“You can come in with me,” Dido says. “Makes sense.”

“Doesn’t speak a word of Latin,” Victoria says. “We’ve called her Britannica, because that’s where she’s from. Cressa’s the only one she seems to like. She’s off buying more food for the greedy thing now.”

“I thought all the Britons had blue faces,” Beronice says, looking at Britannica with disappointment. “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? Blue-faced Britons.”

“She’s certainly a savage,” Victoria says. “She just screams all night, scratching the men, biting. She punched one yesterday! Like some sort of animal!”

Amara doesn’t like the way Victoria is talking about Britannica, even if the other woman doesn’t understand. She glances at her again. The Briton is silent now. She certainly looks like a wildcat, with her mane of red hair and green eyes. But the emotion in them is all too human. Rage at her confinement.

“Are you all just standing there talking about her again?”

It’s Cressa, carrying a lump of bread. She shoves them out of the way so she can get in the cell. “You might have a little compassion.”

Britannica’s face lights up at the sight of Cressa, and she begins gabbling. Cressa sits beside her, talking soothingly to her as if she were a small child, stroking her hair. She gives the bread to Britannica who wolfs it down. “Sorry, Amara, I didn’t realize you were back,” she says, finally noticing her.

“That’s alright,” she replies. “I remember my father telling me about the women in Britain. A lot of them are warriors. Maybe Britannica was a soldier.”

“The women go to war?” Dido says.

“Not all of them. My father told me they had a famous queen; I don’t know her name. But she destroyed a Roman army.”

Beronice makes the sign of the evil eye. “Women aren’t meant to rule. It’s unnatural.”

“Britannica’s hardly a warrior queen! She can’t even defeat a drunken sailor,” Victoria says, though Amara notices that she eyes the stranger with a new, wary respect.

“Were you a warrior?” Cressa asks Britannica gently. “Is that why you hate it here so much?” Britannica smiles at her, not understanding the words, only the kindness behind them.

“Amara!” Thraso is shouting from the doorway of the brothel. “Are you still in there? I told you to go up to Felix.”

“I’m just coming,” she calls back.

“No, you’re not,” he snaps, barging inside and grabbing her hard by the arm. She cries out in pain. “You’re a fucking timewaster. Move it.” He lets go of her and stomps off again.

“He’s just annoyed Balbus gave him a black eye yesterday,” Victoria whispers. “Some stupid fight about Drauca.”

“What about her?” Amara asks, suddenly anxious.

“Who knows,” Victoria shrugs. “Thraso would start a fight about anything.”