When he has gone, Amara does not cry. She stands with the palms of her hands flat against the wall of her cell. She wants to scream her rage into the night like Britannica. Her anger is rising like the sea, drowning her. She has to get out.

28

“Poems are praised, but it’s for cash they itch;

A savage even is welcomed if he’s rich.”

—Ovid, The Art of Love II

It’s hot in the Sparrow, even though it’s not yet midday. Cressa has stayed in the brothel to look after Britannica, and Amara and the others sit at a table, sharing some bread and cheese, a small pot of cold vegetable stew. Amara can already feel her clothes sticking to her skin with sweat.

“So the boyfriend turned up then?” Victoria asks. There is none of the usual spark to her question.

Amara nods, not wanting to talk about Menander, and Victoria doesn’t press her. “Sorry you two had to share together,” Amara says.

“We thought you might want some space,” Dido replies.

“Thanks.”

They lapse back into silence. “What are we going to do about her?” Beronice says. Nobody has to ask who she means. “When is she going to stop with the fighting and screaming?”

An old man is mumbling at the table next to them, either drunk or unwell. He reaches out a shaky hand. It’s not clear if he is trying to reach for their bread or grope Beronice. “Not today, Grandad!” Victoria snaps, her voice loud. “Can’t get any fucking peace anywhere,” she mutters, turning back to the table.

“It’s not right,” Beronice continues. “It put my customer off his stride. Then he was in a bad mood and rough with it.”

“I think she’s brave,” Dido says.

“Brave?” Victoria says. “She’s a savage.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Amara says. “Just because she doesn’t speak Latin. And I agree with Dido. She’s only doing what the rest of us would, if we had the guts.”

“If you think she’s so fucking fabulous, why don’t you teach her some Latin then?” Victoria says. “And it’s not brave. It’s stupid. Have you seen the bruises on her? Who fights a battle they’re never going to win?”

“That’s what courage means.”

“Oh, get lost, seriously,” Victoria says. “If you can’t see what a problem she is, maybe it’s because you spend all your time at fancy fucking parties. You won’t be around when the rest of us get attacked, will you? What do you care?”

Amara gets up from the table, taking a piece of bread and cheese with her. She was already in a terrible mood before this and doesn’t trust herself not to lose her temper.

“Where are you going?” Victoria asks, halfway between conciliatory and cross.

“To try and teach Britannica some Latin.”