“Take one who through long years would slave for you;

Take one who’d love with purest loyalty.”

—Ovid, Amores 1.3

Nighttime at the brothel passes like a scene from Hades: the endless procession of drunken men, the smoke, the soot, angry shouting, pottery smashing, the sound of Dido weeping, the pungent smell of Victoria’s potion as she washes out her insides, the rasp of Beronice’s snoring. When the hour is too late for even the most dedicated Pompeiian to venture out in search of sex, Amara lies alone in the darkness of her cell, unable to sleep, suffocated by rage.

She is woken the next day by Victoria’s singing. It’s like music from another world, the light earthy voice full of hope and good humor. She sits up in bed.

“Couldn’t you let us sleep in for once?” Beronice shouts.

“Look at the sunshine,” Victoria calls back. “It’s like the Festival of Flora!”

Amara smiles in spite of herself. She swings her feet onto the floor, wrapping the blanket round her shoulders. Beronice and Cressa are already out in the corridor, yawning and rubbing their eyes. The three of them head to Victoria’s cell. Amara glances up as she goes in. The painting of two lovers above the door shows the woman on top, a gift from Felix to his hardest-working whore.

“You woke us up!” Beronice says. Victoria is already dressed and styling her hair. It falls in a waterfall of curls about her shoulders. She does not look like a woman who has been up all night, indulging men and deflecting violence. Her eyes are sparkling at the prospect of a new day. Amara has never met anyone like Victoria.

“Where’s Dido?” Victoria asks. “She can’t have slept through you lazy lot yelling and complaining.”

The four of them head to Dido’s cell. She is lying on the bed, her face to the wall. Cressa sits next to her, bends and kisses her on the forehead. It is not only Amara and Nicandrus who feel protective of Felix’s youngest she-wolf. “It’s morning sweetheart,” Cressa says.

Dido sits up. Her face is wet, and her eyes are red from crying. Cressa hugs her, stroking her back. “Were they shits?” she asks.

“One of them broke all the lamps,” Dido says, pointing to a pile of pottery shards that she’s swept into a corner. “He really frightened me.”

“Nasty, shitty little man.” Cressa’s voice wavers and for a moment Amara thinks she is going to struggle to keep her composure.

Victoria sits on the other side of Dido, quickly taking over. “You can’t let him bother you,” she says, smiling. “Not Mr. GarlicFarticus.”

“What a stupid name,” says Beronice, looking doubtful. “He can’t really be called that.”

“But he is!” Victoria insists, her face solemn. “It’s Mr. GarlicFarticus who runs that fast-food place near the baths!”