Amara nods. “Don’t tell her to expect us.” For a moment, she wonders if she should share what she knows about Dido, then decides against it. Better let Nicandrus believe his love is at peace. “Thank you,” she says. “And stay well.”

Nicandrus nods, distracted, already being hassled by other customers who are displeased that he is daring to snatch a few moments to chat rather than serve. Some believe, it seems, the only rest a slave should enjoy is in death. Amara and Britannica abandon him and make their way back onto the street. Breathing in the cooler air is a relief. “Nicandrus wouldn’t be stuck here if it weren’t for Felix,” Amara says. “I can’t believe Zoskales sold him to such a bitch.”

“No good masters.” Britannica glances at Amara, both of them conscious of their own relationship. “One day, you free me. It is different.”

They continue walking up the main road toward the Forum. Every street corner in this part of town is somewhere Amara once loitered with Dido, but today, as well as the sense of loss, she feels an unusually strong pull of solidarity toward Britannica. When they reach the turning to the brothel, neither speaks but both quicken their pace, passing it as swiftly as possible.

In the Forum, the stone rib cage of the buildings traps the heat reflecting off the white marble. Voices rise like the incense outside Jupiter’s temple, in a murmur that is almost musical. There are no hawkers to interrupt with screeching cries, only a few stalls selling the last drooping flowers for offerings to Diana. Amara chooses two stems of gladioli which look slightly less crumpled than the rest.

“We cannot go inside the temple precincts,” she says to Britannica. “We’ll have to leave these at the door.”

They join a small queue of women and slaves who are waiting by the entrance to Apollo’s temple, where the god’s sister Diana is also worshipped. The woman in front of Amara is heavily pregnant, stroking her belly gently with the sprig of flowers she has brought for the goddess.

“The hunter is also for childbirth?” Britannica asks.

“Yes,” Amara says. For a moment, she thinks Britannica is going to say something more, but she does not.

At the doorway, a dour attendant waits with a basket in which worshippers silently lay their offerings. He does not look especially pleased by the sight of Britannica, who peers straight over his head to catch a glimpse of the temple precincts. He shoos her away. Britannica does not hurry herself to obey, and Amara has to tug her arm to get her to move. “Always the hunter is your chosen goddess?” Britannica says, as they walk back toward the Forum.

“No. My parents worshipped the goddess Pallas Athene, above all others.”