The Sparrow is only a few paces further away. Its painted sign is drenched and darkened by the rain, but Amara can still make out the small bird surrounded by flowers, sitting on its innuendo-laden message. The Sparrow is Satisfied, So may You be! Nobody is loitering in the small square outside today. Instead, the stones shine white in the wet. When Amara first arrived in Pompeii, almost every scrap of pavement in front of the bar seemed to be taken up by drinkers, most standing and talking, some scribbling messages on the wall. She’s seen graffiti about Felix on there before, even some reviews of the brothel. Plenty about Victoria. Nothing about her. She’s not sure whether to be grateful for that or not.

They scurry inside, stamping their feet on the floor to shake off the rain. Victoria saunters over to the bar. She leans against its marble top, undoing her cloak and letting the edge of her yellow toga slip from her shoulder. There are whistles from a table in the corner.

“Busy morning, ladies?” The landlord, Zoskales, has a cloth draped round his neck and his face is shining with sweat. There’s almost no room for him behind the counter, the wall is stacked with wine jars from floor to ceiling, but Amara’s never seen him knock anything over. She has no idea what brought Zoskales all the way to Pompeii from Ethiopia, a place so distant she finds it almost impossible to imagine its existence. He likes to joke to customers it was love of his wife. Amara almost never sees her at the bar, more often in the street, harried by their three small children. She makes an unlikely Siren, luring her man halfway across the world.

“Not as busy as we’d like,” Victoria says. “Anybody here need entertaining?”

“I’m sure if there are, you’ll soon find them.” Zoskales replies. Business between tavern and brothel is always brisk. “I’ll get Nicandrus to bring you hot wine and stew.”

The women make their way to a table near the two wolf-whistlers. Amara feels a flicker of fear. She would have crossed the street to avoid men like this in her hometown, her mother no doubt tugging her along to walk faster, whispering at her to look down. The two men are already drunk, dressed in the stained, weatherworn clothes of traveling traders. She sees the one closest to them is missing his four front teeth. His companion has a thick beard, curled and dressed with cheap oil to hide the gray.