Because she is free, and we are enslaved, Amara thinks. It is easy to forget with Drusilla—she is so welcoming, so friendly, and yet, she is almost as distant as Rufus in the privilege she holds as a freedwoman. Even if she does have to earn her bread the same way they do.

The thought of Felix brings a strain to the gathering where before there was only playfulness. “I suppose we had better head back,” Dido murmurs, after the second awkward pause in conversation.

Drusilla does not press them to stay, though she is gracious in her insistence that they visit again, as if they were real guests rather than ones paid for by the men they accompany. On the threshold of the house, Dido and Amara stand together for a moment, watching life on the street flow past. Then Dido steps down onto the pavement, and Amara follows.

33

“I don’t care about your pregnancy Salvilla; I scorn it”

—Pompeii graffiti

The brothel feels even less like home now Felix has crammed in yet more women. Only Beronice and Victoria have a cell to themselves, after two Spanish dancers moved into Cressa’s cell a week ago. Cressa is sharing with Britannica, and the pair of them see far fewer customers than anyone else. Felix cannot admit it, but Britannica was a terrible investment.

Ipstilla and Telethusa either speak little Latin, or perhaps they simply prefer not to mix. When Amara and Dido walk in, they are laughing loudly, shouting at one another in Spanish, taking up the entire corridor. Fabia tries to sweep the floor around them, but they ignore her, refusing to move their feet.

“Thank goodness you’re back,” Victoria says, beckoning them into her cell. Amara and Dido sit down on the bed. “Felix wants us to take the new girls out, teach them how to fish.”

“Can’t they go out together?” Amara asks. “I’m sure they’d prefer that anyway.”

“No, he wants us to keep an eye on them. And somebody has to take Britannica out. He’s fed up with her doing nothing.” Amara suspects Victoria is too. She has never warmed to the Briton. “If Dido and I take the Spanish girls, can you have Britannica?”

“Why me?”

“We can’t ask Cressa, can we? And Beronice isn’t too well. Rough customer last night. Besides, I thought you liked her.”

“Fine then,” Amara sighs. “I’ll take her.”

She leaves Dido and Victoria to their noisy negotiations with the Spaniards and trudges to her old cell. Inside, Cressa is lying on the bed, eyes closed, though Amara suspects she is not asleep. Britannica sits on a stool, watching over her like a pale guard dog.

“Britannica.” Amara holds out her hand. “Come with me. Come.” The Briton looks back at Cressa, uncertain. “Come,” Amara repeats more firmly. “We go look for men.”