On the Via Veneria, people turn and stare at the strange trio of women, with Philos trailing after them. A group of customers emerging from the bakers, openly point and laugh. Amara finds she doesn’t care. Ever since Rufus freed her, she has enjoyed all the luxury of being a kept woman but also its isolation. Now she is no longer alone.

They turn into her street. She is delighted by Victoria’s look of wonder at all the fabrics on display as they reach the row of dress shops. “Here? You live here?” Victoria says, running her fingers along the length of some fine red wool hung from the entrance to Virgula’s store. Virgula comes out to greet Amara then stops, perturbed by the state of her neighbor’s new companions.

Philos is standing in the doorway, waiting for them, gesturing at Amara to hurry. Brass studs, protruding from the half-open wooden door, gleam golden in the light. Amara apologizes to Virgula, promising to return, and leads her friends into the narrow hallway. As soon as they are inside the atrium, Philos orders Juventus to lock up, then turns to face her. He looks wrecked. “What have you done?”

“What I planned to do,” she retorts, not liking his tone.

“Six thousand sesterces?” he says, his voice rising. “That’s twice what they are worth and twice what you own!” Philos gestures at Victoria. “Do you think she will ever be safe now she’s made an enemy of Felix? Do you think any of us will? And how do I explain . . .?” He stops, lost for words to describe Britannica. “Rufus will be furious. You’ve made a fool of him!” Amara has never seen Philos angry before, and she is surprised by the passion in his voice.

“I’m sure I can talk Rufus around,” she says, dismissing his temper with a shrug. “And I didn’t mean to deceive you. Britannica was an afterthought.”

“You are not the mistress of this house,” Philos replies, lowering his voice so that Juventus cannot hear. “You have nothing. Everything here belongs to him, including you. All you own is his love, and you are squandering it.” He walks off, too enraged to speak further. She watches him leave, feeling her anxiety rise.

“Well,” Victoria says, raising an eyebrow in that arch way Amara loves and remembers. “Charming slave you have there.”

“He’s not my slave,” Amara says.