In Amara’s private rooms, they help one another dress. Victoria is wearing a spare outfit of Assyrian silk, the soft lines of her body laid bare by its translucent folds. “I remember you and Dido wearing this,” Victoria says, as she pins the fabric at Amara’s shoulder, helping the fabric fall in a generous fold to accentuate Amara’s less obvious curves. “I always wondered what it was like.”

Amara feels a tightness to her chest at the mention of their dead friend. “And how do you find it?”

Victoria laughs. “I’ll tell you later, if Helvius likes it.”

Upstairs they have prepared Victoria’s bedroom, ready for her to entertain Helvius should he be persuaded to stay. There are yet more flowers to hide the lack of furniture and Amara has had Philos and Juventus carry up an expensive brass table from the tablinum, one she hopes Rufus will not miss. She has still not told her lover about Victoria or Britannica, gambling that she might better win him over by a successful evening than by sending a pleading note in advance.

“He’s going to love everything,” Victoria says, understanding her friend’s silence. She cups Amara’s face in her hands, so that their eyes meet. “You worry too much. How could he do anything but love you?”

Amara takes Victoria’s hand in hers and kisses the palm. A shadow blots out the light from the doorway, and she turns around, thinking it is Philos. Instead, it is Britannica. The Briton has slicked back her hair like a man—perhaps borrowing the oil, if not the style, from Juventus—and is dressed in a smartly fitted short tunic. They have decided Britannica should be the one to wait at the table—a titillating novelty that Amara has provided for Rufus by introducing an all-female ensemble to entertain him. Or that’s how she intends to sell it. So far, Amara has struggled to persuade Britannica to lay the dishes gently on the table rather than thud them down like a challenge.

“Drusilla,” Britannica announces, mangling the sibilant name with her harsh accent. “She is here.”

Pompeii’s foremost courtesan is standing in the atrium of Amara’s home, dressed in a cascade of red and yellow silk. Her servant Thalia is beside her, carrying the harp she will play. “Shall we practice?” Drusilla asks, stretching out her arms to embrace Amara. She gives Victoria the barest nod, almost as if she were a second maid.