The study is red. Felix has his back to her, but it is only a matter of time before he turns. She opens her mouth to scream but makes no sound. She wants to run, but her legs are like lead. She cannot move them fast enough. He is beside her, holding a knife, the one he wielded on the Saturnalia, the night Dido died. She knows he will rape her, that she can do nothing to stop him. Felix points the blade at her eye. “I missed you.”

Amara wakes, gasping for air. Her face is wet with tears. It takes her a moment to remember where she is. Then she burrows back under the blanket, desperate to sob into it, digging her nails into the palms of her hands, clenching her fists. Even in the grip of panic, she knows she cannot risk ugly, swollen eyes. “It will pass,” she murmurs to herself, smothered in the darkness, refusing to cry. “It will pass.” Nightmares torment her more now, when she is safe, than they did when she was enduring the horrors in her waking life.

It is stuffy under the covers. Amara surfaces, forcing herself to get out of bed. The tiles on the floor are cold. She stretches, willing the fear away, as if she might be able to shake it from her fingertips. Her bedroom is small, with no room for anything more than a bed and a linen chest, but it is calming. An internal window into the tablinum provides the only natural light. Frescoes of flowering branches circle the narrow space, giving it the soft glow of apple blossom. Oil lamps rest in alcoves cut into the walls. When they are lit at night, Rufus says they look like stars shining though the treetops.

The thought of her lover is soothing. She rests one hand over her heart. Rufus will protect her from Felix—he always has done.

Amara starts to get dressed, preferring to do it herself rather than call Martha in to help. She picks out her favorite outfit from the chest: the white robe Pliny gave her. It is still the loveliest dress she owns, even though the fabric is getting a little worn. If he had not signed over all his rights to Rufus, then Pliny, Admiral of the Roman Fleet, would have been her patron instead. It was Pliny who gave her both her freedom and his name. Amara doesn’t think she will ever tire of those four words, especially the last. Gaia Plinia Amara, Liberta. She fastens the white dress at the shoulder, whispering her new title like an incantation. She hopes she will see the admiral again one day, to thank him for all he has done.

Amara unlocks her door and steps out into her second chamber. Martha is already there, sitting on a stool, waiting for her. She looks tired. As soon as she sees her mistress, she heaves herself to her feet.