The final, dramatic installment in Elodie Harper's Sunday Times bestselling Wolf Den Trilogy.
Amara's journey has taken her far; from enslavement in Pompeii's wolf den brothel to her new life as a high-powered courtesan in Rome, but her story is not over yet. While Amara plays for power in Rome's imperial palace, those dearest to her remain in Pompeii. But it is 79 CE, and mighty Mount Vesuvius is about to make itself known . . .
Readers of Jennifer Saint's Ariadne, Natalie Haynes books like A Thousand Ships and Stone Blind, and other novels based on Ancient Roman and Greek mythology—as well as fans of inspiring feminist historical fiction exploring the worlds of Ancient Greece and Rome—will love Harper's acclaimed Wolf Den Trilogy. Anyone looking for a book that centers women’s perspectives on the historic events of Pompeii will be captivated by Amara’s story, which starts with the first book in the trilogy, The Wolf Den, a Barnes & Noble Our Monthly Fiction Pick, a Waterstones Fiction Book of the Month, and a critically acclaimed UK bestseller.
Publisher:
Union Square & Co.
Print pages:
432
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“Harper is unflinching in her description of the lives of courtesans, and the hypocrisies of the men who use them.… As vivid, unsentimental, and compelling as The Wolf Den.”
—The London Times
“Elodie Harper’s … gripping sequel leaves the down-market milieu of the fleshpots to depict its protagonist Amara’s new and luxurious life as a courtesan.… Harper’s recreation of this ancient world continues to thrill.”
—The Guardian
“The rare sequel that’s as good as its predecessor.”
—Paste magazine
“A beautiful, heartbreaking story of a woman who would do anything for the people she loves, and for her own survival; The House with the Golden Door is absolutely stunning, and kept me glued to the pages until I was done.”
—Hannah Whitten, New York Times bestselling author of For the Wolf
“[Amara is] a beautifully flawed heroine in an agonizingly compelling story. Friendship, love, lust, power, hate, and betrayal coalesce into a scintillating novel full of tragedy, triumph, and female resilience.”
—The Book Reporter
“Beautifully written with great heart.… Addictive reading.”
—NB Magazine
“Richly evocative, and reeling with drama and the determined passion and conflicts of its unforgettable heroine, this is historical fiction at its most thrillingly entertaining.”
—LoveReading
“A spell-binding novel that brings Pompeii back to life and explores enslavement in all its forms.”
—Anna Mazzola, author of The Clockwork Girl
“Absolutely stunning and utterly gripping!”
—Buki Papillon, author of An Ordinary Wonder
“Vivid, gripping, and richly imagined, this is spellbinding storytelling.”
—Louise O’Neill, author of Almost Love
PRAISE FOR
THE WOLF DEN
“Vivid, wise and unflinching, this is a triumph.”
—The London Times, Book of the Month, May 2021, #1 bestseller
“A gripping historical story.”
—The Independent
“The Wolf Den is an enthralling, exhilarating read from its first page to its last.… Both a fascinating tale in its own right and an important reclaiming of the sorts of stories from history we far too rarely get to hear.… Like almost nothing else that exists in this genre at present, carefully drawing contemporary parallels that will feel deeply familiar in a world where modern women still must fight far too hard for autonomy, equality, and the right to feel both safe in and in charge of their own bodies.”
—Paste magazine
“This powerful … trilogy opener beautifully walks the line between gutting and hopeful.”
—BuzzFeed, Best Books of March 2022
“A one-of-a-kind historical novel.… This is a mesmerizing, richly detailed tale of sisterhood and courage that fans of Circe will love.”
—Red Magazine, Best Books to Read this May
“There’s nothing like being transported to a different place and time and wholeheartedly believing you are there.… A compelling story of survival, friendship, and courage. Amara and her fellow she-wolves are vividly drawn in a fascinating depiction of women at the time. Utterly spellbinding.”
—Woman & Home, Best Books 2021
“Berenice was at the very height of her power.… She dwelt in the palace, cohabiting with Titus. She expected to marry him and was already behaving in every respect as if she were his wife; but when he perceived that the Romans were displeased with the situation, he sent her away.”
