“Where are we going?” she asks at last, as they cross the Via Veneria. It’s a sweltering day, the afternoon sky almost white in the heat. They walk on the shady side of the road, hugging the walls of the buildings they pass.

“I don’t know,” Cressa says. “A bar, if you like? I could do with a drink.”

“There’s a fast-food place near the theater,” Amara says. “I know the landlady.”

“Fine,” Cressa says. She takes Amara’s hand and squeezes it. “Don’t take it personally with Victoria, will you? She was just upset.”

“She’s upset because she knows it’s true. Felix doesn’t give a shit about any of us!” A respectable wife swerves out of their way, tutting. Amara has a sudden, vivid image of meeting her own mother on the pavement. What would she think of her daughter, swearing like a whore on a street corner? I am a whore on a street corner, Amara thinks. The absurdity almost makes her want to laugh.

“Can’t you feel sorry for her then?” Cressa says. “Considering.”

“I suppose,” Amara replies, not sure why Victoria’s anger is more deserving of sympathy than anyone else’s. A sudden wrench of anxiety stops her, and she rests her hand against the wall to steady herself. Unless Victoria has guessed who is really responsible for trashing Simo’s bar and blames Amara? You were the one who suggested turning his bar over in the first place. They were both with Felix when Amara hinted Simo should pay for the slight at the baths. Does Victoria remember what was said?

“She’ll get over it,” Cressa says, mistaking the drawn look on Amara’s face. “Let’s just have a drink. It will make you feel better.”

Marcella’s place makes the Sparrow look grand. It’s nestled in a side street to catch passing trade from the theater, with very little room to do anything but stand and nurse a flask of wine or else take away one of the greasy-looking pies frying at the back. Cressa doesn’t seem to care. She slumps at the counter. “A small wine. Whatever’s cheapest.”

The slave girl serving is red-cheeked and sweating, slowly roasting in the heat from the oven behind.

“Your mistress not here?” Amara says.

“Back in a minute,” the girl replies. “What you having?”

“I’ll wait until Marcella is back.”

The girl shrugs and pours out Cressa’s drink. She’s careful not to overfill the measure. “Barely an acorn cup,” Cressa complains, showing it to Amara. She takes a sip and pulls a face. “Strong enough to knock out a mule.” She downs it and pushes the flask back toward the girl. “Another.” The girl pours out more wine, and Amara is relieved to see Cressa doesn’t knock this one straight back too. “You know Drauca had a little girl?”

“No,” Amara says, her heart sinking at the thought.