“It must have been very difficult back at the brothel after Dido died,” Amara says, when Beronice has finally run out of praise for her tedious husband. “I know you loved her.” The grief on Beronice’s face almost brings Amara some comfort—at least it proves how much Dido is missed.

“It was the worst time. She was the kindest person I ever met.”

They are both silent for a moment, before Amara asks the question she has been waiting to raise all afternoon. “Nobody seems to know what Felix did with her body. Have you ever asked Gallus where he buried her ashes?”

Beronice looks embarrassed. “The second time I asked, he threatened to slap me,” she replies. “And Gallus only does that if he’s really, really angry, so I can’t ask again.”

“Felix must have buried her though, mustn’t he?” Amara says, not liking to think of Gallus bullying Beronice. “Even he can’t have left her at the dump.”

“No!” Beronice exclaims, shaking her head. “Definitely not. Even Felix wouldn’t do that. He’s just being a shit by refusing to tell.” They both sit contemplating the man who has caused them so much pain. Amara thinks of his recent promise to claim her, and all the effort it is going to take to evade him.

“Do you want to go back in?” Amara asks. “The beast hunt must have finished by now.”

“Only if you’re sure.” Beronice jumps up eagerly. “I’d better not miss it all, Gallus will be wanting to talk about the fights later. It annoys him if I can’t follow what he says.”

The duelling has already started by the time they are back inside. Their shuffle along the row is greeted with even less tolerance this time; one angry woman throws olive stones at them, the pits stinging as they hit Amara’s hands. They dodge the worst of the hail and squash in next to Victoria and Britannica who, Amara notices, have left a large gap rather than sit side by side. She had hoped after the row with Vitalio, that her two friends might grow closer, but it seems their mutual dislike is too ingrained.

“Amara,” Britannica says, gripping her arm. “How you miss this?” Britannica’s face is flushed, one hand clutching the gladiatorial amulet she always wears. “It is real fighting.”