The others put her silence down to Felix’s usual tricks when she rejoins them at the Sparrow. Cressa has already left, gone to sleep off her hangover in her darkened cell.

“The man can never give it a rest,” Beronice says, swiping the last of the chickpeas when it’s clear Amara doesn’t want them. “Sodding Felix. Always got to prove his cock’s the biggest.”

Dido squeezes Amara’s hand under the table, and she feels a flood of guilt. Would her friend love her the same if she knew about Drauca? Was she really the one who gave Felix the idea?

“I don’t think I’d be wearing a long face if he sent me out to buy new clothes,” Victoria says. Amara knows what pains Victoria takes with her appearance, the hours she spends on her hair. She looks very upset, almost tearful, and Amara’s sense of guilt deepens.

“If there’s anything left over, we can buy something for everyone to share,” she replies. Beronice and Victoria exchange a little look with each other, more sharp than grateful, and she understands that the sudden, unequal change in fortune is unlikely to bring them all closer together. “I guess we had better get going.” Amara rises from the table again. Dido follows, eager to start shopping.

It’s early afternoon, the sun baking the filth in the road, sharpening the smell of manure left by passing horses and pack mules. “Where should we go?” Dido says. Her face is bright with excitement as they head down the street, the back way that joins onto the Via Pompeiiana. “How many outfits can we buy?”

“I guess just one to start with, in case we don’t get more bookings.”

“Don’t let Felix ruin this.” Dido stops, her expression earnest. “Don’t be unhappy. We have so little.”

“You’re right,” Amara says, making an effort to smile. “Let’s try Cominia’s place. I’ve always wanted to go inside.”

The dressmaker’s is on the town’s main shopping street, not far from Rusticus’s lamp store. All the women like to visit from time to time, to loiter at the front billowing with fabrics, softer and finer than anything they can hope to wear. A small, round portrait of a younger Cominia, painted high up on the second storey, looks over her empire. Dido goes first, pushing through a tunnel of hanging material.

Inside, their eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Cominia herself is busy at the main counter with a customer, a matron whose slave lurks behind, ready to carry the load home. The two she-wolves stand, watching, unsure what to do.

“How can we help you, ladies?” A young assistant appears at Dido’s elbow. She is thin, with a small, sharp-featured face. Her expression is polite but firm. If they cannot afford anything, they had better leave.