The night air is heavy with the scent of oleander, the sweet poison that Amara always associates with Rome. She stands with the other women, facing the high arched windows that overlook the moonlit city, caressed by a breeze that is still warm from the sweltering heat of the day. From up here on the Palatine, the noise of the streets is faint, but still the Empire’s capital never rests. Carts rumble and clatter over the stones at all hours, and down there, below the Imperial Palace, Amara knows the smell is fetid, not flowery.
Torchlight ripples over the marble floors and across the painted walls, illuminating the gold, making it look liquid. The wealth surrounding Amara is a different world from the darkness that shaped her in the Wolf Den, but for all the splendor here, there is still pain. Queen Berenice is before them, her dark hair unbound, black kohl in streaks down her face. The Queen of Judea has always excelled at theater, scarcely anything she does is without calculation, but Amara knows that tonight her tears are unfeigned. Even the most powerful woman can be broken by love.
The room reverberates with the low murmur of weeping, as wailing maids crowd around the queen, clinging to her clothes. Amara watches them with a cold eye, wondering how many are truly sorry to see their mistress go. There are fewer influential people here to take their leave of Berenice than she expected. Perhaps Titus will not change his mind after all, perhaps this time his lover truly is banished. He has promised to get rid of Berenice so many times, then found himself unable to part from the woman who is, in all important respects, his wife. Amara is certain that the irony will not be lost on Berenice; the moment she reached the pinnacle of Fortuna’s wheel, when her lover became emperor, is also the moment that Titus was forced to let her fall.
The line shuffles forward. Soon it will be Amara’s turn to take her leave. She tries to memorize all the faces she can see here, silently counting them off. Her patron, Demetrius, will expect the most detailed report. It is why he sent her. To get some sense of how likely it is that Berenice will return. Amara tells herself she would have come to pay her respects in any case; she does, after all, deeply admire the queen. But she knows in her heart that if Demetrius had asked her to stay away, she would have done so.
Amara is squinting to see the newest arrival in the hall—is it a senator’s wife?—when she realizes the woman in front of her, who had seemed as if she would never tire of clutching Berenice’s jeweled hand to her bosom, is finally about to leave. Amara steps swiftly forward into the queen’s embrace.
“Plinia Amara. You came.”
It seems impossible that this is the last time she will hear the queen’s deep voice. Amara looks into Berenice’s eyes, which are smudged with tears. The woman who stole Titus’s heart is nearly fifty, already at an age when satirists are decrying her decrepitude, but their mockery cannot dim Berenice’s beauty. Even now, after a night of crying, she is still one of the most striking people Amara has ever seen. Not that this is why Titus chose her. The emperor loves Berenice for the same reason her enemies hate her: she is a powerful woman, of formidable intelligence, unafraid to speak her mind.
“He will send for you again,” Amara says impulsively, forgetting the bland words of flattery she had rehearsed. “When he has ruled Rome for a year, when his position is secure. I am certain of it.”
“So they all say,” Berenice gestures at the waiting line. She sniffs, standing straighter. “But perhaps I will refuse to come.” Amara meets the queen’s gaze until Berenice smiles. “Or perhaps not.” Berenice looks weary then, and Amara understands the pain of her lost pride. That she should be left hanging on the whim of a man, even the most powerful man in the world. “I shall miss hearing you read,” Berenice says. “The admiral did not lie about your voice.”
“You are too kind. But I am sure you will have many skilled secretaries in Jerusalem.”
“None with your wit. Or your keen mind,” Berenice’s voice has taken on an edge, the way frost sharpens grass in winter. “I suppose I should draw greater comfort from your visit, Plinia Amara, than from any other. My return to Rome must be assured. You have never been one to step onto a sinking ship.”
Amara hesitates. Berenice often does this; offer a compliment that risks the recipient giving offense in return. “Your eventual triumph is not in doubt,” she says. “But nothing would have kept me from you this evening.”
“Then I will not say goodbye, since we are so sure to be reunited.” Berenice holds out her hand for Amara to kiss. Amara bends her head and the queen turns, as if already anticipating her next audience. There is a beat, as Amara waits, expecting a more formal dismissal that does not come. She tries to catch the eye of one of the maids who are still weeping softly, clutching at the hem of their queen’s gown, but the girl slides her gaze to the side. There is nothing for Amara to do but leave.
