“Do what?”
“Listen.”
Amara is about to protest but thinks better of it. “I don’t remember telling you my father was a doctor.”
“It was after I bought you,” he replies. “I gave you and Dido some figs, and you told me they were your father’s favourite. I asked what he did.”
The memory comes back to Amara, so vivid it is searing, like the scalding floor of the baths. The way Felix smiled, touched her gently on the arm, offering her the fruit. Almost with tenderness. And her own foolish relief. This one is kind.
She shrugs. “I don’t remember that.”
Amara works silently the rest of the afternoon, keeping her head down as a procession of clients come in. She does not seem to pay attention, not even when one weeps, begging Felix for more time, but all the while, she disobeys her master, listening intently, hatred coiled in the pit of her stomach. At last, Paris comes to tell them Rufus’s slave Philos is waiting. Felix dismisses him then walks over, watching her pile up the tablets.
When she has finished, he hands her one of Pliny’s dresses, not moving aside as she changes. His presence makes her nervous, and she fumbles with the brooch. Felix helps her, and the sensation of him holding up the fabric, his frown of concentration as he fixes the pin, makes her think of a husband’s familiarity with his wife. When she is dressed, she turns to go, but he catches hold of her wrist, pulling her closer. It is not a moment of intimacy.
“Remember what happens to people who betray me,” he says. Then he lets her arm drop, walking back to his desk without watching her leave.
30
If anyone has not seen Venus painted by Appelles, he should look at my girlfriend; she shines just as bright
The restaurant is a step up for Amara, a step down for Rufus. She imagines it must give him a thrill, dining out somewhere not quite respectable. Anybody who is worth anything eats in, safe in the knowledge that luxury lies closer to home. For her, the experience is a delight. They are served on a terrace, and the red glow of dusk gives them a view over the terracotta rooftops, the sharp-peaked mountain a darkening shadow beyond. Lamps hang from the trellising above, a far more elaborate affair than at The Elephant, woven with vines and heavy with ripening grapes.
Rufus orders, and she has the anxiety of trying to eat the sea urchins without making a mess. “I thought we could go to the theatre again next week,” he says, sloshing fish sauce everywhere. “One of my favourite plays is on. And it’s an excellent company too, touring all the way from Rome. I’m very interested to see how they stage it.”
“That would be wonderful,” she says, as always relieved that he is thinking ahead to another meeting. “Have you ever been to Rome?”
“No. The furthest I’ve travelled is Misenum. Stayed with the admiral, as it happens. He has a beautiful place out there.”
Amara smiles, not wanting to think about how she once aimed to make the admiral’s villa her home.
“I’d love to see Greece,” he continues. “So many of our plays are based on ones your poets had already written. Did you ever spend time in Athens?”
She cannot tell him that her abiding memory of the city was passing through it to the slave docks. “Not really, no. The only place I know is my hometown, Aphidnai. I think you would like our statue of Helen of Troy.”
Rufus takes her hand and kisses it. “I’m sure she is not as beautiful as you.”
They stare at each other, and she can read the question he is asking with his eyes. Have I waited long enough?
“Rufus!” They are interrupted by a familiar voice. Amara looks up to see Quintus standing by their table. He is accompanied by a beautiful woman. Amara realizes she has seen her before. It is the courtesan she noticed at the theatre, with the dress dipped at her back. She is even more striking close up, hair circling her head in elaborate plaits and her skin unusually dark, like Zoskales. A gold bracelet shines on her upper arm. “I think you know Drusilla?”
“Of course,” Rufus says. “Always a pleasure.” He turns to his own girlfriend with unmistakable pride. “And this is Amara.”
“Indeed!” Quintus says, pursing his lips. “Lucky man. I’ve heard her pretty voice before.” Amara feels a stab of alarm. There is no mistaking the smirk on his face.
“Oh, do you sing?” Drusilla exclaims. “How delightful! I adore music. You must both join us one evening at my home.” She smiles warmly at Amara who smiles back, grateful for the distraction.
“Loves entertaining, this one.” Quintus rolls his eyes. “I can barely set foot in the house; it’s always stuffed full of gossiping girls.”
Drusilla makes a playful show of being affronted. “As if I ever deny you anything.” She flounces off to their table, and Quintus follows with an apologetic shrug.
Amara turns back to Rufus, still smiling, but his expression chills her. “So you already know Quintus?” he says.
“He has attended parties where I was performing,” she replies, with a toss of her head, determined not to show her fear, still less any guilt. “My singing partner Dido knows him better.”
“He’s got a reputation.” Amara cannot tell whether the anger in his voice is for her or Quintus. “I hope you never got too close to him.”
“Do you think I ever had a choice about such things?” she says sharply.
“Forget it.” He waves his hand to dismiss the conversation.
“No,” she says, her voice icy. “I won’t. If you will hold the most painful parts of my life against me, I cannot be your friend.”
“I didn’t mean anything bad by it…” Rufus looks more like himself again, startled into his familiar frown of anxiety at displeasing her.
“I hope not,” she says. “Just because you have been generous enough to allow me a choice, doesn’t mean anyone else has.” Amara feels a sudden weariness. The exhaustion of holding his interest, of trying to explain herself, all the while knowing he is incapable of understanding. A memory of Menander comes to her, of their afternoon outside the arena, talking about the past. You are the same person. I still see you as the same person.
Rufus recognizes her sadness, even though he has no way of guessing the cause. “I’m an idiot, sorry. I know you have… sung at a lot of parties.” He pulls a rueful face, to show the euphemism is mocking him rather than her. “It’s ridiculous of me to be jealous. You’re just so lovely. I know you could have anyone.” He reaches for her hand. “Friends again?”
“The ridiculous thing is imagining I could ever prefer Quintus to you,” she replies, squeezing his fingers. It sounds like a line, but she means it. “Drusilla seems very pleasant.” She lets go again.
“Oh, she’s great fun,” Rufus exclaims, then stops, horrified at himself. “Not that I’ve ever…” he stutters. Amara laughs, and he joins her, relieved. “Well, anyway. She throws the most wonderful dinners. Her old master left her her freedom and, clearly, a fair bit of cash too. Though I think her friends also support her.”
Amara glances over at Drusilla with even greater interest. She has the same poise that she remembers from the theatre. Even the arrogant Quintus seems to be making some effort to impress her.
“We should certainly accept her invitation,” Rufus says, following the direction of her gaze. “If you would like to.”
“I would. Very much.” Amara looks down, her nerves perhaps easy to mistake for shyness. “But then I think I should enjoy being anywhere with you.” She looks up and can see Rufus has understood her meaning.