The dead woman’s name has a dampening effect on them both. “We should visit her grave,” Victoria says, easing herself down from the steps into the corridor. “None of us have been in ages.”

“Do you want to go now?”

Victoria glances down the corridor, with all its closed curtains. “I suppose so. Why not? We can stop by the Sparrow. Get some wine to offer her.” She goes into her cell, comes out in her cloak, holding a small clay pot. It’s an old one of Cressa’s. “Come on.”

They walk the short distance to the tavern on the square. Amara tries to ignore the wall with its tapestry of graffiti. It pains her to remember Menander writing to her on it; she doesn’t want to see the traces of his last message. Nicandrus is busy at the bar, setting up for the day’s business. He greets them with a smile. “How’s Dido?”

“Fine,” Amara says, feeling awkward.

“You never give up, do you?” Victoria sighs.

“I would if there were another man,” he says. “But there isn’t.” He looks at them nervously. “Is there?”

“No,” Amara replies.

“We wanted to buy some wine for Cressa.” Victoria hands over the pot. “How much?”

Nicandrus fills it then looks over his shoulder, checking Zoskales is out of sight. He shakes his head, the meaning plain. No charge.

“Thank you.” Amara is touched by his gesture.

“Cressa was a good woman,” he says. “We all miss her.”

They leave the bar and walk down the street, bunched close together so they are side by side. “I don’t understand Dido,” Victoria says, gripping the pot. “He’s a sweetheart. Imagine the effort he would make! She might finally have a decent time.”

“She doesn’t want to break her heart loving a man she can never have,” Amara replies. Victoria says nothing. She knows they are both thinking of Felix.

The streets fill up as they wander toward the gate that leads to the town of Nola. Most of the traffic is going in the opposite direction, traders arriving to sell at the Forum or deliver stock to the shops. Those lucky enough to have a cart make a racket over the stones, others trudge along with goods piled up in baskets on their backs. A gaggle of squealing hogs run by, darting between the rolling wheels of their owner’s wagon. Amara watches them scurry off up the street, tails frisking, as if eager for their own slaughter. Victoria nudges her, pointing at a mule cart rumbling up from the other direction. She holds Amara’s arm and stands on tiptoe to get a better look, admiring its rolls of brightly colored fabric. The muleteer sees them and cracks his whip, laughing as they both jump.