A small marble statue of Diana watches over her worshippers, and Amara stares at her while they wait. The goddess of the moon will always make her think of Felix. Amara remembers when he compared her to Diana for her savagery and pride, and it was Diana the huntress she once sent him as a token of her undying hatred. But it is not a clay stag or hunting dog that Amara has brought tonight. When she finally reaches the shrine, she hands her torch to Britannica and kneels down to lay a small clay figure of a mother and child at the edge of the heap. Then she rises, and takes back the flame, without looking in Britannica’s eyes.

36

“Resitutus has often deceived many girls”

—Pompeii graffiti

The water that bubbles over the stone steps seems to keep pace with Julia’s laughter. Amara has never been inside Julia’s garden dining room before—it is reserved for invited guests and tenants. She cannot imagine a more relaxing space to celebrate the second day of the Nemoralia. The place is painted deep blue, with scenes from the Egyptian Nile, and the goddess Isis looks over them. Wine and figs are set out on a bronze table, its legs shaped into the forms of three lustful satyrs.

The festival, with its upending of hierarchies, means that Britannica has also joined them as a guest. To Amara’s surprise, both Julia and Livia have been very welcoming toward the taciturn Briton, admiring her strength and encouraging her to demonstrate her skills with the knife.

“It’s as if she is dancing,” Livia says, watching Britannica’s cat-like moves in the shaded walkway beside the long pool. “She really is very clever.”

“She is loyal,” Amara says, pleased that, finally, somebody other than Philos can understand why she loves Britannica. “I value her highly.”

“I cannot believe you’ve been getting her to teach you how to use a blade,” Julia says. “What a mysterious girl you are.” She sips her wine. “It is a shame Rufus could not spend some of the festival with you.”

Amara knows Julia well enough by now to understand this is not an idle remark. “His parents were insistent he spend the time at home,” she says. “He has not mentioned it to me, but I believe he is considering getting married.”

“I wondered if you had heard the rumors,” Julia says. “Unsurprising, given he is standing for election next year.”

“I’ve never cared much for Rufus,” Livia says, her eyes still following Britannica’s every move. “Rather spoiled, I think.”

“All men are spoiled,” Julia declares. “Though some grow kinder as they age. Like dear old Pliny. Or my friend Demetrius.”

“Rufus never gives me news of the admiral,” Amara says, ignoring Julia’s mention of the Imperial freedman. “I do hope he is well.”