Victoria shrieks in excitement at the sight of the dressing table. “You have a mirror! A silver one! And look at all those bottles! Can I try your scent? What is it? Oh, let me see!” She unstoppers the bottle without giving Amara a chance to reply and dabs the distilled jasmine on her wrist. Martha, returning with a tub of water and a bundle of cloths draped over her arm, looks startled to see a stranger handling Amara’s things.

“You can leave that, Martha,” Amara says. “We will help ourselves now. If you could just bring us some wine and pastries in a little while.” Martha nods, clearly disappointed to be abandoning such a rich seam of gossip. As soon as the maid has gone, Victoria and Britannica strip, splashing themselves with water and rubbing their skin with the rough cloths to get clean. Amara goes into her bedroom and opens the clothes chest, fetching out two of the three dresses Pliny gave her. She is more attached to them than all the robes Rufus has bought her, but she cannot risk offending her lover by handing his gifts away.

“I’ll have the yellow one,” Victoria says, able to spot the finer garment from across the room. “Red will suit Britannica’s hair better.”

Britannica heads over to inspect her new robe, lifting it from the couch with a doubtful expression. Her naked body reminds Amara of Felix—she is all muscle and hard edges. A rough leather amulet is hanging from her neck, a dark stain against the chalk-white skin. It is the gift Amara chose for Britannica on the Saturnalia, a token dipped in a gladiator’s blood. She remembers buying the amulet with Dido and has to suppress the thought that follows. If only Dido were here instead. Britannica bunches the red material of Pliny’s robe against herself, her movements awkward, then puts it down. “Tunic?”

“This is nicer than a tunic, though,” Amara reassures her.

“Tunic better for me,” Britannica insists.

“She is a slave. She’s right, a short tunic might be better,” Victoria says. “Maybe Philos has a spare.”

“Yes! Much better,” Britannica says, misunderstanding the teasing. “I ask him.”

“No, please don’t,” Amara says, horrified by the thought of a naked Britannica hunting down Philos to demand his clothes. Victoria is helpless with laughter. “I will ask Martha to buy you a new one. In the meantime, please try wearing this. Look, I’ll help you.” She fusses around Britannica, folding the material, pinning the red robe into place. The hem barely reaches her calves.