From the garden, Amara can hear singing and laughter. Victoria and the flautists are practicing their routines for an upcoming dinner. They have managed to win two bookings in one week, largely thanks to Victoria’s hustling. Amara is grateful for the way Victoria has taken to that side of the business, often attending meetings with their fellow pimps on her own, sparing Amara the embarrassment. Those evenings when she does not work, Victoria is often absent, her affair with Crescens showing no signs of cooling. Amara had worried that Victoria might find it difficult to continue servicing clients now she is in love, but Victoria only laughed, saying Crescens is not a jealous man.

“How old were you when you first learned to fight?” Amara watches Britannica’s maneuvers with the wooden knife, her footsteps light, almost as if she were dancing.

“We learn as children,” Britannica replies. “All my people do this. Better that way.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your family.”

Britannica keeps moving, gestures Amara remembers from the brothel when the Briton would enact imaginary fights in her cell, keeping up her strength. “Death is no dishonor. They die as they live, as fighters,” she replies. “Dishonor is mine.”

“Not now,” Amara says, thinking she means her time as a prostitute. “That’s over.”

Britannica stops, slowly lowering her arm. “Always dishonor. It never leave me.”

“Your brother?”

“Philos tell you.” Britannica’s eyes are shrewd. Not for the first time, Amara wonders how much she knows. “My brother was not man, not child.” Britannica’s expression darkens. “My family tell me to hide him, protect him. I am not quick enough.”

“But there was only one of you, and there must have been so many soldiers.”

“I am not quick enough,” Britannica repeats. “Not for Dido, either.”

“That wasn’t your fault!” Amara exclaims, shocked that Britannica might blame herself for Dido’s death. She is so used to seeing Britannica’s strength, her daunting height and increasingly muscular physique, that she has almost forgotten the Briton as she first saw her. Angry, but also traumatized, unable to fight off the men at the brothel, even though she nearly died trying. “It was not your fault.” Amara’s gaze is fierce. “It was Felix.”

Britannica nods. “One day I kill him,” she says, her voice calm. “The first time he touch me, I promise myself this. But first, I regain my honor.”

Amara is unsurprised by the Briton’s vow of vengeance, more puzzled by her desire to postpone the bloodshed. “How?”

“When I am gladiator,” Britannica says. “Win or die. This is honor.”

“Gladiators are slaves. It might look glorious in the arena, but it’s a hard, brutal life. I wouldn’t want to see you die that way.”

Britannica laughs. “I not intend to die.” She whips round, bringing the blunt point of the knife to rest at Amara’s throat. “You see,” she says. “They not catch me.”