Amara walks over to sit for Martha, and is met by the same quiet greeting her maid gives every morning. It is impossible for Amara to read anything into the way Martha styles her hair either. Martha has always been silent, her hands unkind. The only sound is the sigh of the comb, scraping against her scalp. Amara knows as little of Martha now as she did the day she first came to this house. She thinks of the unexpected way Martha smiled at the Nemoralia, of how lonely her life must be, the losses of her past, and knows she should have made more effort to earn her maid’s trust. Perhaps then, Martha might have told Amara if she had any suspicions about Victoria, or about the man Victoria had brought to the house.

Amara only speaks once Martha has finished the rituals of dressing her hair and face. “Could you send Britannica to me, please?”

Martha bows her head in acknowledgment and leaves the room. The sight of the Briton a few moments later, silhouetted in the doorway, gives Amara the first sense of hope she has felt all morning. Britannica is not fond of embraces, but she joins Amara on the couch and pats her shoulder. “Fabia also betray you.”

“What?”

“All these months I go to the bar—she leave no message to warn you about Victoria.”

“Perhaps she didn’t realize.”

Britannica gives her a pitying look. “She must know.”

Anger makes Amara feel more like herself. “If she wants to continue eating, she had better start talking.”

“Come,” Britannica stands, holding her hand out. “We go to the bar.” She hauls Amara to her feet then looks down, her expression a perplexing mixture of savagery and tenderness.

The two women go through the farce of asking Philos’s permission to visit the temple for the Nemoralia, as if he were still reporting on Amara for Rufus, rather than the three of them united in deception. It is impossible to know whether Juventus is fooled, but he lets them out without comment.

The streets are quieter than usual, Pompeii’s more generous masters granting their women and slaves a respite from work on the final day of the festival. Virgula’s shop is shut, as is the grocer on the corner. A dog trots past them on the pavement, its neck wound around with battered-looking flowers in tribute to Diana. Britannica stares, muttering something in her own language. They stop and watch it jump onto a paving stone, back legs scrabbling.

“Victoria go to Felix,” Britannica says, as they observe the dog’s progress across the road.

“I suppose you think I’m a fool for ever trusting her.”

“No.” Britannica starts walking again. “Even I not see this. Though I know she is bad.”