Amara remembers Victoria’s incessant taunting of Beronice at the brothel and knows she could keep this up for hours if nobody intervenes. She picks up a half-empty jug of water and flings it at Victoria. “And you are a tease!”

Victoria shrieks, splashing Amara with water from the fountain in revenge, and the gathering degenerates into more yelling and leaping to escape the spray. After they have exhausted themselves, Amara goes to the kitchen to fetch the food for lunch, making several journeys. As the mistress, she is expected to wait on the others. The kitchen is tiny, little more than a hole with a ledge for broiling meat or heating up pans. A shelved storeroom opens onto it and, beyond that, the latrine. The lingering smell of wood smoke, stale roasted fish and excrement makes Amara feel nauseous. She is unsurprised neither Martha nor Juventus have much enthusiasm for cooking in here.

When she has served the women, Amara takes food out to the men in the atrium, water dripping from her hair as she walks. Juventus stares at her body where the wet material clings, but she barely notices—she is too busy enjoying the way Philos smiles at her.

“You’re winning!” she says, looking at his side of the board as she sets down the plate. Philos is so close to her, and there is such affection in his eyes, it is an effort to stop herself from kissing him.

“The game’s not over yet.” Juventus scowls.

Philos replies to him in dialect, something that makes Juventus look less sour. As she walks away, Juventus makes an expressive-sounding comment, rounded off by a filthy laugh. Amara has worked long enough as a prostitute to recognize sexually charged remarks, whatever the language. She cannot read anything into the tone of Philos’s reply, but she is not entirely pleased that whatever he has said makes the porter laugh even harder.

“You can have Juventus whenever you like,” Amara says to Lais in Greek, sitting beside her. “Maybe the man would be less insufferable if he had a lover.”

Lais raises her eyebrows. “If you paid me, I’d be happy enough.” Amara thinks she is joking, then realizes from the sharpness of Lais’s expression that she is keen to make money. It reminds Amara of how she used to be at the Wolf Den.

“If that’s what you want.”

“You could charge him too,” Lais suggests. “And then perhaps we can split what he gives you?”

“No, you keep what I charge him. You’re the one earning it. Though we don’t need to tell Juventus that.”