“Pompeii has brought you good fortune,” Dido says, inclining her head in a way that reminds Amara of Victoria. “It pays to serve Venus in the goddess’s own city.”

“You’re from Africa,” one of the men says, noticing her accent.

“Venus has a wide dominion,” Amara replies. “And the road to her house is short, if you care to join us.” The man who urged her to throw the dice still has his arm tightly round her waist, his fingers kneading her flesh. There is no way she and Dido could fight this gang off if the men decided to cut the transaction short by taking without paying. The food hall is still being repaired from earthquake damage, and there are plenty of deserted arches where building work has paused.

Dido steps away from the group. “We share a home with three others,” she says. “Five women! Such a happy chance. You must celebrate with our friends; the goddess of love deserves some thanks after all.”

The men exchange glances, perhaps weighing up the possibility that they are going to be led into a den of thieves by a honeyed bait. “Perhaps you’ve seen our home?” Amara says. “We live by the Elephant.”

“The Wolf Den!” one of them laughs. “We’ve got an invite to the town brothel!”

“Is that what you are?” The man holding Amara loosens his grip, turning her toward him, so he can see her face. “A little Greek she-wolf?”

His skin is tanned, cracked across the cheeks from being out in all weathers, and there is a mark at the bottom of his chin where it must have been nicked by a knife. She knows this man will be no stranger to violence, but then, none of them are. Amara decides to roll the dice again. She leans in to kiss him lightly on the lips then pushes him away, darting just out of reach. “Wolves from Greece, Carthage, Egypt and Italy,” she says over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow. “All worshippers of Venus Pompeiiana.”

Dido swiftly joins her, and they hold hands, walking down the colonnade toward the Via Veneria, aware the men are close behind. “We need to get there quickly,” Dido whispers, her eyes wide with fear.

“Don’t run,” Amara says. She looks back over her shoulder, smiling at the man who until recently had her in an iron grip. He and the other dice players look flushed with excitement rather than anger, enjoying the thrill of the chase.

They weave past the shops and the grand houses on the Via Veneria. The road is still flooded with water. One of the five players, a short, brawny man with a patched cloak, grabs Dido and makes as if to throw her in. She screams and the men roar with laughter. The man sets her back down as a mule cart approaches, and Amara seizes her hand, dragging her further along the pavement.