“He promised me we would be safe,” Victoria says, throwing the material over Amara’s head. “And anyway, what choice do we have? Let’s just get it over with.”

“But won’t Simo be watching the brothel? Won’t one of his spies see us leaving like this?”

“Paris is outside the door,” Victoria replies, fussing with the cloth, making sure Amara is covered properly. “He will check it’s clear and then open it. Felix said when that happens, we walk as quick as we can, up toward the well on the corner then round the back way to Simo’s bar.”

Amara wonders if Victoria is enjoying being in Felix’s confidence. The thought makes her bitter. She has to remind herself that she owes her friend her life, even if Victoria is now making her risk it all over again.

It is dark on the street, made worse by the material over her face that obscures what little light remains. They shuffle along, their hands to the wall, feeling their way. Paris is supposed to be following, but there’s no sign of him or his lamp to light the path. They skirt a small group at the well, somehow avoiding attention, and head further into a less familiar part of town.

“I don’t even know where the bar is,” Amara whispers. “I don’t know where we’re going!”

“Felix told me the way several times,” Victoria replies. “I’m sure I can get us there. And we don’t really have to keep watch; we’re more of a distraction.”

“Isn’t that worse?” Amara asks. Victoria doesn’t answer.

Simo’s bar is sitting in a pool of lamplight. A hanging bronze Priapus casts its sickly glow over the door. Simo must have repaired the place since Felix’s earlier attack. It seems full, several drinkers standing on the street in spite of the cold. Amara finds she is too scared to walk any closer. “Come on,” Victoria hisses, pulling at her arm. “Let’s just do this and get home.”

They stand together, sheltering in a small archway across the road. From the smell, Amara suspects they are not the first whores to work this spot. Victoria hitches her cloak and toga up, showing her bare legs, and after a pause, Amara does the same. At first, nobody notices, then a couple of the drinkers spot them. They point and laugh. A couple of men walk across.

“What’s with the covered faces?” one asks. “Too ugly to see?” Amara takes a step back. Both men reek of alcohol.

“We’re married,” Victoria says, her voice a plaintive whine. “We need to feed the children.”

“That’s what every woman says,” the man replies, hitching her cloak up further.

A third man passes by, stopping to see what’s going on. “Leave some cunt for me.”