His mention of the potter reminds Amara of her humiliation in the shop. She glances over at Victoria, still deep in her game, wonders if the master jokes to the slave about his own visits to the brothel. “Lucky you,” she says coldly.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says. “But it was very funny, the way you stared him out like that. I’ve never seen a woman do that before.” He pauses. “You were magnificent.”

“So I asked for four cocks magnificently?” Amara says, trying not to laugh. They are standing close together in the crush. She takes a sip of the honeyed wine, already a little drunk on singing and attention. “Good to know.”

“You stood your ground. That was magnificent,” Menander replies, switching to Greek. “The cocks were incidental.”

“I wish they were.”

She says it to make him laugh, but Menander catches the dark undercurrent. His eyes meet hers, and she understands that he shares her grief, that her losses are also his. He puts his hand over his heart in greeting, bowing his head, as if they have only just met. “My name is Kallias,” he says. “I am the son of Kleitos, the finest potter in Athens. One day, I will take over my father’s business and sell my work all over Attica, including the beautiful town of Aphidnai. What is your name?”

Nobody in Pompeii has ever dared ask her this. It’s the last remnant of privacy, of self, that a slave who was once freeborn possesses. Their real name. It’s so loud in the crush that she almost has to shout, but still, she doesn’t hesitate to give this boy from Athens what he asks for. “My name is Timarete,” she says. “I am the only child of Timaios, the most learned doctor of Aphidnai, and the most loved. To him, I am both a daughter and a son.”

“You see,” Menander says, lightly brushing a curl of hair from her face. “Incidental.”

“But I’m also Amara.” She switches back to Latin, playfully moving his hand away. “Because otherwise I would never have set foot in a tavern, still less have sung for a crowd of men or talked to you!”

Menander smiles and is about to reply when Dido grabs her arm. “Amara! Is that Gallus?”

The familiar figure is bent over the gaming table, gesticulating at Victoria who is trying to scramble her winnings together while she argues with both him and the other gamblers. He smacks his head on a low-hanging oil lamp as he stands up, looking furiously round the room. He spots Amara and Dido. “Get back now!” he shouts.