The days pass, the weather grows warmer, the Sparrow’s vegetable stews become more varied, campaign slogans spring up across town for the March elections. Life in the brothel rolls on in all its bleak monotony. Amara tries to learn from Victoria, watches how she charms men, attracting the same locals back time after time. Rusticus the potter, Phoebus the perfume seller, Manlius from the fast-food store. All of them tipping her with gifts and treats rather than money, goods that Felix won’t take. Amara observes Victoria’s every movement, until she knows her friend’s face and body better than her own. She even tries to copy the way she moans.

She gets better at pretending, but Amara is never satisfied. The desire to escape takes hold, its roots digging deep under her skin, breaking her apart. There are days when even fear of Felix doesn’t crush the urge to run away. What stops her is the certainty she would die on the road.

The only person who hates life in the brothel even more violently than Amara is Paris. His continued presence in the cells twice a week is a strain for everyone.

“I don’t think I could bear it if Gallus had to do that,” Beronice says. All of them save Paris and Cressa are “unoccupied,” hanging about in the smoky corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of Fabia’s son and his customer sweating it out nearby. They are supposed to be naked, but the March nights are still cold, so they huddle together wrapped in blankets. “I just couldn’t look at him the same. For a man to be on the receiving end. The shame!”

“Oh shut up,” Victoria says. “Think what Gallus might say, if that’s the way you’re going. I couldn’t bear MY precious cock in her mouth; think of all the OTHER cocks she’s sucked!”

“It’s not the same thing at all!” Beronice says. “Gallus would never say that about me.” She fusses with her hair. “Though he does get jealous, obviously.”

“What does he say?” Dido asks.

“He says he’d like to kill all the grubby men who lay a finger on me. That’s why he’s going to buy me. So he can have me all to himself. Then nobody else will be allowed to touch me. Not even . . .” She breaks off, unable to say their boss’s name, but looks up at the ceiling so they understand who she means. Beronice smiles. “That’s how much he loves me.”