Victoria serves as an important secondary character, embodying the hardened pragmatism required to survive long-term enslavement in the Lupanar. A round and dynamic character, she is introduced as the most experienced and cynical of Felix’s “she-wolves.” Abandoned as a baby on a “rubbish heap,” she lacks the memory of a former, freer life that torments Amara and Dido. This background informs her worldview; she accepts her world’s brutality without illusion. She acts as a mentor to Amara, teaching her the practical rules of their trade and encouraging her to view her body as separate from herself: “It’s just fucking. It’s just your body; it’s not you” (52). This detachment is her primary defense mechanism, allowing her to endure daily rape with a defiant humor and a focus on small victories, such as winning at dice or charming gifts from clients.

Beneath her tough exterior, Victoria is defined by two conflicting forces: a fierce loyalty to her fellow sex workers and a complex, self-destructive devotion to Felix, the enslaver who owns the Wolf Den. Her commitment to the other women is a cornerstone of the theme of Female Solidarity as a Means of Survival. She defends them, teaches them, and ultimately risks her life for them, most notably when she kills one of Simo’s men to prevent him from blinding or murdering Amara. This act of violence reveals the depth of her loyalty and the protective ferocity she harbors for her chosen family. It’s a stark contrast to her love for Felix, which Amara and the other women see as naïve and self-destructive. Despite his cruelty, she craves his approval and seeks intimacy with him, believing she understands his loneliness. She confesses to Amara, “He’s lonely, like I am. I love him so much” (321). This vulnerability exposes the psychological harm of her upbringing and her desperate need for a connection, even with her abuser.

Victoria’s character arc is one of hardening resolve and eventual, brutal disillusionment. Her rivalry with Drauca isn’t merely personal; it’s a professional battle for status and survival in a world that pits women against each other. Her brief elevation as Felix’s live-in favorite gives her a glimpse of a different life, but her subsequent, casual dismissal shatters her long-held illusions about their connection. While she initially resents Amara’s success and perceived ambition, her actions in the necropolis demonstrate that her loyalty to her fellow she-wolf supersedes any professional jealousy or romantic fixation. Victoria represents the quintessential survivor of the Wolf Den, a woman whose cynicism is a shield, whose loyalty is a weapon, and whose tragedy is her inability to ever fully escape the psychological chains of her enslavement.

Felix is the primary antagonist of the novel, a round but largely static character who embodies the oppressive, commodifying system the women are forced to navigate. As the owner of the Wolf Den and a ruthless loan shark, he wields absolute power over the women he enslaves, treating them not as human beings but as assets to be managed for maximum profit. His defining traits are his cruelty, calculating nature, and deep-seated need for control. He uses a combination of physical violence, psychological manipulation, and sexual degradation to keep the she-wolves in a constant state of fear and dependence. His interactions are almost purely transactional; even his sexual encounters with the women are exercises in power rather than expressions of desire. He tells Amara, “I own you. Don’t ever think you are cleverer than me” (52), a statement that encapsulates his worldview and his relationship with those he enslaves.

Felix’s character is given a layer of complexity through a rare, unguarded moment following Cressa’s death. In a confrontation with Amara, he reveals that he was also born in the Wolf Den, the son of a sex worker and the enslaver who preceded him. He declares angrily that his mother “wasn’t as brave as Cressa” because she didn’t choose to “spare her son” by dying by suicide in pregnancy as Cressa did (348). In this moment, he confesses to a despair as deep as that of the women he enslaves: He would prefer never to have been born. This backstory suggests that his cruelty is rooted in his own trauma and a profound self-loathing, a product of the same dehumanizing environment he now perpetuates. This glimpse into his past explains his obsession with power and his cynical view of human connection, but the narrative does not use it to absolve him. Instead, it frames him as a tragic figure who, unlike the women who forge bonds of solidarity, chooses to replicate the cycle of abuse and exploitation from which he came.

As a businessman, Felix is shrewd and ambitious. He expands his enterprises from sex trafficking to include loan-sharking and protection rackets, demonstrating a keen understanding of Pompeii’s corrupt social and economic structures. He recognizes Amara’s intellect and, despite his need to dominate her, utilizes her skills to his advantage. His relationships, particularly with Victoria, are entirely manipulative. He exploits her genuine affection for him to ensure her loyalty and hard work, rewarding her with moments of perceived intimacy that only deepen her dependence. Ultimately, Felix functions as more than just a villain; he’s a symbol of the patriarchal system that reduces human lives, especially those of women, to mere commodities to be bought, sold, and controlled.

Dido is a round, dynamic supporting represents the enduring trauma of sexual enslavement. Kidnapped from a middle-class family in a suburb of Carthage, she enters the Wolf Den alongside Amara, but her response to their shared fate is markedly different. Where Amara adapts strategically, Dido is nearly broken by the psychological and physical violence of her new life. Her fragility and profound sense of shame make her a target for the cruelest clients, and her journey illustrates the immense difficulty of surviving such profound degradation without the protective cynicism of a character like Victoria. Her friendship with Amara is her primary source of strength, a bond of shared experience and mutual protection that proves essential for her endurance.

