Time alone with Drusilla is precious, but Amara doesn’t dare linger. She needs to prepare herself for Rufus’s visit in the evening. He has been busy this past fortnight with his family, celebrating the Parentalia—a domestic festival commemorating the ancestors—which has left him little time to see Amara. The festival has been an uncomfortable reminder of her peripheral position in Rufus’s life, and her own orphaned, rootless status.

She rises, murmuring her excuses about Rufus to Drusilla who accompanies her to the door. Drusilla leaves Primus behind with some reluctance, even though she will be free to join her son again in a matter of moments.

“Do you think Rufus would be pleased if you gave him a boy?” Drusilla asks the question just as Amara is poised to step out onto the street.

“I’m not sure,” she says, startled. “I don’t think so.” It is hard for her to explain why, but she is almost certain Rufus would not like to see her as a mother. She is still scrupulous at avoiding pregnancy.

“It is always a gamble.” Drusilla nods, no doubt thinking of the heartless Popidus. “Don’t forget to mention the harp tonight. Go well, my love.”

Drusilla slips back into her home. Amara stands on the threshold, loneliness creeping up on her. When she was enslaved, she would visit Drusilla’s house with Dido. They would leave together too, walking the streets hand in hand back to the Wolf Den. The grief hits her so hard that, for a moment, she doesn’t think she will be able to keep her composure. I have my freedom now, Amara tells herself. That’s all that matters. She strides out onto the pavement, her face cold, betraying nothing of the loss she feels.

2

“ ‘They’re slaves,’ people say. No. They’re human beings. ‘They’re slaves.’ But they share the same roof as ourselves.”

—Seneca, Letters from a Stoic

The water is barely tepid as Martha splashes it on her skin. Amara has stripped off and is washing herself, making sure her legs are completely smooth, removing any stray hairs. Having a wash at home is not as pleasant as soaking in the heat of the Venus Baths, but it’s the only way to ensure she is fresh in the evening for her lover.

When Amara is satisfied that she is clean, she sprinkles distilled jasmine onto her palms, and rubs it over her whole body. The scent is overpoweringly sweet, but she knows it will have faded by the time Rufus arrives, adding to his enjoyment of her.

“Did you make sure you bought the cheese he likes?” Amara asks, as she slathers jasmine over her upper arms.

“Yes,” Martha replies, staring at the floor.

“And the stew? You didn’t overcook the beans?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t happy last time.”