“And your patron knows about . . . your business?” Metella asks, finally coming to the point. She looks around at the bright walls, at the delicate swallows painted in flight behind her host’s shoulders, calculating the value Rufus must place on his concubine. His family is well known in Pompeii, even more so now he is following his father Hortensius into politics.

“Oh!” Amara says, waving her hand. “It’s not a business. I would hate you to think that. I just help friends out from time to time. Where I can.”

“It’s not a large sum,” Metella replies. “Just fifteen denarii. I will have no difficulty repaying. But I would prefer this to be discreet. My husband might not like to be bothered by it.”

Amara understands from this that the husband will not be told. “It’s a trifle between women,” she agrees. “No need to involve anyone else.”

Metella unfastens a bracelet from her wrist, setting it down slowly on the desk. “This is very precious to me,” she says.

“I promise to look after it,” Amara says, picking up the bracelet and examining the engraved bronze with a suitable show of reverence. She places the jewelry carefully in a small box so that Metella will not be distressed by the sight of it. “And my rates are not unreasonable. Five percent interest per month. An extra five percent on top of that if it is not paid within three months.”

Metella nods, looking less pleased by this information. “Very well,” she replies.

Amara gets up and crosses to the door, opening it as the cue for Philos to enter. He is in the room almost before she has sat down again. She murmurs to him as he bends to take up the tablet from the desk, letting him know the sum. It had surprised Amara when Philos declined her offer to take commission on the loan agreements he writes. She herself cannot imagine refusing money from anyone, ever.

Amara continues to chat to Metella as Philos writes out the agreement. He hands it to them both to sign. Metella hesitates for a moment before marking the wax. Five percent is nowhere near as high as the extortionate rate Felix used to charge, but then, Amara does not have a violent protection racket to call upon to back up her claims. Not that she can imagine ever having the need. All her clients are women, and she has long suspected they are a more reliable market.

Once the agreement is signed, Metella seems eager to leave. Amara knows this is not uncommon after a deal. She follows Metella back into the atrium, making a point of showing off the garden, chattering about the narcissi, trying to soothe her guest with the pretense that this is nothing more than a social call.

“What an extraordinary painting,” Metella remarks, looking a little uncertain at the savage hunting scene surrounding her.

Amara smiles. “The house came already decorated,” she says.