Amara takes a seat on a bench by the wall, and Dido joins her. Victoria tries to pull up stools for her and Cressa, but the man with the missing teeth catches hold of her wrist. “Plenty of room for you to sit here.” White spittle pools in the middle of his lips as he speaks. He spreads his legs out, slapping his knee. His companion snorts with laughter.

“Hope you aren’t bothering the ladies.” Nicandrus arrives with the tray. His tone is light, but he walks deliberately between the tables, forcing the man to let go.

“Oh, they’re no trouble.” Victoria smiles sweetly at the man who just grabbed her. She sits down, moving her cloak so he can see up the length of her thigh, before swiftly covering it. She smiles at him again, and he stares back, flushed. First fish caught, Amara thinks.

Nicandrus puts the bean stew down in front of Dido. “You look cold,” he says.

“It’s so wet out,” she replies.

“Hope this warms you.” He hovers, obviously hoping she will say something more. Amara has noticed the way Nicandrus watches Dido, seen his nervousness whenever an aggressive customer gets too close to her. She almost loves him for it.

“Nicandrus!” Zoskales bellows across the bar. “The wine won’t serve itself!”

Dido bends her head to eat. She is hopeless at fishing. A few short months ago she was a respectable girl from a small suburb of Carthage, never leaving the house with her head uncovered, betrothed to a man chosen by her father, a secluded life of raising children and keeping house stretching out in front of her. Amara feels a pain in her chest. She has been enslaved longer than Dido, but not so long she doesn’t remember the agony of losing her own freedom.

“You’re not from Pompeii,” Victoria says to the two traders. She is making quick work of her stew, dabbing with the bread around the rim, never one to let a potential customer slip away.

“Did you travel by sea?” Cressa says. “I’ve always wanted to travel by sea.” She sips her wine, gazing at the bearded man as if he were the god Poseidon deigning to visit the mortals on shore.

“No. We came over from Puteoli,” he says. “In the meat business. Goats, mainly.”

“Bet you like a bit of meat,” his companion adds, poking Victoria in the leg, the string of saliva between his lips lengthening as he grins. Victoria laughs, covering her mouth prettily with one hand, as if he just said something witty. Amara tries not to wince. Always the same. Why do men never have anything original to say to a prostitute? This pair are moments away from bragging about the size of their cocks.