“Rufus told me I was getting fat.” She is conscious of the water sliding off her body, puddling onto the floor.

Drusilla touches the gold serpent curled around her upper arm, a gift from her late master, Veranius. Amara knows he left it to Drusilla in his will, along with her freedom. Drusilla murmurs her former lover’s name, almost as if Amara were not there.

“Did Veranius like you slim too?” Amara asks. Drusilla stares, an unfamiliar darkness in her eyes. Amara thinks of her own unhappy past as an enslaved concubine in Greece, after her father died, and guesses the reason for her friend’s silence. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I should not have asked.”

Drusilla does not reply. Instead, she leads Amara toward the warm room, as if she had not spoken. They strap on wooden shoes, left at the doorway to protect guests’ feet from the hot floor, then walk through the arch to be embraced by tendrils of steam. The wall feels warm against Amara’s back as they sit on a stone bench. Other bathers are similarly dotted about the room, and there is the murmur of women’s voices, the hiss of water as it drips onto the burning tiles.

“Fulvia is a fool,” Drusilla says, at last. “But what she says is true. Only a slave should be as thin as you are.” Her gaze, when she turns to Amara, is sharp. “Are you absolutely certain Rufus wants you that way?”

Amara knows there is no sentimentality to Drusilla’s view of men. Patrons are there to serve their purpose, to be indulged and, if possible, manipulated. “Yes,” she replies. “I think it’s what you once said to me. Rufus likes his women fragile.” In spite of herself, Amara feels embarrassed, as if she somehow brought her lover’s demands upon herself.

Drusilla strokes her hand. “Then there is no reason to be ashamed,” she says. “You are wise enough to recognize his wishes and fulfill them. And next year, perhaps he will be aedile! A patron like that is worth the price of a few meals.” She laces her fingers through Amara’s. “Besides, understanding that he likes you to appear fragile does not mean you actually are.”

“He has asked Helvius to dinner on Friday,” Amara says. “He wants me to invite you and Quintus. For both of us to perform for him on the harp.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Drusilla says. “I’d be delighted. And Quintus will love to laugh at Helvius behind his back—he’s always telling me how ridiculous the man is.”

Drusilla’s fingers are tight between hers. Amara knows there will never be a better time to share difficult news. “I already bought a musician to accompany us,” she says, trying to sound casual. “A singer.”

“I thought we agreed on flautists,” Drusilla says, surprised.