“He loves me,” Beronice repeats stubbornly. “He told me he’s never met anyone as kind as me, that he can really talk to me, because I listen, and I care about him.” Victoria rolls her eyes. “Why do you have to make everything dark and ugly and twisted?” Beronice snaps at her. “At least I have better taste than you.” The last word is said with such venom that Amara is surprised, but before Victoria can retaliate, Cressa interrupts.

“Nobody is trying to ruin things for you,” she says to Beronice. “We just want you to look after yourself. That’s all.” Beronice frowns and turns away from her, not willing to be won round yet.

Cressa widens her eyes at Victoria, tilting her head at Beronice, willing her to make amends. Victoria sighs. “Of course we’re happy if Gallus loves you,” she says. “But you need to make him pay. He’s stealing from Felix! That’s much too risky—you know it is. For him as much as you.”

Beronice looks crestfallen. “That’s just typical of him,” she says. “Putting himself in danger for me.”

Victoria looks as if she might explode at this version of Gallus the Hero, but Cressa changes the subject. “Does anyone know how much money we made last night?”

“Thraso took over at the door,” Victoria replies. “I spoke to him before turning in. The last count was just over sixteen denarii.”

“That’s a relief,” says Amara, thinking of Felix. “It’s not as far off as I thought it might be.”

“We’ve got to pay to replace those though,” Dido points at the broken lamps.

Cressa bends over to look at the heap of smashed-up clay cocks. “That’s at least three.”

“Four,” Dido says.

“We’ll have to pay for them ourselves,” Victoria says. “We can’t ask Felix for the money, not after yesterday.” Amara feels some of the darkness from last night returning. Felix gives them such a paltry allowance, barely enough for food, especially when they chip in for Fabia. None of them are ever going to save enough for their freedom that way. “It can’t be helped,” Victoria says, as if she can hear Amara’s thoughts. “We’ll make it back.”

Amara stares at their fresh graffiti. Thrust SLOWLY! It doesn’t seem as amusing anymore. Cressa gets to her feet. “We should head to the baths, get cleaned up. Unless you lot want to waft about stinking of man all day.”

It’s a mid-morning ritual at the brothel, their trip to the women’s baths. Amara suspects she isn’t the only one who finds it emotionally as well as physically cleansing. “I’ll stay behind,” Victoria offers. “Somebody else had better go for the lamps.”