The attendant is Greek but seems in no mood to swap tales of the home country. She is brisk with Amara’s body, tweezering out the hair under her arms, slathering her legs with waxy resin then scraping them until they are smooth. Amara winces at the pain. All around her, other women are being similarly pruned and primped, though some have opted for the relaxation of a massage instead, and she can hear the slap of hands on bare skin. Her attendant fetches a small tub of water, and Amara cleans herself, washing away the last of the resin and the dirt of the storeroom. She feels scoured from the heat and all the scraping.

Having her hair done is a more restful experience. Dressed again, she goes with another attendant to a small room and sits down. It’s cooler here. The hairdresser places the tongs in a brazier. “That’s enough,” Amara says, watching the glowing heat. “My hair’s already curly, I just need it styled.” And I don’t need you singeing it, she thinks.

“How do you want it?”

“To impress a man.”

“Not a husband?”

“No.”

The hairdresser smirks. As if she didn’t already know from Amara’s toga. While the other woman piles up her hair in a cascade of curls, she thinks of Rufus. It is so hard to know exactly what he would like. Would he prefer her as she really is, to see that she is feeling nervous, even shy, or is he expecting to be lavished with pleasure and treated to all the expertise of a courtesan? She wishes she could ask Victoria’s advice.

“Fit to fuck an emperor,” the hairdresser says when she’s finished. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

Amara laughs and thanks her. She walks out onto the street, ignoring the whistles of a couple of men hanging around the entrance to the baths. It’s a notorious spot for picking up customers. She wonders if any of her friends have been this way today.

The smell of frying food tempts her on the way home, but she walks past. She will be eating for free this evening, and it’s better to save her money. Paris lets her back into the flat, and his expression when he sees her hair is pure malevolence.

“Master wants you,” he says, turning on his heel as soon as Amara is inside.

She walks up the stairs, wondering what Felix needs, but when she enters his study, he doesn’t speak, just gestures impatiently at a pile of tablets on her table. She sits down to work. Shortly afterward, one of his clients, Cedrus, arrives. They discuss the loan, chat about business, the scorching summer heat. Felix offers him a discount at the brothel if he ups the amount he is borrowing, something Amara has noticed he does fairly often. Cedrus swivels round to look at her.

“Is she . . .?” he asks.