Victoria is managing to vary her seduction routine, blunting its coarser edges and luring Helvius in with admiring glances rather than words. It is not only Helvius who is captivated by the fishing net she’s casting. Quintus is staring at Victoria with an intensity that tells Amara it is only a matter of time before he insists on enjoying her himself. Drusilla lies beside her disloyal lover, toying with the slender stem of her glass. She does not seem overly perturbed by his roving eye. But then Amara knows they have an unconventional love affair, that Drusilla has even been known to supply Quintus with other girls as a means of keeping his interest alive.

The only prickling of anxiety Amara feels is for Rufus. He is clearly pleased at impressing his friends, but she senses something about the evening is causing him disquiet. She notices it most acutely whenever Britannica appears; feels him tense up beside her on the couch. Perhaps it’s nothing more than the startling way the Briton slams down the plates, but Amara starts to worry that perhaps Philos was right, that buying Britannica as well as Victoria was a step too far.

Quintus, on the other hand, finds the Briton highly amusing, smacking her on the backside whenever she leans over to set out the food. Eventually, Britannica whips round. For a terrible moment, Amara thinks she is going to throw a punch, but instead, Britannica bares her teeth and hisses. There is a shocked silence, before Quintus collapses with laughter.

“Rufus, it’s too priceless!” Quintus declares, after Britannica has stalked from the room. “Look at you, keeping a house full of Amazons! A little empire of women. Or maybe nymphs,” he adds, his gaze sliding toward Victoria’s cleavage as he reaches for his wine. Victoria pouts and lowers her eyes, a coy gesture that jolts Amara back to the brothel. She remembers how her friend used to pick men up like that on the street, or in bars, or wherever else she could catch a punter’s eye.

“An empire of women?” Helvius says, frowning. “That is exactly the sort of unnatural behavior which makes the Taurian games so necessary.” He looks sternly at Amara. “What possessed you to dress that poor serving girl as a man?”

“She’s not dressed as a man,” Amara lies. “She’s a savage from Britain. That’s just what they all wear out there. They don’t feel the cold.”

“Barely better than animals,” Drusilla agrees, effortlessly joining in. “You’ve done well to tame her.”