With a speed that takes Amara by surprise, even though she is expecting the blow, Britannica raises her arm in a lethal arc, bringing the point downward to rest at her throat. “Second blow is hardest.”

“The second blow is the hardest,” Amara says, bringing her own knife to Britannica’s throat.

Britannica falls against her, as if she has been fatally wounded, forcing Amara to lower her to the ground. “But remember, him or you.”

“It’s him or me.” Amara pants, her arms trembling under the dead weight of her friend. She lies her flat on the tiled floor.

Britannica stares up at her. “And when you dead, you nothing.”

“When you are dead, you are nothing.” The words bring with them a chill. Amara remembers Dido lying, wounded, in Britannica’s arms.

Britannica jumps to her feet, a wolfish grin on her face. “You see, boys,” she calls to Philos and Juventus, who are watching in silence. “This is how woman kills a man.” She stalks across the atrium to the stairwell, taking the wooden stairs two at a time with her long-legged stride. They hear the bang of the door to her room.

“I think you were lucky just to get splashed in the pool,” Amara says to Philos. He does not reply; instead he and Juventus are staring at her. She realizes she is still clutching the wooden dagger in her hands, poised, as if it were a real weapon. She relaxes her arm. “Oh, come on,” she says to them both. “It’s just Britannica!”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Philos says. “If she ever decides to sneak up on me.”

Amara glances upward toward the balcony, where Britannica’s door is still closed, with a slight sense of unease. She remembers Victoria’s warning about the Briton. Savage. “Where are the others?” she asks, bending to pick up the second wooden dagger from the floor, well aware that this should have been Britannica’s job. For a slave, she is not very diligent about household chores.

“Practicing in the garden,” Philos says, taking the wooden knives from her. “Where do these . . . ?”

“If you wouldn’t mind putting them in the chest in the tablinum,” Amara replies, suddenly nervous of standing too close to him, embarrassed by the memory of all the imaginary kisses she has bestowed on him that morning. She walks outside, heading back into the sunshine. Victoria, Phoebe and Lais are sprawled over the bench, helping themselves to wine.

“Amara,” Victoria cries, shading her eyes from the sun to look at her. “We’re celebrating our new routine.”

“Wonderful,” Amara replies, remembering the hours she used to spend practicing with Dido in the stuffy heat of Felix’s flat. “Can I hear it?”

Victoria flicks her eyes toward the two flautists, eyebrows raised. “Of course. We’d love to.”