The late afternoon sun beats down on them as they make their slow progress along the Via Veneria. The carriage jolts, even though it is slow moving, the wheels finding their way into the ruts on the road. Amara and Drusilla look down on the people who have crowded out of the buildings to watch them. The men stare, no doubt eyeing up the goods richer men get to enjoy, but it’s the gaze of the women that Amara savors. It is a new sensation to be the subject of so much envy, a reminder of how far she has come, of all Rufus has given her. She thinks of how he was when they first met, his joy at giving her the necklace she is now wearing, and wishes she could still see him that way, as a more innocent man than he really is.

Amara is faint from the heat by the time the procession reaches the theater but still steps down from the carriage with reluctance. She and Drusilla are absorbed into the crowd of women and musicians, their loss of height suddenly lowering their status. She watches the carriage leave with regret, jostled by the crush. The Floralia is never a festival for restraint, and squashed beside her, a woman from the procession is already kissing one of the musicians, the flowers in her hair crumpled in disarray. Not everyone in Pompeii is invited to the free performance at the theater; most will be making do with celebrations outside in the square. Drusilla takes Amara’s hand, and the pair of them push their way toward the theater’s entrance. Drusilla’s height is imposing, and enough memory of their arrival in the carriage lingers for people to let them pass.

There are very few lines in the corridor or up the stairs; most of the other spectators have already been seated—all except Rufus and the most important men in attendance. Drusilla and Amara make their entrance high up in the auditorium, which should provide them with a more discreet arrival, but Amara is aware of murmuring, of eyes on her body. The great curve of the theater confronts her, a wall of faces, watching. She feels the heat flood to her cheeks. It is many years since she was respectable, but the shame still lingers: she knows notoriety is frowned on in a woman. The honor Rufus pays her is double-edged, possible only because she has no real honor to lose. Amara feels a flash of anger. She thinks of Britannica, the way she stands, the challenge in her eyes, and stares back. Let them look.

“Don’t enjoy the attention too much,” Drusilla murmurs, amusement in her voice.