“So you’re free?” Amara asks, almost speechless that the dim-witted Beronice, who never put in a day’s scheming for her liberty, might have stumbled upon it simply by winning the heart of the brothel’s equally dim doorman.

“No,” Beronice says. “But it doesn’t matter. I belong to Gallus now, and he’s married me. He’s even taken a cut in his wages to pay Felix off,” she adds, in the tone of a woman recounting an act of untold generosity.

“I thought he always promised to free you as well?” Victoria says, sharply. “That’s why you used to pay him all your tips!”

“It hardly matters,” Beronice says, too happy to be perturbed by Victoria’s question. “I don’t mind him owning me. It’s not like I’d ever leave him, is it?”

Victoria and Amara exchange an anxious look, united by their scepticism over Gallus’s good intentions. Beronice does not notice. Instead, she finally sees Britannica. “You’re here too!”

Britannica nods. “I am happy for your fortune,” she replies.

Before Beronice can start exclaiming over Britannica’s ability to speak, they are loudly shushed by the women sitting behind. Trumpets ring out, signalling that the games are about to start. Amara strains to hear the announcement, the man’s shouting largely lost this far back. It is moments like this she is very conscious Latin is not her native language. “What did he say?” she whispers to Victoria.

“It’s a public punishment,” Victoria replies. “Before the duels. It will be runaway slaves, thieves, criminals that sort of thing. They set the beasts on them.”

The arena is humming, spectators murmuring to one another in excited anticipation. Then there is shouting. Amara cranes to see what is happening. A group of men are being driven into the arena. They are unarmed, dressed in shabby tunics. Some carry spears to defer death and prolong the entertainment, but none have any real protection. Amara is too far away to see their faces; she cannot even hear if they are shouting or weeping, the jeering of the crowd is too loud. One stumbles. She grips the seat. In her mind’s eye she can see Philos—how slim and insubstantial he looked walking to Terentius’s tomb. He would kill me for touching a woman who belongs to him.