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Back The House with the Golden Door Save as PDF
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. PRAISE FOR
  3. PRAISE FOR
  4. Dedication
  5. 75 CE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. FLORALIA
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. LEMURIA
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. NEMORALIA
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 76 CE
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
  56. 47
  57. 48
  58. EPILOGUE
  59. AFTERWORD
  60. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Amara turns to take one last look back into her house, but all she sees is the door swinging toward her. She hears the bolt slam across from the inside. The wood panels rise, impossibly tall, with their brass skin of studs, as impenetrable as any wall. Her time at the house with the golden door has ended.

76 CE

NOMINALIA

41

“The sin is sweet, to mask it for fear of shame is bitter.

I’m proud we’re joined, each worthy of the other.”

—Sulpicia, Roman female poet

The room is small and dark. Wintry light filters through the shutters, letting in the sound of the street below. Amara feels a familiar rolling pressure against her stomach. The baby is moving. She lays her hand over the taut skin, wondering if the being beneath feels the answering pressure of her fingers. The exhaustion of pregnancy has been a source of unwelcome surprise, the energy she once took for granted sapped by the life growing inside her.

She can hear noises from the room below. Britannica must be back home with the morning’s bread. Leaning on her elbow to take some of the strain, Amara levers herself out of bed. Her belly is enormous now, a constant pressure under her narrow ribcage. Sound and the freezing February air stream in when she opens the shutters. She peers down onto the street far below, the tops of peoples’ heads passing beneath her like fish in a stream. A peddler is bellowing near the entrance to the Venus Baths, shoving his wares in the faces of anyone who passes close enough. Amara ducks back into the shade of the bedroom, crossing the rough wooden floor, and makes her way carefully down the stairs.

Britannica is busy at the small brazier in the corner, heating water for their daily draft of hot mint and honey. She glances up at Amara. “How is Fighter?”

Amara is amused by Britannica’s passion for the baby, her unerring belief she is carrying a warrior. “Kicking,” she replies, sitting on a stool.

“Good.” Britannica sits beside her, setting down two steaming cups on the small wooden table. “I hear Philos go out early. Before dawn.”

“He’s working for Julia this morning. He wanted to get her accounts done before he has to be with Rufus.”

“Lucky she pay him.”