There are no stepping-stones to cross the language barrier that sits between Amara and Britannica. All the shades of meaning that could lie within the word bad, reduced like everything else Britannica says into blunt, unsophisticated phrases, even though Amara has long suspected she is anything but. “Why did you always think badly of Victoria? Is it because she called you savage?”

“I watch her eyes. Even before I understand all the words, what she say is different to what she think. When you, Amara, go out at the brothel, she is different; when you return, she is different again.”

“When I went out, she was different?” Amara says, struggling to follow.

“You are strongest. She know this; she not like it.” Britannica looks at Amara, resentment plain in her face. “I try to warn you many times. Always, I am warning you.”

“I thought you just didn’t like her.”

Britannica shakes her head. “You want ask me about Philos? What I see?”

“You’ve watched him?”

“Always watch him, after I understand what he is to you.”

“And what did you learn?” In spite of herself, Amara is almost afraid to hear the answer.

“He never protect you. Felix kill him quickly, more than quickly. But I watch his eyes. He is good.” She places a hand to her heart. “I trust him. Better man for you than others.” Britannica’s words affect Amara in ways she had not thought possible. Not having to face another’s judgment, when she has been burdened with the fear of punishment and disgrace for so long, makes her want to weep. “No,” Britannica warns, seeing her emotion. “Don’t.”

They have reached Asellina’s bar. The reek of stew, smoke and alcohol wafts onto the street, along with the hubbub of voices. It seems the hard-faced landlady has not chosen to give her slaves a day off. Amara puts a hand over her mouth to stop herself retching from the stench. Britannica looks at her with apprehension. “I go in for you?”

“No.” Amara shakes her head. “I should speak to Nicandrus myself.”

They enter through the shop, rather than the bar. Nicandrus is serving, looking even skinnier and grubbier than the last time Amara saw him. The place is sweltering. A vat of water is boiling over the fire at the side of the counter, steam billowing from it, making Nicandrus drip with sweat, hair matted to his forehead. Amara and Britannica join the queue. Nicandrus spots Amara, long before he is due to serve them, and she is grateful to see him shout over his shoulder for assistance.

Even with another slave at the counter to help serve, they have only the briefest time for a conversation. “When does Fabia come in?” Amara asks. “Does she have regular times?”

“Every Friday,” he replies. “Usually early.”