Zoskales seems to share their anxiety. He flaps his hands at the men still milling about. “Show’s over,” he declares, shepherding customers toward the tavern. “Plenty of drink left inside.”

Philos takes advantage of the distraction, hurrying her and Victoria down the road to the brothel. Thraso, Felix’s henchman, is standing guard at the door. The sight of him there, exactly how Amara remembers, is like walking around the corner to her past. Behind him, the building is a malevolent presence, saturated with unhappiness, the stench of soot and the sense of fear. She can hear Beronice sobbing inside.

“The Briton?” Thraso says, shaking his head as she approaches. “You want the fucking Briton?”

“Give her to me,” Amara says. She cannot bear to stand here at the threshold of her nightmares, listening to Beronice’s suffering, for a moment longer. “She’s mine.”

Thraso stares down at her, until the memory of his slap is so acute, she can almost feel it on her skin. “Wait here.”

A few moments later, Britannica emerges blinking into the daylight. She is almost as tall as Thraso and even more unkempt than Amara remembers. Her red hair has been hacked short like a man, and a ragged tunic exposes her pale, muscular arms. Britannica’s face breaks into a grin when she sees Amara. “You come for me,” she rasps out, barging past Thraso to join them on the pavement.

“It talks?” Thraso exclaims. Britannica’s refusal to speak a word of Latin had always been one of her many forms of resistance to life in the brothel.

Britannica spins round, bristling with aggression. “Yes, I talk.” She spits at his feet. “Fuck you.”

If she did not have the advantage of Thraso’s complete astonishment, Britannica would undoubtedly have felt his fist in her face. Instead, Philos uses the split-second of surprise to yank her out of harm’s way. They break into a run, ignoring the threats Thraso bellows after them. Amara looks back. He is not following, staying instead at his post on the brothel door. Felix must have given orders to let them go.

The Wolf Den disappears as they round the corner, joining a crowd of women lining up to get into the baths. They weave their way through, trying not to trip over anyone’s feet or trailing hems. In the crush, Amara can feel hysteria rising in her chest like a bubble seeking air. Her horror at leaving Beronice is fading, overwhelmed by a growing sense of elation at their escape. She grips Victoria’s hand. The enormity of freedom is just starting to sink in, she can see it in the drunk way Victoria is staring at her surroundings, as if only just noticing them, understanding that her life now belongs to her.