It’s no longer Thraso on the door when they saunter out in their cloaks to see if Vibo left a tip. Gallus greets them with a grin. “I don’t know what you ladies did, but for saying that was supposed to be a free fuck, he just doubled the night’s takings.”

Victoria lets out a whoop of triumph. “And for that,” she says, laying her head on Gallus’s shoulder in an intimate gesture that would make Beronice seethe, “we deserve a little break at the Sparrow.” He hesitates. “Oh, come on!” Victoria punches his arm. “It’s quiet! You’ve got three in. We’ll just stir up some customers and bring them over.”

“Go on then.” Gallus sighs.

“He’s not so bad,” Dido whispers to Amara as they head across the road. “Maybe Beronice is right about him.”

“She’s got kind eyes like his mother?” Amara asks, raising an eyebrow.

Dido grimaces. “Or maybe not.”

The Sparrow is packed. Lamps are hanging from the doorway and the rafters, shining off the brass pots Zoskales has fixed to the wall. It’s a confusion of light and noise. Nicandrus is busy serving drinks and has been joined in his duties by Sava, a house slave who also works nights as a waitress. Zoskales is telling a long-winded story about his wife at the bar, making the customers laugh.

Victoria is not here to fish, whatever she told Gallus. She shoves her way to a free spot at a table where three men are dicing. “How much are you playing for?”

“How much are you selling for?” one of the men snorts, trying to put his hand on her thigh.

Victoria waves him away in irritation, all her usual flirtatiousness gone. She is a serious gambler, aided by her own weighted dice. “I can raise three asses.”

Amara and Dido watch Victoria muscle her way into the game, the men eventually giving way to the force of her determination to play. “She’s going to win,” Amara says. “They won’t know what’s hit them.”

Nicandrus spots Dido. He smiles, beckoning them across the room, forcing some other customers to make space for the pair of them on a bench. “Hot wine? With honey?” He is already heading to the bar.

“Thank you,” Dido says.

“Here for the night?” It’s one of the men who made room for them. His question is friendly rather than suggestive. He has a pleasant face and black hair that’s graying at the temples. There’s a small reed flute on the table in front of him, his fingers just resting on it as if to keep it safe.

“We might be if you play,” Amara says.

He laughs. “Are you singers?”

“Yes.”