“We can’t possibly afford to,” Drusilla replies in a low voice. It is true. Amara is already reliant on Drusilla to make the bulk of today’s purchase. She has gifted Drusilla several pieces of jewelry instead of putting cash up for this, on the understanding that Drusilla will loan them back from time to time to avoid Rufus’s suspicion.

The trader returns, handing the women their instruments, gesturing roughly at them to play. One of the flautists gives him a look of dislike, but only when he is not looking. They start piping together, their music cutting over the background swell of weeping and shouting, the ugly noise of the marketplace. It’s only a simple melody, but enough to show that they are skilled at the flute and understand how to move. Set alongside Victoria, they would make an undeniably seductive trio. Amara wonders how much Egnatius might pay her if he saw these girls, remembering how he reacted when he first booked her and Dido to perform at last year’s Floralia. Gradually, Amara starts to lose her shame, staring at the girls’ bodies, calculating what they might be worth to her.

When the performance is finished, Drusilla beckons her over to discuss the sale out of the trader’s earshot. “I think we should take them,” she whispers.

Amara nods her agreement. “Have you already told Josephus what we can afford?”

“Of course. And if the man won’t accept, we can come back another day. There will always be more.”

They return to where Josephus and Britannica are standing. Drusilla’s steward understands from the incline of his mistress’s head that she would like to buy. Amara cannot take her eyes off the two flautists while the men haggle, wondering what they make of it all. Again, she remembers her own public sale, her foolish sense of relief that Felix seemed to have a pleasant face, that he had not groped at her roughly like some of the other customers. She had not understood then that his gentleness sprang from a desire to examine his goods as thoroughly as possible. Impossible to feel a woman’s body when she’s flinching. Neither flute player returns Amara’s gaze, instead staring into the middle distance. For the first time, Amara reads the names on their placards. Phoebe. Lais.

“Whereabouts in Greece are you from?” she asks Lais, switching to her native language.

“Athens,” Lais replies, with an insincere smile. The girl has a similar accent to Menander, the man Amara once loved, the one she abandoned for Rufus.