She walks backward, head still bowed, not wishing to show disrespect, then skirts the room as silently as she can, heading for the stairs. The palace feels suddenly oppressive, weighed down by the queen’s grief and the emperor’s absence. It takes all Amara’s effort to resist the urge to run down the marble steps like a child. Instead she walks solemnly past the waiting slaves who waste their lives keeping watch, past the gilded statues of Augustus, Livia and Caesar, before passing underneath the hanging oil lamps that circle above like the constellations, and escaping into the night air. Her litter is waiting for her.
The swaying ascent, as the slaves lift her from the ground, makes Amara feel drunk. She reclines against the cushions, the fabric soft against her skin, and resists the urge to grip the sides. She can never quite get used to allowing others to carry her; the slightest stumble leaves her imagining they will drop the litter. Her own feet feel much more reliable. She brushes the curtains enclosing her with her fingertips, opening them by a sliver—enough for her to glimpse the outside world as it passes without being seen. They are leaving the compound of the Imperial Palace, with its fountains and flowers, and heading into the streets. Amara’s pulse beats faster. She never likes being out in Rome at night.
They make their way down the slopes of the Palatine, the shops clustered at the skirts of the Imperial estate all shuttered up for the evening, before reaching the Vicus Longus. The rocking movement of Amara’s litter is often interrupted, as the road is crowded with cartloads of masonry, rumbling their way to the colossal Flavian amphitheater. She peers out as they pass the building site. The arena rises against the night sky like a ghost, its pale stone arches framing the darkness inside. Vespasian’s theater of death, the source of so much noise and hammering and dust, is almost complete.
The road home is direct from here, Amara could almost walk it in her sleep. Demetrius lives on the Vicus Longus, near the Quirinal Hill, where his former master Vespasian had long-standing family roots. The new emperor’s move to the Palatine is one of the few ruptures Titus has made from his father’s rule, and Amara hopes her own patron’s physical distance from the palace will not mark a similar drift from his place of influence. Gone are the days when Demetrius could return from an audience with the emperor within moments; now it is a slower, noisier route back, though at least a broad, well-populated one. The city’s dangerous, twisting back streets hold an especial horror for Amara.
Rome’s nighttime world passes in glimpses through her sliver of curtain. A wealthy man walks close by on the pavement, surrounded by slaves and torches. He ignores a prostitute chancing her luck from an archway. Amara watches the woman curse him silently after he passes, her thin hand shaking. There is something in the dejected way the woman stands that tugs at the threads of Amara’s memory, unraveling it, until the stranger disappears and she can see Cressa, her long-dead friend from the brothel in Pompeii. Then she is gone, lost in the shadows.
Wafts of incense herald the nearby shrine of Febris, the halfway point in Amara’s journey, long before her litter reaches the goddess of fever’s painted altar and its smoking offerings. Amara makes the sign of the evil eye. The Italians’ devotion to Febris is alien to everything she was taught in Greece, where her doctor father—who dealt with death all his working life—assiduously avoided any mention of Hades. Why draw the attention of Death or Sickness to yourself? It makes no sense. Amara’s mood is not lightened by the flashes of graffiti she can make out, daubed over and over again on the walls. Upstart Cleopatra, Eastern bitch, Jewish whore. Hatred of Berenice seems to be everywhere.
Amara closes the curtains, shutting herself into the dark, a sick feeling in her stomach. Foreign harlots are not popular in Rome; perhaps it’s safer to stay hidden. Who knows if a jumped-up Greek courtesan might find herself attracting the violence the graffiti writers wanted to inflict on the banished queen? Rome has always had an edge, unrest smoldering under the surface like hot embers ready to burst into flame, but never more so than now. Ever since the death of the Emperor Vespasian four months ago, Amara has felt afraid. It has been so long since this city saw a peaceful transition in power.
Even cocooned in the darkness, Amara recognizes the approach to her own home, the bump in the road that the litter bearers have to navigate before stopping at Demetrius’s door, the reek of incense from the nearby temple of Fortuna the Hopeful. The men lower her from their shoulders, helping her step outside.
The porter, Salvius, greets her in the hallway: “He is waiting for you.”