Her trauma manifests most clearly in her inability to form new emotional or physical connections. Though she’s drawn to the kind tavern worker Nicandrus, she can’t bear his touch, associating all physical contact with the violence inflicted upon her. She confesses to Amara, “I can’t bear any man touching me. They all feel like Felix” (112). This confession demonstrates the deep and lasting impact of her commodification, where her body has become a source of pain and fear rather than pleasure or connection. Despite her suffering, Dido discovers a new form of agency through performance. Singing with Amara allows her to reclaim a part of herself, offering a glimpse of the person she might have been in a different life. Her tragic and senseless death in the novel’s climax underscores the constant, arbitrary danger the women face, making her a symbol of the countless lives destroyed by the brutal world they inhabit.

Cressa is a round, static supporting character who functions as the maternal heart of the Wolf Den. Her defining trait is a deep, unassuageable grief for her son Cosmus, whom Felix sold away when he was a young child. This loss shapes her entire being, fueling both her profound empathy for others and her eventual despair. She acts as a protector for the other women, most notably when she intervenes to save Amara from being assaulted by a group of gamblers. Her quiet compassion extends to the most marginalized figures, such as the elderly Fabia and the volatile newcomer Britannica, for whom she becomes the primary caregiver and source of comfort. This maternal instinct is both her greatest strength and the source of her deepest pain.

Cressa’s narrative highlights the ultimate powerlessness of enslaved women, particularly mothers, in a system that views them and their children as property. When she becomes pregnant again, she knows that all possible outcomes will lead to renewed grief, and she determines that suicide is her only acceptable choice. She tells Amara, “If you ever have a child, Amara, you will understand what I feel” (344), articulating a pain beyond the comprehension of those who haven’t experienced it. Her suicide is a pivotal and devastating moment in the novel, serving as a stark reminder of the limits of solidarity in the face of absolute despair. It’s an act of tragic agency, her final and only way to protect herself and her unborn child from further suffering at the hands of Felix.

Rufus is a wealthy young citizen who becomes Amara’s primary patron and her most viable path to freedom. A round and dynamic character, he’s initially portrayed as romantic, naive, and fundamentally decent, a stark contrast to the Wolf Den’s usual clientele. He’s captivated by Amara’s performance of a tragic, educated woman fallen on hard times, as it flatters his image of himself as a kind-hearted hero. Their relationship explores The Ambiguity of Relationships Amid Power Imbalance, as Rufus’s genuine affection is inseparable from his position of power and ownership. He sees himself as a hero from one of the plays he adores, rescuing a “damsel in distress,” yet he remains largely oblivious to the harsh realities of Amara’s life and her strategic calculation. Although he ultimately provides the means for Amara’s freedom, his actions are complicated by his father’s influence and his own ingrained sense of entitlement, revealing that even his love is a form of possession.

Menander, whose true name is Kallias, is an enslaved Greek man who works at a potter’s shop and serves as a romantic interest for Amara. A flat and static character, he primarily functions as a symbol of Amara’s past life and her lost identity as Timarete. Their shared Greek heritage and status as educated, freeborn individuals forced into enslavement by economic precarity creates an immediate and genuine bond between them. He’s the only person in Pompeii to whom Amara reveals her true name, an act of profound trust that underscores the depth of their connection. Menander represents a pure, non-transactional love, a stark contrast to the calculated relationship that Amara pursues with Rufus. Ultimately, Amara’s pragmatic decision to sacrifice her feelings for Menander in favor of the freedom that Rufus can offer is one of her most significant and painful compromises, highlighting the brutal choices required for survival.

Beronice is a flat, static supporting character whose defining trait is her unwavering and seemingly delusional love for Gallus, one of Felix’s enforcers. To Amara, he serves as a cautionary figure, representing a form of escapism through romantic fantasy. Unlike the other women, who are cynical about men’s intentions, Beronice genuinely believes that Gallus loves her and will one day buy her freedom, though the others are certain that he’s merely using her for free sex. For Amara, Beronice’s apparent naivete highlights the dangers of misplaced trust in a world where affection is frequently a tool for exploitation. Even if Gallus does love Beronice, he’s enslaved like her and can’t buy his own freedom, let alone hers. As such, he’s a reminder to Amara that her own love for the enslaved Menander won’t help her escape her situation. While Beronice’s love for Gallus offers a ray of light in an otherwise bleak life, Amara is determined to forego such emotional entanglements in order to secure her freedom at any cost.

Britannica is a flat, static character who represents raw, uncompromising resistance. Abducted from Britain into the Wolf Den without knowing a word of Latin, she reacts to her enslavement with constant physical defiance, fighting and screaming at clients. Her refusal to communicate in her captors’ language even after she has learned to understand it marks her as a “savage” in the eyes of others, including Victoria, but Amara and Cressa recognize it as a form of defiance. She forms a deep bond with Cressa, her only source of kindness, and she grieves silently but deeply after Cressa’s death. Britannica’s eventual, violent protection of Dido shows her capacity for loyalty. The rawness of her emotions—a combination of horror and rage—cuts through the daily routines of the Wolf Den to make clear that what goes on there is rape.

Paris is the son of Fabia, born into enslavement in the Wolf Den. A flat and static character, he embodies the psychological damage of being born and raised within the brutal system of sexual enslavement. Forced to work as a sex worker, Paris is routinely mocked by the other men in the household, and his experiences of rape and abuse fill him with a self-loathing that he projects outward as cruelty, particularly toward his mother and the other women. He’s a foil to the she-wolves, completely lacking any sense of solidarity with his fellow enslaved people. His bitterness, his desperation for Felix’s approval, and his futile attempts to imitate the masculine power of enforcers like Gallus make him a tragic figure, a product of a system that turns its victims against one another.