Britannica, who is still eating, snarls something in her own language. Amara does not have to understand the words to catch the murderous intention. She ignores the outburst. “Has he spoken about Victoria?”

“Won’t let us mention her,” Fabia says, lowering her voice. “Not that anyone would dare. Though he doesn’t exactly seem heartbroken. Has the new girl upstairs a fair bit. Nothing like the time he used to spend with you, of course.” She darts a sly glance at Amara, as if she might be flattered by the information.

“And Beronice?”

“Still lovesick for Gallus. Surprised by how long that’s lasted. I thought he’d have dropped her by now.” Fabia has her arms folded, and her eyes have drifted to the door. The old woman is obviously nervous staying here, now her stew is gone. She’s not the only one, Amara thinks. Then Fabia suddenly leans over the table, and Amara does the same, so their heads are close together, almost touching. “The real news is, he’s branching out,” she whispers. “He’s renting a small bar outside the baths. Gallus and Thraso are both desperate to run it. But the boss is stringing them along, not decided yet.” In spite of herself, Amara feels a flicker of admiration. If she were Felix, the brothel would not be enough for her either. Fabia straightens up. “And that’s about it.”

“Thank you,” Amara says, though she is not sure, on balance, that the risk of discovery was worth the information. “I don’t think I can do this again, Fabia. It’s too much, coming to a tavern right on the Via Veneria. Rufus might find out.”

Fabia nods. “It doesn’t feel safe.”

“And you really won’t come to the house? I promise you Victoria would never tell.” There is no hesitation to Fabia’s shake of the head. Her fear of Felix is greater even than the risk of starvation. “Then I will leave a tab at the counter for you,” Amara says. “Enough for ten meals. If you come twice a week that’s five weeks. After that I will send Britannica back to renew it.”

“Why?” Fabia asks, frowning. “I can’t give you any more information that way.”

“But you can,” Amara says. “You can leave messages with Nicandrus if there’s anything you think I should know. Britannica will come by each week to collect them for me. That’s if you think it’s a fair exchange.”

Whether she is enthusiastic about this idea or not, Fabia is not fool enough to turn down free food. “Of course. A small price to pay for such generosity.” The two women smile at one another—the beautiful courtesan, and the shadow of what she fears to become.