The square outside the baths is much less busy than usual, nobody caring to linger in the sleet. They press close to the men’s entrance, sheltering under a wine shop’s balcony. As the men come out, still red-faced from the heat of the steam room, they wish them good day, trying to make eye contact. Dido has been in Pompeii over a year now, and almost no trace of the shy girl from Carthage remains, or at least not now, when she is focused on picking up clients. It is a brutal waste of her acting talents, Amara thinks, remembering the way Dido dances, the sweetness of her singing voice, her ability to inhabit a character. All that skill used to play a street whore.

Most of the men push past without responding to their greeting, others stop to trade insults, or try to steal a kiss. Dido is the first to secure a serious customer. She hesitates before leading him home. It’s not how they like to work, splitting up like this, but the brothel is near enough for them to take the risk. Amara nods at her, the signal that she is fine. She doesn’t wait to watch Dido hurry off with her catch, a portly older man. She cannot afford to slacken her own sales pitch—a rival prostitute is at the doorway now. The other woman is much more poorly dressed, her cheeks hollowed out by hunger. Nothing like being undercut, Amara thinks bitterly. Anyone looking at the scrawny creature will know she’s unlikely to charge much.

Sure enough, the starving woman is picked up in no time, no doubt leading her suitor off somewhere no more salubrious than a back alley. Amara calls out more loudly, increasingly aggressive in her approach. She interrupts men’s conversations, pressing her body too close to them.

Two young men stop to return her greeting, taking their time in spite of the cold, their cheeks pink and sweaty. “Need heating up do you?” one says, looking her up and down.

She laughs, pretending to be amused. “Not just me,” she says, stepping back, beckoning them toward her. “Lots of lonely girls.”

“Told you the brothel was just round the corner,” the other man says to his companion. “It’s by a bar too. I remember it from my last time here. We could have a drink afterward.”

Amara walks swiftly, and they hurry to keep up with her. Not much further, she tells herself. Just get it over with. She passes Simo’s single-cell brothel on the way, its door ajar. The sight of it always gives her an uneasy feeling, but so far, Felix seems to have decided to ignore the insult. Maria is still alive.