“In a manner of speaking.”

“Hardly!” Victoria snorts. “Amara was a doctor’s daughter.”

“Yes.” Amara smiles. “And then a concubine. And then a whore. And now a courtesan.”

Lais nods vigorously. “Courtesan is good,” she says. “Hetaira.”

Lais’s whole face changes with just one word of her native language. Amara cannot resist switching to Greek too, to see who Lais becomes.

“Fortune was kind to me with my beloved patron Rufus,” Amara says to her. “Perhaps life will grant you a similar opportunity to rise. You are both quite skilled enough to take it.”

“You are generous, mistress,” Lais replies, her voice deepening. “I pray, by the will of Aphrodite, that I find myself a patron as gracious as yours. One who can pay you and Mistress Drusilla a suitable price, of course. So that everyone benefits.”

“Nothing would please me more. A woman’s cunning lasts longer than her looks.”

“And both last longer than her virtue,” Phoebe adds. It is a commonplace remark, but the three of them still laugh.

“What you saying?” Britannica is irritated. “Latin bad enough. Greek, impossible.”

“Sorry,” Amara replies. “I said I hoped the girls would do well in life, because they certainly have the talent.”

“Shame there’s nobody here to speak your language Britannica,” Victoria says. “It’s so melodious.”

“You also train as a concubine, Britannica?” Phoebe asks, before a row can start. The question almost causes Victoria to spit out her wine with mirth.

“Fighter,” Britannica says, ignoring Victoria, striking her heart hard with her right hand.

“How are you here?” Lais says, and Amara realizes with a sense of shame that she has never, in all the time she has known her, asked Britannica this question.

“They raid us,” Britannica says, her face expressionless. “Kill men. Burn everything. Take women, children. My family, all dead. I see them die.” Even Victoria cannot reply in the dark silence that follows. Britannica looks around, absorbing their discomfort. She smiles her gap-toothed grin, the one Amara recognizes as having no warmth to it. “You all pray tonight for spirits to stay away. I say, come! Come for vengeance!” She glances at Amara and the flautists. “No quarrel with Greeks. Italians only.”

Victoria, the only Italian present, is not oblivious to the insult. “Then you should stay away,” she hisses. “Don’t dare bring your dead here!”

Britannica rises from the couch, and they all jump back. Amara holds out her arm, unsure if she needs to restrain the Briton from violence, but Britannica only nods at her. “I have had enough, Amara. I go to bed.” She strides from the room.

“Why didn’t you stop her telling that story!” Victoria exclaims, looking at Amara. “Tonight of all nights! We don’t need a hoard of savage spirits turning up!”

“I didn’t think,” Amara replies, unable to admit that she didn’t know about Britannica’s past. “I’ll ask Philos about it.”