“Oh, look at her!” Victoria laughs. “You’re all welling up. We’ve had the weird ironmonger, and now you’re in love with some doddery old granddad. You have the worst taste in men I have ever known!”

“That guy she met at the games was alright,” Beronice says, defending her. “He wasn’t bad at all.”

“Say that louder, and Gallus might hear you,” Victoria whispers, and they all laugh as Beronice whips round.

“Fuck you,” Beronice says to Victoria, but she is laughing too.

“And what’s all this?” Victoria gestures at her to hand over the clothes. “How many new outfits did he give you?”

“Three,” Amara says, passing them round. “I guess I’ll have to give them all to Felix.”

“Lovely material,” Victoria says, stroking one of the dresses. “But you do look a bit matronly.” She squints at the respectable clothes Amara is wearing. “I shouldn’t think anyone would dare ask for a shag if you swanned around in that.” An idea strikes her. “Please don’t tell me the old man wanted you to dress up as his dead wife too!”

“No.” Amara laughs. “Nothing like that.”

“What then?” Beronice says. “Must have been something special to buy you for a week.”

“He wanted me to read to him.”

“Sexy books?” Victoria is too shocked to make a joke out of it. “Is that it?”

“No! I mean we went to bed together,” Amara says defensively, thinking of the nights she spent lying naked beside Pliny, his hand resting on her while they both slept. “Just that . . .” She trails off, not knowing how to explain what happened or how she feels about it.

“It’s alright,” Dido says, hugging her again. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Went to bed together,” Victoria says, copying her coy phrase. “I’ve heard it all now.”

Amara feels suddenly exhausted. After so much time alone, it is going to be a strain returning to the total lack of privacy. “I might just have a rest so I’m not too tired tonight.”

“Oh, you can’t go in there . . .” Victoria says as Amara draws the curtain to her own cell.

“Who’s this?” Amara asks in surprise. An unfamiliar woman is sitting on her bed. She is shockingly pale and has a tangled mass of long red hair. At the sight of the others, she springs up, towering over them, babbling urgently in a strange, guttural language. Amara cannot tell if she is furious or terrified. She steps back into the corridor in alarm.

“Sit!” Victoria shouts, pointing at the bed. “Sit!”

The stranger goes back into the cell, still talking in her incomprehensible tongue, gesturing at them.

“Felix bought her with your old man’s money,” Victoria says. “He told us it’s because you and Dido are out so much, we need more bodies in the brothel.”

“Where am I sleeping then?”