They step inside the brothel. “At last,” Fabia exclaims, taking the bucket from Dido. She sloshes it over the floor and starts to brush the vomit toward the front door. A man, who has been hovering at the entrance, dances to avoid the splash.

“Fucking watch it, you old crone!” He looks up at Dido and Amara. “Which one of you is mine?” Amara feels like she has met this man a thousand times before, even though his face is not familiar. Disheveled, drunk, no doubt rough with his hands. She thinks of Cressa, of the way her kindness once reached across the darkness, of what that had meant when she was afraid.

“My cell is here,” she says, pointing to the open door.

The man staggers his way over the wet floor, avoiding Fabia’s busy, darting brush. Dido leans in toward her, speaking quietly so he cannot hear. “Thank you.”

The customer pushes between them, and Dido turns away. Amara follows him into her cell, drawing the curtain. He sits heavily on the bed. “I’m Publius,” he says.

“Lovely to meet you Publius,” she says. “I’m Amara.”

She starts to undress, taking her time, not to titillate him but to give herself a small delay. This is where Victoria would be running through her patter to get him in the mood. But there is no need. Publius is looking at her naked body in wonder. “You’re lovely,” he says.

Amara almost feels sorry for him, this man who cannot see her bitterness. She smiles. “Thank you.” She walks to the bed and kneels on the floor, unfastens his boots, easing them off his feet. “You’re tired,” she says, without thinking.

“It was a long day at the bakery,” he replies.

She carries on undressing him. At least he is not such a monster as the wealthy old men at the baths. The memory brings a flush to her cheeks. All that effort and she barely made a denarius in tips. If anything, the day has shown her rich men are meaner than poor ones. She cannot believe she was stupid enough to think a place run by a man like Vibo would ever provide her with a way out.

Amara climbs up onto the bed beside Publius. She thinks of brokering the loan in the Forum, the feeling she had when Marcella signed. Not just guilt but elation. She lets Publius kiss her, lying passive as a stone. It’s supposed to be her making the effort here, not him, but he doesn’t seem to care. The anger that is always just beneath the surface of her skin flickers into life. Why should he care? He’s lucky to be able to touch her at all.

She hears Felix’s voice in her head. And you would, wouldn’t you? Tear them all apart.