“Both of them are well. I have been trying to persuade Demetrius to visit me here when he next tours his estates. I’m sure, if I have a beautiful new tenant, it won’t be very difficult to persuade him.”

“You really think I could stay here with you?”

“Of course,” Livia answers, for her aunt. “Even if she didn’t like you, she’s desperate to rent that apartment. Nobody else wanted it.”

“Don’t be awful.” Julia swats affectionately at Livia, who is now reclining against her, then turns to Amara. “It’s true though, darling. The place is very small compared to where you live now, and rather dark, but you would be most welcome to use the garden.”

Amara’s eyes burn with unshed tears of relief. “Thank you so much,” she says, her voice sounding steadier than she feels. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

“Think nothing of it.” Julia waves a hand. “Now, do you think your girl would like something to eat? Perhaps you should call her over. I’m longing to ask her what Britain is like—my father was always curious about the place.”

Amara had intended to stay at Julia’s until late but finds she is exhausted and, with the constant soothing murmur of the water, fears she might even be in danger of falling asleep. It is not yet dusk when she sets out for home with Britannica. The streets are less busy than usual, with most businesses closed for the holiday.

To her surprise, Amara can hear voices from the dining room door as soon as she steps into the atrium. She was expecting the house to be empty: Rufus sent for Philos in the afternoon, the flautists are entertaining Drusilla and Ampliatus at the port, and Victoria was due to meet Crescens. Instead, Victoria’s laughter carries on the late afternoon air. It is hours earlier than Amara expected to be home.

“Is it the master?” Amara whispers to Juventus, mortified by the prospect of catching Rufus with her friend.

Juventus looks down. “Crescens,” he says. “The gladiator.”

“She brought a gladiator to the house?”

“He was wearing a cloak,” Juventus protests. “Even I couldn’t see him properly, and I was only a few paces away.”

“But that’s worse! What if the neighbors tell Rufus we’ve been smuggling muffled-up men in here?”

Juventus gives an angry shrug. “What if he sees us all go to the brothel?” he retorts. “It’s hardly a house of vestal virgins.”

Amara knows, looking at his mutinous expression, that any trace of authority she once held has gone. If it weren’t for Britannica standing beside her, she suspects Juventus would be even less civil. “Fine,” she snaps. “I’ll deal with it.”