Stepping over the threshold of the house, Amara experiences a familiar feeling of calm. It is the sense of belonging she once took for granted on returning home in Aphidnai when her father was alive, although the atrium here is infinitely grander than her family home in Attica. Amara uncovers her hair, letting the silk fall to her shoulders as she walks across the marble floor. The walls are not painted but covered in shimmering mosaics of glass, their colors unnaturally bright even in the lamplight. Demetrius commissioned the scenes many years before he met Amara, but their audacity always makes her smile. Where other wealthy homes have scenes of the gods in all their glory and power, he has chosen to celebrate cunning. Fables written by Aesop, a lowly Greek slave, are picked out like priceless gems. Guests to Demetrius’s house find themselves watched by a glittering congregation of foxes, wolves, mice and crows. When he first brought her here, Amara had asked him what he meant by it. Demetrius only laughed. My darling, be proud of the things others despise. Who cares that you were once a whore and I a slave? Look where we are standing now.
It takes some time to cross to the other side of the house, where the rooms encircle the garden. The door to her patron’s bedchamber is ajar, a young slave standing guard outside. Amara nods at the boy as a sign of dismissal. Through the gap in the doorway, she can see Demetrius has dozed off while waiting for her. He is propped upright on the couch, his eyes closed, his jaw slack. She shuts the door loudly enough to wake him, knowing he won’t want to acknowledge the weakness of his age, then takes her time adjusting the latch, giving him a moment to compose himself while her back is turned.
“How was Berenice?”
She turns around at his voice, crossing the room to sit beside him. “Everything you might expect. Heartbroken, angry, proud. I think he really intends to banish her this time. There was a sense of hopelessness.”
Demetrius sighs. “Pliny says much the same. Titus is resolved—incredible as that may seem. Who else did you see there?”
Amara runs over the list, counting off on her fingers toward the end, to make sure she has not forgotten anyone. “And he has dismissed all the musicians and performers from court.”
“All of them?” Demetrius raises his eyebrows. “I had heard that he banished the dancers, but not the singers too. The court will certainly feel rather different.”
“Perhaps you and I will be the most dissolute couple there.”
Demetrius does not smile, ignoring her invitation to levity. “There is always an appetite for courtesans, as long as they are not seen to hold too much power.” He lowers his voice, even though they are completely alone. “Look at the emperor’s brother. He refused to kiss Antonia Caenis, his father’s concubine, yet thinks nothing of keeping his own.” Tension takes hold of Amara like an unwanted embrace. She knows where this conversation is leading. Domitian. The emperor’s volatile younger brother, whose disappointment at the lack of power sharing with Titus on the death of their father is an open secret, and whose ambition and cruelty are a source of constant anxiety for her patron. Rumors of murder follow him, though none would dare accuse Domitian publicly. Demetrius watches Amara closely. “No need for that sour face, my darling.” He rests his hand on her knee in a half-hearted gesture of affection, although she scowls at him.
“There’s every need. It’s obvious what you are going to ask me next.”
“The trouble is, Kalliste, you are too good a spy not to use you.”
“How flattering,” Amara says, not softening at his use of the Greek endearment.
“Well, you can either be cheerful about it, or sour, as you please. But I still need you to visit Saturia tomorrow.”
“The girl is infuriating.” Amara shifts so that he has to move his hand. “And besides, she never has anything useful to say. I don’t think Domitian is spending his time with Saturia for her political insights. I doubt he tells her anything at all. I wouldn’t. She’s an absolute fool.”
“Men always let something slip to the women they are fucking. It’s inevitable.”
“But don’t you think Domitian might suspect you have sent me to spy, if I’m seen with her too often? Or worse, what if his wife thinks he’s fucking me, as well? Domitia is hardly an enemy we need to acquire.”
“All anyone will see is two pretty little courtesans spending time together to discuss the latest fashions. Sometimes my love, there are advantages to other people underestimating your intelligence. Even if I never do.” Amara thinks of the fables on Demetrius’s walls. His homage to cunning. She knows it is one of the reasons he values her so highly and sniffs, not wanting to let him know his flattery worked. “I only ask out of the great respect I have for you, Plinia Amara.” Demetrius continues with his charm offensive, slipping an arm around her waist. Her mouth twists with the effort of continuing to look displeased. Sensing victory, he leans forward to kiss her lightly on the lips.
