Amara glances up at Britannica who is still staring at the door with a look of murderous ferocity. “You always hated her,” she mutters.

“That is nothing.” Britannica raises her eyebrows, a flicker of amusement on her face. “I hate most people.”

37

“I bought my wife’s freedom so nobody could wipe his dirty hands on her hair.”

—Petronius, The Satyricon

When Amara wakes the next morning, only a brief moment passes before the memory of Victoria’s betrayal hits her. She lies rigid in the bed, not wanting to move. High up on the wall, the early morning light filters through from the window into the tablinum. She closes her eyes, but when she does, she can still see the movement of Felix’s back, Victoria underneath him. The way Felix turned to face her. And worse, the memory of her own anger, the knife she held to Victoria’s throat. The sound, as the metal hit the tiles.

Nausea grips her, and Amara sits up, trying not to retch. She crouches over her knees, shuddering, until the urge to be sick has passed, her forehead damp with sweat. Then she forces herself to get up. At the bottom of the bed, Amara opens the chest to take out her clothes. The woven basket of boiled lambswool, her contraceptive, sits in the corner, and she moves it underneath some linen, so she doesn’t have to look at it.

The lid is heavy as she lowers it. She leans forward, resting her weight on its wooden surface, the carved design of grapes and vines imprinting onto her palms. The pain of Victoria’s betrayal has not yet fully sunk in. Felix has been in her private rooms, rifling through her belongings, laughing at her. Perhaps he lay here, in this bed, with Victoria. Just as Amara lies with Philos.

Philos himself had been surprisingly calm when she broke the news last night. He will be the one who tells Rufus about Victoria today, destroying her reputation as effectively as possible. It was Philos who had the idea of suggesting they not only claim Victoria risked disgrace by inviting a pimp to the house, but also slandered Rufus. They hope, by playing upon his guilt, that Rufus might be less inclined to take his anger out on Amara for having Victoria in the house in the first place.

Amara opens her bedroom door. Martha is already waiting by the dressing table. The maid’s face is as blank as wax, no imprint left of last night’s events. Though she must surely have heard the shouting and be aware, by now, that Victoria has gone.