They walk slowly and painstakingly, taking care not to stumble. Wooden shutters seal up the shops and houses that they pass. If it’s not to visit a tavern or brothel, few people venture out at this hour. Unless they are thieves. Amara knows their poverty is no protection, plenty of men would steal what Felix sells. She glances up at one of the bolted windows. There’s little chance anyone would rush outside to help a screaming woman at this time of night.

The well is at the end of the street. “Hold it up for me,” she whispers to Dido, nodding at the lamp. Amara leans over the side, putting her weight into the groove in the stone, sunken under the pressure of so many hands. The flame flickers over the carved face as she cranks the arm of the well. Water pours from the stone mouth. It has never seemed to take so long to fill a bucket.

“Somebody is coming!” Dido hisses.

Amara straightens up, not wanting to leave her back exposed to whatever is approaching. She and Dido press together. There’s the brisk clip of feet, more certain than their mouse-like shuffle up the street, and soon, a single flame bobs into view. It’s a man with a bucket. Nicandrus.

He looks startled. “What are you doing out here?” The light from Dido’s lamp shakes wildly. Her hand is trembling with fright. Nicandrus puts down his bucket with a clank and rushes over. “It’s alright,” he says, putting an arm round her to hold her steady. “It’s alright.” He looks at them both shivering in their togas. “You’ve not even put your cloaks on!”

“We didn’t have time, we . . .” Amara trails off. What is there to say? That they ran off half-dressed because they were afraid of Thraso?

The sudden kindness is too much for Dido. All her emotion, already so close to the surface, spills over, and she starts to cry again. Nicandrus gently takes the lamp from her and hands both lights to Amara. “It’s alright,” he says, holding her close. “You’re alright.”

It’s not alright, Amara thinks, feeling foolish as she illuminates the pair of them, huddled like lovers in the dark. Nothing about our lives is alright.

Dido buries her face in his shoulder in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all.” And indeed, Nicandrus looks far from sorry at the situation. “Why don’t you take my cloak?” He says, unfastening it. He looks over at Amara. “I mean, you can both share it, maybe?”

“I think I’d better keep hold of the lamps.”