Amara stomps back toward the brothel, almost barging into Nicandrus walking along the pavement to the Sparrow with a bucket of water. “Careful!” he says.

She holds her hands up in apology but doesn’t stop to chat. Seeing him makes her think of Menander, of the choice Dido made not to let her feelings for Nicandrus take root when there is nowhere for love to grow. Perhaps she was wise.

Thraso is still on the door, exhausted from guarding the brothel all night. He barely steps aside to let her in, making her squeeze past him.

“Cressa?”

“She’s not well,” Fabia says, not looking up as she sweeps the corridor. “She’s feeling sick.” There’s a sound of retching from the latrine.

Amara hurries to the end of the corridor. “Cressa! Are you alright?”

Cressa comes out, holding onto the wall. She is pale, her eyes dark with misery. Amara feels sick herself, guessing what Cressa is facing.

“You should eat something,” she says quietly. “It will help. The others are still in the Sparrow.”

Cressa shakes her head. “Nothing will help.”

“At least eat something, please. You will feel less nauseous.”

“What about Britannica?”

“I can look after her.”

“Are you sure?” Cressa looks relieved. “Be kind to her, won’t you? You promise?” Amara nods, touched that Cressa’s first thought is always for someone else. “She’s in my cell. I was just about to help her wash.” Cressa starts to head past Amara who stops her, catching hold of her arm.

“Can’t I help you too?” she says, her voice low.

Cressa looks down, as if unable to bear Amara’s kindness. “Nobody can help me.”

She hurries from the brothel, stepping aside to avoid Fabia. When she has gone, the old woman turns to Amara, shaking her head.

Britannica startles when she sees Amara, drawing her legs up toward herself on the bed. She seems wary rather than afraid. There are bruises on her pale arms, including vivid fingerprints where she must have been held down. Dried blood is smeared on her face. Cowards, Amara thinks.

She smiles at Britannica, pointing to herself. “Amara. I am Amara. Friend of Cressa.”

“Cressa?” Britannica looks past Amara, clearly hoping the other woman will appear.

Amara leans over and puts the bread and cheese on the bed. “For you. Cressa will be back soon.”

Britannica takes the food without acknowledging Amara or gesturing thanks. Amara waits for her to finish eating then goes through a painstaking performance, naming objects in the cell, asking Britannica if she can wash her face.

“Water,” she says, pointing to the jug. She dips her hand in it, showing Britannica the drops falling from her fingers. “Water. Now you say it. Water.”