“My family ran out of money,” he says. “And I was the last thing they had to sell.” His voice is unchanged, and he has the same easy manner as before, but she can feel his sadness. Amara wants to tell him that she understands, that the story of her life is the same, but she can’t find the words. He looks embarrassed by her silence. “Is this the lamp you wanted?” he asks.

She blushes. Her cloak is hiding her gaudy toga. He has no idea what she is. And now she is going to have to ask this beautiful Athenian stranger for a load of cock lamps. “My master lives opposite the Elephant,” she says slowly. There is a flicker of understanding on his face. She plows on. “My name in this country is Amara. I used to worship Pallas Athene, but since I was brought here, I have been subject to Venus. I have no choice. She is the goddess my master serves.”

“Amara,” the stranger says, putting his hand over hers, stopping her from continuing. “I understand. None of us has a choice here.” They stare at each other. Then he moves away, as if only just noticing he is touching her.

“Menander!” a voice calls from the back. “What are you doing out there? I only wanted. . . . Ah, I see, a customer. Forgive me, forgive me.” Rusticus, the potter, is standing in the doorway. He frowns at Amara, trying to place her. She stares back. In her mind’s eye she sees his large naked ass, bobbing up and down, glimpsed through a half-open curtain. He is one of Victoria’s regulars. “Well.” He chuckles, recognition finally dawning. He turns to Menander. “No wonder you were taking your time.” He leans one elbow on the counter, his previous posture of respectful service gone. “And what can we do for you, little wolf.”

Amara is so hot that she feels on fire. “Four lamps, not glazed, of . . .” She stops, not wanting to say the words. “Of Priapus.” Rusticus smirks, enjoying her humiliation. She has a flash of anger and defiance. “So that will be four cocks,” she adds loudly. There’s a snort. She turns and stares at Menander. Is he laughing? He sees her face, and his expression changes instantly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

She sweeps past him to the counter, as if he hadn’t said a word. “My master does not like to be kept waiting,” she says coldly to Rusticus, as if she has been sent by the emperor and not some small-town pimp.