In answer, Britannica releases a torrent of words in her own harsh language. Her gestures are violent, her expression intense, but although the incomprehensible tirade makes Amara feel uncomfortable, she guesses the anger is not directed at her. Amara reaches for the jug again, and Britannica grabs her arm. Her grip is as strong as a man’s. Britannica repeats the same strange word over and over, staring intently, willing Amara to understand. Then she lets go of her with a cry of exasperation, flinging herself back on the bed.

“I know. I want to kill them too,” Amara says. “But it doesn’t work that way. We don’t get a choice.”

Britannica has turned her face to the wall, ignoring her. She doesn’t resist as Amara splashes water on her skin but does nothing to help either.

“Your hair is a mess,” Amara says. “Can I brush it?” She takes the silence as agreement, picking up the brush from Cressa’s shelf. “Red,” she says, trying to tease out the knots. “Your hair is red.” Amara has never seen anything like it. She can imagine it glowing like fire in the July sun when Britannica stood naked in the slave market, her skin unnaturally white. It’s obvious Felix wanted something exotic and didn’t bother about the fact she couldn’t speak. “Fucking idiot,” she mutters to herself.

Britannica doesn’t make a fuss, though it must be painful having so many knots untangled. Amara lets her mind go blank, concentrating on nothing but combing out the mass of hair, until she hears Felix’s voice, talking to Thraso at the door. All her senses are instantly alert.

Someone steps over the threshold of the brothel. Britannica whips round, shouting at Amara. It sounds more like a command than a warning, but she has no idea what it might be.

“Making friends?”

Felix stands at the doorway, looking in. Britannica bunches up, reminding Amara of the tigers in the arena. She bares her teeth at Felix and hisses. Victoria’s insult comes into her mind, unbidden. Savage.

Their master is unconcerned. He draws a small knife from his tunic. Examines it, as if it needs a clean. Britannica stops hissing, watching him, eyes so wide the whites are showing. Felix gestures with the blade, casual rather than threatening. “You don’t like this, do you?”

“She doesn’t understand any Latin,” Amara says.

“Oh, she understands me,” he replies. “We understand each other perfectly well. Don’t we?” As if in answer, Britannica shrinks back. “You see,” he says to Amara, tucking the knife away. “She speaks my language.”

“She doesn’t understand life here,” Amara says. “She screams all night; it’s not good for business.”