From the smirk on Lais’s face, Amara suspects Lais had calculated that would be her mistress’s reply. I am not like Felix, Amara tells herself, or she would not even dare to ask me. The fear Amara has been trying to suppress rises again. She looks over at Britannica, reassuringly large and muscular, standing by the fountain. Men are not allowed to accompany them for this evening’s ritual, but should Felix try his luck on the way home, Britannica will be armed.

The August evening begins to cool, and Victoria goes to fetch the garlands from the atrium. They dress each other’s hair, the two freedwomen waiting on the slaves. Victoria helps the flautists while Amara weaves flowers into Martha’s thick black curls and tries to persuade Britannica to wear a garland of red Amaranthus.

“The goddess will be more likely to listen to your request if you dress to please her,” Amara says, as Britannica flinches away.

“Not too much,” Britannica mutters, finally letting Amara fix it in place. With the Briton’s bright-red hair, the garland looks like a halo of flame. She tilts her chin up at Amara. “You think hunter goddess will hear me?”

Amara lays her hand to her heart. “I hope so.” They turn toward the wall where Dido is painted, a version of Diana who is sacred to them both.

“I ask for revenge.” Britannica speaks as if she is addressing Dido.

“Do you even know how to write?” Victoria says. She is busy scrawling on a ribbon with charcoal, one of the five they will leave at the shrine. Martha, who is Jewish, won’t be praying to the goddess and declined the offer of a ribbon. Amara was surprised her maid even agreed to join the procession.

“I can write Britannica’s prayer,” Amara replies. She lays out two strips of white ribbons on the marble bench, writes vengeance on the first for Britannica, and deliverance on the second for herself. Britannica squints uncomprehendingly at the Greek letters.

At the approach of dusk, they agree to prepare the lights. Amara goes to the storeroom, holding her breath to avoid the smell, and gathers up the small terracotta torches that she and Victoria bought from the Forum. When she comes back out, Philos is waiting with an oil lamp. The women illuminate their torches from it, one after the other. Watching them, Amara wonders how long they will all be together in a household like this, and it is not only the habitual fear of being separated from Philos that makes her chest tighten. She has grown used to this place, to the strange almost-family of women she has collected.