“Wherever you meet,” Philos says, “you know Felix is going to do everything he can to distress you. You have to prepare yourself.”

Amara almost wishes she had not made her hostility to Felix so obvious after Dido’s death. “I know,” she says.

“I don’t just mean because he’s a shit,” Philos adds, surprising her by swearing. “He will upset you to try and put you off your negotiating. Don’t let him.” Philos is closer to her now, and some of his deference has dropped. “It’s a while since anyone has spoken to you the way he once did. You will always be a slave to Felix. I hope you won’t budge on that maximum price.”

“If I have to walk away, I will.”

“Even if Victoria begs you?”

Amara swallows, hating the thought. “She wouldn’t do that. Victoria never begs.”

“Do you think there’s anything a human being won’t do when they are that close to tasting their freedom?”

“If Felix knows I will walk away, he won’t push me that far. He will want the money.”

They are getting closer to the old familiar part of town. It is easier for them to walk together on the wide pavements of the Via Veneria. The road rises up the hill. At the top sits the Forum, which Amara knows will be ringing with hawkers’ cries and the hammering of building work on the nearby Temple of Venus. A wagon stacked with masonry rattles past, and Philos steers her to the side, shielding her from the dust.

They keep walking, at last arriving at the piazza outside the baths. Amara hesitates. She used to tout for business here. Fishing as Victoria calls it. She sees the men sauntering out of the gateway, faces shining from the heat of the steam room, and feels a stab of fear.

“We can go back,” Philos says, noticing her increasing agitation.

“I can’t leave her,” Amara replies. “I can’t.”

Philos looks troubled, and for a moment, she thinks he is going to argue, to force her to go home. She almost hopes he will.

“As you wish,” he says.

They set off again, passing in front of the baths, taking the narrow road that leads to the brothel. She lets her feet guide her, abandoning her will to the habit of her body. Then they round the corner, and it’s there. The Wolf Den. The building hangs over the street at the fork, its shadow falling toward her. She wants to take Philos’s arm then, whatever the impropriety, but forces herself to carry on alone.

At the door to Felix’s flat, they stop. She knocks hard on the wood. There is the thud of steps down the stairs, a scramble at the lock, then Paris answers.