“So he should,” Victoria says. “I put the work in. Not that you don’t,” she adds, quickly. Amara is surprised at how happy praise from Felix has made Victoria. It saddens her to think of the power he has. Two more matrons and a teenage girl bump up beside them at the basin, talking loudly about the elections. One of their husbands is standing. The girl, probably a daughter, looks bored and uncomfortable. She glances shyly over at the two beautiful she-wolves, clearly unaware of who they are. “I think we’ll save the advice on technique until we get home,” Victoria says. “But you shouldn’t be too upset. He might have been angry today, but over time, he will like you better for not being a coward. He likes a bit of spirit.” She blushes, looking for a moment as shy as the young girl beside them. “He’s told me before that’s why I’m his favorite whore.” She says the last words quietly, close to Amara’s ear, so their neighbors can’t hear.

Amara suddenly feels claustrophobic in the hot, crowded room. She steps away from the basin. Victoria follows. “The only reason I’d want to be his favorite,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is so he wouldn’t see the knife coming when I kill him.”

Victoria laughs, thinking she’s joking.

6

“If anyone wants a fuck, he should look for Attice; she costs 16 asses”

—Graffiti near Pompeii’s Marine Gate

The winter sky is clear, the sun high overhead, and although there is little warmth from its blinding light, the brightness is cheering. Amara enjoys the feeling of being clean, even takes some pleasure in Fabia doing up her hair. The old woman’s fingers are deft and gentle. In a different life she could have been a skilled maid serving a grand mistress. Amara tries to let go of the morning’s pain. Like the bruises, she tells herself, the humiliation will fade.

They discuss where to go fishing and decide on the harbor. It’s always good for customers, and the walk will be a pleasure in the sunshine. Cressa offers to stay behind. “I’ve got Fabia for company,” she says, refusing the others’ gratitude. “We can put our feet up together; it will be lovely.” Fabia looks thrilled by the compliment. The old woman is as starved of affection as she is of food. Amara knows Cressa is in for a dreary afternoon of sitting in the dark, hearing endless tales of the wretched Paris’s childhood.

“Cressa’s so kind,” Amara says as they start off down the street. “She’s a born mother.”

“Don’t ever say that!” Beronice looks horrified.

“Why not?”