Inside the town walls, the road evens out but also becomes wetter, water sloshing over Amara’s shoes. Dido helps her up onto the raised pavement, two fabric sellers muttering at having to shuffle out of their way. A man heaped in garlands of myrtle, offerings for the Temple of Venus, presses close.

“For your goddess? For love? One penny for two. Good price. Bring you good fortune.” He is holding the leaves so close to Dido’s face she instinctively puts her hand up to draw across the veil she no longer wears.

Amara pushes the garlands away. “No.”

The crush thins as they reach the Forum, absorbed into its vast space. Hawkers act like stones, breaking the eddies of the crowd. Some passers-by dawdle to look or haggle, others stride past. At the far end of the square sits the Temple of Jupiter, incense rising from its steps. The building wavers in the heat before the smoke fades out over the blue mountain behind. Amara thinks of her father, of the way he would smile when she asked him if he believed in the gods. Stories have power whether we believe them or not. She shuts out the memory of his voice.

The others are still looking round for Thraso. Dido points him out, sweating his way through the crowd.

“Is his nose broken again?” Beronice asks. “He looks awful.”

“Worse than usual? Are you sure?” Victoria replies. “I think maybe Balbus knocked it back the right way.”

Beronice misses the joke. “No, he looks AWFUL!” she insists, raising her voice even louder to make her point.

Cressa shakes her head. “He’ll hear you.”

Thraso catches up, snapping at them to move it, and they all weave across the square. A group of sailors, probably just docked at the port, whistle as Amara passes, one gesturing what he’d like. She smiles at him then lowers her eyes. The men slap each other and laugh.

The road leading downhill from the Forum is overflowing with rainwater, its surface a broken mosaic of red and yellow, reflecting the painted buildings that line its banks. The women stare as a team of soaked litter-bearers trudge their way through, water sloshing over their knees, their lucky cargo raised up high, safe behind thick curtains. Amara notices the body of a dead dog wedged between two stepping stones, held there by the weight of the stream rushing past. Not all the filth is getting washed away by the morning’s downpour. The women pick their way laboriously along the walkway, turning left into a narrow street that winds round to the brothel. The space to move shrinks further, but the crowds are thinner here too.