“Careful!” Amara laughs, as Martha nearly crashes into the carefully planted herbs in a vain attempt to dodge the spray. Victoria tips the last of the water into the flowerbed, and Martha flops down on the hot paving stones, stretching out her legs. The Nemoralia is the goddess Diana’s festival for women and slaves, and they have nothing to do today but wash their hair and dress themselves in garlands of flowers, ready for the evening’s torch-lit procession to the River Sarnus. Philos and Juventus have been banished to the atrium where they are lounging about playing backgammon, though occasionally, the sound of their laughter drifts as far as the garden. Amara allows the holiday atmosphere to beguile her too. She tells herself she will worry about Felix and Rufus when the festival is over.

Victoria sits at the edge of the fountain, trailing her hand in the water. “I know what I’m going to ask Diana this evening,” she says.

“Endless victory for Crescens?” Amara suggests.

Victoria purses her lips, not telling. “You can’t ask Artemis for gifts in love,” Lais says, fluffing out her hair to help it dry. “She has many faces, but she’s still the virgin goddess.”

“So you won’t ask for help to snare Juventus’s heart?” Victoria asks.

Lais rolls her eyes. “One time I said he is not too ugly, and you never let me forget about it.”

“I don’t imagine Juventus would take much hunting,” Amara says, thinking of the way he leers at them all. “He’s not exactly playing hard to get.” They laugh, and Amara feels a little uncomfortable, hoping the porter does not overhear their mockery.

“Rather him than Philos though.” Victoria says with a shudder. “Can you imagine Philos trying to fight anyone?”

There is less laughter this time. Amara bends her head, letting the hair fall to hide her face, raking her fingers through the curls. Philos’s body is as dear to her as it is familiar, and over the course of their affair, he has become increasingly confident, no longer inhibited by the need to cover up his scar. She doesn’t like to hear him belittled.

“Philos has a really lovely face though,” Phoebe says.

“A lovely face?” Victoria repeats, amused. “You can’t fancy him?”

The guilty flush on Phoebe’s cheeks is answer enough. “I didn’t say that,” she protests, looking round at the others for support. “Just because you notice a man looks nice, doesn’t mean you want to bed him.”

“Nice face,” Britannica agrees, picking at the gap between her teeth. The declaration is so startling it makes everyone laugh. Britannica shrugs, unconcerned by the mockery, though she glances at Amara, holding her gaze for a moment, before looking away.

“Sounds like you’ve got competition for him, Phoebe.” Victoria has a needling edge to her voice.