In answer, Philos shifts his body further toward her so that no space remains between them, and all she can feel is the warmth of him.

34

“Hail Profit”

—Mosaic in a Pompeiian house

It is one of the most ostentatious villas she has encountered in Pompeii. Amara steps through the giant doorway, Philos beside her, an octopus unfurled in an elaborate mosaic beneath their feet. Woven between the creature’s tentacles is the motto Profit is Joy. Ampliatus clearly makes no secret of the gods worshipped in his house. The porter who greets them both is dressed in a scarlet tunic, his sandals so well oiled they shine.

“My master is expecting you?” His expression makes it clear he finds this doubtful.

“We are here to call on Drusilla,” Amara replies. “Her steward Josephus told me she is receiving visitors here. I am Amara, concubine of Placidus Rufus.”

The name of her patron gains her admittance, though the porter cannot bring himself to look pleased by an uninvited visit. He calls over a slave girl who, like him, is dressed in scarlet. “Your boy must wait here with me. The girl will show you to Drusilla.”

Amara leaves Philos with the bad-tempered porter, smarting at the insulting use of the word boy to describe her lover who is at least ten years older than she is, and walks through the giant atrium, following the maid. The red walls create an optical illusion, a glorious painted cityscape she imagines must be based on Rome. She can feel a light spray from the central fountain as she passes, the marble dolphin sending its jet of water high into the air, before it tumbles down in a noisy cascade.

The garden is full of roses, swathed in thick bands of trellising around the walls and sprawling beside the enormous fishpond, their heavy scent mingling with the smell of the sea. Drusilla is sitting in a shady alcove, and to Amara’s astonishment, she is engaged in needlework. Another maid, who Amara does not recognize, is sitting beside her.

“Amara!” Drusilla stands up in delighted surprise. “How wonderful to see you here.”

“What a beautiful garden this is,” Amara says, joining her friend on the amply cushioned marble. Drusilla reverently lays aside the tunic she is working on, smoothing it out to avoid creasing. “Is that for Ampliatus?” Amara asks, amused at the thought of such a wifely occupation.

“He likes to be fussed over. And I like to fuss over him.”

The affectionate look on Drusilla’s face seems genuine enough, though she has always been a formidable actress, and Amara is conscious of the presence of the eavesdropping servant, no doubt owned by the man in question. Drusilla sees the direction of Amara’s gaze. “Fetch us some refreshments,” Drusilla says to the maid. “And when you return, please wait there, by the fountain, until I call for you.”