“What did this one do?” asks a man, gesturing at her with his wine. Some slops on the table. She recognizes him from the Palaestra, by the white scar across his face, but he doesn’t recognize her. “Something special, is she? Or is she bored of your cock and here to try some of ours?”
Others join in, but although they’re all talking about her, they’re only talking to Felix, as if she isn’t really there. She says nothing through it all, just looks down at his hand on her leg.
“Plenty more cunt where she comes from,” Felix says. “You can try some later.”
They lose interest in Amara and move on to business. She is so exhausted she could almost rest her head against the wall and fall asleep; it must be the early hours of the morning.
“I think the cobbler’s getting jumpy about paying,” says one man. He is thin and shifty as a weasel. “All the work we do, keeping the streets safe. Not very grateful, is it?”
The man with the white scar laughs, but Felix looks unimpressed. “Maybe he needs a little reminder. Nothing too drastic.” Amara realizes they are not talking about loans. “Best it’s someone he’s not seen before.”
“I know who,” says Weasel, nodding.
The conversation flits back and forth between business and banter: who is paying, who needs persuading, the latest games at the arena, the best whore by the docks. Amara is not surprised Felix is involved in a protection racket but is uneasy that he would take the risk. Doesn’t he earn enough already? What if someone retaliated? Can everyone at this bar be trusted? She hopes any trail to the brothel is well hidden.
Time drags, and she feels like a ghost, only Felix’s hand physically anchors her to the present. She remembers what he said about showing off his wares and doesn’t dare doze off. Instead, she makes occasional eye contact with the men then looks suggestively at Felix, ensuring they remember her role, what they might be getting.
When Felix finally gets up, hauling her to her feet, she could almost cry with relief. A couple of the men walk back with them to the brothel, somehow still awake enough to take Felix up on his offer of a discount. She feels sorry for whoever has to entertain them. Watching them step into the darkened corridor of the brothel, knowing they won’t be arriving at her cell, she realizes exhaustion has sapped her sense of guilt. She follows Felix into the relative safety of his flat.
At the top of the stairs, he takes hold of her wrist, leaning back to look at her, as if weighing up the possibility she represents. Then he lets her go. “Send Paris to me,” he says, walking off.
She hurries to the storeroom, nudging the sleeping Paris with her foot. “Get up. Master wants you.”
Paris springs awake like a cat, scrabbling the blankets off himself. “Now?” he gasps. “He wants me now?”
“I’m sorry,” she replies, heading to her corner. “That’s what he said.” Paris gives a stifled sob, a sound of utter wretchedness. Amara watches him creep from the room, unable to feel anything but gratitude that he is the one being tormented instead of her. She is asleep moments after her head rests on the lumpy sack of beans.
When she wakes, she is aware of someone leaning over her. She opens her eyes. It is Paris, his face so close, their noses are almost touching. “Brothel day for you, bitch,” he whispers.
“Get away from me!” Amara shoves him, and he lands on his backside with a thud. “What is it with you?”
Paris dusts himself off, angry at being made to look foolish. “Last night was your fault,” he snarls. “Why couldn’t you have fucked Felix? You were awake anyway. And it’s nothing to you. Nothing.” His voice grows shriller. “It’s what you’re there for; it’s the whole point of you!”
Paris stops. He is on the verge of tears, his thin chest rising and falling with the effort of controlling his emotions. Amara thinks about all the cruelties Paris must have endured: the confusion of growing up in the brothel, watching the way his mother was treated, his fear when he became a target himself. And then having to suffer the contempt of other men, even ones like Gallus who he is so desperate to impress. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” Amara replies, keeping her voice steady, not wanting to humiliate him further by a show of sympathy. “But you know it wasn’t because of me. Nobody tells Felix what to do.”
“He doesn’t even screw you, does he, when he has you in the study?” Paris takes her silence as his answer, kicking at the wall in frustration. “All these years I’ve wanted him to trust me with the business, and then he chooses you instead. As if I were the woman.” Paris spits out the last word like a curse that might defile his mouth by speaking it.
Amara does not point out to Paris that he would not be much use to Felix with his accounts, since he cannot even read. “It won’t be forever,” she says. “He won’t treat you like this forever. I’m sure he does trust you.”
Paris looks at her, biting his lip. She can see he wants to talk, all his loneliness pent up inside him like a cranked-up well before the water falls. But pride gets the better of him. He shrugs, as if physically shaking her off. “Nobody’s paying for you to stay up here today, are they? So why don’t you fuck off back to where you belong and leave me in peace.”
Amara gets wearily to her feet. It feels like she only slept a couple of hours. Paris obviously woke her as early as possible. “Behaving like a shit isn’t going to make your life any easier,” she says. She walks past him, closing the storeroom door behind her.
It’s barely light out on the street. Everyone in the brothel is likely to be asleep. The back door is ajar, and Amara creeps in, resigned to sleeping in the corridor rather than waking Dido. She sinks down, her back to the wall, then hears the sound of muffled weeping. Britannica never makes an effort to be quiet, so at first, she assumes it must be Dido, but after getting to her feet and tiptoeing the length of the corridor, she realizes it is Victoria.
It takes her a while to trust her own ears. Victoria never cries. Amara hesitates before drawing the curtain. It has been weeks since they have spoken properly to each other. But she cannot bear the thought of her friend suffering.
She sticks her head around the curtain. “Are you alright?” she asks, her voice low so as not to wake the others.
She expects Victoria to stop crying or tell her to go away, but instead, she remains curled up on the bed, sobbing into her blankets. Amara hurries over, afraid. She sits down on the bed, touching Victoria’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
Victoria pushes herself upright, furiously wiping her face. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” She stares at Amara, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair wild. “Like you don’t know!”
Amara stares back bewildered. “Know what?”
Victoria slaps her across the face. Amara gasps, clasping a hand to her stinging cheek, too shocked to retaliate. “Don’t pretend to be such a fucking idiot,” Victoria shouts at her. “Rich old men and fancy boyfriends aren’t enough for you, you have to have Felix as well? You don’t even like him, still less want him! What are you doing? Rubbing everyone else’s nose in it, making us all feel worthless?”
“Like I have any choice!” Amara shouts back. “You think I enjoy being around Felix? And anyway, why do you care? You hate him as much as I do!” As soon as she has said it, she remembers the afternoon she and Dido overheard Victoria panting out her devotion. I love you; I would die for you. Amara looks at her anguished face and understands what she should have realized long ago. Victoria wasn’t pretending. “But you can’t; you can’t love him,” she says. “He’s a fucking monster! He doesn’t care about any of us.”