The Venus in Drusilla’s garden shines white in the sun. The marble goddess stoops at the edge of the water, her breasts half-hidden by one arm, a sly smile on her face, almost as if she were listening to the conversation between her two disciples. Amara is recounting her trip to Misenum, while she and Drusilla sit together by the fountain. Primus and his nurse have been banished to another part of the house, leaving the women to enjoy the morning’s sunshine, when the heat is more bearable.

Amara does not mention Demetrius, even though she would like to boast a little to Drusilla, to make her envious. Julia warned her in the strongest terms to say nothing. “Rufus was very jealous when I returned,” Amara says, when she has finally recounted the voyage home.

“But that’s excellent,” Drusilla declares. “There’s nothing that makes a man keener or more devoted than sensing he might have a rival.”

“I’m not sure,” Amara says, wondering how much she can confide in her friend. “He was extremely angry.”

Drusilla laughs. “I’m sorry, but the thought of Rufus angry is a little ridiculous.” Her smile fades as she sees Amara’s expression. “He was violent?”

“He was . . . not very gentle.” Amara struggles to find the words to describe the line Rufus walks between violence and the threat of it. “But it’s not as simple as that. I think he likes me to know he is stronger. That he could hurt me if he wanted to.”

“Rufus likes his women fragile,” Drusilla says, her tone more dismissive than Amara had hoped. “You’ve always known this. It’s what he enjoys.”

“But he used to like it when I stood up to him, made demands on him even! I thought that was what he wanted from me, rather than wanting to make me smaller.”

“You were a slave at the start of your affair and quite small enough already. I’m sure being told off by a woman held a novelty for him back then. It’s different now. Look, forgive me if I sound harsh,” Drusilla says, “but you speak as if you expect a real relationship from Rufus. You will be so much happier if you only consider how best to manipulate him, nothing more. Unless you really do love him?”

“No,” Amara admits, looking around, as if even here she risks being overheard.

“Well then. You’ve always known he likes to think of you as a delicate creature; you’re discovering now that he occasionally likes to frighten you. Just prepare yourself for those unpleasant times and try simpering over him a bit more in between.” Drusilla shrugs. “You’re an intelligent woman—I can’t believe I need to explain it.”