face is red with fury.
“No fighting, remember,” Amara says, plonking herself down on the floor by her bag, making it clear she is here to stay. “You heard what Felix just said. If you give me a black eye, just think what he’ll do to you in return.” Amara sees Paris flinch, a look of fear on his face. She presses home her advantage. “He fucks you too, doesn’t he? Just like all the rest of us.”
In that moment, for the first time, Amara sees something of Fabia in her son. It’s there in the cowed stoop of his shoulders, in his wounded expression. She knows he is not much younger than she is, but with his skinny legs and thin frame, he looks like a beaten child. Guilt pricks her. She is about to say something kinder when he speaks.
“You disgust me,” he says, his face screwed up with malice. “All of you. Dirty fucking whores. And if I find you’ve touched any of my things with your nasty, grubby fingers when I’m out, I’ll kill you!”
Paris stomps from the room, leaving Amara to wonder if Rufus did her such a favour after all. She shifts on the hot, dusty sacks. They are not going to be much more comfortable than the stone bed in Dido’s cell, but at least she will be able to sleep, not work all night. It feels strange being in the quiet of the storeroom, knowing the brothel is downstairs. Cressa’s cell must be right below her, or maybe Beronice’s. She looks up at the shelves in the narrow room, stacked with jars and bundles of cloth. On the floor beside her, there’s a half-empty bag of beans she might be able to use as a pillow. A few spill out from a small hole in the corner as she moves it. She hopes there aren’t too many mice. Or rats.
Amara gets up and creeps to the door. She doesn’t know much about what goes on in Felix’s flat. She supposes the room next door must be where Gallus and Thraso sleep. She regrets not being friendlier with Paris, if only to try and get more information out of him.
Already Amara misses her friends downstairs, and it has only been a few minutes. She wonders if Thraso will even tell them what’s happened, why Felix has moved her. For a moment, the strangeness of being alone makes her feel emotional. She leans her head against the wooden door jamb, trying to clear her thoughts. There’s no point being miserable and wasting her time up here; it’s impossible to say how long Rufus will keep her, whether his interest will ever pay off. But she could use this time to learn more about how Felix runs his loans, see if she can convince him to use her that way, rather than selling her. It would at least be a better life than the one in the brothel. She sets off down the corridor.
His study door is ajar, to let in a breeze in the summer heat. He must have spotted her shadow, because he calls out before she even has a chance to knock.
“What do you want?” His tone is not inviting.
Amara steps into the room but doesn’t approach too close to his desk. “That girl from The Elephant who paid off her loan. Pitane. She mentioned to me that she might have another customer for you. I thought I could use this time to do some business.”
“I can’t spare anyone to go with you.”
“Couldn’t I go on my own?” Amara asks. “It’s only to The Elephant. I could make a note and see if you like the terms.”
She waits for Felix to answer, palms sweating. “It’s like a never-ending itch for you, isn’t it?” he says. “Making money.”
If Felix were a different man, if she thought he would be pleased by the comparison, she would say: As it is for you. Instead, she shrugs. “Everyone wants to make money. Though in this case I’m making it for you.”
“Go then,” he says, turning back to his accounts, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
The Elephant is a grander bar than The Sparrow, attached as it is to a large inn. A copper lantern shaped like an elephant hangs over the doorway, dangling with chiming bells, and the walls inside are lined with pictures of the giant beasts pitted against gladiators in the arena.
There is a fair exchange in trade between the brothel and the inn, and Sittius, the landlord, gives Amara a nod of recognition when she leans against the bar.
“Not many customers in for you today,” he says.
“I wondered if Pitane might be free for a moment,” she answers.
“She’s in the courtyard,” he replies. “But if you’re going to keep her chatting, best get a drink.”
Amara buys the smallest wine she can, missing the easy charm of Zoskales at The Sparrow. Sittius is notoriously tight. She walks through to the small courtyard behind the bar. It is partly shaded by a vine growing over a trellis and dotted with outdoor tables. A couple of guests sit drinking in a corner. Pitane is busy sweeping the flagstones. She brightens as soon as she sees Amara.