“Very well,” she says, in the tone of a woman making a vast concession. “I will go.”
“Pliny is also eager for you to cultivate Saturia’s friendship, if that makes it more pleasant for you.”
It is not lost on Amara that Demetrius would choose to tell her this only after she has agreed to his request. It is one of the few signs of jealousy she has ever seen in her patron; his insecurity over whether her loyalty to Pliny, the man who granted her her freedom, is greater than her loyalty to him. “It does not make it more pleasant,” she says, with a false show of petulance. “How disagreeable of you both to order me about.” From the corner of her eye, she can see him smile. “And now, I suppose, you will expect me to stay the night,” Amara kisses Demetrius again, to take the sting out of her tone, and make it plain that she is not averse to the idea. In truth Amara feels absolutely no desire for Demetrius, and never has. But she is fond of him, and sometimes finds it comforting to be physically close, if only because this is when her patron is relaxed enough to show her true affection.
“How could I refuse such a gracious invitation?” Demetrius kisses her back, his own desire real enough. He stands up, taking her by the hand to lead her to bed. “Though I can’t have you stay the whole night. I need to get some sleep afterward. And you never leave me any room.”
Against her will, Amara thinks of Philos. Of what it felt like to be with a man who held her as if he never wanted to let her go. Whose love she never doubted. She crushes the memory, instead smiling at her patron, pretending she doesn’t feel the ache of loneliness in her heart.
“We are so subject to chance that Chance herself takes the place of God; she proves that God is uncertain.”
The maids flutter around Amara like bees to a flower, except they are coating her in nectar, rather than extracting it. These days it takes a full hour to make her presentable. The white powder itches as one of the girls brushes it over her face and neck, giving her skin a pale, glistening sheen. Amara insists on using marl out of respect for her doctor father, even though it is less fashionable than lead. Timaios often lectured her on the metal’s poisonous properties and she cannot bring herself to use it now, even though Demetrius rolls his eyes at her fastidiousness.
Iris purses her own lips as she applies the red to Amara’s mouth, deepening the bow with small, deft brushstrokes. When she has finished, she steps back and encourages Amara to pout. Demetrius paid a fortune for Iris and Daphne, the two women whose lives revolve around making his mistress beautiful. Another fortune is spread out on the dressing table in the form of perfumes and cosmetics, among them a shell, full of bright green malachite. Amara closes her eyes in anticipation of the flash of color Iris will lay above the lines of kohl she has already drawn. The gentle touch of the brush on her eyelids is soothing, as is the silence. Behind her chair, Daphne is carefully dressing her hair, so softly she can scarcely feel it. Amara knows very little about either woman, preferring to be left to her own thoughts while they work.
After they have finished, Amara does not even have to lift the mirror to view herself. Daphne holds it up for her, a large highly polished disk of silver with a woman’s profile engraved on the back. Amara stares at her reflection. Her eyes are perfectly symmetrical, the green tapering at the corners, making them look larger. Her mouth, which has always been her most striking feature, looks even fuller with its deep shade of red. It is her face, as much as her intelligence, that has led to Amara sitting at this dressing table, owned by one of the richest men in Rome. She thinks of her friend Dido, who was even more beautiful, imagines how she too might have been transformed with the help of a Daphne or an Iris, and finds she doesn’t want to look at herself anymore.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling at Daphne, who sets down the mirror. Iris brings over a wooden box, inlaid with two mother-of-pearl nymphs, dancing. The silver clasp is cool under Amara’s thumb as she presses it, releasing the lid. She takes a moment to enjoy the riches inside. A priceless cameo from Demetrius, with her own face engraved as the goddess Pallas-Athene, gold and silver bracelets stacked in a pile like the cheap glass ones she used to see on sale in Pompeii, endless rings, and most precious of all, a necklace of gold and pearl given to her by the late Emperor Vespasian on the Kalends of March. She can still remember Demetrius’s pride when she was singled out as one of the women to benefit from the emperor’s annual act of generosity. They had discussed whether Vespasian might want to take her to bed too, and Demetrius had made it plain this was one act of infidelity he would allow. Amara could never tell whether he was disappointed or relieved when his master did not request a night with his lover. Knowing Demetrius, she expects it was both.
