One relic from the past is here with her. Her father’s battered, moldering bag is hanging from a hook on the wall. When the leather was bright and flexible, he would take it to visit patients, all his herbs and instruments parceled up inside. She lifts it from the wall. Sitting back down on the bed, she counts out the savings she has managed to collect at the brothel. At most it’s enough for a few day’s food. Nothing like the enormous sum she would need to buy herself from Felix. Amara tries to calculate the number of Marcellas she will have to bring him to get anywhere close. It’s impossible. Not unless her value drops over the years like Fabia’s. Then she might well only be worth the price of a week’s bread. Amara doesn’t pursue that thought. Perhaps she will earn more at the baths, if Vibo ever has them back? For a moment, she allows herself to daydream about meeting a fantastically wealthy patron, a man who would be fascinated by her conversation, somebody who would want her to charm him and not just screw her.

“Beronice?” It’s Gallus, calling softly from the corridor. Amara walks to the doorway and sticks her head out. “Oh. It’s you.” He’s disappointed. No free fuck for him today.

“We thought it was Thraso on the door, so I agreed to stay in.”

“Felix swapped him onto the night watch,” Gallus replies. “Is Beronice coming back later?”

“Only if she has a customer.”

“Right.” Gallus looks uncomfortable. Amara feels irritated by his awkwardness. She’s had sex with the man at least twice, surely a brief conversation is not too taxing. “Does Beronice talk about me much?”

She studies him, trying to work out if it’s a trick question. Perhaps he wants to discover if Beronice has exposed his financial dishonesty toward Felix. But she can see nothing in his face other than hopefulness. Amara relents. “She loves you.”

“Well,” he says, looking smug. “I knew that.” He saunters back to the door.

She retreats into the cell, amused in spite of herself. Victoria and Dido will enjoy that story later. The walls surrounding her are covered in the same predictable attitude. Gallus is hardly alone. She runs her fingers over the scratches. I fucked loads of girls here! She remembers the man who scrawled that message; he had been keen to tell her how she compared to her friends. He works at the laundry. What’s his name again? She should remember it; he visits regularly. Amara realizes she knows exactly what sort of blow job the man likes, but not what he’s called.