As a child, Amara would have enjoyed the thought of returning home out of the wet, of sitting with her mother in front of the brazier, their maid bringing them hot wine with spices to warm up. But the looming bulk of the brothel doesn’t give her any sense of homecoming. There’s no hot drink waiting, just Felix and his anger.

They huddle outside the building, pressed single file against the wall, keeping dry under the overhanging balcony. Thraso looks almost as nervous as the women.

“You two,” he points at Victoria and Amara. “You had plenty to say for yourselves at the baths. You can explain it all to Felix.”

The others slink inside, Dido looking back anxiously. Victoria touches Thraso’s good arm, inclining her head. “I’ll tell Felix how hard you fought,” she says, gazing up at him with a sincerity so earnest Amara almost believes her. “You defended his honor. That will mean something.”

Thraso cannot quite bear to show gratitude to a whore but nods curtly. He glances at Amara, clearly expecting something similar, but she cannot think of anything ingratiating to say. Victoria stares at her, eyes widening with warning. “Yes,” she says at last, nodding at Thraso. “You did. Very brave.” Her Greek accent sounds thick through fright.

Thraso knocks on the wooden door leading to Felix’s apartment above the brothel. It’s answered by Paris, his permanently sour expression topped by a mono-brow. Standing in the doorway, Amara catches a whiff of the latrine hidden in the darkness of the stairwell. She used to feel sorry for Paris, for the loneliness of his young life, shuttling between scrubbing his master’s floors upstairs and servicing customers in the brothel below. But Paris has shown no indication that he wants the she-wolves’ company or friendship.

“Felix,” says Thraso, waving at him with impatience.

“He’s with a client, so you’ll have to wait.”

Paris turns and climbs the stairs. They follow, emerging onto the narrow, covered balcony that surrounds Felix’s flat. It makes her think of a spider’s web, the way the walkway circles her master’s rooms, slowly drawing you further in, not cutting straight to the center. Amara can hear an unfamiliar male voice, too faint to make out all the words. Though she catches one phrase: pay you. Paris gestures for them to go through to the small waiting room.

Thraso sits heavily on the bench by the brazier, barely leaving space for the two women on either side. They squash in next to him. The balcony lets in daylight but also cold air. The warmth from the fire is feeble. Amara’s heart is thumping. It doesn’t help knowing Felix is currently squeezing some poor debtor for every last penny just down the corridor. Thraso stares straight ahead as if mesmerized by the small tongues of flame near his feet. She can feel the fear coming off him.