She tries to let go of her hatred for a while, to study him the way she has watched him study other people. If he were a stranger what would she notice? His love of money, his determination, his cruelty, his surprising fascination with the thoughts and feelings of others. His total lack of compassion. The last, she almost cannot admit to herself: his loneliness.
She is trying to work out the interest payments on a loan, setting it against the information Felix has gleaned about the debtor’s assets, when she realizes he is looking at her.
“Have you still not fucked the posh boy yet?”
“No.”
“Cold-hearted bitch.” There is laughter in his voice, and she knows the insult is meant as a compliment. “I wouldn’t leave it too long. The novelty of rejection wears off after a while. And you’re a whore, not a wife.”
He has read her own anxieties as if they were branded on her body. “I’m afraid of him,” Amara lies. “I think he might enjoy violence.”
“You’ll manage,” Felix says, going back to his accounts. “Not like you haven’t had plenty of practise. And I can charge more if it’s anything extreme, so make sure you tell me.”
“Now who’s cold-hearted?” Amara asks, raising her eyebrows. “What if he killed me?”
“I’d be sorry to lose such a valuable whore.”
“How sorry?”
“Don’t beg for crumbs,” he says with a look of distaste. “It doesn’t suit you.”
His words bring back painful memories of Pliny, of her abject pleading with him to buy her. That has surely cured her of ever being tempted to beg again. She steals a look at Felix’s desk. The scroll of Herophilos is still sitting on it, no doubt left there deliberately to torment her. She has never given him the satisfaction of asking if she can read it.
“I think you could charge this one a little more,” she says, referring to the account she’s been looking over. “When you think about his business, Manlius definitely has other assets he could draw on. You’ve noted here that the brooch on his cloak was bronze.”
“It’s his third loan,” Felix says. “And he’s never late. He’s too safe a bet to squeeze too hard. Only go for blood if you think they can’t afford to come back again.”
Amara thinks of Marcella, wonders if he has sold her cameo yet. She remembers the other woman’s finger, the pale circle where her mother’s ring had sat, the way Marcella struggled to get it off. “I ought to go to the baths today,” she says. “You’re right, I can’t keep Rufus waiting forever. Would you allow me the money to get my hair done? I could do with it being styled.”
Felix squints, looking at her hair, clearly debating whether it’s a necessary expense. Then he takes some coins from a drawer. “You can go in a couple of hours,” he says. “After you’ve been through the rest of those files.”
Amara steps onto the street, relieved to have some space from Felix. His clients’ accounts make her wonder what notes he might have made on his women, what observations he has stored away about her. She hesitates as she walks past the back door of the brothel, torn between the desire to see if Dido is in, to ask her to come too, and worry that it will look like she’s lording it over everyone by getting her hair done. Gallus is on the front door.
“Is anyone in?” she asks him.
“Just Victoria,” he says. “Can’t you hear?” Amara realizes she can indeed hear Victoria’s voice, talking to a customer, cooing over his virility. “The others are out fishing. Apart from the savage.”
“Thanks. Give Beronice my love.”
“I’m not some girls’ fucking messenger slave.” Gallus scowls. “Tell her yourself.”
Going to the baths by herself is another new experience since she moved upstairs. Amara stores her cheap toga in one of the cubby holes in the changing room, pressing past a couple of gossiping friends who are still loitering after packing their own clothes away. The stone walls echo to the chatter of women’s voices and the shriek and splash of some bathers cooling off in the small plunge pool in the corner. She finds a beauty attendant touting for business and goes through to the hot room, strapping on wooden clogs to protect her feet from the scalding floor.
The attendant is Greek but seems in no mood to swap tales of the home country. She is brisk with Amara’s body, tweezering out the hair under her arms, slathering her legs with waxy resin then scraping them until they are smooth. Amara winces at the pain. All around her, other women are being similarly pruned and primped, though some have opted for the relaxation of a massage instead, and she can hear the slap of hands on bare skin. Her attendant fetches a small tub of water, and Amara cleans herself, washing away the last of the resin and the dirt of the storeroom. She feels scoured from the heat and all the scraping.
Having her hair done is a more restful experience. Dressed again, she goes with another attendant to a small room and sits down. It’s cooler here. The hairdresser places the tongs in a brazier. “That’s enough,” Amara says, watching the glowing heat. “My hair’s already curly, I just need it styled.” And I don’t need you singeing it, she thinks.
“How do you want it?”
“To impress a man.”
“Not a husband?”
“No.”
The hairdresser smirks. As if she didn’t already know from Amara’s toga. While the other woman piles up her hair in a cascade of curls, she thinks of Rufus. It is so hard to know exactly what he would like. Would he prefer her as she really is, to see that she is feeling nervous, even shy, or is he expecting to be lavished with pleasure and treated to all the expertise of a courtesan? She wishes she could ask Victoria’s advice.
“Fit to fuck an emperor,” the hairdresser says when she’s finished. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”
Amara laughs and thanks her. She walks out onto the street, ignoring the whistles of a couple of men hanging around the entrance to the baths. It’s a notorious spot for picking up customers. She wonders if any of her friends have been this way today.
The smell of frying food tempts her on the way home, but she walks past. She will be eating for free this evening, and it’s better to save her money. Paris lets her back into the flat, and his expression when he sees her hair is pure malevolence.
“Master wants you,” he says, turning on his heel as soon as Amara is inside.
She walks up the stairs, wondering what Felix needs, but when she enters his study, he doesn’t speak, just gestures impatiently at a pile of tablets on her table. She sits down to work. Shortly afterwards, one of his clients, Cedrus, arrives. They discuss the loan, chat about business, the scorching summer heat. Felix offers him a discount at the brothel if he ups the amount he is borrowing, something Amara has noticed he does fairly often. Cedrus swivels round to look at her.
“Is she….?” he asks.
“Yes, but she’s usually booked. Costs a little extra.”
“Wise man,” he says. “I’d keep that one to myself as well.”
“If you’re choosing downstairs, I recommend Victoria,” Felix replies.
“Do all your whores do accounts?” Cedrus asks, amused.
“Just that one. A doctor’s daughter.”
Cedrus is impressed. “You invested in quality stock then. Not got any virgins, I suppose?”
Amara thinks of Dido, of the pain she endured losing her innocence in this place, and almost snaps her stylus from pressing it so hard into the wax.
Felix shakes his head. The men move on to other matters and when Cedrus leaves, he doesn’t so much as glance at her, as if he has forgotten her existence.
“Don’t do that again,” Felix says when they are alone.