Beronice doesn’t defend herself but lies in a slump. “He slapped me,” she says.

“What? Fabius?” Victoria is shocked. “He’s such a weed!”

“No. Gallus,” Beronice looks miserable. “He says I enjoy it too much. The other men, I mean.”

“What does he expect you to do? Wail and moan about your lost virtue all night? Prick.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Amara blurts out. They both stare at her.

“What a question!” Victoria says. “You sound like a customer, Amara.”

“But, I mean . . .” She stops, unsure what she wants to say. Last night with Salvius had hardly been a revelation. She didn’t feel pleasure, in spite of his considerable efforts. But it hadn’t been totally unpleasant either. For the first time, she had had an inkling that it might be different, if the man were different.

“Was there more to this dead-wife fuck than you’re telling us?” Victoria asks.

“Dead wife?” Beronice says.

“You told them about Salvius then?” It’s Dido leaning against the doorway. Victoria shoves Beronice along to make room for Dido to sit on the bed, leaving Amara the only one standing. All three of them are looking at her.

“Please don’t tell us you’re in love with a man who gets you to dress up as his dead wife,” Victoria says.

“No!” Amara says. “Although, I do quite like him. As a friend.”

“A friend?” Beronice repeats in disbelief.

“Would you marry him if he asked you to be wife number two?” Victoria is enjoying her role as prosecutor.

“Yes, but that’s not love. I’d just rather be a freedwoman running an ironmonger’s than a slave working for Felix. Wouldn’t you?”

“Is he an amazing lay?”

Amara pauses.

“He is an amazing lay!” Victoria yells. The other two start laughing, and Amara finds herself laughing too.

“He just made an effort, that’s all. Customers don’t normally, do they?”

“That’s why you steer them,” Victoria says. “You can take some control of the situation.”

“I’m not sure,” Beronice says, frowning. “I know what she means.”

“Nobody wants to hear what a great lover Gallus is,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes. “Please spare us.”

“Yes, but, it is different, if the man makes an effort. It just is,” Beronice says. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s never any different,” Dido says.

“You can’t rely on the man to give you any pleasure,” Victoria states, as if this were obvious. “You just have to do what you like and take them along.”

“What if you don’t like any of it?” Dido asks.

“Then,” says Victoria, putting an arm round her like a conspirator, “you just have to hope, one day, if you are really lucky, an ironmonger asks you to dress up as his dead wife.”