Amara thinks of the arc of her arm when she brings down the wooden knife, the deadly movement Britannica has taught her. I am not so little, she tells herself. But her heart still races at the pressure of his fingers gripping her waist. She has always known how much damage Rufus could do her, that he has the ability to destroy her life as well as save it. It is only recently that she has come to resent his power so bitterly. “What will happen now, at the Floralia?” she asks.

“Of course!” Rufus sits up in excitement. “That’s what I came to tell you. Before you distracted me,” he adds, taking her hand and kissing it. “I’ve arranged for you and Drusilla to be at the head of the procession to the theater, the night of the performance.”

“Really?” Amara asks, amazed. “Is that a public acknowledgment of . . .” She almost does not dare continue.

“Of your role in my life, yes,” Rufus replies. “I will not be able to recognize you that night, my love. I will be with my family. But people will know who you are and why you are there.” He bends to kiss her again. “They will know you are mine.”

“Oh!” Amara exclaims, with genuine pleasure. She can already imagine herself, standing with Drusilla, the focus of so much envy and admiration, their path strewn with flowers. She kisses Rufus back, this time with more feeling. “How could I ever be anything but yours?”

He smiles at her, complacent in her adoration. Amara lays her head against his chest, in a false gesture of devotion, so that she does not have to look into his eyes.

14

“I’m just a guest then, gazing at my darling

While at your touch another takes delight?”

—Ovid, Amores 1.4

Victoria catches Amara’s eye, raising her eyebrows, but Amara ignores her. It’s true that Drusilla’s imperious tone is a little grating, but Amara has no intention of making faces behind her back. Victoria does not seem to grasp the hierarchy among courtesans, but instead, she is still stuck in the mentality of the brothel. Hot air from outside wafts into the dining room, spiced by the scent of mint which sits baking in the sun. Drusilla’s garden is always fragrant with the flowers beloved by Venus: rose, mint and myrtle.

Drusilla fusses over Phoebe and Lais, instructing them where to stand. Her dining room is smaller than Amara’s, but it opens directly onto the garden, which is why they chose it for this evening. She also has more bedrooms, which may be important after the food is served.

“So, I’m with Quintus?” Victoria remarks, tapping her foot with boredom. “Even though he’s your boyfriend?”

“He is my patron,” Drusilla replies, not looking in Victoria’s direction, instead fussing over Lais’s tunic, arranging it to her satisfaction. “I provide him with all manner of entertainments.”