“No,” Victoria agrees, solemnly. “He just made that point.” Amara can’t help smiling, even though the joke makes her uncomfortable. “All I can say is it’s very fine, this house that you don’t own.” Victoria turns to gaze round at the atrium. Amara sees it with her, as if for the first time. The ceiling high above them, with its small square open to the sky, the shaft of sunlight falling on the pool of rainwater beneath. On the walls, painted columns deceive the eye, and scenes from the life of Venus sit in small squares between them. The pool is not marble but lined with shards of amphora pots, and the house is tiny compared to the grand homes where she and Dido used to perform, but Amara knows it is a palace compared to the brothel. “When we’ve explored the place,” Victoria says, eyes shining with excitement, “maybe one of the servants who aren’t yours could get us a drink? And then we can enjoy our nonexistent freedom?”

“Drink first.” It is Britannica. They jump at her voice, with its harsh, unfamiliar accent. She is standing in the doorway, legs akimbo, unmoved by the mosaic of stars under her feet. Behind her, Amara can see Juventus staring, unable to hide his curiosity about the strange woman.

“Is she coming with us?” Victoria whispers, taking Amara’s elbow, trying to move out of earshot.

“Of course,” Amara replies. “We can go to my rooms, have some wine, get you both new clothes. Then we can see the house.”

Victoria raises her eyebrows but doesn’t complain. Britannica strides over to join them. Amara feels uneasy that, even now, on a day which should bring nothing but happiness, the pair cannot hide their antipathy. She calls for Martha, asking her to bring water for a bath, then heads to her rooms. Her two friends follow.

Amara’s first room is just big enough to receive guests, with a couch and side table, as well as the dressing table where Martha does her hair. She looks at the black frieze running around the walls. Pale nymphs gambol along it, singing and playing the lyre, swirls of pink and yellow silk circling their limbs like smoke. The nymphs are the reason Rufus told Amara he chose the house, to celebrate her skill as a musician. Showing her friends inside, she feels a swell of gratitude and affection for him, followed by an undertow of unease. Surely, it’s impossible her lover could be as angry as Philos fears?