At the doorway of her house, there is no porter to prevent her slipping into the shaded hallway. Juventus has his back to her, watching the atrium instead of the street. Beyond him, she can hear laughter and shouting. She brushes past Juventus’s shoulder, making him jump.

“I was still on guard,” he protests, looking back at the door.

Amara ignores him, uninterested in his oversight. A scuffle is going on beside the pool in the atrium. To her surprise, she sees Philos and Britannica are sparring, brandishing the wooden knives the Briton has been using to teach Amara how to defend herself. Britannica lunges forward, and Philos scrambles out of the way, splashing though the shallow water to avoid a blow.

Britannica laughs. “You dead,” she yells. “I kill you ten times already!”

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Philos replies, darting behind a pillar while the Briton takes another swipe.

“You not even try to hit me,” Britannica shouts, grabbing Philos from behind by the scruff of his tunic and holding the wooden blade to his neck. He holds his hands up in surrender, both of them laughing so hard it is infectious: Amara realizes she and Juventus are laughing too.

“What’s this?” she says, stepping forward. “More knife lessons?”

“Amara!” Britannica grins, exposing her knocked out front teeth. “Your man. He is useless!”

“I think that’s a little harsh,” Philos says, disentangling himself from Britannica’s grip. Amara hears Juventus snort with amusement beside her. He yells something at Philos in their own dialect. Philos rolls his eyes, replying with a phrase Amara does not understand. Then he glances at Amara, as if not wanting to exclude her. “I said it’s not like being beaten by an ordinary woman.”

Britannica throws her knife at Amara who catches it, then grabs the other blade from Philos. “I show you, even she better killer than you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Philos says.

“Not now,” Amara says, embarrassed by the thought of an audience.

“You not try, you never improve,” Britannica says. “Now catch me with the sneak move, while I look away.”

“Hang on,” Philos protests. “There was none of that for me! I might have got somewhere.”

“No sneaking for a man,” Britannica scowls. “Cheating.” She turns her face from Amara. “Now you try.” Feeling foolish, Amara tries creeping up on Britannica a few times, each attempt more half-hearted than the last. She is conscious of Philos and Juventus watching, unimpressed. Britannica snorts with impatience. “You copy me,” she declares, facing Amara. There is no longer any trace of laughter to her voice. Britannica uses a short swift upswing as if to stab Amara below the ribs. “Strike first,” she says.

Amara copies the movement, her eyes not leaving Britannica’s face. “Strike first,” she repeats.

Britannica moves, as if withdrawing the blade from a wound in Amara’s chest. “Always remove your weapon.”

“Always remove your weapon.”