“You don’t need to share the cost of this one,” Amara says quickly. “In fact, she’s . . .” Her voice trails off.

“She’s what?”

“She’s a former friend.”

Drusilla withdraws her hand. “From the brothel?” Amara nods, and it is as if a veil has been drawn between them. “The coarse Italian girl or the foolish Egyptian?”

Amara wishes Drusilla did not have such a good memory and curses herself for gossiping about her friends. Surely, she never described Victoria and Beronice in such unkind terms? “The Italian,” she replies.

Drusilla rests the back of her head against the wall and lets out a sigh. “I was worried you would do something like this.” She closes her eyes, as if overcome by weariness. “I should have warned you.”

“Warned me about what?” Amara asks, wondering if there are yet more unwelcome sides to Rufus.

“That it fades. The desire to free those from your past. It fades.” Drusilla turns toward Amara again, a sheen of sweat on her face. “When Veranius died, all I could think about was how to buy Procris.”

“But then you decided not to?”

“No, I tried many times. Veranius’s widow would never sell her to me.” Drusilla looks uncomfortable. She almost never speaks about Procris, the fellow slave who mothered her after Drusilla was brought to Pompeii from Ethiopia as a child, and who Drusilla later replaced in their master’s affections. Amara knows that Procris once wore the golden serpent on her arm before Veranius took the charm and gave it to Drusilla, to show that he had chosen a new favorite concubine. “I cried for Procris every night for weeks,” Drusilla says. “But now, sometimes, I am almost relieved. The life you share as slaves . . . it’s different. You may find Victoria will not like to have you as a patron.”

“I’m also her friend,” Amara replies, stung.

“Yet you did not bring her here today. Why is that?” Drusilla nods when Amara does not answer. “Because you know she is not your equal. How can she be, when you bought her?”

“I insisted on her freedom. She’s not my slave.”