She selects the cameo, a pair of gold earrings and several rings, including two she always wears: one of amethyst and bronze—which she bought for herself—and the ring Demetrius gave her when he first brought her to Rome. It is solid silver, stamped with a leaping hare, the symbol of sexuality and fertility. Perhaps you might give me a son in return, he had remarked when she thanked him, his tone light, as if it meant nothing, but she had seen the hope in his eyes. Three years on and they have no child, only two early losses, which neither of them ever discusses.
The two maids step back as Amara rises from her chair and Daphne picks up the silk mantle from the bed, laying it reverently over her mistress’s head and shoulders. It is blue, to match her chiton, stars embroidered on it in threads of silver. Amara leaves Iris and Daphne to tidy away the dressing table and walks out into the garden, passing her patron’s bedchamber that sits next to hers on the colonnade. Demetrius will not be there at this time of the morning. Instead, he will be in his study meeting clients and conducting business on behalf of the emperor. The expensive scent of cinnamon mingles with that of the oleander as she makes her way to her usual spot by the fountain. A slave is waiting with sweet buns and figs, offering them to Amara as she sits on the bench, which is warm from the September sunshine.
When Amara is settled, the slave woman holds out a sealed tablet. “This came for you, Mistress.”
Amara almost drops the food in her haste to take the letter. It is from Pompeii. Her hands shake as she breaks the seal, her eyes darting to the top.
Greetings Mistress, all is well with your daughter
Amara lets out a shuddering breath, overwhelmed with relief. Philos always starts his letters this way to spare her anxiety. He knows that she is terrified of bad news, so many small children die, their parents not even permitted to mourn them fully until they pass the age of ten. Amara reads on, hearing every word in Philos’s voice, with its musical Campanian accent.
Rufina continues to excel in everything she does. She is cheerful, polite and loved by all who know her. At the age of three, not only has she already mastered her alphabet—as you know—but she can now also write over twenty words, which I am told is prodigious. The toy bird you sent is rarely out of her hands and stays each night beside her bed. She sends her beloved mother a kiss, and keeps you close in her heart.
Tears sting Amara’s eyes and she is forced to pause. There is a knot in her chest where all the love for her daughter is kept trapped and hidden. Rufina. It is so much easier not to think of her, not to think of Philos. To forget the family she left behind. All the money Demetrius gives Amara is securing her daughter’s future, yet she knows it will never bring back the years she is losing.
Julia and Livia continue well. They wish the blessings of the gods upon you. Your businesses continue to thrive, although we have incurred some costs from an unexpected quarter. Britannica has been chosen to lead the games in October, an honor for your entire gladiatorial company, which continues to succeed under your sponsorship. I have no doubt she will lead them to victory.
I trust all is well with you in Rome, Mistress, and I remain your obedient servant,
Philos
The last line hurts, even though the words are nothing but a formula. It is not as if Philos can admit his true role as Rufina’s father, or as Amara’s lover. Former lover, she reminds herself, setting the tablet down in her lap. It is years since they lay together, or shared any of the intimacies that make up her daily life with Demetrius. Perhaps Philos now loves someone else. The thought is not a comforting one.
Philos’s letter is only a few lines long and yet it brings a backwash of painful emotion. The stone bench grows colder underneath Amara as she sits, unable to eat, longing not only for her daughter, but for all those she left behind. Britannica, her most loyal friend, whose exploits as a gladiator in the arena fill Amara both with pride for her strength, and terror for her safety. Julia and Livia, whose company and wit she misses dearly. It was Julia who provided Amara with a permanent home in Pompeii after Rufus left her, and Julia who is now ensuring that Rufina has a loving childhood in that same home, within the walls of her estate. One of the most formidable entrepreneurs in the town and a friend of Pliny, Julia Felix is the closest Rufina has to a mother in Amara’s absence, even helping persuade Rufus to keep his slave Philos on loan to Amara, to oversee their child’s education. Philos. It is impossible to think of him without sadness. She has grown to care very much for Demetrius, but still, it is an affection that cannot compete with the pas. . .
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