Amara wants to explain that she’s willing to try anything, no matter how far-fetched, however horrible, anything that might get them out of the brothel. Paris’s sharp voice calls down. “What are you both doing?”

“Leaving,” Victoria says, pulling the door toward her. They slip out into the rain and, within a couple of paces, are back inside.

Even though the sky is murky and overcast, it is another level of darkness in the brothel. The shutters in the small cells are locked to keep out the damp and the air is thick with smoke from incense and oil lamps. The space is not that much smaller than Felix’s apartment above, but to Amara, it feels as narrow as a tomb.

Fabia is slopping out, trying to stop the latrine from overflowing with rainwater. The stench, never pleasant at this end of the corridor, is worse than usual. She looks up briefly to greet them, then bends back down to her task. Fabia used to work here as a she-wolf before she grew too old. She even gave birth to the wretched Paris in one of the cells. Fabia barely earns her keep now, but so far Felix has not thrown her out on to the streets to fend for herself.

“What did Felix say?” Cressa asks, as she and the other women emerge from Beronice’s cell.

“He’s going to give it another go with Vibo,” Victoria says. “He wants to persuade him to take us back at the baths, which means the smelly prick will be coming here, and we’ve got to give him whatever he wants.” She folds her arms, and Amara is expecting her to tell everyone whose fault this is. But she doesn’t.

“Vibo’s coming here?” Beronice says. “But he can’t be!”

“Is he that bad?” Amara asks. Any lingering satisfaction she felt at impressing Felix is fast disappearing.

“You two not had him yet?” Cressa asks. Amara and Dido shake their heads. “He’s the worst. Practically strangled me last time.” She raises a hand to her throat, as if remembering his fingers around her neck.

Amara looks at Victoria, full of remorse, but she ignores her. “And the best part,” Victoria says, “is that we’ve all got to earn Our Glorious Master five denarii each by tomorrow.”

Cressa groans.

“Was he joking?” Beronice asks, her face hopeful. She’s never very good at spotting when anyone is being humorous.

“Not joking,” Victoria replies. “Safe to say he was not in a jolly mood.”

“But we’ll never manage it!” Beronice wails. “That’s far too much.”

“We’d better get as close to it as we can.” Cressa’s gaze wanders over to Fabia, still sluicing the latrine. “Though Venus herself would struggle to pick up punters in this weather.”