Here love will be wise
Herculaneum graffiti
The road rises as Britannica and Amara head out of Pompeii, under the arch and onto the road that leads to Stabiae. The former she-wolves walk together, side by side, a couple of male slaves from the barracks following a little behind, although the slaves are more for show – Amara cannot imagine the gladiator ever needing their protection. Britannica carries herself like no other woman Amara has ever met. The Briton moves as if she has no fear, as if she has never been subjected to violence, or dragged halfway across the world to be penned in a brothel, even though Amara knows Britannica has endured all these things. When the pair of them worked in the Wolf Den and were expected to pick up customers, Amara would always dread ‘fishing’ with Britannica. The Briton’s obvious hostility was a threat to their safety, the way she scowled at men, as if daring them for a fight. Now she has lost that outward aggression, and her stride has an easy confidence, but still the threat of her violence remains.
They take a smaller road that branches off towards the river. This stretch of countryside outside Pompeii is full of vineyards and larger villas, their roofs just visible above the high brick walls. All the grapes have been harvested now, and the vines which Amara glimpses through an open archway are bare of fruit. Men are working among the crop, tying and pruning the vines. A small bonfire burns nearby, its blue smoke rising and clouding the air like incense.
They travel further from the city, the road shaded by umbrella pines. Amara can hear the chatter of starlings in the branches above, and catches a glimpse of their dark, speckled bodies. She thinks of the shop magpie in its cage, with nothing but a dusty street to stare at. The image makes her feel melancholy, or perhaps it is another memory that taints this walk with sadness. It is not the first time the two former she-wolves have walked this road. They came here once before, to celebrate the Nemoralia. Only, that time, Victoria was with them.
“Beronice has a good heart,” Britannica says. “Even though she is fool.”
They have been talking of Amara’s meeting with her old friends the day before. Britannica’s harsh judgment is wholly unsurprising.
“I don’t know that her advice was so foolish,” Amare replies. “I have been thinking that maybe she has a point about Felix, that he will never give up. It could be safer for everyone if I continue to pay. As long as that is where it stops.”
“True that he will not give up. Only his death will free you.”
Amara sighs heavily. “Killing Felix is like burning down the prison that traps you inside. You might never escape what you’ve started.”
“You have too much fear.”
“And you have none,” Amara laughs. “Between us, perhaps there is a balance.”
“I am often afraid,” Britannica says. “Fear is like an enemy you see on the road. You raise your hand to him, you greet him, and you continue on your way.”
“You don’t fight him?” Amara asks, amused. “That’s unusual for you.”
Britannica smiles, exposing her missing teeth. “Sometimes I fight him, yes. I know you fight him many times. In the Wolf Den.” Sensations of her life at the brothel return to Amara. Its violence, its fear, and above all her rage, which burned white-hot in the darkness. “This.” Britannica seizes Amara’s hand, gazing at her with understanding. Something of Amara’s anger must have shown on her face. “This is what will save you. Always.”
“Anger?”
“In my language, it has another word. It is fire that burns within. I use it in the arena when I fight.”
Amara does not let go of Britannica’s hand. “What is your country like?”
“Home,” Britannica says. “It is home.”
In her mind’s eye, Amara sees her old street in Aphidnai – the well at the corner, the overhanging balcony of her parents’ house shading the pavement below and the potted plants trailing around the doorway. Home. It is both unbearably vivid and impossible to reach. “I understand.”
“Also, it has better weather.” Britannica grimaces. “More rain, less sun.”
“You like the rain?”
“I like the fog. When it is rising, the enemy not see you. Here, everything too hot, too bright, no grey.”
Amara thinks of Livy’s description of the battle of Trasimene. The men slaughtered in the mist, unable to see the hoards that descended on them. It is not difficult to imagine Britannica embroiled in such a scene. “Were you a warrior, back then?”
“My whole family is fighters. All dead now. I am the last. My brother, the older one, he teach me what to say before battle.” Britannica murmurs something in her own harsh language, then frowns, obviously trying to think of how to say it in Latin. “It not end here,” she says, although from the dissatisfied look on her face, something must have been lost in the translation. “He means you not die now. One day you die, but you tell yourself, not there.”
Amara nods, understanding the gist, disappointed that Britannica’s words have lost some of their meaning and their power.
They arrive at the shrine to Diana, the reason for their visit. Diana, Artemis, Lucina – the merciless goddess of many names who triumphs in the hunt and guides women through the violence of childbirth – is standing by the river. Her statue seems diminished in the blazing sun; perhaps, as a moon goddess, her potency is better felt at night. Amara had Diana painted on the wall of the house with the golden door, wearing Dido’s face, the goddess’s finger pointing in vengeance at Acteon, the unfortunate man who had dared to see her naked. In Amara’s imagination, Acteon became Felix, enduring the revenge she longed to inflict.
Britannica walks towards the riverbank, carrying the offering she has brought to ask for victory in the arena. It is a clay figurine of a stag representing the opponent she wishes to defeat. She lays it at the feet of the goddess, while Amara ties a written prayer to the branches of a nearby tree, where it joins the other rolls of fabric that flutter in the breeze. They are a strange fruit. Some have rotted in the rain. Amara squints up into the branches, wondering if her own prayer, or that of Victoria, still lingers here from their long ago visit.
At the statue, Britannica is still standing with her head bowed. Amara glances down the road, where the slaves are waiting, then back to the gladiator. It is so unusual to see Britannica with her face down, the pose is uncharacteristically vulnerable. Fear strikes Amara then, as sudden as lightning. What if Britannica dies in the arena? Amara makes the sign of the evil eye, visualizing the thought burning to ash, not wanting to bring any bad luck to the site of her friend’s prayers.
When she has finished, Britannica turns to leave, but Amara stops her. “Shall we wait a while? We have so little time together these days.”
Britannica nods and they go to sit at one of the marble benches facing the shrine, a spot for travellers to rest under Diana’s protection. “We come here when you carry Fighter,” Britannica says, patting her own stomach. “The goddess make her fierce. She likes to watch me train.”
“Philos takes Rufina to the barracks?” Amara is a little surprised.
“To see me, yes, he brings Fighter,” Britannica says. “You not take Philos to Rome?”
“I can’t.”
“He is loyal to you. I not meet the other one. The one in Stabiae.”
It takes Amara a moment to realize that Britannica is comparing Philos to Demetrius, as if there were a choice to be made between them. “I am not free to serve any other man than my patron,” she says, a little annoyed at the implication that perhaps she is not loyal, unlike Philos.
Britannica shrugs. “As I say, I not meet him. Maybe a good man to raise Fighter, maybe not.”
Amara glances again towards the slaves, still standing a safe distance away on the road, the roar of the river ensuring they are well out of earshot. “Philos is enslaved. I have no choice.”
“I always like him. Loyal.”
Britannica is staring at the river with a stubborn look on her face. She can be infuriating in this mood, but Amara is determined not to have a row so close to Britannica’s time in the arena. “I hope he will be safe from Felix, when I have left.” She cannot bear to add when I have taken Rufina away from him.
“As long as I live, he is safe.”
“Thank you.” Amara reaches over to take her hand. “When you are victorious, we should come back here, to give thanks.”
“Yes, we come,” Britannica says. “Also, I am promised to worship at the Temple of Fortuna. The day of the fight.”
“I said a prayer for you, to the Fortuna in Rome. She looked like you, I thought.”
“Like me?” Britannica grins. “How?”
Amara smiles. “She was holding her cornucopia of plenty as if it were a weapon. To knock down anyone who annoyed her.”
The two she-wolves laugh, their voices carried out towards the sea on the rush of the river.