Amara nods at Philos then turns away from him. The three of them set off in single file, Philos in front, Amara in the middle and Juventus, as the most formidable figure, taking up the rear. It’s a market day in the Forum, and by the time they reach the Via Veneria, the road is crammed with wagons and mules, the air thick with the shouting and ill temper of so many people trying to crush past at once. The pavements are packed too, a perfect environment for pickpockets. Amara can feel the leather purse sticking to her skin with sweat. Britannica insisted she hang it round her neck, hidden under her clothes. The money has been split between the three of them, in the hope that if robbers strike, they won’t lose it all.

The faint drizzle is scarcely more than mist, but by the time they arrive at the Wolf Den it has coated their faces, and Amara knows it will have ruined her hair, seeping through the thin veil draped over her head and shoulders. She only hopes the kohl has not smudged around her eyes.

Juventus slams his fist on the wooden door, knocking so loudly that a couple of passersby laugh, yelling a joke about being eager to get in the brothel. Paris opens the door then looks the burly porter up and down, his expression wary. “The men can wait outside,” Paris says.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Amara hisses, her voice low to avoid their audience overhearing. “Do you think I carried all the money myself?”

Paris lets them in, grumbling as they troop up the stairs. “Well, I’m not having a bunch of thugs in the master’s room. You’ll have to go in alone, and they can wait here.” He chivvies them into the small chamber next to Felix’s study. It’s unpleasantly familiar, the walls with their dizzying, geometric design of black and white, the brazier on the floor with its faint heat. Amara’s breathing is coming too quickly, panic pressing in on her the closer she gets to confronting Felix. She is aware of Philos trying to catch her eye, can sense his anxiety, but ignores him. He gives up and mutters something to Juventus in their own dialect. The porter starts fumbling under his cloak for the purse. Juventus is the only one who looks unafraid. Instead, he is gaping round, incredulous. If he hadn’t known his new mistress was a brothel whore before, he certainly does now.

Paris sticks his head round the door. “Move it!” he barks.