The slave market at Pompeii is much smaller than the giant harbor at Puteoli where Felix bought her and Dido, but Amara can still feel her heart contract watching the human cargo being unloaded onto the docks. Even at a distance, the smell of so many sweating, unwashed bodies almost overpowers the fresh breeze from the sea. It is a brilliant day, the light on the water shines silver, almost too bright to watch, before melting to blue in the distance. The goddess of love rises from the heave and spray which gave her birth, standing on a tall column in the center of the harbor, undisturbed by the waves breaking beneath her. Venus Pompeiiana is guarding her town, her back turned to the market behind her, blind to its ugliness. Perhaps it is the noise which offends Aphrodite’s ears: traders bellowing their price, raucous laughter, angry haggling. Amara can feel the tension building, like the smoke from newly lit wood before it blazes into flame.

She glances at Drusilla whose brow is completely smooth, her beautiful face betraying no sign of discomfort. But then, Drusilla was last sold as a very small child. Perhaps she doesn’t even remember. For Amara, the memory is so recent it makes the blood pound in her ears, the pain of it lodged deep in her chest. Drusilla turns to her and smiles. “I had Josephus ask for some to be set aside for us to view before all the pimps handled them,” she says. “He will check their references.”

Amara feels Britannica shift next to her. The Briton’s face is red and sweating in the heat of the bright April sunshine, and she looks as on-edge as Amara feels. Perhaps it was a mistake to choose Britannica as a bodyguard over Philos. Amara stares straight ahead. Late arrivals are being shoved and mauled into lines in the swaying shadow of the nearest boat, some of the women openly weeping, one resisting as a blanket is stripped from her back. Sellers walk up and down, hanging placards over peoples’ necks, that state their names, country of origin and history of enslavement. Buyers stand and gawp, or worse, maul the unresisting bodies of those on sale. Amara can feel her own skin crawl at the sight, and it brings back a buried memory. The way Dido—then a stranger—had reached over and taken her hand when they stood together in Puteoli’s market.

Drusilla points out her steward Josephus gesturing at them from where he is standing beside a trader. He must have finished negotiations. “He’s ready,” Drusilla says, setting off toward them.

For a moment, Amara thinks she cannot follow, cannot take a step closer to the market. An irrational fear has seized her that if she reaches that line, one of the traders will rip away her cloak, and she will be forced to stand naked on the auction block, on sale again.