After a few more awkward exchanges about the fountain, Amara walks her client to the door, ignoring the ragged old woman now sitting by the stairwell in the atrium. The hunched figure could easily be mistaken for an elderly house slave, unworthy of notice.

As soon as they have said their goodbyes, and she is sure Metella is safely out of sight, Amara turns back to the old woman. The figure stands up, pushing the hood from her face. It is Fabia, the brothel drudge, a former prostitute and Felix’s oldest slave.

“Thank you for coming,” Amara says, taking Fabia’s outstretched hands in her own. “I’ve missed you.”

3

“And all this time the poor slaves are forbidden to move their lips to speak, let alone to eat. The slightest murmur is checked with a stick; not even accidental sounds like a cough, or a sneeze, or a hiccup are let off a beating.”

—Seneca, Letters from a Stoic

Amara and Fabia sit in the garden, last night’s bean stew and a heap of bread on a table beside them. They both eat like wolves, Fabia ravenous from near starvation and Amara from her self-imposed fasting. She knows what they must look like—an old whore and a young one, slaking their appetites, stew dripping from their chins, but she doesn’t care.

“That’s good, that is,” Fabia says, rubbing another hunk of bread around her already polished bowl. “A good cook you have there.”

“I’ll tell Martha you liked it,” Amara replies.

“Look at you,” Fabia says, sitting back slightly and squinting at her, finally able to focus on her companion now the edge of her hunger has been blunted. “How well you’ve done! I can hardly believe it.”

The painting of Dido is behind Fabia, and Amara is pleased she has not seen it yet, that she does not have to confront Fabia’s grief. “How is everyone?” she asks. “How is Victoria? And Beronice? Is she still with Gallus? Is Britannica doing any better?”

“All the same,” Fabia replies, helping herself to yet another piece of bread and taking a slug of wine. “Beronice still thinks Gallus will marry her. Maybe he will, who knows. And the boss finally got replacements for you and Dido. A couple of Greeks. A girl and a boy, so my Paris is pleased, less time in the brothel for him. Though they’re a bit young for it, if you ask me. Put Victoria’s nose out of joint.”

“Does Felix still have her stay nights upstairs?”

Fabia nods. “Such a bastard. He’ll keep her up there a week at a time, like some sort of wife, then back she goes to the brothel. Victoria’s a strong girl, but it’s enough to break anyone’s spirit, having your hopes dashed all the time. It’s a trick he learned from—” the old woman stops herself.

“His father?” Amara asks.