It had been Britannica’s grief Amara feared, but instead, it is Beronice who loses all control. She beats her fists on the walls of the cell, tearing at her hair, at her face, screaming and crying. “I loved her!” she sobs. “I loved her! She can’t be dead!”

Amara doesn’t dare touch her; Beronice is like a mad woman. Britannica curls up in a ball on the floor, covering her ears. Dido walks in. She has no need to ask what has happened. She throws herself at Amara, and they hold one another, rocking back and forth.

They are all still crying and keening when Amara hears Victoria, her patter cutting across the noise. “Oh! I can feel it! How big you are!” There is shrieking and giggling from the Spanish girls, and the deeper tones of male voices. Amara disentangles herself from Dido and steps out into the corridor. She stands in silence, her shadow reaching out across the floor.

A man is draped over Victoria, but her attention is only half on him. She has heard the wailing. “Who?” she says to Amara. “Who is it?”

“Cressa.”

“Out!” Victoria shakes the man’s arm from her shoulders. He looks at her, bewildered by this whore who moments before was panting after him. Victoria shoves him hard. “Get out!” she yells, her face red with fury. “All of you! Out! I don’t want any fucking men in here!”

Ipstilla and Telethusa stand frozen with fear and surprise. One of their customers gives a nervous laugh. “What the fuck is this?”

“I said, all of you, out!” Victoria screams, wrenching his arm from around Ipstilla’s waist. He steps back, too shocked to hit her. His companion makes the sign of the evil eye.

“You heard what she said!” Amara shouts. “We don’t want you in here. Get out!”

Beronice rushes from the cell behind her. She looks unhinged with her scratched face and wild hair. “Bastards!” she shrieks. “She’s dead, can’t you leave us in peace?”

The men need no more urging. They don’t even take the time to hurl insults back. Instead, they hurry from the house of angry women, almost tripping over the doorstep on their way to the street.

35

“You may look perhaps for a troop of Spanish maidens to win applause by immodest dance and song, sinking down with quivering thighs to the floor.”

—Juvenal, Satire 11.162